The Slightest Provocation Read online

  What had taken skill was ignoring it. Easier before today: the good weather and smooth roads had helped. The coach Lady Rowen had lent her was so well sprung and comfortable that Mary had been able to occupy herself with books or her journal, when she wasn’t staring out the window, reliving her peregrinations: Rome, Florence, Venice; Greece and Turkey; the Alps; and castles along the Rhine.

  Since Waterloo, every Englishman and -woman who could afford it was touring the continent, trudging up mountainsides, gaping at monumental ruins, buying up nearly everything else, and-according to Lord Byron anyway-rendering the place utterly uninhabitable.

  Mary had found it quite delightfully habitable; she’d spent a wonderfully entertaining year, moving at a brisk pace with a series of charming companions. The only annoyance was the occasional stupidity of being cut, by widgeon-brained people one could avoid in London but might unexpectedly bump up against at Ephesus or Pompeii. Small matter. Her separation from her husband was stale news; her association with the Shelley party, respectable if a bit outré; her latest less-than-respectable liaison managed discreetly and recently brought to an amicable close.

  Anyone she might actually want to be acquainted with was happy to know her, for she made a charming tourist-earnest and inquisitive, amused rather than annoyed by the inevitable mishap; frightfully well-informed and endlessly appreciative of whatever there was to be seen.

  Today’s plaguing mood was an aberration, no doubt brought on by all the rain. Peggy and Thomas had been most circumspect, but there could be no ignoring them with everyone so jumbled together by the weather. A formidable storm had blown in; a lesser coachman than Mr. Frayne might have refused to start out this morning.

  Perhaps he’d been overzealous. A pity to work the horses so harshly. But he was proud of his skill, and (like all of the dowager marchioness’s servants) devoted to doing his best. He was also-when given the rare chance to converse with two-legged creatures-more than a little bit pompous and long-winded.

  Big arms folded beneath his voluminous cape, he’d whistled through the gap in his teeth, decrying the bloody hellishness (begging the lady’s pardon, perhaps he should say the capriciousness) of the elements. But seeing as it was such a first-rate vehicle the marchioness kept, and what with Lady Christopher wanting to get home to England as soon as possible, he thought he could see them through.

  Clutching his top hat in front of him in an exaggerated show of decorum, he’d promptly ruined the effect by his insinuating pronunciation of Lady Christopher, all but winking to show that he knew a thing or two, being so long in the family’s service. Though of course he’d never breathe a word of it.

  Ah, well. Better-bred people had said and done much worse. The brewer’s daughter had learned to respond affably to a title that felt (more than ever in her current circumstances) like fancy dress. The woman estranged from her husband was quite accustomed to being quizzed.

  The storm, Mr. Frayne. Do go on, sir.

  Well, then. He drew a breath.

  The local people were of the opinion that the storm was like to pass by nightfall. Not that you could entirely trust them Frenchies and their stories. Still, it looked that way to him as well.

  It’ll be a hard day for sure (he seemed to be concluding his remarks now), but if my lady and the little maid is willing to trudge through the wet an’ the muck alongside the coach when we comes to some o’ the biggest hills-well, then, ma’am, you can lay your trust on Thomas and me to do for you.

  Thomas had nodded with great seriousness, and Peggy had beamed up at him proudly.

  Good. Then we’re off. (Mary had begun to turn away.) Thank you, Mr. Frayne.

  With lu-u-u-ck, Mr. Frayne had added (the latter syllable stretched almost to the breaking point of ponderous slowness, to signal that Mary must turn back and hear him out), you’ll be sleeping in an honest English bed tomorrow night, Lady Christopher. One more night on French soil, and by tomorrow I’ll be putting you on the Dover-Calais packet, safe and snug and more or less in one piece.

  Yes. Thank you very much indeed.

  In one piece. More or less. Well, with a lot more mud on her skirts and a lot less food in her stomach, since the vehicle’s jouncing and lurching had caused her to lose her luncheon several hours ago. And with bruises on her feet, from wet shoes rubbing through bunched stockings.

  At least her insides had ceased their churning. She’d even felt some pleasant twinges of hunger. Tonight’s inn was reputed to have an unusually good kitchen; Lady Rowen had made particular mention of it. They should be arriving quite soon and in very reasonable time under the circumstances.

  Mr. Frayne had badgered and cajoled the horses through rain and wind and muck up to their fetlocks, while Thomas handed Mary in and out of the carriage with great ceremony, holding the green umbrella over her as though she were a precious, delicate parcel, even as he sent the occasional fleeting smile back over his shoulder at Peggy splashing along behind.

  Absurd to have felt those twinges of envy, of a couple of servants’ evident happiness. Absurd, self-indulgent… ignore it, Mary. Orangey light was flickering through the coach windows-from hearth fires, in houses along the road. They must be approaching the inn.

  Peggy yawned and rubbed her eyes with round little fists reddened from the rain. She looked very young, as indeed she was: eighteen, hardly older than Betts, Mary’s niece at home.

  While Thomas must be nearly a decade older, well over six feet tall, and quite excessively handsome; he’d doubtless cut quite a swath during his own employer’s tour across Europe. He did seem to care for Peggy, though. Would he continue to do so if she became pregnant? In the event, of course, Mary would do what she could to help. But it was a pity to leave it all to fate-and even worse to trust to nature.

  “You can’t do a thing about it.” Her sister Jessica had said this years ago, when Mary and Kit had first been married and Mary had consulted her two older sisters about a wayward scullery maid.

  “Jessie’s right.” Julia was two years younger than Jessica, equally opinionated, and particularly voluble in the Scots intonations she’d adapted since her marriage. “We’ve both tried to teach them, and so did Mama. Of course, nothing’s entirely trustworthy, but they and their young men think it’s indecent even to try to improve their chances against nature. ‘Them things is just for hoors, Mrs. MacNeill,’ was what my chambermaid told me when I broached the subject with her. And then, remembering the contents of my nightstand, she added, ‘Well, hoors and eddicated ladies, I guess, beggin’ yer pardon, Mum.’ Which showed me my place quickly enough.”

  “Only be sure that Kit’s keeping his… eyes to himself,” Jessica had added. She’d blushed-they all knew about Arthur’s misadventure with a maid, during Jessie’s difficult recovery from a miscarriage some years past. The affair was completely smoothed over, but Mary had rushed to hug her eldest sister nonetheless-the exuberant gesture, she thought now, rather sullied by a youthful, callow presumption that such a thing could never happen to her.

  Jessie had laughed and generously returned the hug. “Not that Kit could have eyes-or anything else-for any woman in the world besides you.”

  The light through the coach windows had turned a bright, smoky yellow-gas lamps, she supposed, to mark the inn. They’d arrived without her noticing it.

  Calls of greeting mingled with the admiring whistles and halloos such a fine traveling coach inevitably called forth. Torches and lanterns guided their way through the porte cochere and through the yard to the inn’s front door. Glare and rattle and cry made a pleasant diversion from her echoing thoughts and memories.

  Mr. Frayne brought the horses up smartly, Thomas leaped down from beside the coachman to hand Mary out, and Peggy gathered up the jumbled objects strewn around the seats and floor during their filthy, exhausting, but-thank heaven-now completed day on the highway.

  Her last night on French soil.

  Of course, he hadn’t made much effort to see her either-they’d mis
sed each other in more than one capital city. Missed or avoided-she’d heard talk of an Austrian baroness. Perhaps she should have lingered a bit longer with the Shelley party. Or better still, with her companion in Milan. Not that he’d necessarily be paying attention. But (in the event that he were) just to show him that she could…

  Defiantly, she lifted her chin against that last notion. Shaking Thomas’s hand from her arm and hurrying with light steps toward the inn’s front door, she held her head so high and her back so straight that no one watching would have thought her anything but entirely confident and rather haughty, if a bit disheveled.

  And almost beautiful, the dark-haired gentleman observed silently, from among the inn yard’s shadows.

  Almost, but not quite. Too energetic, perhaps. The brown eyes too bright, set too wide above her cheeks.

  Alighting onto the cobbles-the swirl of snuff-colored skirt, white petticoat, and dark red cloak affording him a precious moment’s glimpse of muddy boot and slender ankle-her movements were too quick for any classical notion of beauty.

  Too quick, too willful, too complicated, and yet too lacking in mystery. Just see her marching across the yard with that ridiculously endearing little triangle of torn white cloth fluttering behind her.

  It reminded him of a bit of stage business-comic soubrette brought low by her unmentionables. Or a white flag of surrender fluttering over a battlefield. Surrender easier to go after than forgiveness.

  He lit a cheroot, from a torch stuck in the inn yard wall. Foolishly, he’d thought she’d be arriving much earlier. The weather… he should have known better; a soldier should always take account of changes in the weather.

  The coachman had gone inside now, to get some supper for himself. It would be a while until she came down to eat; she’d be needing a good wash, perhaps a rest, and doubtless some repair work in the petticoat area. He’d grown finicky about matters of dress during his service in Paris and at the Viennese court. And so he was surprised to discover that-at least in the little matter of the petticoat-he rather hoped she’d leave things as they were.

  Chapter Two

  Peggy was clever with a needle; she’d quickly stitched up the torn hem after helping Mary scrub away the worst of the grime and dressing her in dry stockings, clean shoes, a fresh gown of pale green chambray, and a soft India shawl around her shoulders.

  “But I can brush my own hair,” Mary told her now, “after I lie down for a little rest.”

  The inn was as charming and comfortable as Lady Rowen had pronounced it, the landlord affecting the requisite astonishment to hear them drive up: sacre bleu, and after such a day of rain and wind. But it was all for the best; in good weather, his establishment was often full up to the garrets. He’d shrugged his shoulders admiringly (the gesture gone a bit stale with repeated use, but English tourists would expect a soupçon of Gallicism from him). You English with your très formidable coachmen, spitting through their teeth like fierce beasts. Eh, bien, no wonder they have such a mortal hand with the horses.

  Still clucking over the charming barbarity of the occupying nation, he’d led them up the stairs to a simple chamber, walls freshly whitewashed and lace curtains swaying at the half-opened window. A young woman brought clean hot water and a bar of lavender-scented soap. Thomas did a splendid job of banking up the fire. Her books and portable writing desk were near to hand.

  Stretching her neck and curving her back like a pampered housecat, Mary cast a greedy eye over a high, wide bedstead and thick feather bed. Just a little rest, she thought-a little stillness and serenity in which to anticipate a good meal-and it will be as though today’s spell of bad humor never happened.

  “Yes, dear, I’m sure I’m all right,” she told Peggy now. “Run downstairs and have your supper. If you hurry, you can catch up with Thomas. Just make sure he’s told the kitchen to save some food for me.”

  The girl didn’t need to be told twice. A brilliant smile, a lightning-quick curtsy, and she scampered down the back staircase, while Mary propped herself up against the pillows and cast her eyes over Jessica’s latest meandering, cross-written, and much-underlined letter.

  A troublesome daughter, recently become a beauty: … So tall, like Mama, so graceful and willowy and with Mama’s “goddess excellently bright” quality that none of us three ever quite managed, though I daresay we’re all quite all right in our ways.

  I thought of sending her to town, to give the two of us a respite from each other. I might have asked her aunt Lady Grandin to take her, but Philamela’s coming out right now, and Philamela isn’t the prettiest of girls; her mother wouldn’t have wanted such a lovely cousin within eyeshot-bad enough having to hide Phila’s sister, Fannie, when suitors come calling. Maybe we’ll bring her out next year, Betts and Fannie have always been good friends, they’d be charming together and this year we’ll content ourselves with a cozy, merry country time for midsummer.

  Or so I try to tell her, when we manage to speak at all. When she’s not running over to Rowen, to make insipid conversation with the young marchioness, who encourages her to be a ninny, I fear.

  A host of responsibilities, to her estate:

  … When I’m not half distracted by accounts.

  And to the neighborhood as well:

  … And when I’m not worn out trying to help the people in the village, as Mama would have done and as they rightly expect of me-but hungry children make me weep, the present Marchioness Susanna Stansell does her charitable duties most ineptly, and damn and double damn, Mary, I still miss Arthur so terribly. Two years, I can’t believe it. It’s bloody, sodding awful how much I miss him, Mary…

  Her eyes had smarted a bit at that, even while she smiled at Jessie’s awful language. The family joke was that the Penley women needed to withdraw after dinner in order to spare the delicate sensibilities of the gentlemen at table.

  I am all right, she thought, and I’m doing the right thing too. The least she could do, to hurry home after lingering too long on the continent. Jessie and Julia had taken care of her when she’d needed it. It was time she did her part for Jessie.

  Very kind of Lady Rowen to have remained her friend all these years; profoundly generous to lend her the coach. What good fortune to be making the trip so comfortably, with coachman, footman…

  And now this marvelously comfortable bed. A very big one too, for just one person. Which tended to lead one’s thoughts in a certain direction. Besoin d’aimer-the need to love. She’d learned the phrase in France, though it was probably Peggy and Thomas who’d brought it to mind today. One of the strongest of needs, even if people wouldn’t think it of a lady.

  Whereas no one would wonder if a gentleman traveling alone might be thinking of more than his supper right about now. He’d be wanting warmth, consolation, diversion. And if none of the maids suited, he’d inquire whether any of the local girls were pretty and in want of a bit of blunt, with a consideration thrown in for the landlord’s recommendation. No need for a gentleman to travel without all the requisite comforts, while Mary would have to depend upon a particular book she’d purchased in Paris.

  As always, Peggy had buried Les Bijoux Indiscrets on the bottom of the pile on the nightstand. Perhaps she’d picked up a bit of French on their travels, and had guessed what Monsieur Diderot had meant by a woman’s “indiscreet jewels.”

  Or perhaps Thomas had. In any case, it wasn’t a book to read at table-a habit Mary and her sisters all practiced when they ate alone, and to hell with anyone who might deem it vulgar. She picked up Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s Letters Written During a Short Residence in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, and put her spectacles in her reticule.

  Yawning and stretching, she swung her legs over the side of the bed. It was getting late, her hair still needed brushing, and-besoin d’aimer or not-she also wanted her supper.

  The dining room was almost deserted. And Thomas, who usually watched over her while she ate, was nowhere to be seen. She glanced at her pocket watch; the inn’s o
ther patrons would be in bed by now. Perhaps Thomas was on his way up the back stairs, to watch over her things. He must have decided that she’d be safe enough with hardly anyone to bother her down here.

  The lights had burned down. With or without spectacles, it was much too dark for reading. But the glassware and linen in front of her were clean, and excellent smells still issued from the kitchen. There’s a last capon on the spit, the serving girl told her. We saved it for you, madame, as Monsieur Thomas requested. It’s fat and crispy, basted with brandy from Calvados, its juices drizzling into a pan of good local onions, turnips, and potatoes.

  Will you have some, madame?

  She nodded eagerly.

  And will you be drinking cider or wine?

  Cider, she was about to say, when her eye caught a glint of ruby across the room in the direction of the fireplace. Seated alone at a small table, face and body almost obscured by the shadow of low ceiling beams, a man was holding up a glass of wine, quite as if he were toasting her health.

  Ah. Yes. Well.

  She could barely make out his features. Surprising, then, the strength of her first impressions: a powerful material solidity, excellent tailoring and very good linen, a taste for mischief and a flair for the theatrical.

  Her last night in France.

  Ridiculous.

  Dangerous.

  And thank heaven she hadn’t taken out her spectacles.

  He held himself muffled in darkness, wineglass between long, elegantly squared-off fingers, its stem angled so the dark red liquid would catch the firelight.

  “Wine,” she told the girl standing at her elbow. “A small pitcher of red wine, s’il vous plait.”

  It would only be polite to return his toast.

  And impossible to shy away from his challenge.

  She raised her glass, he nodded, and they sipped their quite passable Bordeaux with rectitude and calm conviviality.