New Year bonus, short Chauvelin story

Happy new year!

 Chapter 1

“Oh  I am glad to be coming home here at last,” said Peter, as ‘Chalky’ White drove their carriage up the drive to the property in Essex. George, their adopted son, was driving the phaeton, and much awed to be permitted to do so. White would take both carriages round, and would bring their luggage to the door to be brought in by Paulson, who was, with his wife, caretaker of the property. Old Petronilla Holt, after whom Peter was officially named, had specified that her old butler and housekeeper were to have been taken care of.

“I’m not sure many of the repairs you sent money for have been undertaken, ma mie,” said Armand Chauvelin, Peter’s husband, looking over the brick-built Tudor manor  which had scaffolding up with a jaundiced eye.

“No, and I will be having words with Paulson about that,” said Peter, taking the steps as lithely as a pregnant woman, who had started to bloom rather, might do.

The bell jangled in the depths of the house.

“Loud enough to awaken the dead in case Paulson and Mrs. Paulson are revenants,” giggled Peter.

The door opened.

“There ain’t nobody in residence,” said the man answering the door and started to shut it.

Peter moved fast enough to be in the doorway.

“Oh yes there is, Paulson,” she said.

“There ain’t, there ain’t, how did you know my name?” cried the man, who was in late middle age and looked harried.

“Paulson, I am in residence, and I employ you. Have you been drinking?” demanded Peter. “My husband and my stepchildren will be living here from now on.”

“Oh it ain’t fit for you, you’ll have to go away,” gabbled Paulson.

“Have you been stealing the money I sent to put the place right? Or are you accusing my lawyer of so doing?” demanded Peter.

There was a startled yelp in Chalky’s voice and a scream in the voice of Peter’s maid, Lucille, from the back of the house and Peter pushed passed Paulson and exploded through the door to the servants’ domain.

“Oh gawd, missus, you’ve done it now,” wailed Paulson as Armand, George, Georgine and Amelie followed, along with Rateau, their large, hairy dog.

The scene which met Peter’s eye was of several rough looking men, several of whom had seized Chalky and Lucille. On the kitchen table a young man with an obvious bullet wound in his shoulder who was having the wound washed with vinegar by a middle aged woman.

“The devil!” said Peter.”Don’t we have any brandy in the house to do that, Mrs. Paulson? There’s no point being cheapskate about bullet wounds you know.  Did you get the ball out? I have tweezers.”

There was the sound of hysterical laughter from a young woman in a maid’s dress.

“Oh, yes, misssus, we got plenty o’ brandy,” she said. She was crying.

“Well don’t just stand there, go and get a bottle,” said Peter.  “Here, lad, I’ll have that ball out in a trice; two of you men hold him still, it’s going to hurt.”

There was a sudden laugh.

“Eh bien  I know zat voice, Madame la Vicomte.”

“Parbleu!” said George. “It is our friend, the captain of the ‘Sirène’, or is it ‘Naiad’ in English waters?”

“‘Naiad’ she is, m’sieur. We can trust zese people,”  he said to his fellows. “The vicomte is either ze red ... bah, I do not know ze English ... or his friend.”

“Scarlet Pimpernel is what you are looking for, and I am his friend,” said Armand. “I collect you are smugglers and one of your number is wounded.”

“He’s my son, Andrew, sir,” said Mrs. Paulson, wringing her hands. “And the preventatives will be here any time now.”

“Peste!” said Peter. “Well let our man and my maid go. Most of you men, you are sailors, you can turn your hand to anything. You will be the repairmen I employed, and young Paulson was unfortunate enough to have been hit by a falling slate. Unless there is a blood trail?”

“No, Madame, we packed it well,” said the captain of the French vessel, whom Peter thought was named Louis.

“The ship, have you unloaded it?” asked Armand.

“Yes, M. Le Vicomte,” said Louis.

“Let’s not worry about my title while we work this out,” said Armand. “I ... I bought the ship as a tender for my friend’s ship.  You were delivering it for me. You know no English.  You might as well stay here, in that case, looking uncomfortable and in the way.”

“Yes, sir,” said Louis.

“The rest of you, up the scaffolding I saw, and get to work,” said Armand. “Andrew Paulson will do very well with my wife’s care. Paulson, when the brandy has done its job on your son, I will take a glass in whichever salon you think appropriate.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Paulson, much calmer now someone was taking charge. “I knows smuggling is a pernicious trade, but the lads round here have no work and no money.”

“We can discuss the merits of smuggling later; I never heard of any smuggling. I am an innocent landowner,” said Armand, firmly.

Peter poured brandy proffered to her by the maid into the wound and then into the young man’s mouth. He was about her age. She passed the brandy back to the maid.

“Are you his sweetheart?” she asked. The maid bobbed a curtsey.

“If you please, madam,  only if you doesn’t permit followers, I doesn’t know what to do.”

“I believe in love,” said Peter. “What is your name?”

“Mollie, madam,” said the girl.

“Well we shall have your man right in a brace of shakes,” said Peter, deftly extracting the ball, and going back into the hole for the wadding. She ignored the screams.  She laid out the paper wadding and checked it was an intact piece.

“Burn that and the bullet; it will melt in the stove,” said Peter. “And give me a sharp knife ... damn, we need more brandy.”

“I brought two,” said Mollie.

“Good girl! Soak the sharpest meat knife in brandy for me and hand it here, Louis, prends-toi une ardoise de toit, s’il vous plait.”

“Cuh, madam you don’t half gabble their lingo,” said Mollie, admiringly. “What did you say?”

“I sent him to get a slate from the roof,” said Peter. “We will break it artistically outside, and I will bloody it well from Andrew’s wound.  And now,” she said, “I am sorry to hurt you more, my lad, but a timely cut on your shoulder may stop you being put to bed with a hempen collar.” She slashed the knife into the boy’s shoulder, from the wound to the top of the shoulder.  “Mrs. Paulson, wash that immediately.” She gave the woman the knife.

“Yes’m,” said Mrs. Paulson. “Cuh, that du look loike ut might be from a falling slate!”

“Yes, and no surprise if his collar bone is broken, which I think it is,” said Peter. “Basilicum powder if you please, and then we’ll get him all bandaged up.”

“Yes’m,” said Mrs. Paulson. “I ain’t never had to deal with bullet wounds before.”

“Well I’ve patched up a few of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel in my time,” said Peter.  “I’m fairly good at it. Certainly better than a lot of doctors,” she added.  “Clean linen, if you please.”

Armand sipped brandy, reflecting that the room might be shabby, but it was well cleaned. He heard a thunderous knocking and ringing at the door.

“Paulson, does he suspect you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Paulson, ringing his hands.

“Well, no matter, you will have to answer the door,” said Armand.

“What should we do, Papa?” asked Georgine, in French.

“What you would expect to do in a nice, peaceful house when bad men barge in, as I suspect they will,” said Armand.

There were sounds of altercation, and Paulson shouting

“Here, you can’t go pushing in like this!” and Armand strolled into the vestibule. It was more of a medieval great hall than a vestibule, with black and white tiled floor, oak panelling and a gallery about it at the first floor.

“Egad!” said Armand. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

“Your house, eh? Nobody lives here – seize him, men!” said the young officer.

A martial light flared briefly in Armand’s eye. He had intended to be kindly to the preventative officer, and fob him off gently. A man who would act so peremptorily was not, however, to be treated gently.

“Papa!” Amelie wailed, running out to attach herself to her adoptive father’s leg. Georgine followed, hanging on to Armand’s arm.

“What are they doing? Are they brigands?” cried George. Rateau, at his heels, growled. One of the men put up his musket to aim at the dog.

“By God, sirrah, if you shoot my dog, you will have to shoot me first,” said George, standing in front of Rateau. Armand was so proud of him for having finally got the precise intonation and accent of an English gentleman.  Peter came into the vestibule, and gave an artistic shriek, throwing herself into Armand’s arms and clutching her belly.

“If you cause my wife to miscarry, I’ll have you for murder, you scoundrel!” cried Armand. “You will not get away with bursting into my house like this, and pretending to be some kind of soldiers! Not that anyone would take such a motley crew as you as real soldiers, you would be a disgrace to any uniform! Now get out!”

“Sir ... have you then bought this house?” asked the officer.

“No! My wife inherited it and we have finally moved here,” said Armand.  “Her maiden name is Holt; not that it’s any of your business, you thieving scoundrel.”

“Sir, I am a preventative officer. I have my warrant ...”

“He is lying and is going for a pistol!” shrieked Peter, artistically. “Oh tell them not to point those horrid things at us; I am going to have a spasm!”

“Now see what you have done!” cried Armand. “If you are as you claim, you will send those men outside, and slowly show me your warrant.”

“Out!” snapped the preventative. The men lowered their muskets and left, and very slowly the preventative pulled out his warrant.  Armand read it. It named the officer as Lieutenant Dawlish.

“So! And what are you doing breaking into my house like this?”

“Sir, I have reason to believe the Paulsons’ son is engaged in smuggling, and has been shot by one of my men,” said Lieutenant Dawlish.

“Preposterous,” said Armand.

There was a crash and a shriek from the rear.

“Dear God, they are attacking our servants!” Cried Peter, abandoning Armand and running through.

“Sir! Sir, we have the miscreant, and he is wounded!” cried one.

He said no more as Lucille hit him over the head with a rolling pin.

Enlivened by this, Mollie kicked another in the shins, and Mrs. Paulson hit the third with a broom.

“I told you ruffians to get out of my house! Chalky, tie them up and we shall have them before the magistrate for assault!” Declared Peter.

“But they have caught a smuggler red-handed!” cried Dawlish, pointing at Andrew.

“He’s drunk,” said Mrs. Paulson.

“Plainly,” said Armand. “Here, Paulson, take a letter to the local magistrate, and tell him to take these villains into custody, attacking innocent people in their own homes.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Paulson.

“L ... lord?” Dawlish paled.

Armand shrugged.

“An old and probably obsolete emigré title,” he said. “Mind, my wife’s brother is an English viscount and I doubt he’s going to be happy.  Seizing on the unfortunate young Paulson just because he has had an accident!”

“But ... but we shot him,” said Dawlish.  “Down at the creek!”

“He is drunk,” said Peter.  “I see it all, they were drinking, and they decided that as your little tender for Sir Percy’s ‘Daydream’ had arrived, that plainly it must be used by smugglers, and shot into the reeds and convinced themselves they hit someone.”

“You cannot deny that young Paulson is wounded!” cried Dawlish.

“Of course not!” snapped Peter. “And I’ve been patching him up, poor boy, getting all the broken bits of slate out of the wound so it won’t fester.  And piecing them together until you disturbed me, to make sure they are all there.”

“I finished checking, madam, and I think there are none left,” said Mollie.  “Oooh there is a puddle of blood in the yard where it hit him.”

“It will scrub off,” said Peter. “And be careful not to cut yourself on shards of slate when you clean it up.”

“No, madam,” said Mollie, who was almost enjoying herself.

Andrew Paulson was sat in a chair, his wound on display and a bloody hand mark on his chest,  as the initial dressing had been torn off by the marine who had left the hand print. Fortunately the wound looked more like a wound from the corner of the bloody slate piece on the table than a bullet wound, thanks to Peter’s artistry.

Dawlish paled.

He knew about the ‘Daydream’; he had strict orders not to stop or hinder her. He knew that he did not need to know why.  Sir Percy was a friend of the Prince of Wales and that damned French smuggler was a tender to the ‘Daydream’?  his world was falling apart.

“I ... I apologise,” he said.

“Well that’s all very well, but how are you going to make amends to my wife, my children, and Paulson on whom your men have laid violent hands?” said Armand. “You villain, look at my infant daughter! You have terrified her beyond belief!” He picked up a sobbing Amelie, who was reliving her time in captivity in France, and had wet herself.  “If you were a man, sirrah, I would call you out!” said Armand, furiously. “As you are not, I will merely throw you out, and will consider whether it is worth my while to sue you to penury!” He passed Amelie to Peter.

Dawlish opened his mouth, but found himself taken by the collar by a wiry, but strong hand, and heaved up to walk on his toes to the door, where Armand undertook to kick him down the steps with all the high-handedness his late and unlamented brother might have employed.  Armand might be a good republican, but the fellow had scared Amelie all over again, just as the nightmares had mostly stopped.

Dawlish sprawled on the ground, and reflected that his career had just fallen apart.

He had been so sure they had winged the Paulson boy! What had gone wrong?

Armand went back to Amelie, who was clinging to Peter, sobbing.

“The bad man is gone, ma mie,” he said. “An Englishman’s home is his castle, and we are at home. I will not let anyone hurt you ever again.”

And he would do it all over again, regardless of his views on smuggling, and on hypocritical English aristos who accepted ‘run’ brandy, just to teach a high-handed and officious young fool a lesson about not assuming guilt, and about trying to terrorise innocents.

And who knows how much he had terrorised innocent children in the nearby village if he suspected members of their family of smuggling!

“Merci beaucoup, M. Le Vicomte,” said Louis.

“Just don’t get caught smuggling in what is supposed to be my vessel,” said Armand.  “I’ll give you a letter to carry, sealed with a certain flower, to say that you are acting according to the wishes of the League – but do not abuse it, and do not get careless.”

“I won’t,” promised Louis. “I am never careless. It was the English lads who were careless, and easier to flee with them to this house they use than to try to get past the revenue cutter. Parbleu! It is your house!”

“Yes, and I am hoping to find the English boys better employment.  Be circumspect if you use my outbuildings.”

“Certainly milord!”