Chapter Eight
P ol remembered when his grandmother had been a lively and compelling force in the manor. Back then, when he first arrived, she and the dower house where she lived had been his sanctuary from his cousin’s bullying and his aunt’s nagging.
It was thanks to her that he had been taken from the kitchen and given a room of his own—a small one, but on the family floor. She had insisted on him being allowed to take lessons with Oscar. He had even—back in those days—taken his meals with the family on the occasions that the older Lady Riese joined them, rather than in his room or with the servants.
She had begun to fade, though, losing focus, regularly stumbling, falling asleep throughout the day. Perhaps she had had some kind of fit or perhaps it was grief over the loss of her last surviving son.
By the time Pol escaped into an apprenticeship with the steward, she was barely in the land of the living, spending most of the day asleep and frequently mistaking visitors for other people she had known in her younger days.
Nonetheless, Pol visited her most days. Unless she was asleep, she was always welcoming, even if he had to reintroduce himself every time. Today, her sour nursemaid—more keeper than maid or nurse—reluctantly admitted the dowager was awake and would see him.
She was sitting by her window, looking out at the garden, but when he spoke, she turned to face him. “I know you, young man, do I not?”
He said what he said almost every day. “I am Apollo, Gran. The son of your son, Richmond.”
“Richie’s son. Oh, yes. Of course. He hasn’t been to visit me. You look like him, a little. His eyes were blue, though.”
Pol had heard that before. He had his Italian mother’s dark brown hair and brown eyes. “How are you today, Gran?”
She waved a frail hand—her skin was crinkled and age spotted, the blue tracery of veins clear under the translucent skin. “Well enough, Apollo. Well enough.” She frowned at him and then her face cleared. “Richie went to Italy,” she declared. “He met a girl there.” She grabbed his hands and gazed into his eyes, her own distressed. “Aaah. Poor Richie. He died. The poor girl had a baby. I told Frederick to write to her and invite her to bring her little boy home to England. He belonged with his family, the young man, even if he was half-Italian.”
Frederick was the name of her husband, Pol’s grandfather. Had grandfather written to Pol’s mother? Then Mama had ignored the invitation. But perhaps that was the reason he had been sent to England after Mama had died. If so, the welcome he received had been far less than Gran remembered. He had come believing his parents were married. His mother had been addressed as Signora Riese, and he had been called Apollo Riese. Discovering he had no right to the name had been only the start of the shocks in store. She frowned. “Did he come? I think he came. Who did you say you were, dear?” She had forgotten him again already. Usually, once he had reintroduced himself, she remembered him for the rest of the visit.
“I am Apollo, Gran. Richmond’s son. I did come.”
“My lady has had enough, Mr. Allegro,” said the maid. “She is becoming confused. It is time for you to leave.”
Pol was prepared to argue, but she was right. Gran’s brief burst of energy had gone. Her hands slipped from his and her eyes drifted shut. “I will come back tomorrow,” he said.
She was getting worse, and the tonics that crowded her dressing table didn’t seem to be making any difference. It was time to take her away. In a little over a week the Rieses would be gone to London. After that, he needed to make his escape, and between when the Rieses left and when he did, he wanted to search the house.
Something that incriminated Oscar was what Jackie wanted. And Pol wanted that, too. He would leave, yes, and take Gran with him. But he would strike a blow for justice on the way.
*
Pol rode around a curve in the back road that led to the squire’s stable, found himself almost on a group of people—and set his horse bounding forward. Jackie, cornered between a shed and thick scrub, her back pressed to a tree, was facing off against two much larger youths. “Let’s take his shirt orf,” shouted one. “That’ll tell we if’n he’s a boy, or just pretendin’.”
Like hell! Pol was on them before they realized he was coming, the horse pushing them away from Jackie as it forced its way between her and the bullies. “Leave the boy alone.”
“It ain’t a boy,” one of her persecutors insisted. “I tell ’ee, she’m a girl. Takin’ a boy’s place, actin’ likes she’s as good as us’ns. She’s cut ’er ’air! Tha’s disgustin’, that is.”
Pol was more focused on the speaker’s hair than what he said. He knew he had seen that straw-color before. That and those pale-blue eyes were the signifiers of a family he knew well. “You’re a Whitely,” he stated.
The Whitelys were one of the district’s problem families. Casual laborers living on their wits—of which they could muster few—which mostly meant lending their muscle to anything that paid and supplementing uncertain wages by theft and poaching. The father was a drunkard. The eldest son was away with the army. The remaining older sons were well on their way to following the father’s footsteps.
“Wha’ of it?” the boy sneered—for he was still a boy, though a tall and heavy one.
Time for an aristocratic eyebrow. Pol rubbed his hand thoughtfully up and down the stock of his whip as emphasis. “Contain your impudence, young Whitely. Shall I have a word with your father? The squire? Or beat you myself?”
The boy backed away, but his accomplice was stuck between Whitely and the shed. “And you are?” Pol demanded.
“It weren’t me, Mister,” insisted the other boy. “I didn’t do nuffin’. I was just helping a mate.”
“Your name?” Pol insisted.
Whitely, assuming Pol was distracted, took to his heels, and his friend scurried after him. Whitely was correct. Pol’s eye had been caught by Jackie picking up the cap that had obviously been lost in the scuffle. Her coat rode up and her baggy trousers pulled tight over her shapely rear. Pol’s mouth dried. If Whitely had seen the lady bending over, no wonder he had guessed she was a girl.
He averted his eyes and dismounted, by which time the boys were out of sight and Jackie had straightened, her cap on her head, her figure once again concealed by the shapeless clothes she wore.
“Thank you for chasing them off,” Jackie said.
Blue. Her eyes were an intense and glorious blue, with a dark blue circumference to the iris. And she was still talking, so he should listen instead of staring at her like a lummox.
“Dan Whitely was threatened with the sack today, at the squire’s, and he took it into his head that it was my fault,” she explained. “He and his friend came after me, to teach me a lesson, Dan said. The friend is from the village and knows me from church. He wouldn’t let Dan hit me till I proved I wasn’t Jackie Haricot. They will tell everyone, Pol. I won’t be able to go back to the squire’s. He said I couldn’t work there if people found out I was a girl.”
So, Squire Pershing knew. Pol was relieved to hear it. “It wouldn’t be safe,” he said. Many men would feel entitled to take advantage of a girl who worked in a man’s workplace while dressed as a boy.
“That’s what the squire said.” Jackie sounded disgruntled, but she perked up as she added, “Maman says it is time for us to leave this village, so I would not have been able to continue working there, anyway.”
“You’ll be sorry to lose the work?” Stable boys were the lowest in the stable pecking order and got all the dirtiest jobs. Pol had always been relieved that the Rieses had not seen fit to send him to the stables.
“Not the work so much as the money. Shoveling horse leavings pays twice as much as sewing miles of straight seams. Anyway, I like horses, and straight seams are boring. Besides, the pay comes every week, whereas people often don’t pay their dressmaker’s bills for months. Also, on days I work there, I can stay for the midday meal, which helps stretch the pennies at home.”
By silent agreement, they had begun to walk toward the dressmaker’s cottage, Pol leading his horse and Jackie keeping pace at his side.
“What work would you want to do if you had a choice?” Pol asked. Truly, though, a girl of her quality should not have to work at all. Not for wages. She should be looking forward to a home, a husband, a family, not thinking about how to help her mother to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.
Jackie frowned in thought. “Not cleaning out stables,” she declared firmly. She sighed. “Not sewing, either. One must buy the fabric and notions, then put in weeks of work with no guarantee that the customer will pay on time, if at all.”
“Marriage, perhaps?” he asked.
She snorted. “Hardly likely. Who marries a seamstress? Men assume that we are no better than we should be, just because we exist on pennies, and therefore many must sell themselves to survive.”
They strode along in silence for a minute or so, while he struggled to suppress the urge to offer for her, then and there. She would laugh in his face, probably. And since when had he decided that marrying Jackie Haricot was a good idea?
Oblivious to the direction of his thoughts, Jackie continued, “Maman is convinced that somewhere there is a gentleman who will see past my current circumstances and elevate me to ‘my proper sphere’. ‘Which is what?’ I ask her. I was born the daughter of a Comte , yes, but by the time I was born, he had lost everything except me and my mother and was living in England on his wits and his charm. Now I am a seamstress and a part-time stable boy.”
She chuckled, but there was no amusement in the sound. “I am neither fish nor fowl, Pol. Too educated to be the wife of a man who would marry a poor seamstress; too poor and too sullied by work to marry a man of my parents’ former class. In some ways, Maman is as much of a dreamer as my father was.”
“I am planning to leave, too,” he told her. “Once the Rieses have gone to London, and after you and I have searched the house, I am going to take my grandmother and go.”
“Maman wants to go now,” Jackie said. “Before Lady Day. But she is afraid Lord Riese will pursue us if we do that. Yet if we wait until he has gone to London, we will have paid five pounds for a cottage we don’t plan to use.”
“Perhaps she should refuse to pay the rent, and let him turn her out,” Pol suggested.
Jackie shook her head. “She is afraid he will take me by force if she does that.”
That was not going to happen. Pol would not allow it. “Will you introduce me to your mother, please, Jackie? I have an idea, but she will need to agree.”
“Tell me,” Jackie demanded.
The idea had sprung into his head because he was trying to think of a way to stay in touch with Jackie. It was still a good idea, though. “It’s a way to make up that five pounds and also help me, at the same time. My grandmother is frail. She needs a woman to look after her, but I do not trust her maid. Do you think your mother would agree to us all traveling together until I can find a safe place to live and another maid for Gran? I would pay all traveling expenses and her wages.”
“It seems a good idea to me. Don’t be offended, though, if Maman is suspicious. When I told her how you had helped me, she warned me to be careful of you, in case you want…” She blushed.
“I shall need to convince her that I am a gentleman,” Pol said. He hoped Jackie’s mother could not read minds. He could guarantee his behavior, but where Jackie was concerned, he was not always in control of his thoughts.
They were at the cottage. Jackie showed Pol where to tie the horse and conducted him inside. “Maman, may I present Mr. Apollo Allegro? He has something he wishes to discuss with you.”
The dressmaker put her sewing to one side and stood. Pol found it easy to believe she was nobility. It was in the way of the proud carriage of her head and her direct gaze. “Mr. Allegro,” she said.
Pol bowed, as deeply as he would to any English countess. Deeper, perhaps, for this was Jackie’s mother. “It is a privilege to meet you, Madame la Comtesse . Should I say la Comtesse de Haricot ?”
“You should say ‘La Blanc’ in this village, lest we be overheard, young man. In our next home, I shall be Madame Haricot, so that those who would ravage my daughter will know they are dealing with her mother! However, if not for the revolution, it would be Madame la Comtesse de Haricot du Charmont . But if not for the revolution, we would not be in this cottage. My daughter tells me that you have been of assistance to her. We thank you.”
Pol would have known her for French by the cadence of her sentences, and the way she pronounced some sounds, but her English was otherwise excellent.
“It was my privilege to be of service, Madame. You and your daughter have been badly treated by Lord Riese and his mother.”
“Not as badly as he would like,” said the lady. “That man will never touch my daughter. I shall kill him first.”
“I’d prefer to make that unnecessary, my lady,” Pol told her. “But I shall do it myself if need be. If that was the only way to keep Mademoiselle Haricot safe.”
Madame Haricot regarded him with a jaundiced eye. “Fine words, Monsieur . Is that what you came here to say?”
Honesty might be his best strategy. “Your daughter warned me you would be suspicious, Madame. It is understandable. I do not ask you to trust me, but merely to give me time to show that I am worthy of your trust. I came here to ask you for your help with my grandmother, for I, too, want to escape the Rieses, and I cannot leave my grandmother behind.”
“The old dowager Lady Riese,” Madame Haricot said, thoughtfully. “The people of this place speak well of when she was viscountess here. Before her son and his wife took over. I make her dresses. She is not in her wits.”
“She is confused, and very frail.”
“Does the doctor visit her?” Madame Haricot asked. “The man here is an idiot. I would not trust him to care for a dog, if I had one.”
Pol had to agree with her on that one. “He has prescribed all sorts of nostrums. I do not know what they are or what they are supposed to do.”
“Hmmm.” Madame Haricot looked like her daughter when she narrowed very similar blue eyes in thought. Or, Pol supposed, the other way around. “I do not like her maid.”
“Nor do I,” Pol agreed. “That is why I need someone else to help me care for her. Will you take the position? Just temporarily until I can make a new home for her and find someone else?”
“The maid shouts at her, and pinches her when she is slow, or if she speaks to me,” Madame Haricot commented.
Bloody hell! How had Pol missed that? He had seen bruises on his grandmother’s hands, but he had believed Crawford when she said that Gran banged into things and bruised easily. “I have to get her out of there,” he repeated.
“Where do you intend to go?” Jackie asked. “And when?”
“I don’t have a strong preference for where,” Pol told her. “As to when, I want to search my aunt’s and my cousin’s rooms before I go. Madame Haricot, your daughter suggested that, if we can find evidence of crimes they have committed, we might be able to stop the Rieses for good. I’d like to try, but I don’t want to stay too long after they leave for London. Perhaps a week?”
“Hmm,” said Madame Haricot again. “Jackie, go and make a pot of tea. I wish to speak with Mr. Allegro in private. Mr. Allegro, come with me into my work room.”
Pol followed, his conscience advising him that she had noticed his interest in her daughter, and sure enough, as soon as she had closed the door, she said, in a hushed voice, “What is your interest in my daughter?”
Only the truth would do. “I cannot have any interest yet,” Pol said. “I have enough saved to keep us all for perhaps six months, and not in luxury, which is what your daughter deserves. I don’t know whether I will be able to find work, or what even what kind of work I might look for. I think the steward here will give me a good reference, but finding a position without one will be hard. I have no right to any intentions when I cannot guarantee my wife and her mother a home and a measure of comfort for the foreseeable future.”
That was all he could say on the matter. It was, perhaps, more than he should say, given that Jackie had no idea how he felt, but this was her mother. Madame Haricot had a right to be concerned for her daughter’s safety.
“You intend marriage, then? On a few days’ acquaintance?” The lady sounded scornful.
Again, Pol opted for honesty. “I am thinking of marriage, yes. Your daughter is an innocent, if perforce somewhat wiser than most of those in the social rank to which she belongs by birth. It has to be marriage or nothing. But I have not spoken to her of marriage or anything else. You must see, my lady, that I have nothing to offer. Not at the moment. Hopes for the future, yes. But one cannot eat hopes.”
She said nothing, but merely examined him, her expression thoughtful. Pol resisted the increasingly uncomfortable urge to shift under her gaze. It seemed a long time before she nodded and said, “Very well, Mr. Allegro. I accept your position. I will care for your grandmother on the journey and until you can make other arrangements.
“Thank you, Madame,” he replied.
“We shall rejoin my daughter and discuss our plans,” she decreed. “Be aware that I will be watching you, Mr. Allegro. And I will not permit you to hurt my daughter.”
Pol had no intention of hurting Jackie, but he was increasingly aware that Jackie had the power to hurt him.