poets and spies 15

 

Chapter 15

 

Jack was beyond delighted when Daphne brought him his dinner on a tray. She blushed.

“I need to apologise,” she said.

“You have nothing to apologise for; I was indelicate in my delight in sharing understanding,” said Jack.

“I shouldn’t have been so... Francine would call it ‘preceptress disease,’” said Daphne. “You know, unwed ladies of uncertain age who have given up all hope, and so find anything to do with... with intimacy frightening.”

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t want to be a governess. I want to be married and have my own children, and I want a husband who cares about what I want as well as what he wants. I’d like to marry well enough to thumb my nose at my stepmother, who wants me kept down.  She has her children, my half-siblings, and she doesn’t want reminders that she’s only four years older than I am, and that I’m the only child of Papa’s first marriage. I don’t really care about being anything like a countess so long as I am free. I considered David Peacock, you know; he seems a good sort of man, and I’m used enough to hard work, I’d make a good farmer’s wife, you know.”

“It seems a waste of your brains.”                                                                                               

“The Peacock boys have bettered themselves, don’t underestimate them,” said Daphne.  “But I couldn’t help it, when I saw a beautiful young god across the salon... but he belonged to someone else.”

“You felt it too?”

“Yes.” She blushed. “But l... lust isn’t enough.”

“How eminently sensible!”

“Francine,” said Daphne. “We discussed love and lust hypothetically at school, and she waved her hands and said something like, ‘eh bien, mes amies, lust, oh it makes the blood sing and the pulse race, and you have a beautiful young man, but if that is all you have, what will you then do with him when he is forty, and has a paunch and is thin on top?’ because Francine is very practical.”

Jack laughed.

“I am vain enough to fight gaining a paunch and my family usually has a good head of hair. But I will go grey and gain wrinkles some years in advance of you. I am something of a sportsman, but I am also a closet poet, and  I like to read. I like the theatre, but I genuinely enjoy being in the country, where I tend to live much like a country squire. Alice hated it; called it being ‘immolated in a muddy hole.’”

“I like living in the country,” said Daphne. “Are you proposing, and if so, is it as wife, or mistress?”

“What, you would expect me to suggest making a young lady into my mistress?” Jack was startled.

“I have no great family and I am no catch as a wife to an earl,” said Daphne. “They say mistresses have more fun; I should think the ones who have most fun are wives who are treated also as mistresses, because they have no worries about being discarded and poor. I would want a legal document if I was your mistress, to have a pension of three hundred a year if you discarded me.”

“A mean amount. But you have thought it out.”

“I... I want to touch you and I want you to explain the more... well, you know which poems. But I’m not stupid enough to think I can aspire to marrying you, so I need... safeguards. A woman who has lost her looks is a leaf tossed in the wind, at the mercy of the world’s cruel  wintery blast. I know it’s mercenary; but... but it is a big step.” She finished on a whisper.

“Come here,” said Jack.

She went to him; and though he only had one good arm to put round her, he pulled her on top of him. And then he kissed her, rolling her over with his injured arm on top so his hand could caress her without moving too much.

Daphne surrendered to  his kiss, wriggling happily against him, one hand sliding into his blond hair, the other on his chest.  When he lifted his lips from hers, she growled at him.

“A wife who is treated like a mistress suits me very well,” he said. “Oh, Miss Kempe! What is your first name? Nobody has ever told me.”

“Daphne,” said Daphne.

“What, a shrub to be mother of my little shrubs? You are fond of them, I think?”

“I adore them,” said Daphne. “Are you sure you want to marry me?”

“Oh, yes, I’m not going to let you go; you are intelligent, enter into my interests, and you bubble with passion. Though we might get married quietly, here, and forget to send a notice to the paper so we can pretend you are my mistress.” His eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Oh, what a most excellent prank!” said Daphne.

“I need to see your father,” said Jack.

“I should write first,” said Daphne. “If I say I have received an offer of marriage from my friend’s husband’s brother, my stepmother will assume you to be the sort of bucolic she assumes Mr. Brierly to be. If she had any idea who you are, she’d take steps to collect me and make sure I never saw you again, you know.”

“She could try; I am not going to let that happen, however! But Stoat, a bucolic? I can imagine his outrage, and him groping for a quizzing glass,” laughed Jack. “Oh, you can say I own some land in Hertfordshire, and run sheep.”

“I shall,” said Daphne. “But you have a wounded arm, and you are using it too much! You should lie still while I kiss you, now I know how.”

“Oho, you would like to take the lead? Well, why not?” he rolled back onto his back, and she sat over him, blushing, and brushed his lips with hers.

His dinner tray, on the commode, was entirely forgotten.

 

oOoOo

 

Stoat negotiated rapidly with the farmer who had possession of horses, and soon had acquired a couple of good riding beasts. Francine had no fears of riding astride, and they cantered off. Stoat was inspired to stop at the coaching inn.

“My friends!” he said. “I am looking for my cousin, who owes me money, and moreover I suspect him of trying to cheat at a wager; he is a sallow fellow, with dark hair, and he affects the English look with a coat he bought from a smuggler.”

“Oh, him!” the landlord spat. “So that was what he was agitated about, that it was imperative to know when the calèche would be here. And he was relieved not to wait long.”

“Oh, the cheat! The villain! You mean he has left already?” cried Stoat.

“Aye, two hours since,” said the landlord.

“Well! I was to race him to Paris as we both have business there, but we were to set  off together,” said Stoat.  “I pray you, what inns are the overnight stops for the calèche?” the calèche stopped overnight instead of going night and day alike like the stagecoach or the mailcoach. 

Furnished with the information about the overnight stops, Stoat left a vail which would be generous for a prosperous grocer, and went out to mount up.

“He has two hours start on us,” he said. “And though I want to push on and get ahead, I don’t want to push the horses too hard. The calèche after all will have changes of horses regularly, as it’s a government-run transport.  They’ll be able to sustain a speed of eight miles an hour;  and reasonably speaking on these nags, we won’t go a lot faster.”

“They are not bad animals, I think,” said Francine.

“Sweetness, they are not bad animals, but they have not been exercised regularly, or had their stamina maintained. They are too old to be likely to throw out splints, but we don’t want them dropping dead of apoplexy for being pushed too hard. Or developing cramps, or dying for sweating too hard and not being sufficiently hydrated. We shall have to stop and buy them bran and give them a wet bran mash with honey and salt, to keep them going.”

“I am sorry; I had no idea,” said Francine. “Me, I only ride the beasts, I do not know what makes them go.”

“A lot of tender care, actually,” said Stoat. “Horses are unbelievably delicate.”

“I know about needing to cool them,” said Francine, “And to be gentle with their mouths.”

“Which is more than many know, and in most circumstances is all you need to know,” said Stoat. “But these beasts have been allowed to get out of condition, and as you can see, they are reluctant to canter.”

“But that man did not warn us, we might have been people who would make them gallop!” said Francine.

“Quite,” said Stoat. “And I’ll see if we can’t take the poor beasts with us when we go.”

“Good; cruelty to dumb beasts is not proper nor respectable,” said Francine.

“I doubt we will catch up before the calèche stops for the night,” said Stoat. “At this point we have a problem. As, indeed, at all points hereon if we stop the calèche. Collet is surrounded by people who will not like to see another man killed.”

“But he is in English clothes; will they question it if you pretend to be whatever the French have instead of Bow Street Runners?”

“Not as easy as when the Committee for Public Safety was so feared, but... it might work,” said Stoat. “When we stop to feed the nags, I’ll see if I can construct a document. Few enough of them will have seen a warrant for arrest or a policeman’s warrant of identity, and I know the basic form and enough formulaic phrases. I even have an official seal on my fobs.”

“Bon, that will do nicely. You have the bearing and sheer gall to carry it out.” She considered. “There is, somewhere, a pun in there on Gallic and gall, but I cannot think it through at the moment, my brains are being jarred worse than my backside is, for this wretched beast refusing to go at anything faster than a trot.”

“You know to rise and fall, at least.”

“I have watched men at the trot. I am not unobservant. I am not happy with M. Collet, for it is not an accustomed movement, and everything is going to hurt, tomorrow.”

“I am sorry, love.”

“I do not blame you, my Stoat, I blame Collet. And I will not weep for him. He is interrupting our marital bed, and that is unforgiveable.”

“Totally,” said Stoat, with a straight face.

What was amusing was that most Frenchmen would nod solemnly in agreement with  Francine; l’amour was sacred.

 

They stopped to feed the horses at a ramshackle looking inn, in a village which appeared not to have a name, and Stoat was content to order food for the horses and for his companion and himself and to sit in the shadows to construct some papers which should pass muster when they caught up with Collet. The odd food stain would not matter, but would indeed add verisimilitude. Francine was glad just to be off a horse, and wished only that the chairs were not so hard. She sat on her satchel.

“Sorry, little one,” said Stoat. “Shall I hire a room for you to rest, and go on alone?”

“I will not be a liability,” said Francine. “Me, I am hardy. Did not I manage to drive, and drive, and drive, in pursuit of poor Romilda, when my wrists were breaking, but breaking from the effort? I have the fortitude to be an English heroine, as good as any in any novel, yes, and better than those who scream and faint to give the hero something to do. Me, if I wrote a novel, I would make it so that the heroine does not know what hysterics are, and make her a good foil for her hero. But some of them can endure, and mon Dieu! How loudly some of them do their enduring! But me, I suffer, but in silence. Have I made one word of complaint?”

“No, my sweet, you are stoic and uncomplaining, and I adore you,” said Stoat. “But a man is permitted to worry when he sees his wife is in some pain and suffering, and to offer her succour.”

“Vraiment,” said Francine. “And his wife appreciates such courtesy, but though she longs for nothing so much as to sink into a goose-feather bed, and preferably in his loving arms, the good wife is nonetheless more dutiful than this, and manages not to sigh after a cushion for her so-abused arse.”

“Sweetness!” said Stoat.

They applied themselves to a simple, but nourishing, meal of chicken stew, with plenty of onion and turnip to pad it out, and a piece of black bread with a scrape of butter on it. The wine was red, rough and undistinguished.

“Adequate,” said Francine, somewhat revived “But they would have been better to have fed the wine to the chicken, to revive it before butchering it.  But if that was cassoulet de poulet aux fines herbes as he said, I am a Hottentot.  Certainly, the pullet involved was more of an old crone of a fowl. But it was well enough cooked.”

Stoat laughed, and went to settle up. Some negotiation led to him presenting a feather pillow to Francine to ride on.

“My hero!” said Francine. “I will express my gratitude when we can be together properly.”

“I hope it helps,” said Stoat.

“Me, I will not cease to resent Collet, but I will do so from a position of less discomfort,” said Francine.

 

 

Francine was certainly ready to curse Collet in English, French, and Latin by the time they reached the large village of Brecqueflori, a pretty village set on the side of a hill, which the road climbed. There was an estaminet as well as the coaching inn. Here they left their horses, having paid for them to be fed and watered, not a usual service offered by an estaminet, but Stoat bribed the proprietor well, and to bring them on to the inn when they were satisfied. 

He flashed his forged documents.

“I am about to arrest a dangerous criminal, citizen,” he said. “Your co-operation is appreciated, and I know you will do nothing to impede my official business.”

The implied threat made the accompanying thanks more credible.

They drank a glass of unmemorable wine, and strolled over to the inn. Under cover of darkness, Francine slipped a cold hand into her husband’s hand. He squeezed it reassuringly.  Killing a man in what would be cold blood was never easy; but Collet had shot the unsuspecting earl, and planned to finish him off.

And Stoat was certain that he had more blood on his hands than that of his harmless brother.

 

Rookwood 3:1

 

Chapter 1

 

“Harriet! I have a letter for us from Francine!” cried Daphne, tucking her arm into her friend’s. It gave Harriet some support to help her walk a bit faster, too, since Harriet had been orphaned in a coach accident, and her leg had never totally healed.

“What does she say?” asked Harriet. “I am glad she can write to you without The Kipper opening it.”

“I don’t see how she justifies it, myself, opening the mail of orphans. Why, it might be confidential information from your solicitor, if you had been left well enough off to have one,” said Daphne. “I think The Kipper just likes to pry.”

“Well, look at the fuss she made about Francine sending us a bonnet each, wanting to know why, and where they came from; I swear she was ready to accuse Francie of stealing them,” said Harriet. “I am glad I was able to show her the line in her letter that Francie had to dispose of her mother’s stock so the shop would be available, and preferred to send gifts to friends than have them sent to charity. I wager she knew The Kipper would stick her fishy nose in.”

Miss Herring was not a popular preceptress, as might be seen by this frank exchange.

“Well, as I have parents, of a sort, she can at least write to me without The Kipper daring to read them,” said Daphne. She had been the recipient of both the villager straw, lined with cerulean blue, which suited her pale, Saxon prettiness, and the sage-green capote with bronze-green ribbons to pass on to Harriet, ideal for a girl whose hair was on the red side of chestnut. If sent to Harriet, both girls suspected that Miss Herring would have had a new bonnet. Girls at school on some sufferance as orphans did not, in her book, deserve anything, and only the Principal’s strong rule allowed Harriet to keep the gowns she had. Miss Phipps cordially detested Miss Herring, but needed a teacher of geography with globes.

The girls reached their den, a carefully constructed shelter hidden deep in the shrubbery, inside a laurel bush, which Daphne had laughed over, and called most appropriate to her own name.  There was a tarred sheet to keep off light rain, and a couple of broken chairs, mended roughly by the girls. It was nothing special, but to Daphne and Harriet it was a haven. Daphne had a father and stepmother, but she was no parlour border to have her own room, and the girls shared a room with four younger ones. Privacy was golden.

“Dear girls,” wrote Francine,

“My darling Stoat has taken a house near Prior’s Eleigh so we might both be close to our friends, and he says I might invite you to stay over Christmas. We are living in the house formerly owned by Major Braxton, or rather, leased by him; but Stoat has managed to buy it so we can make it our own. It’s a nice place, a little large for just two of us, but it is to be hoped that we shall fill it duly with a sufficiency of progeny to make it more convenable.”

“Isn’t it fun that you can notice that Francine is French even before she slips in words like ‘convenable’ when she can’t find a better English word?” said Harriet. “Such a weird name to call her husband, ‘Stoat.’”

“I think his name is Stotham,” said Daphne. “His mother’s maiden name. Francine did write of it, remember?”

“Oh, yes, he is not the oldest son to use such a name, but all first sons are called something outlandish – Bohemond, wasn’t it?”

They both giggled.

“Under the circumstances, you can see why he’s glad to be ‘Stoat’ can’t you?” said Daphne.

“Yes,” agreed Harriet. “Go on.”

“I have written to Miss Phipps to secure permission for Harriet, and to Mr. Kempe, and as Stoat does not use the courtesy title he is entitled to until he has a nephew, I thought a plain Mr. and Mrs. Brierly would not make your stepmother jealous enough to forbid it, Daphne. Please say you will both come! Mr. and Mrs. Goldsteen are looking forward to meeting Harriet – if they like you, Harry, there’ll be a job waiting for you as companion to their spaniels, and as they are childless, you will be, essentially, the  daughter of the house. I await your replies,

Francine.”

 

“How clever of Francine to remember, through all her own troubles, that my stepmother would not like me meeting people who are above her own class,” said Daphne. “I must script a masterpiece of a letter to her. She doesn’t want me home for Christmas, but it would be like her to make me stay at school if she thought I would enjoy it too much.”

“Oh, write that your emigrée friend who married requires a companion to meet her new husband’s family, as moral support,” said Harriet.

“That’s a good one,” said Daphne. “If Phippy doesn’t forbid you to go for any of our misdeeds, it should be fun; she can’t really stop me if Papa says yes.”

 

Daphne laboured on a letter.

“Dear Mama,” she opened, and pulled a face. “And that’s two lies in the first two words as she is neither my Mama, nor is she dear.”

“Just write it,” said Harriet.

“I have had an invitation for the Christmas period to the new home of my friend, Francine. You might recall I have mentioned her, an emigrée, left penniless when her mother fled the revolution in France. She has made a respectable marriage, but is nervous of meeting some of her new English in-laws, and would like someone quintessentially English as her companion over Christmas.  I expect I will be de trop most of the time, with a newly wed couple, but I would like to help her out, if you are willing for me to go. Miss Phipps was surprised that I said I was sure you would expect me to stay in school rather than have a family Christmas, so perhaps this is a solution?

Your obedient daughter,

Daphne.”

“Another lie in the last line,” laughed Harriet, reading over her shoulder. “A master stroke to suggest that Phippy was asking questions; your stepmother would dislike her motives to be questioned, I wager.”

“Oh, she would,” said Daphne. “Mind, it’s a pity Francie and her Stoat have rounded up all the spies, it would have been famous sport if we might have been able to catch Bonapartist spies.”

“I could do without that much excitement, I fancy,” said Harriet.

 

 

oOoOo

 

Highfield End

Highfield

Near Bishop’s Stortford

 

“My dear Daphne,

What have you been saying to make that awful woman ask questions? You are a tiresome girl. Well, I don’t care how bored you are in darkest Essex [Prior’s Eleigh? One has never even heard of the place, your bucolic friend and her farmer husband sound tedious in the extreme. You had better purchase yourself a couple of evening gowns, however, to make sure the hayseeds don’t get the chance to look down on you, and you grow like a weed and doubtless show unsuitable amounts of ankle in your current gowns. Which is no problem in a girls’ school, but I will not have any skirters of what passes for society in the country laugh at you. I’ve sent a money order for four hundred pounds to Phipps to hold for you so you may go into Brentwood and order a couple of gowns. Do not pay more than two hundred pounds for any one gown, if you are clever, you can probably stretch to as many as four or five gowns with that.”

Do behave yourself and do not make yourself a laughing stock to show me up.

Your mother,

Amy Kempe.”

 

“I can hear a whine in her voice in every sentence,” said Daphne. “There are no flies on Phippy, do you suppose we can ask her to take us into Brentwood and buy heaps of lovely fabric, and ask if Francine will drive over to help us cut out gowns? She’s a marvel and so sure with the scissors, and then we can sew them up ourselves.”

 

Miss Phipps was nobody’s fool and she had a fair idea of Mrs. Kempe’s motives. She was also as irritated as Daphne meant her to be when Daphne showed that good woman her own letter, where the preceptress might see herself referred to by her surname only, like a chambermaid. Miss Phipps had no great pretensions to the aristocracy and was therefore more alive to what was due to her than had she come from stock with a title somewhere, which would enable her to laugh it off.

“I have a better idea, Daphne,” she said. “I will send to dear Francine, Mrs. Brierly, I should say, and ask if she will pick you up to escort into Brentwood, and then come back here to help you cut out some gowns. You are correct to think that your money will go further spent on fabric than on a modiste. I also strongly urge that you do not spend all of this, but keep much of it against emergency.”

“Yes, Miss Phipps, I thought if I took one hundred pounds, I could get enough for at least four gowns each for the two of us, and trims, and caps and if we talk fast, Francine might be persuaded to help us with turbans and bonnets.”

Miss Phipps laughed.

“She probably will, for she is a generous soul, as are you, to think of Harriet. I strongly suggest a Norfolk Shawl each, which will eat into your hundred pounds; take one hundred and fifty, for you may always return with some over, whereas you do not want to be embarrassed by being short.”

“No, indeed,” said Daphne. “And though Francine would make it up, I would be mortified if she had to do so.”

“Quite so,” said Miss Phipps. She knew perfectly well that Francine herself counted every shilling twice, even though she was married to one of the wealthiest men in England, and accounted it an excellent trait.

 

oOoOo

 

“I am here, enfin, mes amies, parbleu! Mais je suis si heureux de vous voir! Me, who could not be happier with my cher mari, yet I am cast into transports of delight to see again my dear friends!”

“Francine, I have never heard you use that much French in one burst before, even to put down M. Despard,” laughed Harriet.

“My Stoat wishes to improve my French accent to pass more for Paris than Colchester,” said Francine. “Eh bien! It is a good habit to have, to be able to sound entirely French, when undoubtedly there are still spies about. But I am good, so good, and I have not denounced M. Despard as a Bonapartiste, though it would have been very funny,” she added.

“You don’t change, I am glad to say,” said Daphne. “Did Phippy tell you why we asked to borrow you?”

“Yes,  indeed, and I will be most pleased to see you both outfitted properly, and moreover I will sew those parts which are most challenging, since both of you have fingers which might delight an elephant, but achieve subtle effects in cloth they will not.”

“Oh, Francine, will  you really? I was going to ask you to cut out what we could manage,” said Daphne. “I never hoped that you might help with the sewing.”

“Ce n’est pas rien. I never thought I would miss having something to sew, but I do. I have made a layette for our first child when he or she arrives which Stoat says rivals a royal baby, and I have seen that all our napery is sufficiently decorative, and when Phippy’s letter arrived, Stoat said ‘Thank G-d for that, you now have something to keep your fingers occupied before I wake up in the morning to find myself embroidered.’ He is very droll, but I have taken to making bonnets for the people I like because I have no tasks to do until he entertains and the time is very heavy.”

It turned out that Mr. Stotham Brierly had driven his wife to the school, to be a more sober escort to three giggling girls than one of them trying to appear a staid matron.  Francine did not even try to dress as a staid matron, since it made her look as if she had borrowed someone else’s clothes.  Only her newly coiffed hairstyle of short hair with little ringlets under absurd lace caps gave even a nod to her married status, and Stoat resigned himself to being de trop for a while, save as coachman. He did not disapprove; Francine had been forced to grow up rather fast, when she have become involved in the spying of her unpleasant cousin. He loved to see her have fun, and sat, smiling, as Daphne and Harriet caught their friend up with all the school news.

“And M. Despard does not know yet where the mouse came from,” said Daphne. “Save that he regards Harriet as a saviour for having removed it.”

“It gnawed on his ear,” said Harriet. “I was terrified of the consequences, poor thing, it might have been poisoned.”

“Even so!” said Francine.

 

oOoOo

 

The shopping trip to Brentwood was exciting for three young girls let loose amongst fabric, ribbon, laces, and other notions. Stoat was that rare man who, without taking a deep delight in fabrics, vicariously enjoyed the pleasures they brought to the girls.

He also smiled when Francine beckoned a haberdasher, passed over some money and indicated that she would pay for the fabric a plainly-clad girl clearly coveted, but could not afford.

“She will get snippy about charity,” he said, quietly.

“Of a surety; I told the haberdasher to tell her that there was some of the same out the back which was water stained, which was much cheaper if she could use it. She will think the haberdashery fussy when she does not find an obvious stain, but I merely paid the difference between what she could afford, and what it cost.”

“You are sweet,” said Stoat.

Her eyes danced.

“You may explore that thought more, later,” she said.

 

Daphne spoke out as they drove out of Chelmsford.

“This isn’t the way back to the school.”

“No; I spoke with Phippy and I have stolen you for the rest of the term as well as over Christmas. Stoat said I might. Your trunks have been sent on.”

“Mr. Brierly is a very kind man,” said Harriet.

“Indeed; and I adore him,” said Francine.

 

The Enterprising Émigrée is out!

Here as kindle and anywhere else you like to shop

Francine 2

Chapter 2

The little shop had been built in the previous century, and had a bow-fronted window, filled with small panes of glass, many of them with the singular swirl of the ‘bull’s eye’ in the centre of the cheaper crown glass.   The bull’s eye  was from the point where the thrown molten sheet was attached to the tool used to extract it from the furnace. Plate glass was so common these days, and less expensive now that steam engines were used to polish and grind the sheets, that the crown glass was becoming quaint.

The shop frontage was short, the usual five and a half yards wide, but the shop ran back a goodly distance, filling most of the land the property was built on. The building at the back was one storey, with skylights, a warehouse and workshop combined.  Francine turned the big key to let herself and her new aunts into the shop, with its wide counter and the rack of fabrics behind it. 

“I would like to start with personal effects,” said Francine. “Let us get that over and done with.”

Miss Cotton embraced her; Miss Tavistock just touched her shoulder, but it meant the same thing.  It would hurt, going home, without Maman there.  Francine took a deep breath and went through the door behind the counter, and up the stairs to the small apartment over the shop.  There was a parlour across the front of the shop, and at the back, looking down on the workshop, her mother’s bedroom and a diminutive kitchen, of sorts in the dressing-room, with a closed stove on one side, and a meat safe on the other.  Francine sighed. The closed stove had been her mother’s pride and joy, and meant that they were not dependent on the village bakery for food.  It meant, too, that Mme DuChesne might enjoy French recipes. 

“The stove might as well stay for the next tenant,” said Francine. “It was a terrible business getting it in, and up the stairs, and I have no desire to try to reverse the process.”

“It can be specified in any agreement,” said Miss Tavistock, “And it made clear that it belongs to the house.”

Francine nodded.

“I will want the pans for when I am wed, and to set up house,” she said. “But perhaps they may be packed away in a tea chest.”

“Yes, and Nell will have them taken to the Priory, with other things you wish to keep,” said Miss Cotton. “There’s a tea chest downstairs behind the counter, and Henderson is keeping any he has.”

“A grocer in a small place will not have many,” ventured Francine.

“We may have to have Jakes put you together some boxes,” said Miss Cotton.

Francine shuddered.  Jakes was the local carpenter, but he was also the coffin maker.

“Maman...” said Francine. “Is ... is the coffin in her bedroom? Or the parlour?”

“No, little one, the vicar kindly agreed to have it in the church until tomorrow when the funeral is arranged,” said Miss Tavistock, gruffly.

Francine heaved a sigh of relief.

“I want to go and see her, and pay my last respects, but I would not want to think of her ... here... while I am removing all she owned,” said Francine.

“Effie was quite right to insist on having her moved, then,” said Miss Cotton.  “I wondered if you would not want her disturbed from her house before the funeral.”

“It is not Mama, for she is in heaven with Le Bon Dieu, but ....”

Miss Tavistock patted her shoulder.

It was with some astonishment that Francine suddenly realised that it was brusque Miss Tavistock who understood her feelings better than Miss Cotton; for hitherto, she would have thought of Miss Cotton as the more emotional, who would enter more easily into her feelings.

Mme. DuChesne had not had many belongings, and apart from her mother’s clothes, the only things Francine really wanted to keep were a pretty escritoire, her mother’s writing slope, and her sewing box.  The last was a pretty thing, inlaid with a scene of flowers in different coloured woods, which had come with them from France.  It had cunningly concealed folding legs so it might be set up beside a chair, without having to bend to reach into it.  The escritoire was as like to one Mme. DuChesne had owned in France as was possible.  It had been cheap in an auction, for having been stored where water had damaged the wood.  It had not, however, been waterlogged, and all the damage was superficial.  A lot of polishing had restored it to its former glory.  The writing slope had come from the same auction, and was a little neglected, but once again, polish on the wood and leather had made them like new, and warm white wine had removed most of the stains on the silk lining.

There was a knock on the door, and Francine said,

“Oh, bother!  Cannot people read the sign that we are closed?”

“It might be Lady Rookwood,” said Miss Cotton.  “I will pop down and see.”

She was back soon followed by the smiling figure of Nell, who took Francine’s hands before the girl could curtsey.

“Oh, I am sorry for your loss,” she said.

“Thank you, Lady Rookwood,” said Francine.

“Oh, if you are being adopted by two of my oldest friends, you must call me Nell,” said Nell. “Kit never wanted the title anyway, and spends most of his time trying to be taken as a yeoman farmer, I swear!  But of course, it was his duty to take it up when his brother died.”

“Yes, of course,” said Francine, who understood noblesse oblige, even though she had had very little chance to practice such a concept. “It is most kind of you to offer to store some of my things, for I would not know where to put everything, if the shop is to be available to help someone else.”

“Ah, Miss Cotton told me I would like you, for you are thoughtful. There are fewer émigrés in distress these days, but I have in mind a family made suddenly destitute, through no fault of their own.  The poor woman married her husband, and reared a daughter and two sons, currently aged fourteen, eleven and nine respectively, only to discover that her husband was a polygamist, and that she was suddenly to be considered a fallen woman and her children illegitimate.”

“Oh, how very unfortunate!” cried Miss Cotton.

“Yes, and a shock, too, I am sure,” said Nell. “Especially after all that time.  His first wife was suing for divorce, on grounds of desertion.  Apparently he had married her in the belief she was an heiress, and abandoned her because he found out she was not the beneficiary of her grandfather’s estates. He then married a woman with a comfortable competence, and proceeded to run through her capital without her knowing about it.  And then his first wife did inherit, and decided that it was worth the swingeing cost of a divorce, as the desertion was pretty plain to prove, especially with a second wife.  The first, I believe, wishes to re-marry, and who can blame her, left alone to bring up a daughter. As for Mrs. Ashford, who has resumed her maiden name, but kept the courtesy marital title, she believed herself to be the wife of a wealthy man, and her daughter has no skills at all.  I was hoping, Francine, that I might impose on you to teach her something at least?  Romilda is able enough on the pianoforte, and can embroider, but she will need to learn good plain sewing, and how to hold household accounts.  I do not think it worth putting her in school for a while, for she has no interest in any sort of schoolwork.  George and Frederick might go to the local grammar school.”

“Romilda?  That does not sound English,” said Francine.

“I fear that the father was a devotee of George Frederic Handel; and whilst his sons may have reasonable enough names, in being named after the composer, the daughter is named for a character in one of his operas, which I do not believe is performed now.”

“How unfortunate for her.”

“Indeed, I cannot think that parents do their daughters any favours in bestowing upon them fanciful names from literary sources,” said Nell. “We plan to call our own first daughter ‘Charlotte’ after Kit’s late brother, Charlie, and if instead we have a son, he will be Peter, for a family friend, and Hasdrubel, which is a family name, and in honour of the pirate in the family whose treasure recouped Charlie’s losses.”

“Oh, it is Carthaginian,” said Francine, who enjoyed history.

“Indeed, and his brother was named ‘Hannibal’, but there is no reason to saddle any child with them as first names,” said Nell.

“Well, now I must see to my mother’s clothes, I suppose,” said Francine.  “She had to be turned out well, as an advertisement of her own skill, and I am not sure if I can wear any, for they are designed for a matron, not a young girl.  They might be made over for you, Aunt Anne?” she suggested. “I am not sure they are in a style that suits Aunt Effie.”

“Moreover, I am considerably taller than your Maman was, and broader in various places,” said Euphemia Tavistock.  “They would suit Anne very nicely, but I think that you should keep the burgundy coloured pelisse, it will suit you very well, and is no more matronly than it is young. A pelisse is a pelisse, after all. Also the opera cloak in burnt orange velvet.”

Francine nodded.

“Those we might examine at your cottage ... at home, I mean, after we have packed them in bandboxes to take there. I think the opera cloak would be very fine on you, Aunt Effie, but we may worry about that later.  I have little enough in my own attic bedroom, save my quilt, for all my clothes were packed for school.  I would like the quilt for my bed, please, as it was the first thing Aunt Anne made for me.”

“Of course, child; how lovely that you remember!” said Anne Cotton, moved.

“Why, you were making it when we arrived, and I was a tearful wretch, and you sat me on your lap and told me stories about where all the patches had come from,” said Francine. “And Aunt Effie used it to teach me English as you sewed it.  I love that quilt.”

“Bless the child, you remember that?” Effie sniffed surreptitiously.

Anne did not bother to wipe her tears.

The personal effects were soon dealt with, and the women went down to the shop.  Francine had no hesitation in choosing bonnets for her friends, a villager straw bonnet with cerulean blue silk lining, trimmed with white silk roses and forget-me-knots for Daphne, whose blonde Saxon prettiness would suit it.  For Harriet, whose hair was on the ginger side of chestnut, Francine chose a sage-green silk capote, trimmed with bronze-green ribbons, for Harriet had a bronze-green pelisse which it would suit perfectly.

“Those completed hats and bonnets which you and your aunts do not choose to keep might be sold by private auction,” said Nell.  “Marianne, Lavinia and I all like your mother’s creations, and we are not the only ladies in the neighbourhood.  When you have chosen, I will have any others taken to the Priory, and I will invite all the local ladies to drink tea and bid on bonnets.”

“What an excellent idea!” said Francine.  “Good, and if I may, I will complete those on which she was working, for I know how, even if I have very little desire to be a milliner, to add to them.  There is a most delightful toque in burnt orange with black ostrich feathers, which would suit Aunt Effie to perfection, with that opera cape, and your tan and black Norfolk shawl over it too, Aunt Effie.”

“She’d be good enough to eat,” agreed Anne.

“Well, you must wear the opera cape at need, if you are determined to give it to me,” said Effie.  “Thank you, my dear; I am one of a handful of women who can wear orange fortuitously.”

Francine regarded the fabrics in the shop.

“All of these rolls are started,” she said.  “There are brand new rolls in the warehouse-workshop. Apart from a couple of more exotic fabrics, all of these are good, everyday fabrics, bombazine for mourning and servants, a plain white satin, several calico prints, and a number of muslins, plain in white, pink, green, yellow and blue.  The finer ones are these three fine figured muslins, one which is a swiss spot, one with embroidery along one side, and one with a satin-wove stripe.  Bon, I cannot see that we would use more than these rolls over the next two or three years.  A full bolt will make eight walking gowns or five evening gowns if it is fine fabric for that purpose, and even those bolts which are partly used will yield a gown or two.”

“We should easily expect to buy you as much, to bring you out,” said Effie.  “And you will want some evening clothes and more adult day gowns for meeting the neighbourhood society, so I think it a wise decision, my dear.  We might see if there is anything in the workroom which also appeals to you.”

Francine frowned in thought.

“Only coloured satins under figured muslins,” she said.  “But I will be in mourning for six months in any case.”

“Your mother told us that you were to wear black only at her funeral, and were to go straight into half mourning,” said Anne.  “And I have made sure that everyone knows that. That embroidered muslin over a lilac under-gown will be a suitable evening gown, and we shall change the undergown when you are out of mourning, for a more fortuitous colour for you, like apricot, or jonquil.”

Tears welled up in Francine’s eyes.

“Oh, how I miss Maman!” she said.

“Of course you do, my dear,” said Effie.  “But she was far too practical to want you to be spoiling your good looks in black.”

 “I remember when we were first here, and Maman said that we should not mourn Papa, but celebrate that he was a good husband and father for the time that we had him, and that he was sat in heaven, laughing at the Jacobins when their own people turned on them, and they burned in hell,” said Francine.

“You remember things from an early age very well,” said Effie, soberly.

“It was rather memorable,” said Francine, who still refused to eat cabbage, hating the smell of the leaves, from having hidden in a cartful of the vegetables with her mother to escape Paris, when they could no longer hide with relatives.

It was ironic that they had scarcely escaped to England when the Jacobin regime had fallen; but they could not know at the time that they would have been safe, had they stayed with cousins just a little longer.

Francine wondered how her cousins had fared under Bonaparte.

Perhaps one day the war would be over, and she might re-acquaint herself with them.