02 The Grand Tour Page 12

  "Thank you," I said to Theodore when the shopkeeper had gone off to collect the titles I required. "My father will be so pleased."

  "I am happy to have been of service," he said with a formal little half bow.

  "Will you be in Paris long?" I said. "I'm sure my husband would be as delighted to see you again as I am."

  "Only a few more days," he said. "Harry and I are heading east." He scowled. "I wish the other fellows were staying with us, but there's been some mix-up or other, so it'll just be the two of us for a while. My uncle is meeting us somewhere along the way. Milan, I think."

  "What a pity," I said. "James will be sorry to miss you. But perhaps he could stop by your lodgings tomorrow, before you leave?"

  Theodore brightened at the prospect, and gave me his direction, which was what I had wanted all along. I arranged for the delivery of my purchases, made my adieux, and left the shop, wondering what I would do if Thomas did not turn up soon. But he had arrived, apparently, only a moment before I did. His cravat had been somewhat disarranged by his exertions, and he looked quite grim.

  "He got away," he said without preamble. "It's quite clear that he's been here some time; he knows the streets— especially the alleys—in this part of town much too well."

  "That's a pity," I said as he threw me into the saddle. "Still, I expect you and James can catch up with him at the Pont du Gard Auberge tonight or tomorrow."

  Thomas flipped the horse boy a franc, mounted, and looked at me with narrowed eyes. "Indeed? And why would you think that?"

  "I asked young Mr. Daventer for his direction," I said. "So that James can call on him. And since Mr, Strangle is apparently bear-leading the unfortunate boy, I presume they are both to be found in the same lodgings. You'll have to go tomorrow, though; they're leaving Paris in a few days, Theodore says."

  "Theodore seems to have been remarkably forthcoming."

  "Theodore Daventer is a pleasant, studious young man who deserves much better than to have that dreadful man as a tutor," I said. "I can't imagine what his father was thinking. Though perhaps he was not in a position to turn off a man recommended by Theodore's uncle."

  "You have been busy," Thomas said. "Very well; let us go and inform James of the arrangements you have made for his time tomorrow."

  Unfortunately, by the time James and Thomas paid their call, Mr. Strangle and Theodore had departed. They cross-questioned the servants, who said that Mr. Strangle and his charge had left the city. James was willing to believe them, but Thomas insisted on continuing the investigation in the hopes of at least discovering their destination, if they had indeed left Paris.

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  5 September 1817

  Paris

  At Lady Sylvia's house

  N.B. No pomegranates or figs. T. hates them. T. likes apricots and raspberries. Also marrons glaces.

  6 September 1817

  Paris

  At Lady Sylvia's house

  This morning Thomas said, "I like this chaise longue." He had been reading bits of the news aloud to me while I answered letters. "Let's purchase one for your boudoir at home."

  "I like it, too." I could not help but admire the picture he made, stretched the length of chaise longue with his nose in one of the many gazettes and journals he'd accumulated around him. "Shall I truly have a boudoir when I live in your house?"

  Thomas didn't look up from his reading. "Oh, I insist. I had no idea what I was missing, staying out of boudoirs. You shall have the boudoir of your dreams. Mine, too, for that matter. I quite like it here, watching you pull out your hairpins while you compose your missives."

  "You'd pull more than hairpins over this one. It's to Aunt Charlotte."

  Thomas shuddered elaborately and kept on reading the newspaper.

  I thought it over. "I never dreamt I'd have a boudoir. It seems unlikely somehow, after all those years when my great ambition was not to share a room with Georgy."

  The paper rattled as Thomas turned the page. "Lord, I don't wonder. Share your room, share any little possession she fancied, from the sound of it."

  "That was at its worst when she was gaming. I'm sure she'll grow out of it, now we know she's taken after Grandfather. She's not to be permitted any gambling at all. She was always most generous with her own things before." In an effort to be fair, I added, "To do her justice, Georgy has many fine qualities. I was ill-situated to appreciate them sometimes, that's all."

  "I suppose." Thomas's voice had taken on a preoccupied tone, a distinct note of inattention.

  To test my analysis, I asked, "What color is my boudoir to be?"

  Thomas turned the page. "Any color you please, my sweet."

  Of all the absurd terms of endearment that Thomas employs, perhaps my sweet is the one I care for the least. I waited until I was perfectly certain he'd grown absorbed in his reading. "Puce, then. It's settled."

  In a distant voice, Thomas replied, "I said any color and of course I meant it. Whatever you like, Kate." Then, in his usual crisp tone, he added, "You do realize your cousin will say puce makes you look quite twenty years older? Distinctly washed out? Perhaps even pulled down?"

  "I was sure you had stopped listening."

  No trace of absentmindedness lingered in Thomas's voice. He was all virtue and vigilance. "I hope I know better than that, now that I am an old married man. I hope I am awake to the perils of not listening to remarks intended to be provoking, no matter how artfully sweet the voice that utters them."

  "You are a married man, aren't you?" I marveled all over again at this phenomenon. Thomas, a married man. And married to me at that. Incredible. "I am a married woman. How very odd."

  Thomas dropped his newspaper, sprang up from the chaise longue, and came to stand behind me, his hands warm on my shoulders. "How fortunate it is we are married to each other. I couldn't bear it otherwise."

  I tipped my head back to look up at him as I covered his hands with mine. "Nor could I." Aunt Charlotte's letter went unanswered that day. But it went unanswered for excellent reasons.

  From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

  James and Thomas spent most of a week attempting to discover Mr. Strangle's whereabouts. It reached the point where Kate and I hardly ever saw either of them. I was, consequently, rather surprised when Kate and I returned from shopping to discover the pair of them ensconced in the sitting room with a lovely woman of perhaps twenty-five. Her walking-dress was plainly several seasons old, and of only middle quality even then, though her spencer had been turned and retrimmed with cheap braid in a creditable attempt to bring it up to the current mode. Her black hair had been carefully dressed in the very latest fashion, and she seemed a trifle flushed.

  "Thomas?" Kate said uncertainly as we paused in the doorway.

  "Ah, come in, Kate," Thomas said. "Madame Walker was just leaving."

  But for the torrent of impassioned French that erupted from the visitor, I might have thought that I had imagined the faint emphasis Thomas put on the word Madame. She spoke very rapidly, but I could make out the words "responsabilite," "respectable," and "acte de mariage" as she jerked at the knotted strings of her reticule.

  "Yes, yes," James said. He sounded rather grim. "Come along."

  "One moment," I said. "What is this about?"

  "Nothing," James said in the unconvincing tone he uses when he thinks I ought not to be involved in something. Since he is invariably wrong in this regard, I persisted.

  "Madame, if you would slow down a little—"

  "I speak the English very well," the woman replied. "And I am a respectable person, me; I have my acte de mariage." She pulled a paper from her reticule and waved it at me, and I realized she meant her marriage lines.

  "I'm sure you do," James said even more grimly. "Cecy, if you will just—"

  "Madame Walker?" Kate said. "But surely you are French?"

  "My husband was of the English," the woman said with dignity. "He was killed at Wat
erloo, and his family did not want to have to do with a French person. So I am in Paris."

  "But why are you here?" I said. "James, was this Walker one of your army friends?"

  "No," James said. "Cecy—"

  "I came because of Monsieur Strangle," Madame Walker informed us.

  "Mr. Strangle?" I said.

  James rolled his eyes. "That's done it."

  "What have you to do with Mr. Strangle?" Kate asked.

  Madame Walker shifted uncomfortably. "I have nothing to do with him. Only, it is very hard to feed un bebe when one has no money, and one must be practical, no?" She glanced at James and then down at the document she clutched so tightly.

  "You have a baby?" I said. "But if your husband died at Waterloo—"

  "Annalise is four years old," Madame Walker said proudly. "She is at a convent school in the Loire Valley. They are very understanding, but one must pay something."

  "But then why did you come here?" Kate asked.

  "I heard the talk, that Milord and Monsieur were trying to find Monsieur Strangle," Madame Walker said simply. "I thought perhaps they would pay a few francs for what I knew."

  "And what do you know?" Kate said, holding her eyes.

  "That he has left Paris with the young gentleman," Madame replied, "to complete their circle of Europe."

  "The Grand Tour, yes, we'd more or less come to that conclusion ourselves," James said.

  Madame Walker shrugged. "I do not think, me, that it was any such thing. For the English do not make so much of a mystery when they come to see the statues and the paintings and the buildings in Paris."

  "What mystery?" I asked.

  Madame hesitated and glanced at James and Thomas again. Then her shoulders slumped. "I do not entirely know," she confessed. "But he made a great show of not allowing me to see his visitors, which was entirely foolish since I usually saw them in the street outside."

  "Visitors?" Thomas said. He and James exchanged looks. "The concierge said nothing about visitors."

  "But I have told you, Monsieur Strangle was very secret about them!" Madame said. "Even the one who was, I think, only un commercant come to collect some bills. I know les commercants," she added darkly. "It was only the small gentleman who was truly important. I myself only saw him once. Monsieur Strangle, he pretended that the small gentleman would have to approve his hiring me, though I am quite certain that he never said anything about me to him at all."

  "Mr. Strangle wanted to hire you?" I said, frowning.

  James made a choking noise. Madame Walker drew herself up indignantly. "He tried, but I am not like that other woman who visited him. I am a respectable person, me. Only—" She looked down suddenly. "Only I did not tell him so all at once, you understand, because he would sometimes buy the dinner. Sometimes I thought, perhaps, for Annalise's sake... But he was so, so—" She waved her hands expressively and shuddered.

  Suddenly I realized just what Mr. Strangle had wanted to hire her to do. "That is appalling!"

  "Just so," Thomas said.

  "And now he has gone," Madame said with growing intensity, "and he did not even leave the money he promised— though I did not really expect it. I shall starve, and Annalise also." She sank down on a chair and began to cry. "What am I to do? I am a respectable person, me, but the ladies, they want the references, and the dressmakers also, and even the maitres des hotels will not take on so much as a femme de chambre without the letters. An acte de mariage is not enough."

  "If that is the sort of position you would like to have, Madame, the matter is quite simple," I said. "I will hire you to be my maid."

  James and Thomas both looked at me as if I had run mad. Kate cocked her head to one side. "But, Cecy, do you really think it will do?" she asked.

  "Will what do?" Lady Sylvia's voice said from the doorway, and she swept into the room. She studied Madame Walker's tearstained face and refurbished turnout, then glanced at Thomas and James. Her eyes settled on Kate and me, considering. She waited.

  "Madame Walker finds herself in a difficult situation," I explained. "So I have just offered her a position as my maid."

  "I see." Lady Sylvia reviewed us all once more. "And has Madame accepted?"

  "Oh, yes, yes, yes!" Madame said, and burst into another torrent of rapid French, which even Lady Sylvia seemed to have difficulty in following for a moment.

  Lady Sylvia nodded and raised a hand, cutting Madame off in midsentence. "Very good," she said. "Raoul and Aubert will see you settled in. I gather you can start at once?"

  "Oui, Madame," she replied, and curtseyed. Lady Sylvia rang for a footman, instructed him what to do with Walker, and they left.

  As the door closed behind them, James looked from me to Lady Sylvia and back. "Cecy," he said at last, "what maggot have you got in your brain this time? You can't believe that woman's story!"

  "Oh, but I do," I told him. "And not just because she was so insistently waving her marriage lines, either. If she were—were—were truly not a respectable person, she would not be in such straits that she had to turn her gowns. Not with a face like that."

  "Hmm," said Thomas. "You may have something there."

  "Also, she may know more about Mr. Strangle's business than she's told us," I pointed out. "More, perhaps, than she realizes herself. If she can recognize those mysterious visitors of his, we may learn something really useful."

  "But, Cecy, are you sure?" Kate said. "After all the work you have done—the interviews and checking references!"

  "Well, it's obvious just from looking at her that she can dress hair and sew a neat seam," I said. They all looked at me. I sighed. "I couldn't just turn her out onto the street. And at least she's French."

  James laughed suddenly. "My Lady Quixote! Very well; I won't tease you about your new maid any longer."

  "An excellent notion," Lady Sylvia said. "Now, if one of you would explain to me just what Madame Walker has already told you of Mr. Strangle's business, everything will be quite satisfactory all around."

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  14 September 1817

  Paris

  At Lady Sylvia's house

  At last, at last, the opera season has begun. Last night we went to The Marriage of Figaro. I think I have never truly heard music before. Thomas has promised to take me again in a fortnight, when The Barber of Seville will be performed.

  The evening would have been one of the highlights of my life, even without the music. We dressed in our very best clothes. My gown was made of white velvet. With it, I wore my pearls, the longest pair of white kid evening gloves I have ever seen, and white kid sandals. Best of all, I wore one of the Schofield tiaras. Two of them are so elaborate I am not yet old enough to carry them off, but the one Lady Sylvia recommended is relatively simple, and as it is set with pearls, it was quite perfect. Reardon spent hours putting my hair up properly. It is an art, wearing a tiara, Lady Sylvia says.

  The five of us arrived at the opera house at exactly the right time, just tardy enough to be fashionable, yet not tardy enough to be rude. Some people make their evening's entertainment standing around outside places like the opera house, envying the fashionable world as it arrives. I would not find that a satisfactory way to spend the time. Unless Thomas were with me, of course. I feel sure he could shout very amusing things, if he were so inclined.

  We survived the press of interested onlookers shouting critical remarks and gained the relative quiet of Lady Sylvia's box. There was a brief, yet excruciating, period of Being Seen, as we were ogled by the occupants of the other boxes. Much flourishing of opera glasses, much looking down noses. For once, I didn't care. I knew I was looking my best, I could tell from Thomas's expression. I concentrated on sitting up straight and doing the tiara justice.

  The overture began at last, and the fashionable world fell away. I forgot all about everything, even my tiara. The music was like—oh, I can't think of anything that isn't trite. Instead, I will compare it to that day last s
pring when I attended the investiture at the Royal College of Wizards and stumbled across the threshold into a garden far away. Between one step and the next, I crossed into another world.

  The music was like that.

  When we left the opera house, it was quite a disappointment to me that we spoke ordinary words. It would have seemed more natural to sing. I wonder if that is what birds do. Lucky birds, if so.

  By the time we returned to Lady Sylvia's house, the music had faded. I was in the real world again. But I hadn't been alone on that voyage. It is always difficult to deduce what tune Thomas thinks he's humming, but in this case, I recognized certain passages distinctly.

  Only thirteen days until we go to the opera again. It seems an eternity!

  17 September 1817

  Paris

  At Lady Sylvia's house

  At times I had grave doubts, but I have survived Lady Sylvia's card party. I made a cake of myself, but it was only a small cake, and not in the usual way, for nothing whatever was spilt, torn, or broken.

  With Lady Sylvia's help and Cecy's encouragement, I chose which of my new gowns to wear last night. It is the color and texture of a pink rose petal, and it fits to perfection. I wore my best pearl necklace, and when I put in the pearl eardrops Aunt Elizabeth gave me, I remembered the charm she cast upon them. If it worked so spectacularly upon Cecy's, surely mine would be safe for one evening.

  I haven't dared to jinx it by remarking upon it aloud, but I've been having an extraordinarily good run of neither losing nor breaking things. I devoutly hope my luck will hold. As I readied myself for the evening, I made all sorts of bargains with Providence in hopes it would not give out spectacularly while I was in the presence of the Duke of Wellington himself.

  I was ready in good time, but I stayed in my room until the last possible moment, eager to avoid any possible mishap. Perhaps it was a mistake to spend so much time alone thinking about it. As I waited, I grew more and more convinced that some great piece of clumsiness would befall me before the evening was over.