‘Twelfth Night. You know Shakespeare,’ she said, delighted.
He grinned. ‘But of course! And you, mademoiselle, know Voltaire! Did you think I did not notice?’
‘I have the book in my reticule here,’ she said, patting it absurdly. ‘I was intending to sit in the sun a little and read.’
‘And I have prevented you,’ he said with a bow of apology. ‘But I am sure it is not warm enough to sit, Miss Peters, so I have saved you perhaps from an inconvenient chill. It would be a dreadful thing to miss the grand ball at the Tuileries next week, would it not?’
The words had the effect of reminding Anne who she was, and of the impropriety of what she was doing. The euphoria dissipated on the instant. She must not stand in this public place talking to a gentleman. Inside her she might be a gentlewoman from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes, but the outside of her was a governess, and so the world would judge her. Disappointment, resentment, and a vicarious shame rose in her and almost brought tears to her eyes, making her speak rather stiffly. ‘You need have no apprehension on that score, sir. Governesses have nothing to do with balls. And now, if you will forgive me, I must be going.’
He looked down at her with concern. ‘Now I have vexed you! I am so sorry.’
‘No, sir, not at all,’ she said, turning her face away.
‘But I have. You were smiling, and now you are distressed. Please forgive me.’
‘Truly, there is nothing to forgive,’ Anne said. ‘My time is not my own to command. My young ladies will be returning from their drive, and I must be there to meet them. Really, I must go.’
‘Your hand, then, to show that you forgive,’ he said, holding out his.
Anne looked up and met the kind, faintly smiling eyes, and felt that here was a man who made anything possible, whom the conventions could not touch, who could conjure happiness out of the air. She had last felt that about her father, and the fact that the Count had known him confused her for a moment, so that as she placed her hand in his, she smiled up at him without reserve, as she would have smiled at her father. It was entirely the wrong sort of smile for a young woman to give to a gentleman of slight acquaintance, but it did not seem to trouble the Count in the least. He pressed her hand firmly and said, ‘Au revoir, Miss Peters. We shall meet again, I am sure.’
Then he bowed, replaced his hat, and strolled away, leaving Anne feeling confused, happy, unhappy, puzzled and exhilarated in more or less equal proportions.
The diplomatic atmosphere in Paris had been electric ever since the middle of March, when the First Consul, Bonaparte, had verbally attacked Lord Whitworth at one of the Sunday drawing-rooms, pouring out a tirade of accusations and abuse, to which Whitworth had responded by very stiffly walking out. Matters had mended socially since then to the extent that the balls and parties were able to continue, but even Lady Murray had become aware, from her husband’s preoccupied frown, that negotiations between England and France were in a delicate state.
Anne, privy to a great deal more information because of her ability to understand French, knew that the governments distrusted each other, and that each was convinced the other was secretly arming for a continuation of the war. There seemed to have been breaches of the treaty on both sides, but of course each was convinced its own breaches were justified, while the other side’s were treacherous.
She had not lived in the household of a diplomat for three years, however, without learning that this was a normal state of affairs between countries, and it caused her no particular apprehension. During the next week she had other more immediate things to think about, principal amongst which was her meeting with the Russian Count.
When she was alone and unoccupied, she went over and over the conversation they had had, analysing everything he had said to her, and interpreting it so many different ways that at last the words seemed to have no meaning at all. Why had he spoken to her at all? It was not until later that he had known her for the daughter of an old acquaintance, so that could not be the excuse. Why had he continued to talk to her when he knew she was a governess? Perhaps Russians behaved more informally than the English: that was a pleasant thought. Would she see him again? And if she did, would he greet her as an acquaintance, or be cool with her? And if they met in the presence of her employers, what would their reaction be? She could imagine that they would not be best pleased: they would think her forward.
Any further meeting with him would be fraught with difficulties; and yet she had enjoyed so much the brief human contact, not only with someone who regarded her as a real person rather than a labelled object, but also with someone of wit and intelligence, that she could not help a wistfulness colouring the thought that she would probably never speak to him again.
Meanwhile, there was the grand Embassies Ball to prepare for. It was to be a splendid affair with two suppers and fireworks to follow, and the Murray ladies were reserving their best sartorial efforts for it. The Parisian mantuamaker they had been patronising had made the new gowns in plenty of time, but since they had been delivered, Anne and Simpkins had been called so often to make minute alterations and improvements that it was doubtful whether Madame Beauclerc would have recognised her creations.
Lady Murray’s gown had caused particular problems, for her ladyship had been enjoying French cooking with a certain abandon ever since November, and her pattern gown had grown too tight. Simpkins had tentatively suggested making up a new one, and had almost had her ears boxed for presumption, so the new purple satin had been made up to the old dimensions. When it came home, Simpkins had retired upstairs with her mistress and an apprehensive expression. About half an hour later, a servant had come to Anne saying she was wanted in my lady’s bedchamber.
Anne entered to find Simpkins, her face red and her cap over one eye, wrestling with portions of Lady Murray’s white dimpled flesh which were refusing to enter the confinement of the shining purple bodice.
‘You sent for me, ma’am?’ Anne said blandly, biting the insides of her cheeks.
Simpkins rolled a desperate and pleading eye towards her, while keeping a firm grip on the two edges of material she was attempting to bring together.
‘Ah yes, Miss Peters,’ said Lady Murray evenly, as though the struggle going on behind her were nothing to do with her. Her face rose perfectly calm above her tightly encased body like a naked woman half-swallowed by a purple whale. ‘Perhaps you could help Simpkins. She is being very stupid and clumsy, I fear.’
Simpkins, unable to restrain a growl, gestured to Anne with a jerk of the head to take hold of the dress while she used both hands to cram the unruly portions of her mistress into it. It was a matter, Anne could see, of disposing the bulges where there was room for them, but naturally she could not say such a thing out loud, and could only communicate with the frantic maid by means of eyes and eyebrows. Between them they achieved it at last, and hooked up. Some of the spare Lady Murray was worked round under the armpits, and the rest went towards giving her a more than usually magnificent bosom, which Anne thought would come in very useful for displaying Lady Murray’s diamonds.
On the other hand, it was clear from her ladyship’s rising colour that breathing and moving in the gown were likely to be restricted, while eating would be quite out of the question. Anne summoned all her reserves of tact and said, ‘It is a very handsome gown, ma’am, and the colour suits you to perfection. I think, though, that your notion of having Simpkins go over all the seams by hand was a good one. French makers don’t seem to have quite the same way with seams as our English ones.’