The Stepsister and the Slipper by Nina Clare
Travel and Travail
“What doyou mean there is no such address as Bonmagie?” The dowager’s voice grew shrill.
It had been a gruelling journey. Charlotte could not persuade Admiral Montdory to give them the loan of his carriage, for he had taken offence at Charlotte’s evasive response to his marriage proposal.
“Send you off to town in my carriage and see you carried off from under my nose by some boil-brained fop at court!” he’d protested, the veins on his nose growing a darker shade of purple. “Those courtly balls are nothing more than a marriage-hunting ground.”
“Oh, Admiral, you know how I feel about fops.” Charlotte had batted her eyelashes. “Only a real man of the world has any hope of winning my heart. A leader of men, a hero, not a fashion plate.”
But he was not to be persuaded. He would not loan her his well-sprung carriage under such circumstances.
Charlotte had been sure that Sebastien Gobert would not withhold from her any desire of her heart. His carriage was not so large as the admiral’s, and it was a gaudy shade of plum in a year when melon-yellow was the fashion, but it was better than a hired seat in a stagecoach.
“Lady Charlotte, I would give you the moon and the stars and the sun itself, but Grandmama has heard that we danced three times at the Courtois ball and has forbidden me to even talk to you again.”
“But I don’t want the moon and stars and sun, Sebastien. I only want the loan of your carriage. What has your grandmother to do with it, you are your own man, are you not?”
“Grandmama will cut off my allowance if I do not marry Lady Blondel,” was the tortured reply. “I said I would sooner throw myself from the highest point of the royal bridge than marry anyone but you.”
“And what did she say to that?”
“That she would cut off my inheritance as well as my allowance if I married without her consent.”
The conversation was too vexatious to continue, and Charlotte had swept away from her cowardly lover and his soft whiskers.
Thus it was the stagecoach that bore the three ladies on the long journey to the royal city. There was a fierce argument between the dowager and the coachman over the number of trunks she wanted to take. She got her way, but it was expensive.
A succession of travelling companions came and went, all of them adding to the ladies’ discomfort: a tradesman whose pipe smoke stung their eyes and choked the air. The dowager lost patience at last and threw the pipe out of the window causing an uproar.
Then came a woman with a little yapping dog on a ribbon-leash. The dowager expressed her intention to also throw the dog out of the window if it would not cease barking, and Blanche fed it all her dinner, one morsel at a time, to keep it quiet.
Market-goers with baskets of strong smelling cheese and a wicker cage of squawking chickens climbed in, complaining about there being no room on the luggage shelf outside for their goods. A nursemaid with a pair of sticky, squalling infants joined them at the next posting inn, followed by an old woman who snored at an astonishing volume and dribbled on Blanche’s shoulder.
The weary trio disembarked at the final inn. Two days on the road had robbed them of the satisfaction they ought to be feeling. It was growing late in the day, and they were anxious to find their lodgings in time for an early dinner and a proper bed to sleep in.
“Of course Bonmagie is a real address,” the dowager argued with the ostler. “I have the key to it, and I demand you take us there!”
The ostler shrugged. “I’ve lived ‘ere thirty-four years, and I ain’t never heard of any Bonmagie.”
“It overlooks Place Royale,” Charlotte added wearily.
The ostler stroked his beard as he stared at the silvery glint of the large key. “The only empty place what overlooks Place Royale is the old witch’s house on the hill.”
“Witch’s house?” said the dowager in alarm.
“’Tis the rumour. No one’s been there or seen it in years.”
Charlotte and her mother exchanged looks.
“She said it was empty for a long time,” said Charlotte.
“I should have known it was all too good to be true,” said the dowager turning to glare at Blanche, who stood minding the mound of trunks, and trying to drag them into some order after the coachman had tossed them down in a careless heap.
“It’s too late to find the house in the dark,” Charlotte said. “And if it is an abandoned mess, we can’t stay there tonight. We must take lodgings. Excuse me!” she called to the ostler, who had wandered to another part of the yard. “Have you three beds for the night?”
He wandered back. “I do.”
“You cannot mean to stay here?” the dowager said, glaring at the shabby exterior of the inn and the clutch of men lounging at the doorway with tankards in their hands. “We must find a hotel.”
“Hotels are expensive,” Charlotte whispered. “Ostler, how much for the rooms with supper and breakfast?”
The ostler looked them up and down. Charlotte’s cloak was rumpled and travel worn, but it was fashionable and of good quality. “Three livres.”
Charlotte reached for her pocket purse to check if she had that much. It was a very steep price for only one night.
“Each,” said the ostler.
“Three livres each!”
“Robbery!” cried the dowager.
The ostler shrugged. “Don’t take ‘em. They’ll be gone when the next coach comes in.” He turned away again to shout orders to the lads busy about the yard.
“I am not spending our first night in town in a grubby inn,” the dowager said loudly, “and being overcharged for the dubious privilege.”
At this moment Blanche, who had just finished turning the luggage the right way up, cried out, “There’s a trunk missing!”
“Which one?” said the dowager and Charlotte together.
“The one with Charlotte’s ballgowns!”
“Oh, you stupid, foolish girl!” cried the dowager. “I told you to mind the luggage! Ostler! Someone has carried off our trunk!”
The ostler shrugged. “Ain’t up to me to mind your baggage, mum.”
“How dare you!” cried the dowager. “I am the Baroness de Bellerose!”
“Did I say you weren’t? Now out the way, this is a working yard!”
“This is disgraceful!” cried the dowager. “Robbed! We’ve been robbed! What kind of lawless place is this?” Her voice grew frantic, and Charlotte, seeing one of her mother’s hysteria attacks coming on called for some wine or water, but the servants scurrying around the yard were too busy to attend.
Blanche was tearful. The dowager sank onto a stack of hatboxes while Charlotte searched in her mother’s vanity case for the calming tonic.
“Perhaps we should never have come,” Blanche moaned.
Charlotte could not argue. The yard was a muddy, hectic place. It was growing dusky, and the streets would be rowdy and dangerous for three unprotected women as night fell. Perhaps they would have to pay the extortionate cost of a room and make the journey home in the morning. But now there was the added problem of the cost of the journey home. The new green silk ballgown was the most expensive item they carried, and even that could not be sold for coach tickets now. What were they thinking of? What a scheme of madness this was turning out to be, and now the ostler was ordering them to move aside, unless they wanted to be trampled.
“Look, if you ain’t paying for rooms, get out my yard. Take them boxes with you, or I’ll have ‘em put on the street.”
A boy came hurtling in from the street yelling, “Top quality comin’ in!”
“Clear the yard!” the ostler bellowed. “Best horses! Best wine! Quick about it!”
A private coach clattered over the cobbles.
Servants snatched up the ladies’ luggage, despite Charlotte’s attempts to stop them. The dowager refused to move from the hatboxes until her lost trunk was found, so two burly servants took hold of her arms, one each side and lifted her to her feet. She shrieked with rage and lashed out with her feet. Charlotte hindered the servants, demanding they leave her mother alone, while Blanche pleaded with the servants not to carry off the boxes, but to no avail. Blanche cried out, “Oh, somebody help us, please!”
Amid the protests of Charlotte, the shrieks of the dowager, and the tears of Blanche there came a firm voice of command.
“Unhand that lady and put those boxes down!”
A silver-topped cane swiped and swatted and rapped on knuckles, and the servants fell back before the imperious stranger. He had stepped out of the private coach while the grooms rushed to change the horses.
“What kind of place are you running, Ostler? Ladies harassed and abused in this way?”
“Beg pardon, milord, sir! Was just needin’ to clear the yard!”
The arrival of this unexpected rescuer emboldened the dowager to shake off the hands of the servants and pull herself up tall. Charlotte glanced at the coach and noted the fashionable yellow of the paintwork, though there was no crest on the panel.
Her eyes swept the stranger before them; he was a young man, but older than herself. He had the look of nobility about him, which increased his good looks in her opinion. As the eyes of the stranger turned to Charlotte, she saw them light up with the usual admiration that all men showed on first seeing her. She held his gaze only a fraction longer than maidenly modesty permitted.
“You seem to be in some distress, madame,” said the stranger, addressing the dowager.
“Indeed, we are, sir! We find ourselves in a despicable predicament! Our carriage was overturned, our grooms lost, our purses and valuables stolen, and here we are, quite abandoned, quite without protection!”
“Carriage overturned?” said the stranger. “On which road? I will send officers to look for it.”
“You will not find it,” said the dowager. “Quite stolen away.”
“And your servants lost?”
“Quite lost. Kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped? By the thief who stole your coach?”
“And our purses!”
“How shocking. An investigation must be ordered. What a mercy you escaped harm to your persons.” He made a quick look at the travel-rumpled, but perfectly sound cloaks and gowns of the dowager and Charlotte. He did not seem to notice Blanche, busily regathering the trunks a second time. “I do not recognise you from court,” he said.
“We have not yet reached court,” the dowager admitted. “Baroness de Bellerose in your debt, my lord.” The dowager curtsied again. “And this is my daughter, Lady Charlotte.”
She thrust her daughter forward. Charlotte inclined her head and permitted herself a quick flutter of her lashes at him. “Thank you, sir, for stopping those brutish men from assaulting us. What a mercy you were passing at that moment. Why, it seems like providence, does it not, Mama?”
She spoke in a simple tone, for she had not yet the measure of him. Some men reacted best to a childlike appeal to bring out their gallant side, while others responded better to a flirtatious tone. It was always best to begin with a gentle, ladylike manner, and proceed accordingly.
“Horses are ready, sir!” called a groom.
Charlotte had already gauged that the carriage was only for two persons, and thus they could not be offered a seat in it, but she hoped he would not ride away without further assisting them. He was their only hope of help, and she was not going to lose it.
“Kind sir, might I beg of you the name of a respectable place where we can find refuge before darkness falls? We are strangers here, and know not where to go or how to navigate the dark streets without a protector or any money to hand.” She widened her eyes, giving him her practised look of appeal.
He met her look, and for a moment she was startled, for in his look was something other than admiration—there was humour. The man was amused. She saw the corners of his mouth twitch as though to shape into a smile, but he turned to call over his shoulder, “Joly, arrange a carriage for Baroness de Bellerose and her daughter and maid, and escort them safely to the hotel in Place Augusta.” He pulled a ring from his finger and dropped it into his servant’s hand, saying discreetly, “Show the seal to the manager. Tell him to send all expenses to the palace and ensure the ladies are safely conveyed to their lodgings in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” said Joly, a liveried young attendant.
The stranger bowed, lifting his tricorne hat to reveal a periwig, such as gentlemen wore to court. “Good evening, ladies. I trust we shall meet soon again.”
He departed, leaving them gaping after him.
“Who is your master?” Charlotte asked the young Joly. It had not escaped her that their gallant rescuer had withheld the courtesy of introducing himself.
“Cannot say, ma’am. My master was travelling incognito this evening.”
“Only a man of the highest rank travels incognito,” whispered the dowager to Charlotte. “Did you not hear him say the bill was to be sent to the palace?”
Charlotte nodded.
“There is only one young man who lives at the palace,” the dowager continued, “and that is the prince.” Her eyes gleamed in the twilight with satisfaction. “This is a remarkable beginning. A personal acquaintance with the prince. Charlotte, our luck is turning!”