Joy V. Sheridan writes

Charity Amour

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE part 1

“Never, never a lackey around when one is needed!” Madame d’Esprit’s near hysterical tones, exclaiming in a guttural of spluttering downpour, echoed along the small, plush corridor leading to her chambers. 

Hinches looked askance at his companion, for though their combined command of the French language was limited, there was no doubting the white fever pitch of fury that that lady was now in. The door to her bed-chamber was wide open. Inside were signs of a recent fracas. The pristine, symmetrical orderliness which earlier the Fibbinses had witnessed now bore signs of urgent and unruly violence. 

Madame was standing in the centre of the room, an enfolding white fur cape thrown over the delicate and insubstantial protection of her evening gown. She looked startled momentarily as the two henchmen appeared in her chambers: “Where is Fitzroy ... Lord Rispian, I mean?” Her English was slow but clearly enunciated. 

“Madame: he gave us instructions just some ten minutes ago, which we followed out.” Hinches shot an uncomfortable look towards his companion. They had prior received instructions never to over-indulge what intelligences or happenings they may have been entrusted with by their employer. “Well, come in. One of you stack the fire. It’s freezing!” 

Madame had returned to a more imperious tone of voice and though both men knew she was acting thus because of the fragile nature of her recent position in Lord Rispian’s eyes, Jarvis did as was bid. Hinches continued to look uncomfortable. He glanced about the room: “Had some bother, Madame?” 

She had seated herself on the creamy opulence of an Ottoman couch. With a sharp up-thrust of her head, she stared at him: “Perhaps. All I know is that there appears to be two missing from our - I mean, rather, my - pared down celebrations.”

She sniffed like one awaiting her death sentence and, reaching towards the table, lifted a heavy, square cut glass decanter. Without offering any to the men, she poured herself a large tumblerful of some liquid. Madame was just in the process of lifting it to her lips when sounds from the hidden apex of the stairwell leading to her corridor arrested her attention. 

The two men, also alerted, placed their hands on their weapons. Lord Rispian’s voice was unmistakable and within a few seconds he came into view, thrusting before him a weeping and disheveled Charity. Madame rose from her seat and stood, hovering like a fledgling towards the centre of the room. “Damned wanton thought she’d do a marathon on me!” 

He thrust Charity hard into the room whence she all but fell against Madame, who had quickly side-stepped, and now the girl lay sprawled half on and half off the Ottoman. Madame arched her eyebrows, fighting very hard to be still the Mistress of Ceremonies: “What happened?”

“Don’t worry your pretty head, Madame, I have recovered her and that is that.” 

Madame de Esprit looked mystified. “I’ll not go into details now Natalie. By the gods, it’s cold in here!” 

Hinches looked inquiringly at the cut, bloodied and drying, above Lord Rispian’s eye. He saw the man’s stare: “’Twas nothing Hinches: merely a small dispute between some gentlemen and meself. Look, I want you two fellows to have a look about the place. Don’t know what you think, Natalie, but it seems too damned deuce quiet to me!” 

He waved off her partially opened mouth: "Oh, I know! ’Tis only to be expected. The house being quiet and all that now. I know I told you to break the doings up, but, dashed if I know, it does seem most awesome quiet!

“Lookee here, Hinches: you take the upper part of the Château and Jarvis, do the lower quarters. Not too long now, mind you. AND don’t get side-stepped by any pretty little poppets who might appear to have been abandoned by their customers. Hear me?” 

The two men nodded in acquiescence; all but bowing and clicking their heels together, they fast vanished from the chamber and the corridor.

“Brandy, Fitzroy?” “Seems like a damned good idea. By the deuce, though, ’tis more than a mite nippy in here. Whaddya think, Natalie? Is it too still or am I missing the atmosphere of the old house for so long, I'm all but forgetting its quintessential charm?” 

Either through shock, or sudden exertions, Lord Rispian’s whole frame seemed to be moving at a higher tempo than he normally exhibited, the large torso keeping a choreographic movement in accord with his shallow and pronounced breathing. 

Madame noticed how his hand shook slightly as he accepted the tumbler of brandy she offered him. “’Tis usually quiet, after a celebration, your lordship. But... I don’t know... perhaps you are right ...”