The Adventurous Bride. Miranda JarrettЧитать онлайн книгу.
get no special gratitude from Lady Mary for that scrap of truth, either. But half a truth was better than none, and that single smile from Lady Mary—ah, that was worth all the truth in Calais.
Chapter Three
“W herever have you been, Mary?” Wanly Diana pressed her hand against her temple, as if the effort of greeting her sister was simply too much. Their Channel crossing yesterday had been grim, rough and stormy and far longer than they’d been told. While Mary had proved a model sailor with a stomach of iron, her sister, Miss Wood and their lady’s maid, Deborah, had suffered so severely from the effect of the waves that they’d had to be half carried from the boat to the dock last night. Then before they could retreat to their inn to rest or even change into dry clothes, they’d had to present their names to the governor, as was required by French law, and then they’d gone to the Customs House to wait while their belongings were searched, cataloged and taxed. The officials brazenly expected their garnish at every step, holding their hands out for the customary bribes before any of the English were permitted to pass into the town. After such an ordeal, it was really no wonder that the three women had required at least this entire day to recover.
Now Diana lay against the mounded pillows in the bed, the curtains of the room still drawn against the sun even though it was now late afternoon. A tray with a teapot and a few slices of cold toast, delicately nibbled on the corners, showed she’d tried to take sustenance, and failed.
Diana groaned, and flung her arm dramatically across the sheets. “Oh, Mary, how much I’ve missed you!”
“And I missed you, too, lamb.” Mary leaned forward and kissed her sister’s forehead. “At least your coloring’s better. You must be on the mend.”
“Thank you.” Diana smiled, happy to have her back. “Though it hasn’t been easy, you know. Miss Wood and Deborah have been ill, too, and the servants refuse to speak anything but wretched, wretched French!”
“Of course they speak French, Diana. This is France. If you’d paid more heed to our French lessons with Miss Wood, you would have had no difficulties now at all.” Mary crossed the room to the window, and pulled the curtains open, letting the sunlight spill across the floor. “I’ve been away for only an hour at most, and when I left you were deep asleep.”
“But then I woke, and you weren’t here.” Diana covered her eyes with her forearm against the window’s light. “It seemed as if you were gone much longer than an hour.”
“I wasn’t.” An hour, Mary marveled. Why had it seemed like so much more to her, too? Only an hour, the hands on her little gold watch moving neither faster nor slower than usual, and yet in that short time, so much had happened.
Diana pushed herself up higher on the pillows. “You weren’t supposed to go out at all, not alone. You know what Father said.”
“He meant that for you, not me,” Mary said. “And besides, I wasn’t alone. I took Winters with me.”
“Oh, now that changes everything,” Diana said. “Winters the half-daft footman, protector of our maidenly virtue!”
“He was quite sufficient for accompanying me,” Mary said, thankful that the half-light of the room hid her blush.
All she’d intended was a short stroll to give herself a break from the sickroom. But then she’d seen the intriguing little shop, and had promised herself only a minute or two to explore inside. Before she’d realized it, she’d discovered and bought a beautiful old painting of an angel for a frighteningly high sum. She’d ignored all the cautions and warnings she’d been given before she’d sailed, and let herself be drawn into a conversation with a stranger. “I’m not you, you know.”
“A pity for you that you aren’t,” Diana said sagely. “A little bit of me wouldn’t hurt. You’d enjoy yourself more.”
“I enjoyed myself well enough.” Mary took the painting from the table where she’d left it, guiltily trying not to think of the stranger who’d bid against her in the shop. She could only imagine how gleeful Diana would be if she learned of him; Mary would never, ever hear the end of it. “I bought a picture of an angel.”
Proudly Mary held the painting up for her sister to see. She should have known better.
“How ghastly,” Diana said, wrinkling her nose. “Angels should be beatific, but that one looks as if he’d bite your leg off as soon as sing a psalm. What a pity Winters didn’t stop you from spending Father’s money on that.”
Mary turned the painting back to her, balancing the heavy gold frame against her hip. If anything, the picture seemed even more special than when she’d first seen it. She liked the stern-faced angel, ready to defend his faith or whatever else had been cut away with the rest of the painting.
“You’re only showing your own ignorance, Diana,” she said, more to the painting than to her sister. “To anyone with an eye, this is a very rare and beautiful picture.”
The stranger hadn’t teased her when she’d babbled about the painting’s mystical attraction to her. He’d even seemed to understand, which had been more than enough for her to like him instantly. He’d said his name was Lord John Fitzgerald, that he’d been born in Ireland, and that he was a citizen of the world, whatever that might mean. But there’d been no question that his eyes had been very blue and full of laughter, even when his mouth had been properly severe, and that his jaw was firm and manly and his black hair cropped and curling. From his speech and clothes, he’d seemed the gentleman he’d claimed to be, but then he’d tried to buy the painting for her as a gift, something no true gentleman would ever do.
But maybe this was only one more thing that was different between England and France. Maybe here it was perfectly proper for strange gentlemen to offer expensive gifts to ladies. Maybe in France such conversations and such generosity happened every day, without a breath of impropriety.
And maybe such an exchange, with such a charming gentleman, was exactly the reason she’d wanted to come abroad in the first place—except that she’d been too self-conscious to enjoy it, exactly as Diana had said. She’d meant to be cautious, reserved, her usual sensible self. Instead he’d doubtless considered her to be a hopeless prig, too timid to take a gentleman’s arm. Not that she’d have another chance, either, not with Lord John. They would be leaving Calais for Paris as soon as it could be arranged, and because her life was never like a novel or play, her path would never again cross with his.
“Ahh, Mary, you’ve returned from your walk.” Miss Wood joined them, as pale as Diana, but neatly dressed in her usual gray gown and jacket and white linen cap, as if to defy any mere seasickness to steal another day from her. “No doubt the fresh air off the water would have done Lady Diana and me some good as well.”
Diana groaned at the suggestion, flopping back against her pillows. “She didn’t just walk, Miss Wood. She went into a shop, and bought an ugly picture.”
“It’s not ugly, Diana,” protested Mary. “It’s simply not to your taste. Miss Wood shall be the judge.”
She turned the painting toward the governess, but Miss Wood’s startled expression told Mary more than Miss Wood would ever dare speak.
“What matters is that the picture pleases you, my lady,” the governess said, ever tactful. “Each time you glimpse it, you’ll remember this day, the first of our adventure abroad.”
Mary looked back at the picture. It would, indeed, remind her of Calais, just as that fierce angel would forever remind her of Lord John. But of an adventure—no. Foolish, foolish she’d been, and far too cowardly to seize the adventure that had presented itself.
“Perhaps in the morning you can show us what you’ve discovered about this town, Lady Mary,” Miss Wood was saying. “I should like to see the gate to the city properly before we leave. It’s regarded as the centerpiece of Calais, you know, with a great deal of history behind it. We can even return to the shop where you bought this picture, if you