“My grandfather,” answered Miss Challoner unexpansively.
“Your father’s father? Is he alive? Who is her
“He is a general, sir.”
Vidal’s brows drew together. “What county?”
“He lives in Buckinghamshire, my lord.”
“Good God, never tell me you are Sir Giles Challoner’s grandchild?”
“I am,” said Miss Challoner calmly.
“Then I am undone, and we must be married at once,” said Vidal. “That stiff-necked old martinet is a friend of my father’s.”
Miss Challoner smiled. “You need not be alarmed, sir. My grandfather has been very kind to me in the past, but he disowned my father upon his marriage, and has washed his hands of me since I choose to live with my mother and sister. He will not concern himself with my fate.”
“He’ll concern himself fast enough if he gets wind of his granddaughter in a milliner’s shop,” said Vidal.
“Of course I shall not become a milliner under my own name,” Miss Challoner explained.
“You won’t become one under any name, my girl. Make the best of it: marriage with me is the only thing for you now. I am sorry for it, but as a husband I believe you won’t find me exacting. You may go your own road — I shan’t interfere with you so long as you remain discreet — I’ll go mine. You need see very little of me.”
The prospect chilled Miss Challoner to the soul, but observing my lord’s heightened colour she judged it wiser not to argue with him any further at present. She got up, saying quietly: “We will talk of it again presently, my lord. You are tired now, and the surgeon will soon be here.”
He caught her wrist and held it. “Give me your word you’ll not slip off while I’m laid by the heels!”
She could not resist the temptation of touching his hand. “I promise I’ll not do that,” she said reassuringly. “I won’t leave your protection till we reach Paris.”
When the surgeon came he talked volubly and learnedly, with a great many exclamations and hand-wavings. His lordship suffered this for some time, but presently became annoyed and opened his eyes (which he had closed after the first five minutes) and disposed of the little surgeon’s diagnosis and proposed remedies in one rude and extremely idiomatic sentence.
The doctor started back as from a stinging nettle unwarily grasped: “Monsieur, I was informed that you were an Englishman!” he said.
My lord said, amongst other things, that he did not propose to burden the doctor with the details of his genealogy. He consigned the doctor and all his works, severally and comprehensively described, to hell, and finished up his epic speech by a pungent and Rabelaisian criticism of the whole race of leeches.
Whereupon the doctor, who had listened rapt to the unfaltering diatribe, said with enthusiasm: “But it is wonderful! An Englishman to have so great a command of the French tongue! It is what compels the admiration! I shall now bleed you. Madame will have the goodness to hold the basin. The English have such phlegm!”
Vidal became aware of Miss Challoner standing demurely by the door. “What, are you here?” he said. “Do you understand French?”
“Tolerably well, sir,” she replied placidly.
“How well?” demanded his lordship.
A glint of amusement shone in her grey eyes. “Well enough to understand the doctor, my lord. But I could not follow very much of what you said. Most of the words you used were strange to me.”
“Thank God for that!” said Vidal. “Now go away, there’s a good girl, and leave me to deal with this fellow.”
“Having phlegm, sir, I am to hold the basin,” replied Miss Challoner. “You did as much for me, after all.”
He grinned. “I’d a notion you’d never forgive me for that, whatever else you forgave.”
“Forgive you? I was exceedingly grateful,” said Miss Challoner matter-of-factly.
“You’re a remarkable woman,” he said. “But I’ll have none of this blood-letting for all that.”
Miss Challoner had the bowl ready. She said kindly: “It will not hurt you, sir, I assure you.”
For the second time that morning his lordship was bereft of speech.
Miss Challoner said, as one reasoning with a rebellious child: “If you desire to be well, and able to make the journey to Paris, you will do as the surgeon advises. But if you are minded to be stupid and obstinate, I shall find the means to go to Paris by myself.”
His lordship sat up. “Thunder and turf, how old do you take me for?”
“Not very old,” said Miss Challoner, “or you would have more sense.” She smiled at him, a warm smile of understanding. “Please permit this poor man to blood you, my lord.”
“Oh, very well!” snapped his lordship, relaxing again. “And for the future, ma’am, I’ll thank you not to interfere in my concerns.”
“I’ll try and remember your expressed wish, sir,” promised Miss Challoner.
My lord gave his wrist up to the surgeon, but continued to look at Mary. “If I don’t end by wringing your neck, my girl, you will be in no way to blame,” he informed her.
The cupping left his lordship too weak to attempt the journey to Paris. He slept most of the day, and when he lay awake seemed disinclined to talk. Miss Challoner, a capable female, took charge of the entire party, and issued a number of orders concerning my lord’s well-being that made Mr. Fletcher exchange startled looks with Mr. Timms. Both these highly discreet gentlemen treated her from the first with proper respect (which surprised her), but by the end of the day their respect was no longer due to their fear of his lordship.
The Marquis had the first intimation of the change that was taking place in his household at four in the afternoon, when Fletcher, his face like a mask, presented him with a bowl of thin gruel. He had received it from Miss Challoner, and meeting Mr. Timms upon the stairs, had said with great presence of mind: “You may take this to his lordship, Horace.”
Mr. Timms, after one glance at the tray, declined the office. “And if I was you, Mr. Fletcher, I would send it by one of these Frenchies,” he recommended.
The suggestion offended Mr. Fletcher’s dignity, and he said stiffly: “And why, my lad, can you not wait upon his lordship?”
“Because I don’t want a basin of gruel thrown at my head,” replied Mr. Timms with brutal frankness.
The Marquis looked at the contents of the bowl in the silence of amazement. Then he looked at his major- domo, who stared woodenly at the bed-post. “My good fool,” said the Marquis, “what is this repulsive pap?”
“Gruel, my lord,” replied Fletcher, expressionless.
The Marquis leaned his head back on the pillows, and continued to survey his henchman. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” he inquired softly.
“No, my lord.”
“Then what the devil do you mean by bringing me a bowl of gruel? Where did you get it? Don’t dare to tell me a Frenchman perpetrated such an abomination!”
“The lady prepared it, my lord.”
There was a short but pregnant silence. “Take it away,” said his lordship, with dangerous restraint.
“The lady told me, my lord, that I was on no account to do so,” said Fletcher apologetically.
My lord’s fingers crooked themselves round one of the handles of the bowl. “Are you going to take it away, Fletcher?” he inquired very gently.
Fletcher, with one eye warily on the movement of that white hand, said, abandoning the struggle: “Certainly, my lord.”
Vidal removed his hand from the bowl. “I thought so. Bring me something fit to eat, and a bottle of claret.”
Fletcher bowed and removed both himself and the tray. Three minutes later the door was opened again. Miss Challoner came in bearing the same tray. She set it down on the table by the bed, and handed his lordship a napkin. “I am sorry I cannot let you have your bottle of claret, sir,” she said. “But I think you won’t find my gruel so very bad. I am thought to make it tolerably well.”
There was a spark of anger in Vidal’s eyes. “You’re outside your rôle, ma’am,” he told her. “I don’t require either your solicitude or your gruel. Have the goodness to refrain in future from meddling in my concerns.”
Miss Challoner was not noticeably dashed. “Very well, sir, but will you not, to oblige me, at least taste my
