The Earl And The Nightingale (Historical Regency Romance) Page 5

“Or perhaps it is you who are the legend, My Lord,” she said coquettishly.

  “Oh, that!” he said with a sigh. “It is a long story. You see, England has many social strata, and I seem to be somewhat far up on one of these rungs. My father, you see, was the hereditary Earl of Yarmouth.”

  “I suppose that is something that should impress me, Jonathan, but I do not know what an earl is.”

  “It is similar to a duke.”

  “Again, because I come from France, these things are immaterial. What I do find interesting about you is that you seem to understand music. Am I right?”

  Jonathan had never met a person like her before. She was unimpressed by the things English girls found fascinating, and yet she was impressed by the things considered trivial by almost everyone he had ever met. “Mademoiselle Monteaux ,” he said with a smile. “I know I cannot say this to you yet, because we have only just met but . . .”

  “Champagne?” said a waiter who appeared suddenly from behind them.

  “Of course,” said Garance. “And bring us some of your pies. I am famished!”

  “Pies?” said the waiter.

  “It says here on your bill of fare, ‘porter, pies, and oysters.’ Please bring each of these items to us,” she said.

  “My Lord, is this what you want?”

  “I want you to leave us in peace, if you please,” said Jonathan annoyed.

  “I see,” said the waiter withdrawing.

  “Now, what were you saying?” asked Garance with a smile. “And please, call me Garance, My Lord.”

  “Only if you call me Jonathan,” he replied. “I, well, I say, that is, well, Garance, you see, I only met you tonight, but today, well this evening, I was transported on the wings of song, and I do believe you have taken me to a place from which I cannot return.”

  “And what place would that be, dear Jonathan?”

  “It is a place called paradise. Listen, my dear Garance. I was in a terrible disposition and I very nearly took my life tonight. A couple of my school chums convinced me to go to your concert. When you sang, I found myself lost in your melismas, and then I opened my eyes and saw this vision of beauty the likes of which I had never seen before. I daresay I had never even imagined such a person as you could exist in the world. But now, at this moment, I am sitting in a room with you close by and I feel there is no time to waste. I am madly, inconsolably, and utterly in awe of you, Garance. Is this madness?”

  “It is, it is, but oh dear God, I would not have it any other way,” she said laughing a little. “You are the most romantic young gentleman I have ever met, and while I do not have the words to express that I feel the way you do, I must tell you that I too am smitten with you. Is this the right word?”

  “I believe it is,” said Jonathan. “Although, I confess I wish you could reciprocate a little more than smittenness.”

  “I am sorry, my English is poor,” said Garance. “For I do not know what that means.”

  “It means I wish you felt the same feelings for me, too.”

  Garance laughed and again, Jonathan had the sensation of thousands of tiny glass balls falling on a wooden floor. It was magical and ethereal.

  “Give it time,” she whispered as the champagne arrived.

  “Had we but worlds enough and time, this coyness, mistress, were no crime,” quoted Jonathan.

  “That sounds like a poem.”

  “It is. By Andrew Marvell.”

  “I do not know Andrew Marvell,” said Garance. “But he seems to know a great deal about coyness.”

  “As do you, my dear Garance. I have told you my feelings and I confess I have lost my heart to you.”

  The pies arrived as he spoke, and the champagne was poured into their flutes. “I am surprised you serve this lovely champagne in these glasses. In France, we have them in small wine coupes that are the exact shape of the breast of Marie Antoinette, or so they say.”

  “That is a compelling reason to drink champagne,” said Jonathan. “And I daresay the English lady who lent her breast to this flute must have had a very peculiar shape to her breast.”

  The tinkling of Garance’s voice was enough to make Jonathan swoon. “Garance,” he said. “I must see you again. Will you allow me to call on you?”

  “Ah, so you are like all the other gentlemen I have met here!” she said, suddenly insulted.

  Jonathan looked at her, and something about the expression on her face let him know that she was not entirely serious. “No, no, Garance. Do not think that!”

  “Well, why not? Of course, you think I am, how you say, a harlot. I am French and everyone knows we French women are lascivious. Is this not true?”

  “No, Garance! Absolutely not! This is not true. I assure you I have only the greatest respect for you. I want you for my wife.”

  “Respect? ‘Your wife?’ But I am only a singer. I am not a lady. This is impossible.”

  “Is it? Is anything impossible? Really?”

  Garance stopped, smiled, and put her finger on Jonathan’s lip. “Jonathan, you are charming and very, how you say… beautiful. Let us enjoy this evening and not talk about the future. I have spent far too many evenings talking about other evenings, and I want to enjoy this time with you.”

  “That is a very wise thing to say,” said Jonathan. “But I needed to tell you what was consuming my heart.”

  “Then I will tell you what is consuming my heart. I have had frightful experiences with Englishmen since I arrived. I had a lesson from Camille, my maid, about the attitude of English men to singers. She tells me that in England, as in Italy, they are considered little more than courtesans.”

  “I must admit, I have no idea what that is,” said Jonathan.

  “A courtesan is a woman who is independent, who can dispense love without marriage. I am not saying I disapprove of this. I am merely saying that I am not such a woman. My family is a solid bourgeois family. We are a good Parisian family, and I am the good and honest, hardworking daughter of that family. So, if you are thinking you will experience some incredible and erotic journey with me, I am sorry; you will be disappointed.”

  “Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Garance. I merely want to be able to spend time with you. That is all.”

  “In that case, I am very much in favor of this. I am enjoying spending time with you and I will be happy to see you again. Is this what you want to hear?”

  “It is,” said Jonathan taking a sip of his champagne. “And I want you to know that I am devoted to you even though I imagine that you are penniless.”

  “You imagine I am penniless? Ha!” said Garance with a glare at Jonathan.

  “Forgive my rudeness. It is just that I have never met a singer before, and I assumed their lives were like those I read of in the romances: penniless and proud.”

  “Jonathan, you are a fool!” she laughed. “I assure you I have no shortage of money to live on.”

  I see,” said Jonathan embarrassed by his naïveté. “It is just that, well, only tonight I met several young women who were introduced to me by one of my school chums, who have fathers who are rich as Croesus, and they seemed very entranced by me. But I have no interest in any of them because I want to spend all my time with you, even if it means I will never have a meal like this again.”

  Garance smiled. “Good.”

  The two of them enjoyed each other’s company for hours, until the restaurant closed, leaving them with a hefty bill and the need to somehow get home. Jonathan reached into his pockets. He was horrified.

  “Garance, I have a terrible frightful confession to make and I am not sure how to take care of this situation. You see, I am unused to paying for meals in restaurants. This is all quite new to me and consequently I have not been carrying money with me lately.”

  “I understand, and I do not need you to pay for me.” She put ten guineas on the table and the waiter approached in shock.

  “This is far too much, Mademoiselle,” he said.

  “That is f
ine, but I want you to remember me with joy.”

  “I will do that,” he said, almost tongue-tied.

  “Thank you for taking care of that bother,” said Jonathan. “I must transport you to your quarters. Do let me do that at the least.”

  “You may, young Jonathan,” she said, but they walked only a few minutes from the restaurant and she indicated her quarters. “I live here,” she said.

  “I say, you have very fashionable rooms,” he said. “St. Martin-in-the-Fields is a very luxurious address!”

  “Thank you. Now Jonathan, do you have a calling card?”

  “I do, but I have none with me. If you would allow me, I would very much like to call upon you tomorrow.”

  Instead of responding, Garance put her arm on Jonathan’s back and pulled him close to her. Her lips touched his almost like a lightning bolt. He shuddered and smiled, then kissed her back. The gaslight in the street illuminated them and Jonathan wondered which cutpurse saw him kiss the Parisian Nightingale. But he did not fret as he continued kissing her and held her as though he would never see her or touch her again.

  “I must go,” she said and ran inside.

  Jonathan was left outside, stunned, overcome, and more overjoyed than he had ever dared allow himself. This experience was so outside of his normal ones that he could not imagine a better end to an evening. He began to walk and found himself turned around after half an hour. He watched the evening’s traffic and noticed how the streets of London became places of terrible-looking people doing terrible, drunken things, but all he could see was a kiss, a beautiful, tender, and passionate kiss.

  Chapter Seven

  Preparing for The End

  Jonathan floated on air for days after that encounter, and he only came back down to earth when he realized he had an obligation to the family to see to the funeral. It was determined that the funeral would be held in London at his family’s parish church, St. Giles-in-the-fields.

  While he set about making arrangements, he became increasingly aware that many of the details had already been seen to by someone else. He was at pains to know who could be doing all of this. His mother, Margaret, had been in a terrible state when he had seen her last, and his other relatives had been estranged from the family for years, thanks to his father’s profligate gambling. He suspected the two disreputable characters, Braithwaite and Kerr had something to do with it, but he could not be sure. He wrote to his sister Cecily, to ask her to look into the matter, as the funeral would take place only a few days later. She wrote back by return post and upbraided him for his presumption.

  My Dear brother,

  Bless me if you are not the biggest fool of them all! You must know by now that this family would have ceased to exist had it not been for my intercession. Pappa was never any good at anything much other than dying at the opportune time, and mother is devastated and cannot even think. She has not been able to do a thing since she discovered his lifeless body in the study, the poor lamb. She has taken to her bed and is telling all visitors that she is dying. Of course, that is nonsense.

  I have taken the liberty of arranging for the guest list for the funeral, as well as the minister and the organist. It shall be at St. Giles-in-the-fields, of course, on Saturday at three. Do be there, wearing your most earl-like attire. I shall be there, pretending I had nothing to do with any of this, as befits the feckless daughter of a feckless earl. If you would be a dear and make sure your friend Peter Nunn will be in attendance, I should be very grateful. If you ask me why, I shall have your eyes removed with hot pokers. A lady is entitled to a little privacy, I warrant.

  Do be there and stop fussing. Things shall return to normal presently.

  Your loving sister, Cecily

  As presumptuous as her letter was, Jonathan was overjoyed to read its contents. Cecily was only eighteen years of age and seemed to have grown up in a matter of weeks! Cecily wanted him to bring Peter Nunn to the funeral. What a peculiar demand!

  He sent a note off to both Peter and Simon, requesting their presence at St. Giles-in-the-fields Church on Saturday, and received positive responses from both. They were truly grand chums, those two, he thought.

  On the morning of the funeral, without having lifted a finger, other than having written a short eulogy, he dressed and made his way to the parish church of St. Giles-in-the-fields, hoping nothing untoward was going to happen. He had been a trifle worried that Cecily might have forgotten which church the family had attended when they were in London, since they had not been there in nearly a decade. But, when he arrived, crepe was hung and all was ready for the funeral. His heart swelled with love and pride for his sister.

  The church was a relatively new one for London, built in the 1730s in what was once called the Palladian style, with a high sky-pointing steeple, cut stone, and subtly arched stained-glass windows. As he entered the front doors, memories of his childhood, himself dressed in over-starched clothing that chafed his neck, and shoes that did not fit him, flooded through him. Also, the look of the place, white-painted arches on beautiful pillars finished in gold leaf, made him feel that this was a fitting place for an earl to be fêted. Of course, the fact that the family was practically destitute might possibly become an issue, but in true aristocratic manner, he would sidestep the issue of ‘filthy lucre’ when speaking to the parson and concentrate on the importance of a fitting send-off. He had hoped that the choir would sing and expressed this hope to the vicar when they met.

  “My dear Reverend Holley,” he said solemnly, feigning a memory of him in bygone years, when in fact, he had simply read his name on the church banner. “I do hope you can rustle up a singer or two to send my dear papa to his eternal rest.”

  “I understood from your sister that you knew about the arrangements. We are not a wealthy congregation, My Lord,” said Reverend Holley, who appeared to be not much older than he.

  Holley reminded him of the dons at Oxford. This lad, who was covered in ecclesiastical vestments, appeared, despite his age, to be as full of himself as the Anglican Church could possibly have hoped for when they chose him some few years back, as a parish priest at one of the poorest areas of London. For here, it was rumored, were the first plague victims of 1665, and here was the final stop before a condemned man was hanged. Here too, were the two most troublesome neighborhoods in all of London: The Rookery and the Seven Dials. Each of these places was squalid and depressing in a way that defied one’s senses. The very place smelled of death, he told himself, and so he spared some sympathy for this benighted cleric who probably believed himself to have been condemned to eternal damnation.

  “I’m afraid the arrangements were entirely up to my sister Cecily Anderson-Reese,” said Jonathan,

  “How odd,” he said, knitting his brow.

  “Oh, I assure you she is more than capable, despite her sex and her age,” said Jonathan confidently.

  “Why, of course she is, My Lord. My only fear is that she has not consulted us about the music, and so I simply forgot. I beg your pardon. We do have an organist in Mr. Fezzlewig, an accomplished practitioner, whom I believe you will have the pleasure of meeting forthwith.”

  “Very good, Father,” said Jonathan. He’d had enough of this pompous fool and decided to smile and withdraw to the nearest tavern. “I shall see you in an hour.”

  Outside, he spied a small tavern, The Angel, close by, and popped his head inside.

  “Oy, M’Lord,” said a dirty-faced, pug-nosed bruiser, standing behind a bar. “Fancy a nip then?”

  “Why, I think that is a capital idea!” said Jonathan stepping inside.

  “What’s your poison then, M’Lord?”

  “I shall have a port, if you please, barkeep,” said Jonathan.

  “Porter it is,” he said, sluicing some dark brown liquid into an earthenware cup. “Bottoms up.”

  Jonathan eyed the beverage with suspicion. It looked nothing like the beautiful ruby-colored beverage he was used to. He sipped it and it had the stench of dea
th. “I say, what is this?”

  “Porter, M’Lord,” he said. “And it’s not just porter, neither. It’s ‘istorical.”

  “How’s that?”

  “This ‘ere pub is the last stop of the condemned. ‘as been for centuries. We ‘ad an agreement wif Newgate, the prison I mean, that the condemned man would ‘ave his last drink ‘ere on his way to Tyburn ‘Ill.”

  “Thank heavens that has stopped,” said Jonathan.

  “Well, it was damned good for business, if you asked me. Pity it stopped. But they moved the executions inside Newgate. Shame.” He shook his head. “But what’s your business in this part of town? Don’t see gentlemen like yourself in ‘ere so much.”