She shook her head. ‘Alas, no, sir.’
He was careful not to allow the disappointment he felt to creep into his voice. ‘I imagined, ma’am, that you had come to give me your answer to my offer. I need hardly assure you that if you will accept of my hand in marriage I shall count myself extremely fortunate.’
She smiled, but rather wanly. ‘You are very kind, sir. I do not feel that I have any right to accept what I can only regard as a sacrifice, but my situation is desperate, and I do accept it.’
/> He bowed. ‘I shall endeavour to make you comfortable, ma’am. We must now decide what were best to do. Will you not be seated?’
‘You are breakfasting, sir, are you not?’
‘Pray do not regard it, ma’am; I have had all I need.’
Miss Challoner’s eyes twinkled. ‘I, sir, on the other hand, am fasting.’
He slightly pressed her hand. ‘Believe me, I perfectly understand that food at this moment is repugnant to you. Let us be seated by the fire.’
Miss Challoner said meekly: ‘Food is by no means repugnant to me, Mr Comyn. Pray allow me to share your breakfast. I am very hungry.’
He looked rather surprised, but at once handed her to a chair by the table. ‘Why, certainly, ma’am! I will send to procure you a clean cup and plate.’ He went to the door and nearly fell over the serving-maid, who had not yet abandoned hope of catching a phrase spoken in her own tongue. His command of the French language being what it was, he was unable to deliver a rebuke, but he managed to ask for a cup and plate.
When these were brought Miss Challoner poured herself out some coffee, and spread butter on a roll. She proceeded to make a hearty meal. Mr Comyn was assiduous in plying her with food, but he could not help feeling in a dim way that her attitude in face of a dramatic situation was a trifle mundane. Miss Challoner, biting a crust with her little white teeth, had also her private thoughts, and remembered other meals partaken in the company of a gentleman. This gave her a heartache, and since she had no notion of indulging in such a weakness, she said briskly: ‘Where are we to be married, sir? How soon can we leave Paris?’
Mr Comyn poured her out another cup of coffee. ‘I have considered the matter, ma’am, and I have two plans to submit to you. It must, of course, be as you wish. We can, if you like, return to England, where I apprehend there will be no difficulty in arranging our immediate nuptials. I should point out to you, however, that in England our marriage must necessarily give occasion for comment. The alternative is to travel to Dijon, and there to find the English divine, whose direction was given to me by Lord Vidal. Should you choose this course, ma’am, I suggest that following upon the ceremony we should journey into Italy for a space. Against this scheme must be set my natural scruples, which urge me not to make use of the information provided by his lordship.’
‘I don’t think that need trouble you,’ said Miss Challoner matter-of-factly. ‘Which of these plans do you prefer?’
‘It is entirely for you to decide, ma’am.’
‘But really, sir –’
‘Whatever you choose will be agreeable to me,’ said Mr Comyn.
Miss Challoner, feeling that the argument might be interminable if embarked on, gave her vote for Dijon. She had no desire to return to England until comment had died down. Mr Comyn then found several points in favour of her choice, and promised that they should set forward before noon. Miss Challoner informed him that she would need to buy herself some few necessities, as she had nothing but the clothes she stood in. Mr Comyn was quite shocked, and asked her very delicately whether she had sufficient money for her needs. She assured him that she had, and while he went to order a post-chaise, she sallied forth to the nearest shops. Pride had forbidden her to bring any of the clothes of the Marquis’s providing. She had, perforce, worn them at the Hôtel de Charbonne, but they were all carefully packed away now; gowns of tiffany with blonde scallops, gowns of taffetas, of dimity, of brocaded satin, cloaks richly trimmed with black lace, négligées so soft and fine they slid through the fingers; lawn shifts, point-lace tuckers, Turkey handkerchiefs – all the fineries of a lady of fashion, or – she thought, with a wry smile – of a light-of-love. She would not keep so much as one comb or haresfoot.
Shortly before noon they set forth on their journey. Both were rather silent, and until the chaise drew out of Paris they sat looking absently out of the windows, each one thinking sadly of the might-have-been.
Mr Comyn roused himself at last from his abstraction to say: ‘I think it only right to tell you, ma’am, that I left a billet to be delivered to my Lord Vidal.’
Miss Challoner sat bolt upright. ‘What, sir?’
‘I could not but consider that I owed it to him to inform him of your safety and my intentions.’
‘Oh, you should never have done that!’ Miss Challoner said, horrified. ‘Good God, what a fatal mistake!’
‘I regret that you should disapprove, but I remembered that his lordship had made himself responsible for your well-being, and I could not reconcile it with my conscience to make this journey without apprising him of our contract.’
Miss Challoner struck her hands together. ‘But don’t you see, sir, that we shall have him hard on our heels? Oh, I would not have had you tell him for the world!’
‘I beg you will not distress yourself, ma’am. Much as I dislike the least appearance of secretiveness I thought it advisable to write nothing of our destination to his lordship.’
She was only partly reassured, and begged him to order the postillions to drive faster. He pointed out to her that greater speed would court disaster, but when she insisted he obediently let down the window, and shouted to the postillions. Not immediately understanding what he called to them these worthies drew up. Miss Challoner then assumed the direction of affairs, and whatever doubts the postillions had had concerning the nature of the journey were set at rest. Upon the chaise resuming its progress Mr Comyn, pulling up the window, said gravely that he feared the men now suspected an elopement. Miss Challoner agreed that this was probably true, but maintained that it did not signify. Mr Comyn said with a touch of severity that by informing the men, as well as he could, that he was her brother he had hoped to avert the least suspicion of impropriety.
Miss Challoner’s ever lively sense of humour was aroused by this, and she slightly disconcerted Mr Comyn by chuckling. She explained apologetically that after the events of the past week considerations of propriety seemed absurd. He pressed her hand, saying with feeling: ‘I believe you have suffered, ma’am. To a delicately nurtured female Lord Vidal’s habits and manners must have caused infinite alarm and disgust.’
Her steady grey eyes met his unwaveringly. ‘Neither, sir, I do assure you. I don’t desire to pose as a wronged and misused creature. I brought it all on myself, and his lordship behaved to me with more consideration than perhaps I deserved.’
He seemed to be at a loss. ‘Is that so, ma’am? I had supposed, I confess, that you had suffered incivility – even brutality – at his hands. Consideration for others would hardly appear to be one of his lordship’s virtues.’
She smiled reminiscently. ‘I think he could be very kind,’ she said, half to herself. ‘I am indebted to him for several marks of thoughtfulness.’ Her smile grew, though her eyes were misty. ‘You would scarcely credit it in one so ruthless, sir, but his lordship, though excessively angry with me at the time, was moved to provide me with a basin on board his yacht. I was never more glad of anything in my life.’