Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [345]
One knew something from Adam Blacklock’s letters. Six years before, Philippa’s mother Kate had observed Blacklock among the men of St Mary’s: the artist with the long, lean frame and the halt in one leg who had possessed some insight, she thought, denied to others of that brilliant band. Since then, he had fought in France and in Russia. She knew, from some of Philippa’s earlier letters, that he was receiving a captain’s pay under the French crown, but that was all. Then when Philippa’s letters had ceased just after Sybilla and Richard reached France, the first diffident communication had arrived, signed A. Blacklock.
It had been no more than a short bulletin of the minor affairs at court in the weeks before the wedding, and conveyed the impression, with some skill, that the news was indirectly from Philippa herself, who was at present too occupied to write to her mother. From it Kate had learned—a piece of news Philippa had not thought to tell her—that Francis Crawford was affianced to a French heiress and would marry her as soon as the Queen’s wedding was over, and his own marriage to Philippa had been dissolved. She also knew that Austin Grey was in Paris, a prisoner of war, and that he was said to be a serious suitor of Philippa’s.
Then had come the information, embedded in some detail of little consequence, that the French heiress had withdrawn from the prospective marriage, but the annulment was to proceed. And after that the two letters she would never forget.
In the first, Mr Blacklock had written, Philippa will shortly be on her way home. Please be understanding. From her long acquaintance with Mr Crawford it seems, has grown something none of us would have wished for her, least of all Lymond himself. He is to continue with the divorce, but she will sail home, much against her will, as soon as the royal wedding is over. She is not a child and her feelings are not superficial, but we see no other solution, nor do Mr Crawford’s mother and brother. Lord Allendale will be coming with her.
And almost immediately after that: I have to tell you that Philippa and her husband have left Paris and are living at Sevigny. There is now no question of a divorce.
That was all. No letters followed that, from Blacklock, or from Philippa or even from Sybilla and Richard. The next news she had was from Adam Blacklock in person, standing on her doorstep with a curious scar on his face, saying, ‘Mistress Somerville? Allendale and I have brought Philippa home.’
One did not ask questions then of this self-contained, exhausted creature. One installed her in the bedroom she had known from childhood, and entertained, as best one could, the two men who had brought her, with such trouble, all the way from France. Then, when Austin had left for his home, one was able to turn to the man Blacklock and say, more viperishly than perhaps one had intended, ‘All I gathered from that is that Francis Crawford is a raging harlot, and I am only doubtfully adequate to touch the hem of my daughter’s extremely expensive farthingale. I look to you to tell me what has happened.’
And Adam, confronting the sharp brown eyes of the small, untidy, vivid person he remembered all those years ago from the days of St Mary’s, had answered, ‘I don’t know. All I can tell you is that, superficially, Francis was offered the rank of Marshal of France and took it, leaving Philippa at Sevigny. And that she then left for Paris, and asked Allendale to bring her home.’
‘And a little deeper than superficially?’ Kate had said.
Then he had had to say, ‘I don’t understand what Allendale is implying. He knows something, I think, that Philippa has not told any of us. What I have found out is difficult enough to put into words.’
‘Can I guess?’ had said Kate abruptly.