But they canna dight their tears now, sae fast do they fa’.”
—Lament for Lord Maxwell.
“Poor Caroline!” said the Marquise, looking up at the portrait of her sister. “How she must have suffered!”
Lucienne, taken by surprise, very nearly ejaculated, “Why?” for, as far as she had been able to gather, Lady Ashley’s English life had been extremely happy. But, feeling that silence was more sympathetic, she said nothing.
“And yet,” pursued Madame de Château-Foix, “her exile was voluntary, whereas ours——” She flung out her hands expressively.
“Perhaps,” hazarded Lucienne, “we shall be able to go back sooner than we expect. Or perhaps . . . Gilbert will come here before very long.”
The Marquise shook her head. “Neither is at all probable. And really, if I continue to suffer from my digestion as I am doing at present, I doubt if he would recognise me should he come. I am getting positively haggard.” And she then spoke, with the candour permitted by her nation, of her stomach, and of the state to which English food and the methods of its preparation were reducing it. Under her handling the subject seemed as tragic as that of separation and exile—and perhaps it really was so.
But the not very refined cuisine of Ashley Court was the only feature in its hospitality open to criticism. The family had proved the kindest and most thoughtful of hosts. Amelia’s tact prevented the Marquise from feeling, as she might have done, the delicacy of her position in a household ruled by her young unmarried niece. Sir William kept open house, and all through the autumn, what with shooting parties, guests staying at the Court—of whom Madame Gaumont had been one—and occasional visits of ceremony from other émigrés in the neighbourhood, dullness was successfully held at bay. And though with George Lucienne never attained any degree of intimacy, with Amelia she soon became fast friends. One bond which drew her to Miss Ashley was the fact that the English girl had known both Gilbert and Louis. Not that Lucienne wished to be always talking about the former, like Madame de Château-Foix, who was only really happy, so Amelia surmised, when speaking of her son. Indeed it had struck Amelia on one or two occasions that Lucienne might have displayed more interest than she did in some recital of her future mother-in-law’s. It never occurred to Miss Ashley that there was one person conversation about whom never failed to interest Mademoiselle d’Aucourt. But then there was never in the nature of things a great deal of talk about Louis de Saint-Ermay, who was merely a connection of the household. Lucienne, however, soon contrived that there should be more.
“And what did Louis do when he was over here?” she would ask, as she and Amelia walked alone about the lanes—a freedom so strange to the French girl—or sat in each other’s rooms at bedtime.
“Oh, he amused himself; he wore a different costume every day and rode about with George and Cousin Gilbert; he—— Really I can’t remember,” the unsuspecting Amelia would reply. “I was only sixteen, you know. I chiefly recollect how gay and amusing he was, and how good-looking. I believe I was rather in love with him.” Amelia’s own heart could best tell her why she soiled her lips with that last gratuitous lie.