Chapter Fourteen

 

 

 

For the first time in weeks and no doubt as a result of his utter exhaustion, Gaudet slept through the night, wakened by Papillon’s decision to carry out her morning promenade up and down the bed. After treading heavily on her master, she snuggled down between Gaudet and William happily, sinking back into a deep sleep.

“It’s over there,” the still sleeping Englishman muttered, one arm lifting slightly. “There!”

“Shh,” Gaudet hushed, happy to return to sleep, his eyes not even opening. Instead he snuggled closer and draped his arm around the waist of what he believed was a rather pretty Parisian molly. There was silence then, punctuated by the occasional sigh as William dreamed in the warm and comfortable bed, Gaudet’s face resting against his hair.

“I could put you in a play,” Gaudet whispered, trailing his hand lazily over his companion’s chest. “You have such presence.”

It was the sort of statement that should, he was certain, be met with a positive response—excitement, perhaps, and gratitude at the very least. The irate exclamation of shock was decidedly out of place and he cracked open an eye to find himself face to face with the man he now knew as Bobbins.

For a long moment, Gaudet gazed at his companion, then, with a shrug, closed his eyes and snuggled closer again, thinking Bobbins was really quite acceptable company at the moment. The man beside him was still and silent, and he almost drifted off again before he heard the words, “I am not being in a play. Never, sir!”

At that, Gaudet lifted his head and asked, “Why are you holding my hand?”

“I am not—”

“Yes”—he held up their linked hands—“you are.”

“You, sir,” came the eventual reply when the fact couldn’t be denied, “are holding my hand. I would like it back immediately.”

Gaudet straightened his fingers, proving beyond a doubt that he wasn’t the one doing the holding, then laughed. “Sir, you like Frenchmen?”

“Not at this particular time,” was the dry response, Bobbins pulling his hand away a second later.

“I dreamed you were a gorgeous bedfellow”—Gaudet sighed, careful not to mention the gender of the bedfellow in question—“with whom I had passed a night of debauchery.”

“You must be horribly disappointed.” Bobbins attempted to sit up.

Pap leaped onto Bobbins’ chest, tongue lapping at his face as Gaudet laughed, clapping. “She is kissing you hello!”

“I don’t want her to kiss me at all,” the Englishman exclaimed, batting with his hands. “Get her off.”

“She likes English boys.”

“Well, I do not like French poodles.”

Gaudet’s face dropped into a pout and he wondered how anyone could not like French poodles, especially one so angelic as the little girl who had followed him through hell and high water. “Well.”

“Not like that,” Bobbins quickly clarified, Gaudet’s hopes rising again. “I mean I don’t like them like that. It’s a poodle.”

“Who likes poodles like that? That would be a very strange way for a chap to like a poodle.” Gaudet clamped his hands over the dog’s ears. “Pap is too young for such talk. She has no interest in carnality. She is very spiritual.”

“Well!” Bobbins seemed even more perturbed, though quite why, Gaudet couldn’t fathom. “Now we’ve established that, do you think I might get up?”

“You already are.” Gaudet laughed, casting an arch glance at his companion’s breeches.

There was nothing to see at all, of course, but he enjoyed the devilment of it nevertheless. The utterly scandalous claim was more than worth it, Bobbins pushing both man and poodle aside as he sat up, fixing Gaudet with what he could only describe as a look. Gaudet cared little and instead lay back in the bed, hands pillowed beneath his head as he watched Bobbins make for the long-cold water and splash some over his face. He appeared tense, and if the sleep had done his companion good it did not show.

“Would my lovely coat cheer you?”

“I do not want to wear your coat.” Bobbins was clearly finding the idea difficult to process, and Gaudet wondered again at what an odd fellow he was.

“I adore fashion.” Gaudet sat up against the thin pillow, dreaming of the room full of clothes in London, the gleaming jewels, polished shoes and acres of silks and lace. “Antonia—Her Majesty to you—and I used to pass hours in the pursuit of it. She always said I was the finest hairdresser at court, far better than those supposed professionals.”

“Congratulations.” Bobbins dried his face, peering over the towel at Gaudet. “You dress hair?”

“Now and then.” Gaudet sighed, shaking his head. “They cut off her hair, you know…and her poor children… This country is going to Hell.”

“Which is why we’re getting out of it.” Bobbins seemed animated at last. “Get up. Get dressed. We must be on our way.”

“We had such times… The last time I saw her, we gave a little soiree for the children, had a little ball for them…”

“We need to go,” Bobbins cut into the reminiscence.

He was right, of course. Gaudet knew that, even as he gathered up Papillon and slipped from between the sheets. Le Havre seemed a million miles, a hundred years away and he thought again of the sister and her infant child, of Vincent Tessier and those rooms in London where everything was just, just. Under Bobbins’ impatient stare Gaudet tidied himself as best he could, the new coat bringing some comfort as he slipped it on, adjusting it with a sigh of satisfaction.

“I am very famous, you know,” Gaudet explained, smoothing down the fabric. “I do not usually dress like a gutter peasant, as you will see when we dine in London.”

“Dine in London?”

Gaudet wondered for a brief moment if the man might be just a trifle idiotic, the look of surprise on his face at the simple statement giving him cause for concern.

“You and I, when we are safely home, I will take you to dinner at my club by way of thanks for all you have done.”

“There is really no need,” Bobbins protested.

“Nevertheless, it will be done.” He clapped. “I am sure Queen Charlotte would love to meet you for supper. I know the princesses would adore you. I am always popping along to see them.”

“Princesses and poodles…”

“And perfume, too.”

Bobbins seemed pained at that, muttering, “Oh, for a drink…”

“It is some way to the coast,” Gaudet commented with a frown, brightening when he realized, “but I shall cheer you all the way with tales of theater. Have you seen my plays? You must have, I imagine?”

“I have not,” Bobbins admitted. “I rarely visit London.”

“I love London, and Brighton, of course, but London… London is the center of the universe.” He laughed, thinking wistfully of the place. “Well, outside of France, of course.”

“I much prefer the country,” Bobbins told him.

The thought was utterly inconceivable to Gaudet. The countryside was so quiet, so still—there was no hope of being recognized in the cornfields, after all.

“You are a strange fellow, Bobbins.” Gaudet nodded curtly at the polite rejection, thinking it quite the gentleman’s loss. “As strange as your name.”

Bobbins’ response was to head for the door and, with a sigh, Gaudet followed, dreaming of the gaming room on the Strand, his home on Berkeley Square and the soft, marvelously ornate bed where he longed to rest his head once more.

“Horses,” Bobbins was muttering as they took the stairs. “We need horses.”

“Pap will travel safe in my coat.” Gaudet swung the portmanteau as he walked, the poodle trotting alongside, her tail swishing happily. She too would benefit from a return home, he knew, back to her own wardrobe and jewels. Bobbins appeared to have no reply to his comment and, instead, approached the bar, leaving Gaudet to tell Pap the plans. “You will travel with Papa, you are too small to reach the stirrups, flower.”

After some negotiation and a decidedly unhappy Englishman parting with a few coins, the deal was apparently struck, Bobbins gesturing for Gaudet to follow him out into the yard. As he strolled after his guide Gaudet allowed himself a wink in the barmaid’s direction, finding himself greeted with a most coquettish wave in reply.

Really, he thought with a smile, perhaps I am just born this way!

“You won’t be smiling after a few hours in the saddle,” Bobbins was almost too quick to warn him as they emerged into daylight. “And for heaven’s sake, make sure you don’t drop the dog.”

“I will wager it isn’t a fine steed you have secured for me…”

His suspicions proved correct as a stable hand appeared at that moment, leading two mounts that had most certainly seen better days. Of course, Gaudet was hardly to be outdone and spent some time circling the animals, studying them with a practiced eye before he decided, “Pap and I will take the chestnut, sir—we will let you have the gray.”

“Why?” Bobbins peered at the horse suspiciously.

“Because,” was the arch reply as he watched Bobbins closely, “it will have a longer gait and since I am an excellent horseman, you will need all the help you can get. Now let us away and you can tell me all about the one with the eyes…”

With a long-suffering sigh, Bobbins pulled himself into the saddle, muttering something to himself that Gaudet couldn’t quite catch. Instead, he fastened the portmanteau containing his precious suit to the saddle, tucked Papillon into the front of his coat and nimbly mounted the portly horse, straightening in the saddle as though it were a prize Lipizzaner. For a few moments, he fussed with his clothes, smoothing down the lines, then decided, “I believe I am ready.”

“Then let us be off,” Bobbins declared. “And may nothing untoward await.”