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“They named him the Red Cat because of his hair and his capacity for evasion. Eventually he was betrayed, as all good men are.” He reached for her hand and covered it with his other. “His name was Philippe-François de Beaujeu.”
Isabelle closed her eyes and yet a tear escaped nonetheless.
“I-I had no idea,” she whispered.
“Your surname has been itching away at my memory since we first met, and when I heard Rhys declare your father’s full title, then I recalled it all.” He patted her hand. “Your father was a genuine hero, Mademoiselle de Beaujeu. Saved many lives. Still spoken of. Still remembered.”
There was no preventing the tears now – professional governess be damned; they flowed with reminiscences, of happiness, of steadying hands, of clove and laughter. Of his gallant rescue of her and Mama. Of his self-sacrifice.
A handkerchief was thrust under her nose.
“Thank you, Mr… Hugh.” She wiped at her eyes. “I… One day soon, I will tell you how we escaped France, but even I do not know how he entered that prison.”
“Bugger,” he said with a grin. “For I believe there’s still an open wager on the books as to how he achieved it. But…can I ask you a question?” He tapped a finger. “Why hide your heritage from us all, Miss Beaujeu?”
She gave a watery chuckle. “No household wishes for a governess of supposed higher nobility than themselves, Scandalous Hugh. I learned that after three failed interviews.”
“Ah, I–”
“Cousin Hugh! What are you doing to my governess?” Mari tutted. “You are forever making the ladies cry. I have this for you, Miss.”
Isabelle frowned at the folded piece of paper but Mari grinned and twirled her skirts.
The other ladies gathered near. Scandalous Hugh winked.
She unfolded the sheet of paper. “It’s a poem!”
“Read it aloud, please,” said Mari with lips twitching.
Rather flustered, Isabelle complied.
“Love waits, still and swithe,
Love lingers, dusk and bright.
Love waits, it waits for thee,
For thee to fill this night.
So come to me, my soul,
Aside the pounding sea.
Come love and make me whole,
And ‘I’ shall become ‘We’.”
“Oh, how romantic!” wailed Miss Brecken.
“I’m going to cry,” declared Miss Vaughn.
“That sounds like a new Byrne,” said Gwen with a grin.
The Scandalous Hugh waggled his eyebrows.
Isabelle hugged them all in turn and then raced to the hallway, shrugged into a coat that a hooting Mrs Pugh held, darted through the door that a saluting Morgan had opened and dashed across the forecourt to the parterre where a lengthy line of lit lanterns had appeared.
With pulse gathering pace, she followed the beacons, grabbing her skirts to rush down the path. Beyond the parterre hedge, she glimpsed dim circles of light that appeared to float like fireflies, luring her on.
