Miss Weston's Masquerade

Cassandra struggled feebly against the rough hands that were beating her. It was bad enough to be dead without being struck. Perhaps she was already in Hell, which seemed unjust, so she said so.

‘Not fair…’ It was only a croak, but the hands stopped pummelling her and turned her over gently. Someone was cradling her, stroking away whatever was clogging her eyes and nostrils. Something grazed her cheek, her temples, her closed eyes, a soft, cool touch.

The world beyond her eyelids was no longer green and she could feel the sun on her face. Someone was saying repeatedly, ‘Thank God!’ Perhaps it wasn’t Hell, after all, but Heaven. A voice she knew said, ‘Cassandra, Cassie, open your eyes… please, look at me.’ It sounded like Nicholas, but the imploring tone was one she had never heard on his lips before.

Clean, cool water was splashing over her face and she managed to open her eyes. Above her, Nicholas’s face, white and out of focus, came close.

‘I told you I couldn’t swim,’ she managed to croak.

‘And I told you I’d save you, you ungrateful brat,’ he replied, but his voice broke on the last word.

Cassandra’s body convulsed in a violent shudder and her eyes closed despite herself. There were voices on the fringes of her consciousness. ‘A blanket, monsieur… wrap the boy warmly… the Veuve Aubrac sends to say there are beds ready. Hurry, monsieur, before an ague sets in…’

Strong arms lifted her from the muddy bank and Cassandra knew she was being carried. With an effort of will, she forced her eyes open and saw Nicholas’s face, set with effort, as he picked his way over the rough ground.

‘Lie still, brat, don’t wriggle,’ he ordered, his breath coming short. ‘There’s a good inn here and you’ll be safe in bed soon.’

There was a babble of voices with one, a well-modulated woman’s voice, commanding and organising. Cassandra was aware of the change from sunlight to gloom as they entered the inn, of jolting as Nicholas carried her up a short flight of stairs and then there was a wonderfully soft, warm, safe feeling as she was placed on a bed.

Fingers unwrapped the swathing blanket, then there was silence. Nothing happened. After a moment, the woman’s voice said, ‘Monsieur?’

Cassandra opened her eyes to find a tall, middle-aged woman looking down at her with raised eyebrows. Painfully, she turned her head and saw the expression on Nicholas’s face as he, too, stared at her. Suddenly she was aware of just how little she was wearing. Her bare feet protruded from the torn remnants of her stockings, her wet breeches were moulded to her hips and with her coat and waistcoat gone, the sodden white linen shirt was as transparent as gauze across her breasts.

Without the constricting upper garments, every curve of her eighteen year old body was revealed. With a gasp, Cassandra grabbed the edges of the blanket round herself as the woman said, ‘A word with you, monsieur.’

If she hadn’t felt so ill, and been so embarrassed, she could have found humour in the situation. Nicholas appeared to have been poleaxed, and the obviously highly respectable Widow Aubrac was completely in control of the situation.

Snatches of low-voiced discussion reached Cassandra’s ears from the two who had withdrawn into the window embrasure.

‘You expect me to believe you were unaware…’

‘That she was a girl… not that she was a woman.’

‘You prefer to travel with a child in disguise? Monsieur, this is a respectable house!’

‘Madame… I assure you…’

He obviously needed rescuing before Madame decided he was a total roué and threw him out. Painfully Cassandra levered herself up on one elbow and croaked. ‘Madame.’

Instantly the woman hurried to her side. ‘Do not worry, ma petite. You are safe here. I have heard of these decadent English milords.’ She shot Nicholas a cold look. ‘Under my protection he will not touch you. I will write to your family and Monsieur le Curé will give you sanctuary under his roof until they come for you.’

‘But it is not his fault, it is I who have been dishonest,’ Cassandra protested. ‘He is the son of my godmother and I deceived him into thinking I was much younger than I am. Listen, I will tell you everything…’

‘When you are warm, fed and rested, ma petite.’ Slightly mollified, the woman turned to Nicholas. ‘Monsieur, you and I must talk later, but for now I must ask you to leave.’ There was a knock at the door and servants staggered in with a hip bath and flagons of hot water. ‘Your chamber is at the other end of the landing, you will wish to bathe and rest, sans doubte.’

Eventually, clean, warm and dry, Cassandra drifted off to sleep, aware only of the comforting crackle of logs in the grate and subdued noises from the outside world penetrating the closed shutters.

She woke to find the room full of sunlight, the shutters thrown open and the smell of chicken broth in her nostrils. Madame was setting down a tray, but when she saw Cassandra was awake, she bustled over t

o plump up the pillows and help her sit up.

Every muscle in Cassandra’s body seemed to protest. Under the starched sheet her legs were stiff and sore, and when she picked up the spoon, her wrists were purpled with bruises.

‘Nicholas?’ she asked anxiously, suddenly fully awake, the memories of yesterday flooding her mind. ‘Madame, is he all right?’

Madame smiled slightly. ‘Stiff and bruised as yourself, m’selle, but quite well. Somewhat chastened in spirit, I believe. I have remonstrated with him on his foolishness in indulging in such a charade.’

Looking at the aristocratic face, Cassandra could well believe it. What such a woman was doing running a country inn was a mystery, but in post-Revolutionary France, many people were forced to make shift as best they could.