‘You do, Madame?’ Cassandra was surprised.
‘But, yes. You have to leave home – an affaire of the heart, no doubt? – the Earl is your only friend. Why embarrass him with the truth?’
Cassandra smiled to herself, but said only, ‘You speak excellent English, Madame.’
‘My late husband was a wine merchant. For many years during the war we lived in Bristol. When he died I returned to France. The English climate does not suit me.’
She bustled around gathering up the discarded male clothing. ‘When you are dressed à la jeune femme, we will engage for you a lady’s maid. Until then, we must be discreet, I will look after you.’ She held up a peignoir borrowed from the Countess’s wardrobe. ‘Put this on and I will fetch you a little supper. Tomorrow we will find you a few simple dresses. While the Earl is here, it is best you remain fifteen.’ Her lips quirked in amusement.
Cassandra relaxed, curled up in an armchair before the fire. The warmth of the day had turned to evening cool in the high-ceilinged mansion. Despite everything, she felt happiness creeping back. She was in Paris, her father would never find her here, and Madame Robert was a wonderful ally. She was going to enjoy herself, and, when Nicholas returned from his Grand Tour, he was going to find a young lady of quality and accomplishment staying with his mother. He would never call her brat again.
‘Bonjour, ma petite.’ Madame Robert swept the curtains open with a rustle of taffeta. The sunlight streamed in across the parquet floor, striking colour from the rich Turkey rug.
‘Bonjour, madame. What time is it?’ Cassandra sat up in the big bed, hugged her knees and gazed round. She’d been too exhausted the night before to take in all the details, the magnificence of the room. Now she looked wide-eyed at the crystal chandelier, the Chinese wall-paper and the ormolu furniture.
‘Almost noon. I have ordered you a light repas.’ As she spoke, there was a tap on the door. Madame took a tray from the servant and put it across Cassandra’s knees. The inviting smell of sweet rolls and hot chocolate filled the room and Cassandra ate hungrily while the housekeeper bustled around the room.
‘Where is Lord Lydford?’
Madame Robert arranged the silver-backed brushes on the dressing table to her satisfaction, then came to stand at the foot of the bed. ‘He has gone out. Many people have left cards in anticipation of his arrival. He is a gentleman who moves in the very best circles.’ It was evident that this was a source of pride to the staff.
‘But what about me?’ Cassandra asked indignantly. ‘I thought he was going to find me a dancing master
.’ He had simply forgotten her.
‘And so he will,’ Madame soothed. ‘He asked me to tell you he will take supper with you. No doubt he will tell you all the arrangements he has made then. Meanwhile, the dressmaker will arrive at two, although I have sent orders already for a few simple gowns. I trust she will have something suitable to hand so that you can leave this room. Until then you must remain in this chamber, as his lordship ordered.’
Cassandra could not dispute the wisdom of this. It would be indiscreet to be seen in the valet’s clothes and she could hardly leave the chamber dressed in Godmama’s peignoir. Her breakfast finished, she made her toilette, amusing herself for almost an hour trying to coax her ruthlessly cropped curls into something resembling a coiffure and failing dismally.
At two o’clock promptly, Madame Robert appeared with the dressmaker, who had brought half a dozen part-made gowns and her sewing basket with her. She fussed around Cassandra, pinching and tweaking fabric, pinning and tucking until three of the gowns, a sprigged muslin, a twilled sarsenet and a printed poplin, could be made to fit her slight figure. While the dressmaker whipped seams and let down hems, Madame Robert sorted through muslin fichus and collars to ensure the shoulders and necklines of the new dresses were suitably modest.
‘Ah, charmante,’ the dressmaker murmured, as Cassandra tried on the sprigged muslin again. ‘It is a pity English girls have no figure and are so tall, but mademoiselle has a certain something in her deportement that is most attractive.’
‘These dresses will do very well indeed,’ Madame Robert said, while Cassandra viewed herself in the pier glass. ‘Now mademoiselle will need at least two walking costumes…’
The two women lapsed into rapid French which Cassandra made no attempt to follow. She looked critically at herself in the mirror and decided that she might not have much of a figure, but what she had was certainly improved by the clever cut of the simple gown with its high waist and neatly-draped skirts. She twisted and turned to get a view of the back, pleased to see how slender and feminine she looked after several days in boy’s clothes. Would Nicholas still call her brat when she was dressed like this?
The novelty of her new dresses and her restricted surroundings soon wore off as the afternoon dragged on. The few dreary tomes by French philosophers which the bookcase held were of no interest to her. Outside there was sunlight and movement and voices carrying over the high wall from the city streets beyond.
Somewhere out there was Nicholas, visiting friends, enjoying himself, flirting, no doubt, with an army of desirable, elegantly dressed women. Women with figures. She crossed to the glass again, uncertain now that the dress was as flattering as she’d first thought. When she compared its modest, pale lemon fabric with the heavy luxury of the silk peignoir, she felt positively dowdy.
By supper time there was still no sign of Nicholas. Eventually she ate alone in her room, bored almost to tears with her own company after being used to Nicholas’s for the past few days. She wanted to show him her new gown, hear about his day, the gossip of Paris, this wonderful city she’d only glimpsed. And she wanted to hear when her lessons could start and how soon she could go about with Madame Robert.
Chapter Six
It was almost midnight, and Cassandra was half asleep, when she heard the noise of carriage wheels on the cobbled courtyard beneath her window. She leapt out of bed and ran barefoot to the long casement. Below her, Nicholas was getting out of the carriage, but he was not alone. Another coach pulled up behind and men and women in evening dress alighted from both.
Cassandra could not see them properly from above, but she could hear their laughter as they passed between the flickering torchéres into the house.
So he had forgotten that he had promised to meet her at supper and instead he’d been out carousing with these people. In fact he had probably forgotten she existed while she had spent all day by herself waiting for him to come home.
Angrily she wrenched open the door, careless of the fact she was wearing only the silk peignoir. Gaston was ushering the party into one of the drawing rooms as she peered over the banister. They must have come on from the theatre or the opera and the three women in the group were bejewelled, gems flashing on the milky expanses of décolletage.
‘Make yourselves at home, mes amis,’ Nicholas called over his shoulder. ‘I will be with you in a moment.’ He began to run up the staircase, his opera cloak flung over one shoulder. He’d get rid of the cloak, freshen up…
He stood in front of the mirror adjusting the emerald stick pin in his neck cloth. Something moved in the reflection, someone by the half-open doorway had shifted, changing the fall of the light.
He turned and, for a long moment, did not recognise the figure in the doorway. The brighter light from the landing cast a halo around tumbled dark curls and gleamed on the rich sapphire silk which pooled around the pale bare feet which peeped provocatively from the folds. One white shoulder showed where the fabric had slipped with the woman’s agitated breathing.