And the room ripples with laughter. His riposte is nothing but a piece of ill-thought nonsense, but delivered with aplomb – and it has parried the old harridan’s opening stroke. The space she sought to plunge her daggers has vanished like smoke in the general hilarity.
From aside, the Comtesse de Boufflers is regarding James through the crowd, with a greater interest.
Later, after tables have been set for cards and candles, brought in by the gross, have been lit, James is observing a game of piquet between two ageing, extravagantly accoutred men of substance. It is being played for very high stakes, notes piling up on the table. They have attracted a substantial number of the guests, and James is dimly aware that side wagers are in play among the crowd.
‘You do not play yourself?’ It is the voice of a tall woman at James’ shoulder. He sees that in her heels, she is not far short of his height, but he perceives little else. James is still of an age where he cannot accurately guess the years of older women. All he knows is he can see the crinkle of laughter lines around her eyes; showing the otherwise smooth face is without the customary caking of powder. He thinks she has the most kissable mouth, especially the way she is letting the hint of a pout play on it. He does not know that the suggestion of rouge on her lips is subtle and deliberate. The confection of her wig covers the colour of her hair, but he notices her eyebrows are finely trimmed and chestnut. Her eyes, however, are too candid for a youth to measure what experience, what knowledge, lies behind them. Suffice to say though, he can’t take his off them, and so he does not notice the jewels, all the riches that adorn her.
‘The purse of an exile does not extend to the tables, ma’am,’ says an ever-gallant James. He enjoys the attention of these beauties, even though he is yet too much the naïf to comprehend the calculations involved.
‘Yet you have other attributes, I have noticed,’ she says. ‘The chief of which is that you do not mangle our beautiful language in the way most of your fellow countrymen do. Or at least, the ones I have met.’
‘No ma’am. I had a good teacher.’
‘Another attribute! La! The ability to learn. How uncommon in one so young.’ She pauses, as if to regard him better. ‘You dance admirably. I am sure there is not a lady in the room who has not noticed. However, having heard you, I say nothing to your wit, sir. And nor should you.’
James’ eyes widen at her impertinence, but before he can recover himself, she says, ‘You have, however … timing. And that is a gift. Tell me, do you love horses?’
‘I could ride before I could walk, ma’am,’ says James, wondering where this is going, but not really caring anymore. Curious, he adds, ‘And often I have found a horse has offered me my truest friendship.’
She considers him a moment longer, then says, ‘I am the Comtesse de Boufflers, Chevalier Lindsay,’ arbitrarily bestowing on him the title of knight, and extending the crook of her arm for him to take. ‘Come with me. There is much I would like to discuss with you, young man.’
*
James’ life changed completely that night, and Mr Dillon’s worst fears for the young man’s future were rendered naught at a stroke. For a start, before the sun would set again, the Earl of Branter’s youngest son found he had a new and infinitely more grand roof over his head and a heavy purse in his pocket. A path to fortune and pleasure was opened up to him that far outstripped even his wildest fantasies.
*
He took to his new life with a seamless grace.
Among the trappings of society that rested so easy upon him, had been the eventual granting of a commission in the royal army. And on the fateful day, he had been busy at his duties.
On that day, the sun had risen and passed across the firmament as it had done on all the days that had gone before, without a hint of the changes that were about to unfold.
James accepted his gloves from his servant, Bouvet, and gave his bright red uniform coat a final brisk flick before mounting his fidgety horse. The filly looked equally resplendent in her own red uniform of saddle cloth, blanket roll and tail ribbon.
James was in the uniform of a cornet of horse, in the King of France’s Chevau-Légers de la Garde – the Guards’ light cavalry, in other words. His red coat and breeches, like the horse’s saddle cloth, were edged and seamed in gold lace, and his coat sported broad, black velvet cuffs and buttons of solid silver. He wore black cavalry boots and a tricorne hat, the latter trimmed with white lace and feathers, and – appropriately, he thought, given his ancestry – the white cockade of the Jacobite cause as well as of the French royal household.
Another Monday morning, and another drill with his entire company of horse across the Palace of Versailles’ vast cavalry parade ground. This was no official review, only the company’s colonel was watching. It was an exercise in maintaining standards, and the colonel had already cantered over to the far side of the ground for a better view. As cornet, it was James’ honour to carry the squadron’s royal standard. Bouvet handed the device up to him, fixing the end of the pole in the horse’s stirrup pouch. Without a word exchanged, James turned his horse and cantered out on to the ground, where the company’s 200-odd officers and men were shuffling themselves into military order. It was a splendid sight on a bright, sunny morning, with just enough breeze to make the company’s white silk colours flutter,
