In the Commodore's Hands. Mary Nichols
Читать онлайн книгу.
by a mob of women who thought he should be with his people in the capital where they could keep an eye on him. Lisette was thankful when the carriage drew up in the main courtyard of the palace and she was able to go in search of her brother, followed by the rather nervous Hortense.
There was an air of agitation mixed with despondency in the demeanour of those she encountered as she hurried through the maze of corridors to reach Michel’s apartment. People were either hurrying from one place to another or huddled in groups, whispering. They stopped their chatter as she approached and watched her pass without speaking. No one challenged her.
She was admitted to the apartment by Michel’s valet, Auguste, who invited her to be seated and went off to tell his master she was there. The room, not one being in the front of the building where the public were admitted, was shabby. Whether that was a sign of the times she could not tell.
‘Lisette, what are you doing here?’ Michel demanded, emerging from his bedchamber in nothing but breeches and a silk shirt, followed by Auguste with a fancifully embroidered waistcoat into the sleeves of which he was endeavouring to put his master’s arms. ‘I am about to attend the King. And where is Papa?’
‘Papa has been seized by a mob and taken to the prison at Honfleur.’
‘Mon Dieu! Whatever for?’
‘For refusing to remit the taxes he has collected over the years. They seemed to think they had the King’s blessing to demand them back. They stole pictures and plates and bottles of Calvados and wrung the necks of some pigeons as well.’
‘That’s ridiculous, the King would never sanction that. He is not in a position to sanction anything. Since his failed attempt to flee the country, he is no more a free subject than our father.’
Lisette’s heart sank. ‘I was hoping for his intervention.’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid.’ Auguste had succeeded in putting on the waistcoat and tying his master’s cravat and was now in the bedroom fetching his wig and coat.
‘What are we going to do, then? I can’t leave Papa to rot in gaol, can I?’
‘You could ask the Citizen Deputy for Honfleur to intervene. Let him earn his keep.’
‘I did that on my way here. He refused on the grounds that justice must run its course. Is there no one in this benighted country that can do anything but rant and rave?’
Michel was thoughtful for a moment. ‘You could try Sir John Challon.’
‘Sir John! What can he do?’
‘He’s English, he might know someone in authority in England who could be persuaded to help, especially since our dear mama was English.’
Sir John Challon was a neighbour and lifelong friend of her father’s. He had been a firm supporter of the exiled King James of England and came to France shortly after the abortive uprising of the Jacobites.
‘But he’s an old man, older even than Papa.’
‘What is that to the point if he can summon others to our aid?’
‘Then I must return home.’
‘Yes, you must, Paris is not safe for you. The outcry against the aristocracy is becoming more vociferous. It does not look good for any of us.’
‘But what about you?’
‘I stay by my sovereign’s side. It is my privilege and my duty.’ He was fully dressed now in a blue-satin coat with a cutaway skirt, wide revers and silver buttons. His formal white wig was firmly on his head and his high-heeled shoes put extra inches on his height. He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Go now, sister dear, and God go with you. Let me know how you fare with the Englishman.’
Lisette returned to Villarive more dejected than ever. Her beloved papa was in prison and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. She felt somehow that she had failed him, that she ought to have been able to do more. The château when she reached it already had a neglected, unlived-in air. That once-great house was no longer a home and it took all her self-control not to burst into tears.
‘We will go and see Sir John tomorrow,’ she told Hortense as they unpacked. ‘He is our last hope.’
John James Drymore, known to friends and family as Jay, rode into the stable yard at Falsham Hall at the side of his ten-year-old son, Edward. Behind them rode Anne, who at eight, promised to become the image of her dead mother. He liked to take them with him when he rode round the estate; it was good for Edward to learn that with wealth and property came responsibility and Anne must learn the gracious demeanour which was the mark of a true lady.
Jay adored his children, nothing was too good for them, and he loved his home, but just lately he had begun to feel unsettled. It might have been the threat of war with Russia which had made the government increase the size of the navy and, as a naval man, he felt he ought to be involved instead of resting on his laurels in the quiet Norfolk countryside. Or it might have been the calamitous events in France, which had everyone worried whether such a thing could happen in England.
He handed his white stallion to the care of a groom and left the children looking after their own ponies and went indoors. The house was not large, but solidly built, with spacious lofty rooms downstairs and deep windows which let in the sun. The furniture was, like the house, solid and useful. The wide stairs were made of oak and led to half-a-dozen bedrooms on the first floor and servants’ quarters above them. The household was perfectly managed by his housekeeper, Mrs Armistead, and a small army of servants; he was not necessary for its smooth running.
The children were another matter. Since their mother’s death three years before, he had made a point of spending as much time as he could with them. It was a time he valued, but was it enough to keep his mind and body occupied?
He had hardly divested himself of his riding clothes and dressed in a plain suit of fawn silk when he heard the sound of carriage wheels on the drive below his window. He looked out to see his father’s travelling carriage pulling to a stop outside the front door. He slipped his feet into buckled shoes and ran lightly down the stairs, just as a footman admitted his parents.
‘Mama, Papa, I did not expect you. Is something wrong at Highbeck?’
‘No, all is well there,’ Lord Drymore said. ‘We have come on another matter.’
‘Then come and sit down and I will have refreshments brought in.’ He turned to give the order to the waiting footman before leading the way into the withdrawing room. His parents settled on a sofa and he seated himself opposite them. ‘Now, what’s afoot that brings you over here without warning? Not that I am not pleased to see you, you know you are welcome at any time.’
‘As you are at Blackfen Manor,’ his father added.
‘We have had a letter from my father,’ his mother put in. ‘He hasn’t written to me since poor Mama passed away and then it was only a letter of condolence, but now it seems he is wishing to leave France.’
‘I can hardly blame him for that,’ Jay said. ‘Is he asking if he might be pardoned?’
Amy laughed. ‘I rather think he is taking that for granted. What he is asking is a little more complicated. He has a friend, the Comte Giradet, who has been thrown into prison by the mob for not giving in to their demands and his daughter is distraught that he might lose his life. He requests help from us in securing his friend’s release and getting all three out of France.’
‘He has apparently heard that others have been helped in that way by some Englishmen,’ James added with a laugh. ‘It seems the Piccadilly Gentlemen’s fame has spread to the Continent.’
‘I thought you were going to wind up the Society,’ Jay said. ‘After all, you are none of you as young as you were when you started it. How long ago was that?’
‘It was just after you were born in ’54. And you are right, it has had its day, but recently Harry Portman