Miss Weston's Masquerade

To her delight, it was warm enough to sit out after dusk and in the larger squares enterprising restaurant owners had set tables under the plane trees for couples to watch the promenaders while sipping wine and nibbling almond biscuits.

Cassandra had acquired a very decent suit of black superfine, and with her best linen and polished shoes, looked respectable enough to sit with Nicholas pretending to be his courier.

‘You are causing much interest amongst the young ladies,’ she teased slyly. As the respectable family groups strolled past, several of the pretty daughters on their fathers’ arms were sliding interested looks under demure lashes to where they were sitting.

Nicholas snorted. ‘It’s not me,’ he teased back. ‘I think the little redhead has taken a fancy to you. Take care, Cass, I don’t want outraged fathers banging at our door.’

Cassandra burst into laughter, choking on her wine until Nicholas threatened to slap her on the back. ‘It’s good,’ she finally managed to say. ‘If I can deceive those girls, I can deceive anyone.’ Greatly daring, she added, ‘I do believe you’re jealous of my success, Nicholas.’

‘Impudent whelp.’ Nicholas aimed a cuff at her ear. ‘I would have you know that respectable bourgeoises hold no fascination for me.’

No, she thought, taken unaware by a sudden stab of jealousy. It isn’t inexperienced, unsophisticated, chaperoned girls he wanted, it is the older, knowing, society women who attract Nicholas. Preferably those safely married to complaisant husbands.

Cassandra gave herself a little shake and picked up the Gentleman’s Guide. ‘It says here that Aix will please us more than any city we have seen in France.’

‘If you’re going to start quoting the guidebook, it’s time you were in bed. Come on, brat, you’ve broken enough hearts for one evening.’

From Aix, they turned due east and took the winding road through St Maximin and Brignoles. High ground covered with a scrub of lavender and wild thyme rose sharply on either side, fragrant and baking under the hot sun.

Even glimpses of snow on the distant Alps could not make the journey seem any cooler. Nicholas tossed aside his coat and loosened his neck cloth and Cassandra followed suit, too hot to worry about her shirt sleeves and exposed throat.

The road was rough, the low scrub of the maquis crowded close and the postillions were nervous. In every inn along the way, people were telling vivid tales of banditry, and now they were convinced every clump of trees contained brigands waiting to attack the carriage.

As the shadows lengthened, Nicholas cleaned and checked the pistols in the carriage holsters. When he reached for the balls to reload, Cassandra leaned forward and reached for one of the long-barrelled weapons. ‘Please show me how to shoot them, ‘I’ve always wanted to try.’

‘Don’t touch. They aren’t harmless toys to be played with, Cass.’

‘I know that. But what if we’re attacked by these brigands we’ve heard tales of at every inn along this road?’

‘The postillions have horse pistols,’ he began, then broke off, looking thoughtful. ‘Perhaps there is something in what you say. Look, it loads like this. Leave the hammer down and don’t point it at anyone. When you need to fire, you cock it like this.’

Cassandra watched as his strong thumb lifted the hammer, then eased it back down slowly.

‘Here.’ He handed her the unloaded gun. ‘Try with this one.’

The hammer was stiff and she had to use both hands to cock it, the metal cold and unfriendly against her hot hands. Suddenly she didn’t want anything to do with guns, but he took her hand in his, aiming it and the weapon out of the window.

‘Like this. Hold it steady and squeeze the trigger. Aim for the body, it’s the biggest target, you are more likely to hit something than if you aim for the head.’

Cassandra swallowed hard and handed the gun back. ‘Thank you.’ There was nothing exciting in the prospect of killing or maiming a man, however villainous.

Fréjus, however, was reached without incident. They put up for the night in a passable inn where the patron boasted of the parties of English tourists who had passed that way the week before.

‘They all took the sea passage, of course, milord. To avoid the brigands, you understand.’ The man rolled his eyes to emphasise the dangers. ‘Desperate men, milord! They would slit your throat for the clothes on your back. Much safer to take my brother-in-law’s boat.’

Nicholas turned from the landlord’s cheerful relish of the dangers ahead to see Cassandra turn as pale as a ghost.

‘Nicholas, not another boat? You didn’t say anything about another boat.’ She was trying to speak calmly, he could tell, but the colour of her face, the pitch of her voice were as good as a scream of panic.

‘All right, Cass,’ he said calmly. ‘We’ll say no more of it today and tomorrow we can look at the sea. Perhaps you’ll feel better when you see how calm it is.’

Next day the sea was indeed calm, but Cass was not reassured. When he tried to get her closer to the boat it was as though her feet were rooted in the shingle beach. In vain, the landlord’s brother-in-law demonstrated the fine lines of his craft, the strong arms of the boatmen and the wisdom of the captain. Cass shook her head mulishly and refused to move.

‘The lad was almost drowned on our way down the Rhône,’ Nicholas explained to the landlord, who was obviously of the opinion that a firm master would simply toss the young valet on board and be done with it.

‘Les anglais,’ he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief at such indulgence.

‘Thank you, Nicholas,’ Cassandra whispered fervently, some of the colour restored to her face by his decision to turn down the hire of the boat. ‘I know I shouldn’t be such a coward.’