At least in Paris, women knew how to act like women. Not that he hadn’t had his share of feminine wiles in London. He grimaced at the thought, suddenly unsure whether he cared to reenter that jaded sphere.
Then again, if he were truly looking for diversion, maybe he could pay a call on Louvois.
The crossing was horrendous, the December winds at gale force, the waves so high the captain of Simon’s yacht was certain they were going to take on water and sink to the bottom of the Channel.
With mast-high waves washing over the decks and the yacht pitching and yawing, Simon took over the wheel and fought to keep the vessel afloat.
Half-drunk, lashed by the wind and rain, he tied himself to the wheel and battled the storm out of sheer rancor, pitting his fury against the elements. After weeks of an unyielding, elusive bitterness, at last he had a recognized enemy to conquer, a foe against which he could launch his silent rage. He welcomed the pitiless cold and violent seas, the harsh winds that took his breath away. At least he was feeling something after weeks of mind-numbing nothingness.
At least he remembered what it felt like to be alive.
Late that afternoon, they limped into Calais, the mainsail in shreds, the sprits and mizzens barely holding them on course. On docking, the crew fell to their knees and kissed the ground. As it turned out, their gratitude was well founded. Simon’s yacht was the only vessel that had made the crossing without loss of life. The packet had gone down with all hands, six other vessels had crew members washed overboard, and a Dutch merchantman had been run aground just south of the harbor and his vessel was being broken to bits by the heavy surf.
Simon accepted the congratulations of the local seamen with a bland neutrality those viewing it ascribed to English phlegmatism. They didn’t realize it hadn’t mattered to him whether he lived or died. They didn’t understand how joyless was his mood.
After making arrangements for his crew in his absence and after a last discussion with his captain, the duke boarded his coach that had been lashed to the deck, offloaded, and set off for Paris.
Not up to the usual holidays with his mother and sister’s family, he planned on spending Christmas in the French capital.
Chapter 18
Guests began arriving at Netherton Castle a fortnight before Christmas. All of Jane’s family came; Ian’s parents as well. Even his brother stationed in India had arrived in time for the holidays. Then as Twelfth Night approached, the parties were enlarged to include the neighboring nobility and gentry. Wassail cups were raised; a yule log was dragged in from the forest and placed in the great hall fireplace; mummers performed for the guests; carolers caroled; plays were staged by the guests, the amateur actors taking to the boards with good cheer and high spirits compliments of the fine local whiskey.
Fortunately, Caroline was in charge of shepherding Hugh, Joanna, and their numerous cousins through most of the festivities, allowing her little time to interact with the visiting adults. With the children animated and energized by the multitude of gala events, they kept Caroline busy from morning till night.
In a way, she was grateful. She had little time to dwell on any unhappy thoughts. In the days since Simon had left, she’d had sufficient opportunity to come to terms with what might have been. But no matter how she rationalized-what he’d offered her was unacceptable.
As if she weren’t already touched with melancholy over her ill-starred relationship with Simon, she dearly missed having a family this time of year. Even in the midst of the cheerful company at the castle she felt alone, although, the busy schedule and great number of activities were a welcome distraction. Her opportunities to fall into moping were limited.
Furthermore, on her rare evenings of freedom, she’d begun working on her manuscript again, often writing late into the night. The heroine of the story seemed to be facing the obstacles in her life with a new determination these days, the imaginary world of fiction perhaps mirroring Caroline’s self-reliant spirit.
As soon as possible in the new year, she intended to send her manuscript off to London. If other indigent ladies could augment their income with great success, might not she? England had several female authors who had made tidy fortunes in the endeavor. It gave her hope. Or it gave her reason to hope.
Regaining her estate on a governess’s salary was unthinkable.
But with literary success, even such castles-in-the-air were possible.
On the fourth night of the Twelfth Night, shortly before dinner, Caroline received a summons from the countess.
When Caroline entered Jane’s boudoir, she found her mistress seated before her dressing table, her maids in attendance. One was arranging the countess’s hair, the other fussing with the sleeves of her gown. Gesturing Caroline forward, Jane dismissed the maids and turned from the mirror with a frown.
Employers’ frowns had taken on a new unwanted status in Caroline’s hierarchy of values. She forced herself to smile.
“I have a favor to ask,” Jane said. “My mother’s cousin, Viscount Fortescue has just arrived quite unexpectedly.” Her frown deepened. “He neither hunts nor shoots,” a small grimace was added to her afflicted expression, “so I was hoping you’d be kind enough to converse with him at dinner and save me the trouble. He’s been an undersecretary or something at some embassy or other,” she waved a dismissive hand, “and frankly-is… well… too educated,” she declared, a critical note in her voice. “I would be ever so grateful if you would take him off my hands for the evening.”
“Tonight?” Caroline murmured, glancing at the clock.
“Isn’t it just like a man to arrive so late?” The fact that he was uninteresting to the countess was left unsaid. “But I would appreciate it so if you would help me out.”
Caroline was in no position to refuse. “Yes, of course.”
“What a darling you are. Kitty, Claire, come back in,” the countess called, turning back to her mirror. “You can’t imagine how I dreaded having to ask questions about”-she leaned forward and adjusted her earring-“I don’t even recall what embassy he was in. And you speak all those many languages. There you are, Kitty. Fix this curl on my forehead will you? Thank you, Caroline. I’m sure you two will be vastly compatible.” She waved her off. “Here, Kitty, this curl. Don’t you think it should be just a bit higher?”
Compatible or not, more important, no longer a problem to the countess, Caroline thought, walking back to her room. It had taken a full measure of reserve to politely respond to Jane’s request cum command. She wasn’t by nature, deferential, although in her new station in life she was forced to accept a degree of humility. And also, apparently, converse with guests regarded by her employer as dismally too enlightened.
No doubt, the man would be elderly if he was Jane’s mother’s cousin, possibly dull-she unfortunately knew diplomats of that ilk-and he may take issue with having a déclassé governess beside him at dinner.
Reaching her room, she stood in the doorway for a moment repining her fate. She could have spent the evening in her room, taking her heroine to the Parisian opera, a scene she was delighting in writing.
Moving to her armoire, she drew out her azure velvet gown with a small sigh.
The evening was going to be tedious.
When Caroline was introduced to the viscount, she was pleasantly surprised.