Free Mademoiselle At Arms by Elizabeth Bailey Page A

knew.
    ‘You are related to General Lord Charvill?’
    ‘ Monsieur le baron , he is my grandpére ,’ she
confirmed.
    As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a
recitation. ‘I lived with the Valades for some years. But then, because my papa
had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent.’
    ‘A convent?’ echoed Gerald with interest.
    ‘Yes, for there were too many females for the vicomte to make
me a dowry. It was never intended that I should marry Monsieur Valade, but
after the tragedy—’ her eyes darkening in genuine distress ‘—and that he was
the only survivor, he came to me in the convent and married me, and brought me
to England.’
    So pat, thought Gerald. A neat tale, giving little away. He would
have to probe further. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy.
    ‘Ah, the tragedy. Poor little one.’
    Her hand shook as he took it in his, and she uttered
involuntarily, ‘Oh, it was so horrible! They came like animals, with long
knives that they use to cut grass, and heavy clubs. They set about everyone—everyone.
They did not care—servant or master, it meant nothing. People running,
screaming, hiding...’ She shuddered, throwing her hands over her face.
    Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands
and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. The shock and distress were genuine.
She described it so vividly. Like a nightmare memory that returned again and
again to haunt her. But she was not there . She had just this
moment past told him that Monsieur Valade came to her after the tragedy, to the
convent, from where he married her and brought her to England. She had, poor
inexperienced fool, given herself away. Melusine—the real Melusine—would never
have made such a stupid mistake.
    In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. She
appeared not to have realised the implications of her outburst, but clung a
little to Gerald’s hands which had taken hers in a comforting clasp.
    ‘How happy for you that Valade came to take you away from France,’ he said encouragingly, adding with one of those intimate looks, ‘Happy for me,
too.’
    She simpered, and withdrew one hand so that she might smack
his fingers playfully. ‘You are outrageous.’
    ‘I know,’ he said, smiling. ‘Tell me about the convent? Were
you happy there? They were kind to you, the nuns?’
    ‘Oh, but yes. So kind, so good to me always.’
    With difficulty, Gerald bit back a laugh. ‘You must have been
an exceedingly good pupil.’
    ‘It is so in a convent, you see,’ she explained airily. ‘The
nuns, they teach prayer and obedience.’
    Oh, do they? No kitchen service? No feeding of pigs? It was
evident that this woman knew nothing of nuns, if a certain young lady’s artless
reminiscences were anything to go by.
    ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued.
    Madame shrugged. ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew.’
    No Latin? And no guns or daggers, naturally. ‘How dull it
must have been for you, poor little one.’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice
was a trifle ironic.
    She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing
upon him at a convent. Nor, he would wager, had the heroic Monsieur Valade, who
had rescued her from that life and brought her to England, taught her in that
short time all that Gerald was certain she knew of men. A shy virgin bride
would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this
clandestine little comedy he had been playing.
    He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd
suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade. Gerald did not know who she was, but he knew who she was not. She was
not Madame Melusine Valade.

Chapter Four
     
    Two days later, it was quite another Melusine who confronted
a young lad on a sunny morning, at variance with her bleak mood.
    ‘Say then, Jacques, you have followed him?’ she demanded of
the black-garbed footman.
    Jack