The background is of the attempted re-invasion of France by sundry emigrés, confident that the peasantry will be pleased to see their old masters back. Some people just can't take a hint ... even thought the guillotine is a fairly heavy one.
Chapter 1
The news was of war!
War against France, this time
an attempt by the émigrés living in England to regain the lands that had been
lost to them. Many a nobleman, grateful
to the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel for their safety, turned his gaze to the
lost land of his birth, grimly determined to seize it back, and re-instate the
Bourbon Monarchy.
“And they are fools,” said
Armand Chauvelin, to his bride when she silently handed him the newspaper to
read of the endeavour.
“Undoubtedly, they are fools,
Armand, but what can one do?” Peter, or properly Petronilla, said. “I cannot see this venture being successful.”
“And then, ma mie, I suppose
we shall have to rescue the poor fools from their folly,” sighed Chauvelin.
Chauvelin had fallen madly in
love with Peter when she deputised for her brother, the Viscount Frogham, after
he broke his leg. Dressed as a boy, she had assisted the Chief in the rescue of
a former arch-enemy, all on the entreaty of Chauvelin’s daughter,
Fleurette. He had grudgingly admitted
that the League held the ideals he had originally had before being dragged down
by the monstrous terror of Revolutionary France, becoming one with the worst of
its dictators. And with Froggie’s
blessing, he had married Peter, and moved into their own little house.
It was not a large house, nor
was it one in a fashionable part of town; but it was theirs! And if the décor was not entirely what they might
have chosen, it was at least not objectionable and new curtains, carpets and
upholstery went a long way to making it tolerable.
In the middle of the season,
any house was hard to get hold of; and Jimmy Holte, Viscount Frogham, had used
all his contacts to find one for his sister and her new husband so they might
be private, and not have to start their married life in his house. Although Peter had said that she and her Armand had no
objection to living in a couple of rooms in the orphan asylum they had set up
in the old Frogham property. Froggie had put his foot down.
“I know you, Peter,” he said.
“You’ll get involved in the problems of your blasted foundlings rather than
enjoying a decent honeymoon; and it’s not right.”
Peter chuckled.
“Well at least we’re not
spending our honeymoon in France on business of the League of the Scarlet
Pimpernel,” she said.
“Yes; though I fancy there’ll
be émigrés to rescue after the invasion attempt,” said Froggie.
Peter nodded soberly.
The invasion of France to
restore the monarchy might be close to the hearts of some of the League – not
that Peter shared such ideals – but the way it had been organised, or as Sir
Percy said, disorganised the chance
of success seemed low, even with the use of two or three ships of the line and
a number of frigates besides to back up the efforts of the scratch army of
émigrés.
Armand Chauvelin, who was as
staunch a republican as ever, refused
point blank to have anything to do with it; and pointed out sarcastically to
any of the more enthusiastic émigrés who would listen that the emptying of the
prison hulks of French prisoners to swell their ranks was nothing short of
lunacy since most of them were going to be good republican patriots.
The aristos however refused to
listen; the call to duty of their betters would sway the seamen they felt
sure. Armand threw up his arms and told
them they deserved to be murdered in their berths, or betrayed to the
Republican Army. He preferred to throw himself into making their little house
into a home.
Peter declared that she had no
intention of doing tapestry work to cover chairs or footstools, and for a
wealthy woman to do so was an act of supreme disrespect to those who made their
living undertaking upholstery. Armand
tended to agree. His wife had more
useful skills, like first aid, firing a pistol and playing a part as a full
member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel as no other wife of its members
managed. Armand was proud of Petronilla. She was cool in a crisis, perhaps even
more so than the redoubtable Marguerite Blakeney! That this extended to domestic crises was a
bonus, and Peter turned not a hair to hear George, the stableboy, occasional
tiger and boy of all work commenting.
“Shiver me timbers, you
lubberly pilot o’ the northwest passage!” when taken by surprise by the arrival
of decorators; in his defence he had tripped over a ladder he was not expecting
to be where it was.
“George,” said Peter, “Where
did you pick up that inappropriate idiom?”
George was used to his
employers using jawcrack words.
“From Mr. White, Missus
Peter,” he said. Peter and Armand had
given up trying to break him of calling them ‘Missus Peter’ and ‘Mr. Armand’
Peter sighed.
‘Chalky’ White was their new
groom, recommended by their equally new butler, Hodges.
“George, Hodges may be used to
rather salty language, having been a captain’s servant until he lost his arm
fighting France, but I am not, and I do not intend to become used to it.”
“No, Missus Peter, I’m sorry,”
said George, who was genuinely contrite. “Cuh, you wouldn’t think Mr. White had
lost a leg, though, the way he gets around on the wooden one, he’s almost as
bang-up as Mr. Hobbes in Mr. Froggie’s stables.”
“I am glad he is efficient,”
said Peter.
“Now I knows why Mr. Armand
cuffed me for talking naval like,” said George. “It is so ... exciting,” he
added, regretfully.
“Too exciting,” said Peter.
“Mr. Armand permits you to act as his valet at times but he won’t do so if you
sound like a marine under fire.”
“Nossir, I mean ma’am,” said
George. Peter decided to ignore that slip; she was accustomed to dress as a man
at times, and it was not worth calling him over such nomenclature.
She spoke to Hodges.
“Please do not permit George
to pick up too much Naval vernacular,” she said.
“No, ma’am, I am sorry,” said
Hodges. “Chalky don’t mean nothin’ by it, but the boy will look on ‘im as an
‘ero.”
“He is, but his language is
still too ripe for the drawing room.
What he teaches the horses I don’t care, as they aren’t likely to pass
it on,” said Peter.
Hodges chuckled. He had fallen on his feet here! He had been
wounded on the Glorious First of June, and had been invalided out to starve,
not being covered by a pension the way a rated seaman was. And he did not want to jeopardise his
position! Still, at least Mrs. Shoveling, as he rendered Chauvelin, wasn’t
demanding the removal of his friend, nor of himself for recommending him.
George enjoyed working for the
Chauvelins too, and never even attempted to pronounce their name. He and his
young friend, Liza, rescued from a thiefmaster, would do anything for Peter and
Armand, as would Lucille the French girl rescued from a nasty predicament to
become Peter’s abigail.. And the
disruption of having decorators in was outweighed by the excitement.
George did not mention how
much extra cant he learned from the paper hangers as they nailed the paper to
the wall, in the pretty Chinese pattern Peter had chosen. He had a feeling that
it would be as unpopular as naval language. However he watched, and learned, in
case he ever needed to put up paper for the missus, if she did move to
God-forsaken-Essex where paperhangers might be in short supply. George had no very great opinion of the
countryside; he had a vague suspicion that it was like Green Park, with cows,
only messier.
It was, however, a relief when
the decorators had finished, and the noise of hammering was over, both from the
paperhanging and from the tacks re-upholstering the chairs. Peter did not believe in doing things by halves,
and obtained the services of a company which printed both papers and matching
or toning fabrics for upholstery, and installed them all. It meant less disruption. And the chairs were in a chintz of the same
blue as the background as the the paper.
However, where the paper had flowers and birds intertwined, the upholstery
had only a light stripe in the pink of
the same colour as the bell-shaped
flowers, and curtains matching.
Armand had chosen brown, cream
and gold for his study, in a swag pattern which he declared was ageless; and
Peter liked it well enough to suggest the same for their bedroom, but with less
brown and more cream.
They were ready to entertain,
and invited Sir Percy to give his opinion.
Sir Percy regarded the decor
through his quizzing glass.
“Exquisite taste, Peter,” he
said. “I am glad you did not pursue the
fashionable course of matching upholstery to paper.”
“They tried to persuade me,
but I thought it was too much of a good thing,” said Peter. “Birds and flowers
on the walls is one thing, sitting on them makes one feel strangled by jungle,
and I don’t think I’d like the tropics.”
“By Jove, no, fever and all
that sort of thing,” said Percy. “I like
Armand’s study too. Restful.”
“I thought so,” said
Armand. “And not distracting. Not that I
have much to do save the books for the orphanage at the moment.”
“I notice you did not involve
yourself in the intended invasion of France,” said Percy.
Sir Percy had also held aloof
from the projected invasion; the divided command, the rivalry within that
between Joseph de Puisaye and Francois de Charette being a serious
problem. It was Puisaye who had been
deputised by the Comte d’Artois, younger brother of the technical Louis XVIII,
but there was precious little intelligence or consultation with him
either. Indeed the date and place of the
invasion was something that was a matter of uncertainty; which as the Comte
d’Artois was supposed to time the attack with his older brother’s organising of
attacks from the Alps and the Pyrenees set up conditions that were, as Percy
said, doomed to failure before they began.
Armand Chauvelin sniffed.
“Those who embark on so mad a
venture without thought for consequence, without considering how mismanaged it
is, will die; which to my mind merely rids the world of a few more of the stupider
and less realistic aristos,” he said. “The realists recognise that the ancien regime is dead and buried. I consider that those who have dragged their
women and children along to be insane, and moreover wicked; there have been
changes in the rulership of France since the overthrow of Robespierre and three
of the five rulers of the directory are Jacobins; and Jacobins of the most
radical kind. They will not be in any
wise forgiving to aristos who use foreign aid to invade La Belle France, and
frankly I cannot see why they should be.
The Bretons may be generally opposed to any government decree because
the Bretons are opposed on principle to anyone not a Breton who tells them what
to do; but that does not mean that they will necessarily flock to the banner of
the aristos when they land on the Quiberon penninsula as Puisaye hopes. It will I fear just kill good honest Breton
peasants who are fool enough to be talked into a Bedlam-run bumble broth. The aristos who die will be of no great
loss.”
Percy shrugged.
“We shall disagree on that; I
salute their bravery though I question their wisdom; and their ability to
plan. I half considered joining them,
but the level of mismanagement was such that I felt that unless I could find a
way to take command, my presence would be futile. I have not forbidden any of the League to go
along; but I have done my best to warn all that I feel it unlikely to be of any
success. You and Peter should enjoy your
honeymoon however; because I cannot see that any who survive to be captured
should not be treated as prisoners of war.
I should not need your aid to rescue survivors. Prisoners of war, unless ill-treated for some
reason, are outside the purview of the League.”
Chauvelin nodded.
“Good; it would try my honour
to rescue those I consider acting contrary to the good of France. I despise the way that France is run, but I
continue to hope that there will be a time that her officials learn to run a
democracy efficiently. Barras may remain
in power but with Fouché and Merlin no longer in high office, perhaps things
will improve, even with Jacobins; Jean-Francois Rewbell is a shrewd man and
able; unscrupulous of course but perhaps that is no bad thing; and to balance
him Lazare Carnot is a moderate and he is a man of integrity and honour. I am grateful that the smugglers you know get
the Moniteur so readily and not too long out of date to
keep up with affairs in France.”
“And I am glad of your
insights into the people you know,” said Percy.
“You think then that the aristos will not be treated as prisoners of
war, that this might rouse the Jacobin members of the Directory to a resumption
of the Terror?”
“I fear so, Percy,” said
Armand. “I fear it is the worst possible thing for France. I recognise that England fights France partly
because France is expansionistic, and expansionistic England resents others
having colonies; but to my mind the situation in France could be better dealt
with by recognising the Republic and sending advisors. But I know that is not likely to happen; all
other monarchies feel too afraid that republican ideals will rouse their
peasantry to revolt, because they have failed to grasp the fact that it was the
tyranny of an absolutist monarchy that drove the people of France to revolt in
fear of their lives. It’s something you
smug complaisant English with your smug complaisant peasantry cannot
understand; because your people are not a peasantry and they expect justice
across the board of society. The idea of being chattels is so alien to them
that they cannot conceive of it. To hell
with politics anyway; go away Percy, I’m on honeymoon.”
Sir Percy laughed and left
them to it; slightly disturbed that his one time adversary thought that the
invasion would lead to more stringent measures; but hoping that he might be
wrong.
It may be said that Armand and
Peter were content to enjoy their honeymoon as adjured; and the way they
preferred to enjoy it was in spending time together, debating long on a variety
of topics, and continuing any discussion in a non verbal way in their chamber;
and in adding to the little touches that made the house a home.
The good dog Citizen Rateau
was more than happy to make it his home if his master and mistress were
contented there, and added his mite to the décor in terms of the pale hairs he
left in his favourite places. It was one
of the tasks of the boy George, boy of all work, to brush Rateau daily but as
George declared, Rateau might as well be
spinning new hair on his back as soon as it was brushed off.
