25. Morlaix

Chapter twenty-five

Morlaix

Morlaix, France ~ November 1810

T he Channel crossing passed without incident. Louisa retired to her cabin away from the stares of the sailors and the whispers of the other passengers. She elected to remain in her carriage dress all night since she could not borrow a maid to loosen her stays as she had at the roadside inns. Gyles had come to her door twice, once to bring her food and once to ask if she needed anything, but that was hardly an office she could ask him to perform. Louisa's cheeks reddened simply remembering the firm pressure of his hand on her waist at Hatchard's.

You're glad he came with you, aren't you? Well, you won't be when it comes time to discard him in Paris. And then what? He'll return to England and inform Uncle Nigel of your whereabouts. Your only hope then is that Uncle Nigel is too cucumberish to come after you. Although, Mr. Digby certainly has the blunt to finance a foxhunt.

When it came time to disembark at Morlaix, Louisa waited impatiently for Gyles to collect her trunk from the cabin. " Zut alors! You smell like a tavern," she said, sniffing loudly as Gyles ducked his head to enter the cabin through the low door frame.

He gave a lopsided grin. "Our crew is quite fond of rum. It's a miracle the steersman took us into the harbour without mishap."

"And are you fond of rum, Mr. Audeley?"

"Certainly not," he said with mock gravity. "I wouldn't wish to lose my position due to overindulgence."

"Hmm. I doubt your employer could get rid of you even if she tried. Did you enjoy your time below decks?"

"Indeed. Although I had some ado to convince the sailors that my mistress was not a French spy."

"A spy!" Louisa had never considered that anyone would cast her in such a role. "How did you convince them?"

Again, Gyles grinned. "Why, I told them you were an English one."

Louisa did not know whether to believe him or to rebuke him for teasing her, so she dropped the subject entirely.

They disembarked from the ship and were detained at the wharf by a customs agent eager to see their papers. "Je suis la Comtesse Dammartin," said Louisa confidently. Inside, she said a silent prayer that the customs agent would not harbour the same suspicions as the sailors had. "My husband has my papers, but he is not here yet."

The customs agent's beady eyes became even beadier. "Your husband, madame ? Le Comte is coming here? "

" Mais oui . Surely, you do not expect a beautiful woman to tend to something so tedious as passports? I am the Countess Dammartin. I have been visiting England, and I am now very tired of the food and the fashion. Sacrebleu, these Englishmen eat like animals and dress like barbarians. I wish to go home to my chateau outside Paris." She looked at him imperiously, and somehow, miraculously, her bravado worked.

"See that you obtain the proper papers when you get to Paris," said the customs agent admonishingly, but he allowed Louisa and Gyles to pass through the line, his awe of the imaginary count enough to overcome his love of bureaucracy.

"How did you manage that?" asked Gyles quietly. Louisa realised that he had understood none of her French conversation. He was walking by her side in the street, carefully guiding them around the refuse of discarded rope and broken glass that littered the area.

"Simple. One has only to abuse the English, and the French will be on your side." She smiled as a memory came to mind. "My mother used to complain dreadfully about the English cooking and the lack of proper textiles or skilful seamstresses. She was positively scathing when she wanted to be…and she always got her way."

Gyles took her elbow and stopped her from stepping out into the street as a one-horse cabriolet flew past.

"A strong woman, your mother."

"She had to be, or she would not have escaped the Terror. She knew what was coming and left for England before they stormed the Bastille." Louisa watched his fingers slide free from her elbow. They stepped into the street towards a livery stable and the growing aroma of horses and manure. "Although, as far as mothers go," she said shyly, "I think I prefer yours."

It was true. There was a warmth and kindness about Mrs. Audeley that the Comtesse Dammartin had entirely lacked.

"I have a great partiality for her as well."

"She must be terribly worried about you," said Louisa, her words falling over each other as she lost her usual sense of poise. "You ought to take the next passage back. I'll pay your fare. You would not want her to suffer."

"I daresay Lord Kendall will see her through it," said Gyles, falling a step behind her as was more proper for a footman. "And if I took passage now, I should be terribly worried about leaving an unprotected lady behind."

"Always the preux chevalier ," said Louisa, regaining the sarcastic edge to her voice. "I would think you would have discovered by now that I am able to take care of myself."

" Mais oui ," replied Gyles in the worst approximation of a French accent that Louisa had ever heard. He touched his forelock with his free hand in the semblance of respect. "Milady always knows best."

Louisa could not tell whether he was agreeing with her or rebuking her.