Miss Weston's Masquerade Read online

  He had once more made himself comfortable in the window seat, thumbing through the guidebook for references to Lyons. ‘At least the shops here are recommended, both for clothes and for luxuries. It’s getting cooler, shall we go now and eat when we return?’

  ‘Er… yes.’ Cassandra shrugged her coat on. Nicholas seemed quite calm, she must have imagined he had been about to kiss her again. It was extremely immodest of her to feel like this, to want him to kiss her, she told herself severely, trying to look as masculine as possible by matching his long stride as they crossed the yard.

  The streets were bustling, the crowds jostling in the traboules, the narrow alleys which threaded their way between the medieval houses to the river quays. The Lyonnais were noisier, more lively than the northern French. They were darker, more voluble and their French was alarmingly fast to Cassandra, trying to catch phrases as she walked.

  When they reached the shopping quarter, Cassandra found an apothecary’s shop, its window full of jars of vipers in oil and even a stuffed crocodile. She purchased a large jar of unguent, guaranteed to repel even the most virile flea, more oil of lavender and a good supply of olive oil soap in angular brown lumps.

  There was no shortage of linen drapers and, acting the good servant, Cassandra was soon loaded with parcels of shirts, neck cloths and body linen. Nicholas was striding on ahead when she caught a glimpse of sunlight on vivid colours and he had to come back, only to find her, nose pressed against the glass, gazing longingly at a display of the most exquisite painted silk fans. There were flower patterns, roses, Chinese scenes, lovers in arbours. Small fans and large fans and fans with feathers and beads.

  ‘Cass, come on, I want my dinner.’ Cassandra turned to find him laughing at her. ‘Valets do not stand lusting after fans. You are being stared at.’

  ‘I don’t care, Nicholas,’ she breathed. ‘They are beautiful. Look at that one at the back with the classical scene. It’s Arcadia, I think. See the nymphs and fauns.’

  ‘Wait there.’ He left her standing on the pavement and went inside, shaking his head ruefully. When he emerged, he had a flat package tucked under his arm, silk ribbons streaming.

  ‘What’s that?’ Cassandra demanded, tripping over her feet as she tried to keep up with him, while looking back over her shoulder at the shop window.

  ‘Never you mind. You gave me an idea. It’s a present for a lady l know.’

  Cassandra glared at the blue broadcloth stretched taut across his shoulders. So that was it, a trinket for one of his married mistresses when he got home to England.

  However, it seemed the lady was nearer at hand. As the waiter brought food into their private dining-room, Nicholas strode in, fastening his cloak over his evening attire.

  ‘You’re not going out?’ she demanded.

  ‘I certainly am. I’ve ordered you an excellent dinner, you’ll be quite comfortable here with no need to go out. And don’t wait up,’ he called as the door closed behind him.

  Cassandra tore a roll apart and spread butter on it with a lavish hand. He obviously wasn’t going out for dinner - he could have had a perfectly good dinner here with her, even if that was a fricassee of frogs’ legs she could see at the end of the table. And she very much doubted if an evening of cultural activity was what Nicholas had in mind, although she suspected the theatre would feature in his plans. Cassandra had heard about opera dancers, who apparently provided much of the entertainment for gentlemen bored with the play.

  She was still wide awake as the clocks were chiming two and the door to the adjoining chamber creaked open. About time. He was so inconsiderate, here was she, lying sleepless, imagining him with his throat cut by pickpockets in some darkened alley…

  No, it wasn’t that keeping slumber at bay, she admitted to herself. It was the thought of Nicholas in the arms of the lady for whom the fan was intended, of her gratitude for the pretty gift.

  Candlelight showed under her door and footsteps crossed the floor. To her surprise, her door opened slowly, and Nicholas tiptoed in. Cassandra froze, her fingers grasping the coverlet. What was he doing in her room? Even when she’d had to sleep behind a screen in his chamber, he had never once entered that private space.

  She half closed her eyes, trying to feign sleep, certain he would hear the sound of her racing pulse in the silent room. Under her lashes she watched him move towards her bed and bend down. Cassandra closed her eyes and almost stopped breathing. She knew he shouldn’t be there, knew she should cry out, but she could not, she didn’t want to. She felt him gently place something on the foot of the bed, then he tiptoed out again.

  Gradually she relaxed her fingers as the door closed behind him and sounds made it obvious Nicholas was preparing for bed. The candle next door was snuffed. Cautiously Cassandra sat up and peered down at the foot of the bed. In the moonlight she could clearly make out the shape of an oblong package with a tangle of ribbon. He had given her the fan.

  When Cassandra woke in the morning the package was clutched in her arms like a child’s doll, the ribbons crushed. Eagerly she pulled off the paper to examine the prize in the daylight. Gold leaf gleamed around the edge, the ivory sticks were smooth as butter under her fingers. Slowly she opened it up, tracing the delicate painted figures with a fingertip.

  The door of Nicholas’s chamber banged, startling her out of her reverie. What time was it? Judging by the bustle in the street below and the strength of the light flooding through the windows, she had overslept. Nicholas must have gone out without her.

  Cassandra balanced on one foot, tugging on her other shoe, worrying about oversleeping. Usually she was up well before Nicholas and had his hot water, clean linen and breakfast all organised before he shouted for the first cup of coffee.

  In his room, yesterday’s shirt was tossed on the floor and in their private parlour, the remains of rolls and an almost empty coffee pot showed he had eaten before leaving. Cassandra rang for chocolate and rolls for herself and began tidying the bedchamber.

  Should she pack their valises or not? Nicholas had not said how long he intended to stay, nor what their route from here would be.

  When the chocolate came, she curled up in the window seat, the opened fan propped up at her feet, sipping the hot drink. Beneath her the street was thronged with tradesmen making deliveries both to the inn and to the private houses on either side. There were few carriages abroad at this hour and few gentry on the street: Nicholas ought to be easy to spot when he returned.

  It was blissfully warm in the sunlight bathing the window seat. Cassandra wriggled comfortably against the cushions and realised to her surprise that she was happier than she had ever been in her life. Despite the fleabites, the boy’s clothes, the bumpy roads and Nicholas’s uncertain temper she felt alive, vital, free. For nearly eighteen years she’d been her father’s silent companion. Showing emotion was frowned upon, as were high spirits, or any display of temperament.

  At best, her father had treated her as a rather unintelligent housekeeper. Now she was discovering that she could live off her wits. Rubbing shoulders with all classes, speaking French, pretending to be a boy, were all new experiences. A few weeks ago she would never have believed this could happen. When she’d run away from home she was only seeking sanctuary, not this new world of vivid impressions.

  But the most unexpected boon was this companionship she and Nicholas had achieved. If that was what it was. Cassandra looked at the fan again, biting her lip with indecision. If only she knew what he felt about her, what his reasons were for giving her the fan.

  She’d missed Nicholas in the street below, she realised as the door behind her opened and he strolled in whistling, hands in pockets.

  ‘You sound very cheerful,’ Cassandra remarked, wondering who was responsible for putting the twinkle in his eye and the spring in his step.

  ‘The sun is shining and not every young woman in Lyons is toothless.’ He tossed his cane and gloves to one side. ‘So, you decided to get up at last. Are we p
acked?’

  ‘No, because you didn’t tell me we were leaving this morning.’ Cassandra scrambled off the seat, then remembered the fan. ‘Thank you for the, er,..’ She could feel herself blushing and blundered on. ‘The fan… it is very beautiful.’ She gazed at the buckles on her shoes, wondering why it was so difficult to thank him.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. You’ve been a good girl, and I couldn’t resist the look on your face, like an infant in a toyshop.’ He flicked open the top of the chocolate pot to see if any remained, then threw himself down in a winged chair. ‘You can put it somewhere safe until you’re grown up.’

  A good girl? Cassandra burned with indignation, within an ace of telling him just how old she was, then bit back the words. What would he do if he realised she was eighteen? Pack her off to Vienna with a respectable widow – or give in to the instincts that had brought them so close to a kiss yesterday?

  Cassandra couldn’t decide which would be worse, when all she wanted was to stay with Nicholas on this long route to Vienna, to build on the friendship that was growing between them. Anything else was too complicated.

  ‘Cassandra?’ Nicholas had obviously been speaking to her for a few moments. ‘Do wake up! The cases need to be packed. See to it while I talk to the postillions. We’ve got a boat to catch.’

  A boat? Cassandra was still asking questions when they arrived on the quayside. The postillions unhitched the horses, were paid off by Nicholas and clattered away, leaving the carriage stranded on the cobbles.

  ‘But where’s the boat? And we can’t leave the carriage here.’

  ‘Stop tugging at my coat tails and watch.’

  A group of men swung a crude wooden crane over the carriage and heaved until it dangled precariously in the air. The wheels were removed and handed over the quayside into a large, flat-bottomed boat where they were laid flat, half submerged by dirty bilge water. To Cassandra’s horror, the body of the carriage was swung over and down until it rested upon them.

  ‘We can’t go in that,’ she protested looking at the crude boat rocking on the swift flowing River Rhône. ‘It’s nothing but a giant punt!’

  ‘That giant punt is costing me seven guineas. Would you rather jolt over miles more road? Or perhaps crowd onto the public boat? We can stop at night, there are inns all along the banks.’

  Cassandra looked dubiously at the vicious swirl of the current and felt her stomach contract. ‘I can’t swim, Nicholas.’ The ship on the sea was one thing, this virtual raft, so low on the water, quite another.

  ‘Nonsense, nobody’s going to fall in. And look how much you enjoyed crossing the Channel.’

  She wouldn’t let him see how nervous it made her. Cassandra watched the four boatmen making ready their long poles and sorting ropes. A rather more practical problem asserted itself. ‘Nicholas.’

  ‘Hmm?’ He was watching them make the carriage secure with a lashing of cords.

  ‘Will we be on the boat all day? I mean… they’re all men and I…’

  Nicholas grinned at her discomfiture. ‘Don’t worry, brat. The very latest in travelling commodes is in the carriage which, as you know, is equipped with curtains.’

  ‘Oh, thank you. I didn’t think it would occur to you.’

  ‘It didn’t, but it’s suggested in the guidebook. Now climb down and let’s be off.’

  Once the moorings were let go, the boat was pulled swiftly into the current. Two of the boatmen pulled on the primitive rudder, a long oar protruding through a hole cut in the stern, while the others fended off with poles on either side.

  ‘Cass, what are you doing? Get in.’ Nicholas was already in the carriage, but Cassandra perched on one of the thwarts, keeping her feet out of the bilge water with difficulty.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ she stated flatly. ‘If this thing goes down, I’m not going to be stuck in the carriage.’

  Gradually the novelty of being on the river overcame her nervousness and she started to relax and enjoy herself. The tall houses and warehouses began to diminish as they left the city behind them, but the river was surprisingly busy with traffic crossing from bank to bank, or boats like their own laden with every cargo from sheep to bales.

  The men had to work hard to keep a straight line down the Rhône, using their poles as brakes and steering oars. Other boatmen waved or shouted comments, some of them obscene enough to bring a blush to Cassandra’s cheeks. Unsteadily she stood up and spoke to Nicholas. ‘They all seem very rough. Are they reliable?’

  ‘This was the most respectable crew I could find.’ Nicholas seemed relaxed, but Cassandra noticed the coach pistols were out of their holsters and very much to hand. ‘This is hardly a pleasure trip on the River Thames. When the boat reaches Arles it will be broken up for firewood and the men will have to make their own way back upstream. They need to be tough.’

  The banks seemed to fly past and Nicholas speculated they must be travelling at six miles an hour. The bridges were the most perilous to negotiate and at most of them Nicholas and Cassandra disembarked and walked round to wait for the men to pole the boat between the piers.

  ‘You are looking rather pale, Cass. Are you feeling sick?’ Nicholas climbed down from the carriage, carefully picking his way to keep his feet dry.

  ‘Not sick, hungry. It seems ages since we had breakfast.’

  ‘They will pull into the bank at that village at the next bend.’ Nicholas pointed and Cassandra could see a straggle of houses with one rather more respectable building on the water side with its own jetty into the river.

  The crew had a struggle to pull the boat out of the mainstream current into the quieter water that lapped the grassy banks. A man came down from the inn to catch the mooring rope and a scrubby boy was dispatched to warn the patron that guests were on their way. Cassandra’s legs felt as wobbly as when she’d crossed the Channel, and the quiet inn with its dabbling ducks at the waterside was very welcome.

  The inn was surprisingly clean and the food wholesome, although all that was provided was the simple ordinaire of cheese, olives and crusty bread with rough red wine to wash it down.

  Cassandra made excuses to avoid re-boarding the boat until Nicholas got quite short with her, pointing out that they would not reach Vienne for their night’s lodgings if she tarried any longer.

  ‘What is the matter with you?’ he demanded, exasperated.

  Cassandra shrugged and climbed reluctantly aboard. The fact that one of the men was baling out did nothing to soothe her fears, but they made a safe landfall at Vienne as the sun was setting and the air was cooling.

  By the third day, as they re-embarked after a night in Montélimar, Cassandra was beginning to feel quite confident, able to make her way from one end of the boat to the other without mishap, and even exchanging badinage with the crew. Nicholas expressed despair at the development of her vocabulary, but Cassandra pointed out that a few choice curses all helped her masculine disguise.

  By mid-morning the weather had changed. The sky turned grey, a cold wind began to cut at their backs and the water, already turbulent, was whipped up into choppy wavelets.

  Nicholas spoke to the boatmen, who shrugged their shoulders and muttered about the cruel winds of the Rhône. They were aiming to leave the boat at Arles, but the men seemed doubtful they would reach it that day, especially as the weather would make the difficult bridge at Pont St Esprit even more dangerous to negotiate than usual.

  The crew seemed edgy and joked and sang less as they swept downstream. Nicholas showed Cassandra the map, pointing out Pont St Esprit just below the junction of the Rhône with the Ardèche where the smaller river came tumbling down from the mountains, swollen with snow-water.

  ‘Messieurs!’ the chief of the crew hailed them. ‘We will put into the bank soon to let you off. You will have to walk to the other side of the bridge. It is not safe for you to remain on board.’

  The boat was already tossing uncomfortably, the murky water sucking at the sides as the men struggled against
the vicious current to turn into the bank.

  Cassandra could see an inn at the waterside and a group of people on the jetty watching the men’s exertions. She felt nervous, but after almost three days afloat, she had trust in the skills and strength of the crew.

  They were within hailing distance of the shore when there was a loud crack as one of the side oars snapped under the strain. With a despairing wail, the crewman toppled into the water. The other men, struggling with their own oars could do nothing to assist him and when Nicholas threw a rope from the stern the man had already disappeared below the choppy water.

  In the confusion, and with only three oars, the boat had already spun back into the main current. ‘Hold tight, messieurs!’ the steersman shouted. ‘We must all shoot the bridge together!’

  The stone arches with their sharp prows slicing the current loomed large ahead of them. As they hurtled towards the piers, the bridge seemed to grow larger and larger, while the gap through which they had to pass appeared to Cassandra’s terrified gaze to narrow.

  Nicholas scrambled to her side, crushing her to the side of the coach and holding on for grim life as they sped inexorably towards the smooth slide of water under the central arch.

  For a moment it seemed they would slip safely through, then an eddy caught the prow and sent it crashing against the stonework. Cassandra was aware of a great rending of wood, then the world turned upside down as she was wrenched from Nicholas’s arms and thrown into the chilly, dirty water of the Rhône.

  There was no light, only a thick green darkness which filled her eyes, ears and nostrils. She was going down and someone seemed to be beating her all over with sticks.

  Desperately she kicked off her shoes, and felt a sudden relief as her coat was dragged off by the force of water. Surely any moment she must come up, but a hand seemed to be holding her down, pushing her towards the muddy depths.