These Old Shades Read online

  Her lessons were soon put to the test. On one occasion he said suddenly:

  ‘We will suppose, Léonie, that I am the Duchess of Queensberry, and that you have just been presented to me. Show me how you would curtsy.’

  ‘But you cannot be a duchess, Monseigneur,’ she objected. ‘That is ridiculous. You don’t look like a duchess! Let us pretend you are the Duke of Queensberry.’

  ‘The Duchess. Show me the curtsy.’

  Léonie sank down and down.

  ‘Like this: low, but not so low as to the Queen. This is a very good curtsy I am doing, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘It is to be hoped you would not talk all the time,’ said his Grace. ‘Spread out your skirts, and do not hold your fan like that. Show me again.’

  Léonie obeyed meekly.

  ‘It is very difficult to remember everything,’ she complained. ‘Now let us play at piquet, Monseigneur.’

  ‘Presently. Curtsy now to – Mr Davenant.’

  She swept her skirts right regally, and with head held high extended one small hand. Avon smiled.

  ‘Hugh is like to be amazed,’ he remarked. ‘It’s very well, ma fille. Curtsy now to me.’

  At that she sank down with bent head, and raised his hand to her lips.

  ‘No, my child.’

  She rose.

  ‘That is the way I do it, Monseigneur. I like it.’

  ‘It is incorrect. Again, and the proper depth. You curtsied then as to the King. I am but an ordinary mortal, remember.’

  Léonie searched in her mind for a fitting retort.

  ‘Lawks!’ she said vaguely.

  His Grace stiffened, but his lips twitched.

  ‘I – beg – your – pardon?’

  ‘I said “lawks”,’ said Léonie demurely.

  ‘I heard you.’ His Grace’s voice was cold.

  ‘Rachel said it,’ Léonie ventured, peeping up at him. ‘She is Lady Fanny’s maid, you know. You do not like it?’

  ‘I do not. I should be glad if you would refrain from modelling your conversation on that of Lady Fanny’s maid.’

  ‘Yes, Monseigneur. Please, what does it mean?’

  ‘I have not the slightest idea. It is a vulgarity. There are many sins, ma belle, but only one that is unforgivable. That is vulgarity.’

  ‘I won’t say it again,’ promised Léonie. ‘I will say instead – tiens, what is it? – Tare an’ ouns!’

  ‘I beg you will do no such thing, ma fille. If you must indulge in forceful expressions confine them to ’pon rep, or merely Lud!’

  ‘Lud? Yes, that is a pretty one. I like it. I like Lawks best, though. Monseigneur is not angry?’

  ‘I am never angry,’ said Avon.

  At other times he fenced with her, and this she enjoyed most of all. She donned shirt and breeches for the pastime, and displayed no little aptitude for the game. She had a quick eye and a supple waist, and she very soon mastered the rudiments of this manly art. The Duke was one of the first swordsmen of the day, but this in no wise discomposed Léonie. He taught her to fence in the Italian manner, and showed her many subtle passes which he had learned abroad. She experimented with one of them, and since his Grace’s guard, at that moment, was lax, broke through. The button of her foil came to rest below his left shoulder.

  ‘Touché,’ said Avon. ‘That was rather better, infant.’

  Léonie danced in her excitement.

  ‘Monseigneur, I have killed you! You are dead! You are dead!’

  ‘You display an unseemly joy,’ he remarked. ‘I had no notion you were so bloodthirsty.’

  ‘But it was so clever of me!’ she cried. ‘Was it not, Monseigneur?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said crushingly. ‘My guard was weak.’

  Her mouth dropped.

  ‘Oh, you let me do it!’

  His Grace relented.

  ‘No, you broke through, ma fille.’

  Sometimes he talked to her of personalities of the day, explaining who this was, and who that, and how they were related.

  ‘There is March,’ he said, ‘who will be Duke of Queensberry. You have heard me speak of him. There is Hamilton, who is famous for his wife. She was one of the Miss Gunnings – beauties, my dear, who set London by the ears not so many years ago. Maria Gunning married Coventry. If you want wit, there is Mr Selwyn, who has quite an inimitable way with him: he would hate to be forgotten. He lives in Arlington Street, child, and wherever you go you may be sure of meeting him. In Bath I believe Nash still reigns. A parvenu, infant, but a man of some genius. Bath is his kingdom. One day I will take you there. Then we have the Cavendish – Devonshire, my dear; and the Seymours, and my Lord Chesterfield, whom you will know by his wit and his dark eyebrows. Whom else? There is my Lord of Bath, and the Bentincks, and his Grace of Newcastle, of some fame. If you want the Arts you have the tedious Johnson: a large man, with a larger head. He is not worth your consideration. He lacks polish. There is Colley Cibber, one of our poets, Mr Sheridan, who writes plays for us, and Mr Garrick, who acts them; and a score of others. In painting we have Sir Joshua Reynolds, who shall paint you, perhaps, and a great many others whose names elude me.’

  Léonie nodded.

  ‘Monseigneur, you must write their names down for me. Then I shall remember.’

  ‘Bien. We come now to your own country. Of the Blood Royal we have the Prince de Condé, who is now, as I reckon, twenty years of age – à peu près. There is the Comte d’Eu, son of the Duc de Maine, one of the bastards, and the Duc de Penthièvre, son of yet another bastard. Let me see. Of the nobility there is M. de Richelieu, the model of true courtesy, and the Duc de Noailles, famed for the battle of Dettingen, which he lost. Then we have the brothers Lorraine-Brionne, and the Prince d’Armagnac. My memory fails me. Ah yes, there is M. de Belle-Isle, who is the grandson of the great Fouquet. He is an old man now. Tiens, almost I had forgot the estimable Chavignard – Comte de Chavigny, child – a friend of mine. I might go on for ever, but I will not.’

  ‘And there is Madame de Pompadour, is there not, Monseigneur?’

  ‘I spoke of the nobility, ma fille,’ said his Grace gently. ‘We do not count the cocotte amongst them. La Pompadour is a beauty of no birth, and wit – a little. My ward will not trouble her head with any such.’

  ‘No, Monseigneur,’ said Léonie, abashed. ‘Please tell me some more.’

  ‘You are insatiable. Well, let us essay. D’Anvau you have seen. A little man, with a love of scandal. De Salmy you have also seen. He is tall and indolent, and hath somewhat of a reputation for sword-play. Lavoulère comes of old stock, and doubtless has his virtues even though they have escaped my notice. Machérand has a wife who squints. I need say no more. Château-Mornay will amuse you for half an hour, no longer. Madame de Marguéry’s salons are world-famous. Florimond de Chantourelle is like some insect. Possibly a wasp, since he is always clad in bright colours, and always plagues one.’

  ‘And M. de Saint-Vire?’

  ‘My very dear friend Saint-Vire. Of course. One day, infant, I will tell you all about the so dear Comte. But not to-day. I say only this, my child – you will beware of Saint-Vire. It is understood?’

  ‘Yes, Monseigneur, but why?’

  ‘That also I will tell you one day,’ said his Grace calmly.

  Fourteen

  The Appearance on the Scene of Lord Rupert Alastair

  When Avon left the country Léonie was at first disconsolate. Madam Field was not an exhilarating companion, as her mind ran on illness and death, and the forward ways of the younger generation. Fortunately the weather became warmer, and Léonie was able to escape from the lady into the park, well-knowing that Madam was not fond of any form of exercise.

  When she rode out Léonie was supposed to have a groom in attendance, but she very often dispensed with this formality, and explored the countryside alone, revelling in her freedom.

  Some seven miles from Avon Court lay Merivale Place, the estate of my Lord Merivale and his beautifu