“Yes, of course,” Sir Redmond played along, still with the tinge of admiration in his voice. “Do have a seat here, Mistress Jamieson, and make yourself at home, and I’ll away up to my chamber and compose just such a letter.”
“On your way, my dear,” his wife put in, “perhaps you’ll take a moment to assist me in explaining to the groom what’s to be done about the harness, for he does not seem inclined to take direction from a woman.”
“And you left him standing, did you?”
“For the moment.” As though mention of the groom had then reminded her of something else, Sir Redmond’s wife asked, this time of their guest, “Have you a driver waiting? I will have a warming drink sent out to him, for it is very cold this morning.”
“No,” said Mistress Jamieson, “I do not have a driver. I took lodgings in the town last night and walked from there.”
“My dear! In such a wintry wind?”
“I am accustomed to the cold, for I was raised in it.”
Sir Redmond’s wife said, “Nonetheless, I’ll have the maid brew tea for you, that you may warm yourself while you are waiting.”
“Thank you. That would be most kind.”
Sir Redmond told her, “I’ll not keep you waiting long.” And then both he and Lady Everard went out and closed the door behind them, leaving the young woman standing squarely between Mary and escape from her predicament.
She might have stayed there stuck another hour had Frisque not wriggled free just then and, cheerfully evading all her efforts to recapture him, gone bounding in an energetic path across the drawing room to give a wagging welcome to this new potential playmate.
“Well, hello,” said Mistress Jamieson, in evident surprise. “Where did you spring from?” And when Frisque was not forthcoming with an answer, she went on, “Come here then, you’re quite safe. I’m not about to bite. And you can tell that to your mistress, for she cannot be so comfortable down there upon the floor.”
Mary rested her forehead a moment in shame on the seat cushion of the settee before gathering up what remained of her tattered pride, pushing herself to her feet so her shoulders and head were entirely visible over the back of the scrolled piece of furniture, braced for whatever might come.
Chapter 8
My soul brightens in danger… I am of the race of steel; my fathers never feared.
—Macpherson, “Fingal,” Book Three
Chatou
January 23, 1732
The woman she was facing looked to be about her own age, slender and of middle height, with features that could not have been called beautiful and yet held a vivacity that made them pretty—lively eyes lit with a keen intelligence beneath arched eyebrows the same dark brown color as the curling hair that had been swept up from her face and neatly fastened underneath a plain lace pinner.
Mary cleared her throat and said, “I do apologize.”
“That’s quite all right. I used to hide behind chairs often as a child. The trick is keeping back so that your shoes are out of sight.”
“I wasn’t hiding. I was… Frisque had lost his ball, you see, and I was only trying to retrieve it when you… Well,” she finished, knowing how ridiculous it sounded.
“Are you French?” the woman asked, her head tipped slightly to one side as though she were trying to place Mary’s accent. “Or Irish?”
“My father was Scottish, my mother was French.” She remembered her manners and put out her hand as she stepped round the settee and forced herself forward. “I’m Mary Dundas, Mistress Jamieson.” And having properly managed the more formal greeting, she said, “I’ll just…go. I should go.”
“Nonsense. You were here first. You were writing,” observed Mistress Jamieson, looking down now at the journal and pen on the table where Mary had earlier sat.
“It was nothing of importance,” Mary said, aware how foolish any chronicle of her “adventures” would appear to this young woman who, from all the evidence, was living one herself; for if in truth the other woman, Mrs. Farrand, had been taken and arrested as a spy, then stepping in to carry messages across the Channel in her place in such a time of danger called for courage of a kind that Mary could not hope to claim.
She could but marvel at the realization that this young woman, although near to her in age, was so beyond her in experience and confidence. And energy, she added, as she watched while Mistress Jamieson began to move about the room with Frisque an ever-bouncing bundle at the hemline of her gown.
“Indeed,” Mistress Jamieson said as she trailed a hand over the spines of the books on one shelf, “so few women write anything, that when one does it can never be deemed unimportant.”
“Truly, it was nothing more than my own private thoughts.”
“Then pray, don’t let me keep you from them.”
Mary wasn’t sure if that was meant to be an invitation or a firm command, but since the answer either way was to reclaim her chair and carry on where she’d left off within her journal, she decided it was best to do exactly that. It was a great relief, in fact, to bend her head and hide her reddened cheeks as she took up her pen again and dipped it in the ink while she read over what she’d so far written for her first attempt for this new year beneath the simple heading “January”:
Upon the 22nd came my eldest brother Nicolas to my uncle’s home at Chanteloup-les-Vignes, and after dinner we began our journey to his home—and my new one—at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, he having hired a splendid chaise for the occasion with a driver and two bay mares matched in all but that the near one had white forelegs and the other had no white at all upon her. Though the day was cold my heart was made the warmer knowing all my years of praying for such a reunion had at last been heard and answered, and with my brother as companion and so many fine and strange things to be seen within the woods through which we passed, I was well satisfied, the only complication rising from a wagon overturned upon the road that made it necessary for our driver to divert some several leagues around the obstacle, and causing us to break our journey at Chatou, where lives a noble gentleman of Irish birth who knows my brother well. Sir Redmond Everard, for so his name is, seemed not in the least put out to have us thus descend upon him. He and his good lady made us welcome and installed us in fine chambers, and a maid was sent to help me dress for supper, and a better supper I have never had, set out so cleverly and with so little notice, and a wine Sir Redmond told us he’d had sent him from Bordeaux, which we agreed with him was very fine, though privately I would confess I’d hold my uncle’s wine to be superior. Supper being done we then amused ourselves at play upon the cards. There being three of us (for Lady Everard declined to play but chose instead to sit apart and so be entertained) we played the Renegado with Sir Redmond and myself aligned against my brother, though he, with great skill, confounded both of us and left us all in laughter. So to bed, and up the morning of the 23rd at sunrise to attend to Frisque. I thought to walk some little way along the river, but the freezing wind defeated us and drove us back indoors where I—