10 August 1817
Calais
At Dessein’s Hotel
After dinner
N.B. Two francs to small boy at quay for catching my bonnet when the wind sailed it along the pier and nearly into the water. He called me “Madame” when he thanked me. I almost looked behind me to see whom he was addressing.
N.B. What is stain on pink dress? Ask Lady S. what was in that seasickness potion. Any hope of removal?
THIS AFTERNOON WE REACHED Calais. I have quite dried out now. Thomas has sent a card around to Mr. Brummell inviting him to join us all for dinner here at Dessein’s tomorrow evening. Such dinners are part of a practice called Calais blackmail. It is the custom for all English travelers who arrive here en route to Paris (or anywhere else in France). It allows them to sustain any acquaintances they meet in reduced circumstances here—and there are a great many English exiles leaving on means of the slenderest—by tipping them or entertaining them to a square meal.
It is Lady Sylvia’s invariable habit to dine with her old friend at every opportunity. As loyalty is one of Thomas’s lovable traits, he keeps this custom eagerly. I was grateful that he sent Piers to arrange the bill of fare with the chef. I have ordered meals at home on occasion, but this sort of thing is quite beyond me.
N.B. Dinner with Beau Brummell tomorrow!!! What to wear??? Ask Lady S.
At dinner tonight, James told Cecy, “Thomas thinks we would do better to rest a few days before we set off.”
That remark gave Thomas the expression he has when he is savoring something. “I like that. As though my reasons have anything to do with it. In the first place, James won’t let us go on because he wants you to have time to recover from your, er, indisposition.”
“It’s fairly common among journeyman sorcerers,” put in Lady Sylvia. “There seems to be something deeply disturbing to a magician’s system in crossing water. If you work on your orisons and invocations while you are traveling, you should be far enough along that you won’t experience it on the return voyage. You needn’t fear a relapse.”
“And in the second place,” Thomas continued, “we always have dinner with the Beau when we are in Calais. And in the third place,” Thomas added, with a glance at me, “we have no particular need for haste.”
I couldn’t help it. I blushed like a cooked lobster all over again.
The day following our arrival in Calais was quite busy. Busy for everyone but me, that is. Although I felt perfectly well now that we were on dry land, James insisted that I spend the morning resting in our rooms. He was in nearly as much of a fuss as Aunt Elizabeth at her worst, but his fussing did not bother me nearly so much as hers has always done. I was so surprised to realize this that I inadvertently agreed to do as he suggested, and so I was left behind.
Lady Sylvia and James went off to confirm the arrangements for the coaches and horses that were to take us to Paris, for although Lady Sylvia had sent detailed instructions from London, she wished to change a few things relating to the servants and baggage, which were following us. James accompanied her because he places no dependence on the French getting anything right. Thomas had been struck with the notion of showing Kate the scene of some exploit of his involving a French staff officer on leave and a great many chickens. I spent the morning in bed.
I had intended to spend my time with the book of orisons and invocations to which Lady Sylvia had directed me, for I was determined that our return journey across the Channel would be a more comfortable experience for me than our recent crossing. Still, even though I felt quite well, I had missed considerable sleep, and I decided it would do no harm to take a brief nap before settling down with the book.
I was more tired than I had thought. Nearly two hours later, I was awakened by a discreet tap at the door. When I opened it, the concierge was standing in the hall outside.
“I am desolated to disturb you, Madame,” he said. “But there is a lady below who requires most urgently to speak with la Marquise de Schofield.”
“She has gone out,” I said.
The concierge nodded. “Oui, Madame. I have told her. But Madame is of a temperament very stubborn, and says that if la Marquise has gone out, she will follow her, or wait here until she returns.”
“I will speak to her myself,” I said. Kate has no more acquaintance in France than I. The only females I could imagine applying to her here would be those who knew Thomas. And after hearing a few of James’s stories about Thomas’s exploits … well, I wanted some idea who this person was before promising to relay any messages.
The concierge ushered me downstairs, to the private room where the lady was waiting. Somewhat to my surprise, she was a lady, about fifty, in a prodigiously elegant China blue morning dress. She was pacing up and down in the most agitated manner, and did not notice me at once, but turned with a start at the sound of the door closing behind me.
“You are not Milady Schofield,” she said in English with only a slight trace of accent.
“She has gone out, Madame,” I said. “But I will be happy to tell her your name and direction when she returns.”
“Mademoiselle, I do not—”
“Madame,” I corrected her. “Madame Tarleton. My husband and I are traveling with the Schofields.”
“Tarleton?” the woman said. “Ah, yes. That would be Ernest Tarleton?”
“My husband’s given name is James,” I said stiffly. “I am not aware that he has any relations named Ernest. Perhaps you are thinking of someone else.”
“No,” the woman said with a brilliant smile. “Forgive me, but I had to be certain. But the wife of Monsieur Tarleton is without doubt to be relied upon.” She pulled a small packet from her reticule and handed it to me. “I cannot stay longer. Pray give this to the Marchioness as soon as she returns, and convey my respect and congratulations to your husband.”
“And whose are those, Madame?”
She smiled again. “Tell him, the Lady in Blue. He will remember, I think. Good wishes to you, Madame.” And before I could say anything more, she whisked out the door and was gone. I collected myself and followed, barely in time to see her climb into a hired coach that had been waiting outside the inn’s door. The coach pulled away immediately, and I withdrew to my rooms before I could attract notice.
My first action, when I was private once more, was to examine the packet. It was about the size of my fist, wrapped in brown paper tied with a thin silver ribbon, and every flap and join of ribbon was sealed with drips of red wax. Through the paper, I could feel hard corners, like those of a box. On top was written, in a shaky, spidery hand, “Mme. S. Schofield.”
I blinked, and then realized what had happened. Obviously, the news of Thomas’s marriage had not yet reached the Continent, and so the mysterious woman had asked the concierge for “the Marchioness of Schofield,” meaning Lady Sylvia, when she ought to have asked for the Dowager Marchioness.
Her references to James, however, still puzzled me, and I resolved to ask him about them when he and Lady Sylvia returned. Not that I had much hope of an explanation. It is a curious thing, but James does not like any discussion of his activities during the French wars, and, indeed, avoids it at every turn. Thomas, on the other hand, downplays his exploits (which, to hear James tell it, were positively hair-raising) by speaking of them in his most elliptical and offhand manner. They are a most provoking pair.