Mademoiselle At Arms, Elizabeth Bailey [bearly read books txt] 📗

for his mistress—guarding the door outside. In the early hours of the morning, unable to bear the suspense any longer, Melusine had ventured to explore the mansion, the lantern she had brought in hand, commenting to herself all the time on the state of the place and the difficulties of her task, and having no idea of the consequences she was bringing on herself thereby.

To her intense disappointment, she discovered that all papers had been removed from desks and cupboards. Not the most stringent search, conducted all morning, turned up one solitary sheet. There was nothing to replace the all important letter from her father. But she found an unknown lady’s discarded garments, and selected some of those that she tried on, sending Kimble off down the secret passage to load them onto the horse she had borrowed—unbeknownst to its owner—from Father Saint-Simon. Kimble had bedded the animal down at the local inn. And then she had been disturbed by the eruption into the room of Major Gerald Alderley and his companion, Captain Hilary Roding.

On this second excursion, forewarned, she would use no light and keep as quiet as a mouse, she vowed, and thus refrain from attracting the attention of the militia at the gates. Arrived at the secret door, she grasped the lever that opened it and placed the lantern on the floor.

‘This we will leave. I do not wish that the soldiers there will see it shine.’

A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressing-room, Kimble close behind her. Coming from the gloom of the passage, even the corridors seemed sufficiently illuminated for them to see their way. And the bedchamber, for which Melusine instantly headed, was almost bright.

‘That is good. There is light enough from the sun,’ she said, relieved.

‘What are you after this time, miss?’ asked Jack.

‘A thing Marthe told me of,’ Melusine answered, her attention on the garments that were still lying higgledy-piggledy, just as she had left them. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. Martha had not been pleased to find her spare one borrowed for that expedition when the major had found her outside the ballroom. Besides, it did not fit her well, which was why the loose wimple had slipped. She would take this one back with her. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise.

‘Jacques,’ she said, turning to the lad, and holding the habit out, ‘take this for me and leave it in the passage where we have left the lantern. I do not know if I will have to escape quickly once more.’

‘Aye, miss,’ Kimble agreed, taking the garments, ‘but where will I find you?’

‘I do not know. I must go perhaps in all the rooms. Not up here, I think. I shall start at the bottom. Oh, wait!’ She seized Jack’s arm as he was about to go out of the room. ‘Go you through the passage and find the other door. Martha said to me that it must come to the bibliothéque.’

‘The what, miss?’ asked Kimble, frowning.

‘I do not know the word in English. The place for reading.’

‘You mean the bookroom, miss. Will I meet you there?’

‘Yes, yes, I shall await you. Now go.’ She thrust him out of the room and made for the stairs.

The library was on the ground floor, Melusine recalled from the previous visit, for she had searched through a desk in a room filled with bookshelves of leather-bound volumes. But she was not sure just how to reach it. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves.

Melusine glanced at the walls as she sped down the four flights of stairs, and noted with relief that some paintings remained. Here and there, a rectangular patch, darker than the rest, showed that some had been removed. Well, one must hope, that was all.

In the flagged entrance hallway at the bottom, where extra light came in from a window above the double doors, it was easy enough to distinguish a family group, and a landscape which clearly included Remenham House in the distance. But, moving through into the first of the large main rooms that led one into another around the house, with here and there an antechamber between, it was obvious that the task was not going to be easy.

If only one might open the shutters and let in the light. This gloom was impossible.

Moving to the shuttered window, Melusine dragged the heavy drapes back. Yes, this was a little better. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture.

She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking.

Her heart thudded. Dieu du ciel, what was it? She turned slowly, listening for the direction of the sound. It came again. It seemed to emanate from the back of the house. She looked about and discovered a door partially hidden by shadow.

Melusine crossed to open it, and immediately the knocking intensified in volume. The room behind was another small antechamber, presumably linking the back rooms. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. Suddenly remembering Kimble, her heart thudded with excitement. Had he found the secret door?

Running to the centre, she tried to judge where the knocking came from. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Every other wall comprised bookcases, except where the doors appeared. The entire place was a masterpiece of wooden carving, a design of interleaving carried throughout.

Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. Here, it might be anything at all. And nothing to tell her where to begin.

‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence.

‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand.

‘Can you not open it?’ she cried.

‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. ‘Can’t see a thing.’

‘Oh, peste,’ exclaimed Melusine, and louder, ‘Where are you? Call, that I may find you.’

She moved quickly to the nearest bookcase, and listened intently to the sound of Jack’s voice. She could not judge its direction, and began to move swiftly along the bookshelves, her hand running behind her across the spines of the calf-bound volumes.

She had traversed perhaps three bookshelves, passed across the door that must lead to the hall, turned the corner, and was just about to reach the fireplace when she abruptly became aware that something under her fingers had felt wrong. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.

Her fingers passed over a cunningly wrought surface of wood, with just the correct amount of protrusion, the precise colours of dyed leather, and cleverly gilded surfaces and neatly painted lettering. But the whole set of some three or four shelves were of wood.

Melusine tapped on it. At once there came an answering knock. She had found him! Excitement welled.

‘Wait, Jacques! I will find the way to open this.’

It took several frustrating moments, working at the protrusions of the carving down the side of the bookshelves, tugging at leaves, pushing at flowers. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall.

An astonished Jack Kimble was revealed in the aperture. Melusine started back, blinking.

‘Parbleu, but I find that this is excessively clever, this passage.’

Jack stepped out, and pushed the door to. It clicked and the bookshelf was once more intact. They stood back together and stared at it.

‘You could not tell it,’ said Melusine, ‘unless you were as close as we.’

A sudden clatter of booted feet sounded in the hall beyond. Jack looked towards the door. At the back of her mind, Melusine noted an odd look in the boy’s face, but there was no time to explore it. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. She was too late. The door to the library burst open.

‘Ha!’ uttered Captain Roding triumphantly. ‘Got you!’

‘You!’ Stunned, Melusine moved quickly away from the tell-tale bookshelf. ‘But how do you come here?’

‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. ‘I was just looking the place over when I heard you calling out.’

‘Oh, peste,’ exclaimed Melusine crossly. ‘It is all the fault of that lantern.’

‘I’m that sorry, miss,’ Kimble said glumly.

‘It does not matter, Jacques.’ She glared at Hilary. ‘If it is that your men there are going to arrest us, then why do they not do so?’

‘Left to myself, I’d let them,’ he replied grimly. But he looked back into the hall and spoke to the sergeant who could just be seen behind him. ‘All right, Trodger. I’ll take over here. Get the men back to their posts.’

‘Sir!’ came from Trodger, and the booted feet clattered off and out of the front door.

‘Now then,’ said the captain sternly, ‘I’m not going to ask you what you’re doing here. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply.’

‘Then it is good that you do not ask me,’ Melusine snapped, and flouncing away from him, went to sit in the large chair behind the desk at the far end of the room. She watched, puzzled, as her cavalier frowned at the newcomer, glancing from him to Melusine and back again.

The captain saw it too and nodded at the boy. ‘You the fellow Gerald spoke to?’

Kimble flushed beetroot, and Melusine had a flash of insight.

‘Jacques!’

She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low. ‘It were that there major, miss. I didn’t betray you, I swear I didn’t. Seemed like he knew so much—more than me, miss. And―and he wanted to help you.’

‘So this is the way you serve me,’ exclaimed Melusine, her quick temper flaring as she jumped up, slammed her hands on the desk and leaned towards him over it. ‘What is it that you told him?’

‘Nothing, miss, I swear. At least—’

‘Don’t be more of a lunatic than you can help,’ broke in the captain, addressing himself to Melusine. ‘If the boy had sense enough to send word to Gerald as he was told to do, then God be praised!’

‘Parbleu,’ broke from Melusine, as she turned on him instead. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’

‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. And if you dare to produce any kind of weapon at all,’ he added, taking a plain brass-barrelled little pistol from his own pocket and levelling it, ‘I will have no compunction in blowing off your head, you madcap female. You’re dealing with me now, not Gerald.’

Melusine looked resentfully at the pistol. ‘I see well that I am dealing with you. Do not imagine that I cannot do so, as well as I can this Gérard.’

‘Do you tell me you think you can outwit Gerald? I wish I may see it.’

Melusine did not reply. Her anger died and she eyed him. She could manage the major. Let her see if she could manage this one, perhaps turn all to suit herself?

‘What do you think to do with