He offered no argument. No doubt, she thought, he was glad to be free of the burden, so he could attend to his own affairs.
And though their chairs hadn’t moved since they’d started their talk, at that moment he somehow seemed farther away.
Jean-Philippe
He should have been watching the harbour. He should have been noticing how many ships were there, and of what nations, with how many guns. He should at the very least have been applying himself to a study of this single street, but he wasn’t. Instead he was studying her.
She’d been quiet since breakfast. She was a quiet woman by her nature but he knew that this was something more.
He’d thought at first it was her cousin who’d upset her. He had marked the man’s name when her brother made the introductions: “Mr. Silas Wilde, my cousin,” who could only be the Silas Wilde he’d heard of from Pierre—the son of Monsieur Wilde’s unpleasant older brother. And if Pierre was convinced that Monsieur Wilde’s brother, when he died, would find himself in hell and not in heaven, Jean-Philippe could have assured him that the son would join him there. In all his life he’d only met two men with eyes like that, and he would not have wished to turn his back on either of them.
Understanding William Wilde had taken him more time, because the man refused to take a constant shape. Instead, much like the quicksilver that backed a mirror, he reflected anyone who faced him. It was only when you stood off to the side and watched him speak to others that you saw the subtle shifting, even with his sister. With his wife. Perhaps he’d never had a single form, or had forgotten it as he’d matured, and acting from self-interest he had altogether lost the art of keeping to one character. He was not heartless—his affection for the women was not feigned, but love from such a man would always have its limits at the boundary of his own needs and convenience.
That was why the women had been left all but alone last night with Silas Wilde, when any man who truly loved them never would have left them unattended. Worse that he’d stayed out so late, long past the hour when Jean-Philippe in any other circumstance would have excused himself and gone upstairs, having endured a day of travel with a man who clearly hated him, compounded with some hours of conversation which did not include him, and which even if it had been in his language would have left him at the limit of his tolerance for everyday society. But even he, who knew the women only slightly, could not in good conscience have abandoned them.
He could not have abandoned her. He’d seen her face, however closely she had tried to school it, and he saw what it was costing her to maintain her politeness. He had seen her struggle just as hard to do the same with him, when he had first arrived. From time to time her cousin Silas would say something that brought angry colour washing to her cheeks but she would skilfully suppress it with a gesture or a movement and her voice, although it lowered once, was always calm. He found her quite remarkable.
He’d known the very moment that she realized—as he’d done some minutes earlier—that William’s wife was purposely attempting to detain their cousin at the house, and he’d watched them work together to accomplish it.
The song had been an unexpected benefit. He had not known she sang. She did not sing around the house as Violet did. Perhaps, he reasoned, she had not of late had cause for singing. But her voice was high and clear and very beautiful to listen to. He’d had to guard his features well to keep his admiration hidden. For her brother to make his return at that moment, depriving them all of a second song, had seemed a thoughtless intrusion.
That was, to be honest, the single descriptive word that suited William Wilde best: thoughtless. It seemed probable that something he had said or done had caused his sister’s change of mood this morning. At breakfast he’d been too solicitous and she’d been too reserved, and although he’d stood close beside her in the entry hall, presumably to give her last directions, she had scarcely looked at or acknowledged him while she had tied her bonnet.
Jean-Philippe, in that respect at least, could sympathize, since it appeared he also was invisible to her this morning. When they’d crossed the street he’d paused to offer her his arm as he had done the day before, but she had walked ahead without his aid, not in the manner of a snub but with the faint distracted frown of someone wrapped in troubling thoughts. The sky, as though to echo that, was dark with clouds. The day was cold.
He was not bothered by it, being well protected by his woolen uniform, but she was wearing what he guessed was her best gown—a pretty, ruffled thing, all over flowers in bright colours, but not warm, and only covered by a cloak that was unlined and had no hood.
Luckily they had not far to go. The house was only a few minutes’ walk from William Wilde’s, close by a bustling market. On the ground floor was a shop that offered, judging from its window, wines and brandies—no doubt carried into New York on the many merchant ships that now lay anchored in the harbour. But along the side, behind the shop, a door admitted them into the private residence.
The woman who came down the stairs to meet them was of middle age and dressed in widow’s black. She welcomed Lydia in English, but to Jean-Philippe she spoke in French so flawless it was evident that it was her first language. He recalled her name from Captain Wheelock’s letter, and returned her greeting with, “Good day, Madame de Joncourt.”
Wheelock had explained that the de Joncourt family had long had the favour of the governor, did work for him, and took in special lodgers. When your General von Dieskau was so gravely wounded, being taken prisoner four years ago, so Wheelock had continued, he was cared for by Madame de Joncourt, so I thought you would approve my sending her your sergeant also, that he might there convalesce in greater comfort than he would in gaol.
It was indeed a house of comfort.
Stepping in, he felt surrounded by its warmth and scents of bread and coffee, raising childhood memories that were heightened when, on entering their upstairs parlour, he found a gathering of girls in curls and petticoats and one lone boy, who might have been his sisters and himself when younger. And to add still further to the feeling he was on familiar ground, the man now rising from his chair to greet them was an officer of the regiment of Guyenne, gold buttons shining brightly on the red-cuffed sleeves of his white coat, and a fine expensive powdered wig tied back beneath his gold-trimmed hat.
“Louis de Preissac de Bonneau,” was how he introduced himself. He was a captain.
Jean-Philippe paid him the proper honours and returned his full name, “Jean-Philippe de Sabran de la Noye,” then stepped aside and added, “And may I present to you Mademoiselle Wilde.”
“Mademoiselle.” Bonneau bowed deeply, smiled with charm, and spoke to her in English while Madame de Joncourt turned to Jean-Philippe.
“We were just having coffee. May I bring you some?”
“I’d see my sergeant first.”
“Of course.” She broke into the captain’s conversation with, “Captain Bonneau, will you take the lieutenant up to see his man?”
Bonneau said, “Certainly,” and gallantly excused himself from Lydia. “Come, it’s this way.”
Jean-Philippe followed, glancing back just once to make sure Lydia was settled in the parlour with the others. Just the slightest glance, but it did not escape Bonneau.
“She will be fine.” His tone was sure. “Madame de Joncourt takes great care of everyone beneath her roof, particularly pretty girls. She guards her own as if they were the gold and she the dragon. And believe me, I’ve the scorch marks to bear witness to it.”