Free French Leave by Maggie MacKeever

Barbary looked startled. “I suppose you could say that. But he is hardly one to suffer long from Cupid’s dart.”
    Barbary blatantly announced her intentions to usurp the affections of the Duc.  She had changed, and not for the better. “You admit it, then?”      
    “Admit what?” Barbary inquired crossly. It was prodigious unfair of Mab to kick up a dust over trifles in the very moments when Barbary most desperately to think. “Why are you in a taking? Anyone who saw me would have thought I was you. That’s why I borrowed your dress.”
    So disturbed was Mab that she had previously failed to realize that Barbary indeed wore her gown.  “To take advantage of a resemblance is bad enough, but to deliberately cultivate it is beyond everything!”
    Barbary didn’t know what she had done that was so terrible. Nor did she know how Mab knew she’d done anything at all. “Did you see us?” she asked, perplexed. “No, of course you didn’t, because if you had you would perfectly understand why I had to pretend to be you. I could hardly admit to being myself!”
    Here was contrivance of a staggering degree.  Barbary had alienated the Duc’s affection for Mab while pretending to be Mab herself. “You must know that he will eventually find out that you have deceived him.”
    Barbary shrugged. “I don’t see how.”
    Mab could think of any number of circumstances in which the deception might be discovered. “Surely you don’t think to pretend and be me for the duration of your acquaintance. You ask too much, Barbary, indeed you do!”
    All Barbary asked was a little peace and quiet in which to contemplate the events of the past couple hours. She retrieved a scrap of mirror from the table and inspected herself in it. “I don’t know why I shouldn’t pull it off,” she said gloomily. “He had no trouble believing I was you. He even said that I looked older.  I have grown so hagged that even my husband doesn’t know me.  He wouldn’t expect to see me in dress like this, but still— Sometimes I think that life is very bad!”
    Mab thought that Barbary was very bad. She was also growing increasingly puzzled by the miraculous recovery of the Duc. And why had Barbary suddenly begun to talk about her husband? “He is not angry? What explanation did you give him?”
    Barbary sighed. “I told him I had ridden off into the sunset with my own true love. Rather, you told him that I had. Not that he believed it for a moment, but I refused to admit the truth.”
    Mab was beginning to wonder if her cousin had any acquaintance whatsoever with the truth. She held up her hand. “Let us begin at the beginning. You left here with the Duc.”
    Barbary looked startled at the accusation. Tibble, who had been following this conversation with no little confusion, opened his mouth to speak.
    Barbary silenced him with a gesture. “Wherever did you get such a crack-brained notion? I did nothing of the sort. How could I? The man is unconscious.”
    “You already told me you had borrowed money from him!” Mab snapped.
    Barbary flushed. “Yes, but— To tell truth, Mab, I took the money. I know you won’t approve, but I was very hungry, and so was Tibble, and we must feed him, too, you know.”
    “You took—” Mab stared. “You went through his pockets?”
    “I did.” Barbary tossed aside the mirror. “And I would do so again. Even though I admit it probably isn’t quite the thing to go through the pockets of an unconscious man. But even if he weren’t unconscious, why should I go anywhere with him?”
    Did Barbary think she could so easily pull the wool over everyone’s eyes? “Because he is handsome as Apollo and rich as Croesus, as you no doubt have realized!”
    “Well to grass, is he?” Barbary inquired. “I suppose you think I should look for a gentleman friend who is full of juice. It would certainly be the practical thing to do, because I do not wish to spend my life tipping everyone the double and