Chapter Sixteen
Gathered around the festive Christmas table, Clem’s family shared their Christmas dinner with friends and neighbors.
The conversation was lively as course followed course; soup and several meats and a syllabub of which Phillip asked for seconds.
Candles burned brightly on the table and around the room, but Clem had to force a brightness she didn’t feel.
Absence, specifically, Will’s absence, weighed heavily, lying cold about her shoulders like a winter cloak coated in snow.
Two Christmases had passed since he had almost but not actually asked her to be his wife. Two Christmases in which she had anticipated being married to him. Fourteen months during which he had not returned from his work for king and country.
Fourteen months and one note.
It had carried his love but gave no details.
Her fingers dug into the serviette on her lap.
From what Rufus had said earlier, Will would not be returning any time soon. Murmurings from the Continent had reached Rufus; important information he intimated had come through Will. Unrest within France was growing, and many citizens longed for a return of the little emperor.
Frustration gnawed in Clem’s stomach. Was she better off knowing snippets Rufus had begun to share with her, knowing there were reasons bigger than the concerns of two young lovers, or had she been happier in her ignorance?
But now she knew with as much certainty as Rufus could give her, and her fear for Will had multiplied a hundredfold.
“Isn’t that right, Clementine?” From her place across the table, Mama’s voice drew Clem back into the present. If Mama was breaching that particular rule of social etiquette, Clem must have been lost in her dark thoughts for some time.
“I’m sure you are correct, Mama.” With no idea what she was agreeing with, Clem nevertheless fixed a bright smile on her face and turned to her dinner companion, one of her parents’ oldest friends, Sir Robert Channing, whose property ran alongside their southern boundary.
He chuckled as their gazes met. “You are very agreeable, my dear. From what your father told me, I expected further resistance.”
“Agreeable to what, sir?”
“Your father was telling me you would be married by this time next year. I didn’t know you had a particular suitor.”
Clem’s mind raced, and she mentally kicked herself. How could she have allowed herself to lose the thread of conversation? Digging up a lightness she did not feel, she said, “Oh, I’ve had a number of suitors, but so far, there is not one here in London who stands above the others.”
Here, the keyword.
Not a lie, exactly. According to Rufus, Will was still overseas, and from the hints she had gleaned, hints he had deliberately given to her, Clem was certain her beloved was somewhere in France.
“Hmm, your father seems to be under a different impression. He’s a good fellow.”
“My father?”
“Marsden. Don’t let him get away.”
She drew in a calming breath before responding.
“Thank you for that insight, sir. Indeed, Lord Marsden is an excellent friend.” Anxious that in her mental wanderings she might have agreed to an engagement, Clem’s heart thudded harder.
Had Mama been talking about how particular Rufus’s attentions had been?
Had Clem agreed that he would make a fine husband?
For her?
Shaking off her distracting notions, Clem concentrated on speaking with her dinner companion. “Sir Robert, please tell me more about your new property. I believe Papa said it was in Essex?”
With her neighbor happily extolling the virtues of his recent purchase and the idyllic countryside in which it stood, Clem’s mind was free to search out ways and means of delaying the inevitable a little longer.
Surely Will could not be kept in France indefinitely.
The d’Aubray estate, France, Christmas 1814
The first time Will had caught up with Etienne in his role of Guy de Corbeau had been a year ago.
Etienne knew him through their business dealings, and Will hoped to maintain that connection.
Wines from the d’Aubray estate were second to none, and he’d hate to lose that trade, but he also needed to mine the connection for information about Bonaparte’s plans.
Walking a fine line between truth and the needs of his mission, in the end, he had chosen a simple version of the truth: Being himself but traveling under an assumed name.
Recalling that initial meeting as he sat at Helene d’Aubray’s table, he was grateful he’d chosen an acceptable truth. He recalled Etienne’s face when he had explained his reasoning; surprised, and then his friend had nodded in agreement.
“It’s impossible to travel as an Englishman in France, but I had to meet you face to face to ask: Is there any way to increase my wine order from you? No one else can touch wines from your estate, and demand for them in England is sky high.”
“Certainement, mon ami, but why are you using this name in place of your own?”
“This name,” Will had gestured at the plain card he had offered Etienne’s servant, “This Guy de Corbeau, it is only to allow me safe passage to reach you. I hope you understand.”
Having learned what he could from that initial meeting, Will had promised to visit again within the next year. He had returned within the twelve months, still using his French name “to feel more secure”, as he told Etienne. The white lie maintained his cover.
Now, he was seated with the extended family for this year’s Christmas celebration since, as Etienne declared, “You cannot return home thanks to the heaviest snow we’ve seen in years. Isn’t that right, ma chère?” he said, turning to his wife.
Helene d’Aubray had insisted that family included friends, and what was he if not a friend?
A fatted goose had made him nostalgic for Christmases past, and he turned to the blond and beautiful Madame d’Aubray to express his gratitude.
“My thanks for your kindness. When one must be away from home at this time of year, one misses family most. It is very generous of you to open your home and include me in your celebrations.”
“But of course, Monsieur de Corbeau. Etienne speaks highly of you. Besides, what are friends for if not to offer support and good food at such a hallowed time of year?”
“Food, and the most excellent of wines. None can touch the quality of what you produce on the d’Aubray estates. But I am curious. Etienne supplied the emperor’s table, but I imagine Bonaparte’s exile must have affected his profits?”
Will had long since lost any sense of shame exploiting friendship for information.
He willingly accepted it wherever it could be found.
Every scrap of news he gleaned, every confirmed rumor, he imagined as one step closer to returning home.
As kind as she was, Helene d’Aubray could not be an exception.
His hostess arched one blond eyebrow. “What can I say? Emperors and kings come and go, but everyone still wants good wine. The departure of l’empereur has not affected Etienne too much, although the new king’s court is not yet reconciled to purchasing wines for the royal table from those of us who supported the former emperor.
” Her mouth tightened a little before she offered a small shrug.
“Besides, now the war between England and France is over, Etienne can sell more to the English, n’est-ce pas? ”
“True, but it is always difficult to transition from a firm, consistent buyer into a new, resistant market. I wish him well. But enough of business, madame. It is Christmas, a time of joy and giving.”
“More goose, monsieur? After all, he gave his all for our meal.” Madame d’Aubray directed the serving girl to offer the succulent meat.
Will nodded in acceptance and kept his conversation with his hostess on less delicate topics until the meal ended and the women left. The men changed seats, gathering around their host’s end of the table.
Etienne motioned for a bottle of port to be placed before him while fresh glasses were set in front of every man. He raised the bottle and said, “This comes from a cask set down by my father twenty years ago. I believe you will find none better, even on the king’s table.”
The barbed comment drew nods of agreement from each man, and Will sensed an undercurrent he had suspected but not yet confirmed.
When the manservant had filled every man’s glass, Etienne raised his own and stood. “To our emperor, may he return to restore the glory and might of la belle France.”
As Will also rose, his ears pricked at the most open expression of support for Napoleon that he’d yet encountered. If Etienne was comfortable openly displaying his allegiance in the company of friends, then support for the deposed emperor was broader than Will had believed.
For the rest of the evening, he drank carefully, keen to keep a clear head and gather whatever nuggets of information fell from unwary mouths.
A coup was coming, and soon.