02 The Grand Tour Read online

  "Household gods," Reardon said. She frowned and added disapprovingly, "Some of them are Egyptian."

  "Didn't the Romans conquer Egypt?" Kate said. "Perhaps those are some of the spoils they brought back with them."

  I walked to the table at the far end. The feel of magic was stronger, though still very faint. The table contained several small lamps made of reddish pottery, two statuettes of a woman holding a torch, a gold ornament shaped like the branch of a tree, and a sword made of corroded bronze. The sword's blade was flat and almost rounded at the end, though I could not tell whether that was its original design or whether the point had corroded away. There was a small card in the corner of the table bearing a phrase in Italian.

  "Reardon, do you know what these are?" I asked. "They don't look like anything I've heard of."

  The others came over to join me. "I think the statues are of a goddess," Reardon said. "Possibly offerings of some sort. This"—she gestured at the gold ornament—"seems to be a cloak pin."

  "But which goddess?" I asked. "Vesta was the Roman goddess associated with fire, but I don't think the Romans ever made statues of her, and I can't think of anyone else it could be."

  "I am afraid I don't know either, Madam," Reardon said.

  Behind me, Piers cleared his throat. "The card says, 'From the King of the Wood at Nemus Dianae.'"

  "Piers!" Kate said. "Why didn't you tell us you spoke Italian?"

  "Er," said Piers. "I, um, didn't want to distract you, my lady."

  "You're sure it says the King of the Wood?" I said. Piers nodded. "That can't mean the statues, then." I glared at the card. "You would think that a label would say something more useful."

  "It's an odd set of objects for a king to have," Kate commented. "That is, I suppose the sword is ordinary, but why the statues? And you'd expect a king to have a crown, certainly."

  "Yes," I said thoughtfully. "You'd certainly expect that. I suppose they might not have found the crown with these other things, but if they did—"

  "Then it's gone missing, like those other things the Duke of Wellington mentioned," Kate finished. We looked at each other.

  "Thomas and James might be able to find out whether the Conte's collection used to include a crown," Kate said after a minute.

  "And I expect Papa will know something about this goddess," I said. "I'll write him this afternoon. And one of us should send to Lady Sylvia."

  "I'll do that, if you check my knitting," Kate said as we started toward the door. "It's so difficult, knowing that dropping a stitch may change the whole meaning of a message."

  "I'll be glad to," I said. "Piers, what are you doing?"

  Piers had come to a dead halt in the middle of the hallway, forcing the rest of us to pause likewise. "A moment, if you please, Madam," he said, his head cocked in an attitude of listening.

  I was about to say something scathing, when I remembered that Piers was, after all, a professional bodyguard. So instead of distracting him, I listened for whatever had attracted his attention. At first all I heard was a murmur of Italian echoing down the hallway from the first display room, but after a moment, the voices began to rise. Unfortunately, they were still in Italian, but one was clearly a man's voice and the other a woman's. The argument seemed to reach a climax, then the man snapped something. I caught the names "Tarleton" and "Schofield," and then Piers came to life.

  "In here, quickly," he said, and we all piled through the nearest doorway onto the landing of the back stairs.

  "What is going on?" I whispered.

  "I do not think we should be seen by the lady who was arguing with the gentleman at the end of the hall," Piers said. "And as they will be coming this way in another moment—"

  "You are nearly as closemouthed as your employer," I said. "Move over."

  Piers looked confused.

  "Move over," I repeated. "I want a good look at this lady who is so cross about Tarleton and Schofield, and I think that if we open the door a crack, we can get one."

  "I don't think your husband would approve of that, Madam," Piers said.

  "He probably won't," I said. "What has that to do with anything? Move."

  Reluctantly, he stepped aside, and I opened the door two finger-widths. The others crowded around the crack as well. A moment later the curator went past, still expostulating in Italian, into the room full of statues we had just quitted. Following him was a young woman in a neat cream morning dress, quite simple, in the Italian style. Her hair was a rich, dark brown, and her figure resembled that of some of the ancient statues Papa is so fond of—the sort of statues that Aunt Elizabeth considers most improper. Piers stiffened and Walker gasped.

  I shut the door as hastily as I could without making a noise, though I did not think the woman had heard. "What is it?" I asked Walker softly.

  "But that woman is the one I spoke of, the one who visited the Strangle in Paris!" Walker said. "I knew she was not respectable. How is it that she is here?"

  "That is an exceedingly good question," I said. "Piers, you must follow her when she leaves, and find out where she is going."

  "I fear I cannot oblige you, Madam," Piers said uncomfortably. "Er, my employer engaged me to act as bodyguard, and one cannot guard someone if one is elsewhere."

  "If I promise to go straight back to our rooms with Cecy?" Kate said. "I don't see how anything could happen to us with both our maids along, in broad daylight, in such a short distance."

  "I am sorry, my lady," Piers said, even more uncomfortably than before. "I cannot see my way to it."

  I could tell that he was going to be stubborn, and I did not know how much time we had. "Walker! Can you follow her without being seen? And then come back and tell us whatever you find out, of course. I'd go myself, but Mr. Strangle has probably given her descriptions of all of us, if they're working together, and she might realize it was me."

  Walker blinked at me in startlement. Then her eyes began to sparkle. "Oui, Madame!" she said. "She will never know I am there."

  Piers looked appalled. "Madam—"

  "Go, then," I said to Walker, and slipped her out the door. I frowned at Piers. "It would have been much better if you had gone, because you speak Italian and you could have told us what she said," I told him.

  "I could not, Madam," Piers said miserably. "She would have recognized me at once."

  "Recognized you?" I said. "Have you been flirting with Italian housemaids, now? I thought you learned your lesson in Calais. Though she doesn't look much like a housemaid, now I think on it."

  "She didn't in Calais, either," Piers said. "That was Eve-Marie."

  "What?" Kate and I said together. We looked at each other, and then Kate continued, "That was the Young Person who tied you up and locked you in the scullery the night someone tried to enter Lady Sylvia's rooms?"

  Piers nodded.

  Kate and I looked at each other again. "What a good thing we sent Walker," I said after a moment.

  "You sent Walker," Kate pointed out. "I wish you'd told her to be careful."

  "There wasn't time," I said. "Besides, she'll have to be careful if she's not to be seen. Have they gone?"

  "Reardon, you're the only one of us she might not recognize," Kate said. "Would you look?"

  Reardon opened the door and stepped calmly into the corridor. After what seemed an extremely long time, she returned. "I believe they have departed, my lady," she said. "And the curator has removed that last exhibit you were looking at. The one 'From the King of the Wood.'"

  "That's curious," I said as we moved down the hallway toward the door.

  "Was that what they were arguing about, Piers?" Kate asked. "Was she trying to make sure we wouldn't see it?"

  "I believe that was the main part of their disagreement, my lady," Piers said.

  "We had better get back," I said. "James and Thomas will want to know about this, and we ought to write down as much as we can about that exhibit before we forget any of it. If they didn't want us to see it, something a
bout it must be important."

  "But what?" Kate said.

  None of us had a good answer, though we discussed the matter all the way back to the inn.

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  10 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Thomas has thought of many questions he ought to have posed to Mr. Strangle when he had the chance. His annoyance with himself over the missed opportunity made his pursuit of Mr. Strangle more dogged than I would have thought possible. While he and James hunted for the Strangle, as Cecy's maid calls him, Cecy and I were left to our own devices.

  Walker came up trumps in the matter of surveillance. She returned flushed with triumph and joined us in the parlor, where Cecy was studying a map of the city, and I was writing letters.

  "I have followed that woman. She went straight to a private house. Waiting to see if she would emerge again has made me late, and I regret it most sincerely. However, she did not emerge. I have every confidence that the house to which I followed her is the place where she is staying."

  "What house?" Cecy asked. "Where did she go?"

  "That woman went directly to a fine house in the fashionable quarter off the Piazza Saint Basila. She was received as a visitor, no more, but she must be there as a guest of the house. No social call could have lasted so long." Walker's expression made her opinion of Eve-Marie perfectly plain. No better than she should be, that was evident.

  "Show me on the map," Cecy said.

  This proved difficult, as the mapmaker had been more intent upon portraying every glory of the city, from the Duomo to the Castello, than in representing side streets accurately.

  "Here," said Walker at last, indicating a crowded spot on the city plan between the Duomo and the eastern gate. "Do you see, Madame?"

  I held out my pen and a fresh sheet of writing paper. "Perhaps you could sketch a more detailed map for us?"

  "But of course." Walker dipped the pen and, without a single spatter of ink, drew a diagram of a piazza and the streets angling off it. She put an X halfway along one street, on the north side. "It is unmistakable," said Walker, "for the facade of the house is of the same shade of yellow as the opera house." To me, she added, "That is a shade that would suit you to perfection, Madame la Marquise. I have thought so since I first saw it."

  I must confess that her suggestion made my heart sink a little. I know I would miss it if Cecy ever left off suggesting colors that would suit me to perfection. She's always right. It is a great talent of hers. Yet when Walker does it, it piques me. Does the whole world know better than I do what suits me?

  Thank goodness that Reardon is not prone to this helpfulness. I do not think I could bear it if she did it, too.

  What makes me feel particularly foolish about my pique is that I had privately thought much the same thing about the dull golden yellow of La Scala's facade. It would look well on me. But since we have no need to order more gowns and, even if we did, no time in which to do so, I don't see what I can do about it.

  11 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  It is not possible to visit Milan without also visiting the L'Ultima Cena, which is what the Milanese call Leonardo's The Last Supper. To see the fresco, one visits the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie, a pleasant enough place. Pleasant enough, indeed, to make up for the grim dinginess of the room, once the convent's dining room, in which the fresco is located.

  I found the famous masterpiece disappointing, for the painting is obscured by the filth of ages, its colors mere shadows in comparison to those of the gaudy Crucifixion on the opposite wall. Fortunately, I was not alone on the excursion. Cecy and I were accompanied by Walker, Reardon, and the ever-present Piers. Although I was a trifle put off by the faint smell of mold that haunted the place, Cecy was fascinated.

  "Only think of it. Leonardo da Vinci worked here, Kate. Perhaps he stood on this very spot. Very likely he must have, in order to step back for a better look at his work."

  I did my best to counterfeit enthusiasm, but the best I could do was, "I am thinking of it, and if the great painter actually stood on this very spot, I hope the mildew was not quite so advanced in his day."

  "Oh, do cheer up, Kate." Cecy gave me one of her Looks. "Leonardo wasn't just a painter. He was a master of spell casting, a wizard of wizards."

  "Then it's a pity he wasn't able to keep the paint from peeling off this wall."

  "He experimented. This was one of his experiments, that's all. Not everything works perfectly straightaway." Cecy's enthusiasm for Leonardo and all his works was interrupted as another visitor joined us in the refectory. Cecy's eyes grew enormous. "Why, Mr. Daventer!"

  The newcomer, a well-dressed, rather solemn youth, made a creditable bow. "Mrs. Tarleton, I'm pleased to meet you again."

  "Lady Schofield, may I present Mr. Theodore Daventer?" Cecy completed the introductions. I was, as usual, mildly astonished by the use of my title, but I think I was able to greet Theodore Daventer without betraying the fact. To my disappointment, and I think to Cecy's as well, Theodore was not accompanied by Mr. Strangle, nor, indeed, by anyone else.

  "Are you a fellow admirer of Leonardo da Vinci?" I asked Theodore. "Cecy was just explaining the nature of his genius."

  Theodore gazed around the room entranced, as if it were lined with gold. "I longed to visit Amboise, where the great man lived out his last days in the service of the French king, but, alas, our travel arrangements did not permit it. This is the first chance I have had to visit any of Leonardo's masterworks, and I simply could not let it go by."

  Cecy's face lit up. "I should think not." The pair of them indulged in a bit of admiring reminiscence concerning Leonardo's virtues, before she inquired, "Is your tutor also an admirer of Leonardo's genius?" She looked around as if Theodore's escort might materialize from thin air.

  Theodore looked uneasy. "I don't have a tutor at the moment. My uncle has dismissed Mr. Strangle from his service. I don't know when he will engage another."

  "Oh, dear." Cecy was sympathy itself. "How distressing that must have been. Did your uncle give a particular reason?"

  "I complained to him of Mr. Strangle's lack of erudition," Theodore confessed, "yet that did not seem to concern my uncle nearly as much as Mr. Strangle's lack of discretion. Mr. Strangle had been discussing my uncle's private affairs with outsiders, so of course he had to be dismissed."

  "I hope you do not blame yourself for that dismissal?" Cecy seemed to read the answer in Theodore's troubled expression. "Mr. Strangle has made his bed many times over, and now he must lie in it. You are not to be held responsible for his faults."

  "His many faults," I echoed.

  "Indeed, I know it." Theodore seemed to struggle inwardly a moment, then added, "I fear I am far happier today, free to view this masterpiece unhindered by Mr. Strangle's observations, than I have been since I arrived on the Continent."

  With her customary social ingenuity, Cecy took the matter in hand. "You are well rid of Mr. Strangle, if I may be excused for saying so. Have you made plans for other excursions while you are here in Milan? I can recommend the museum of antiquities without reserve."

  "What a delight it is to encounter ladies of such erudition," Theodore exclaimed. "I have visited the collection with my uncle and I found it fascinating, but I would hardly have expected you to share my interest."

  "Cecy's father is a notable historian," I said, "so perhaps it runs in the family."

  "May I ask his name?" Theodore was courtesy itself.

  "Arthur Rushton of Rushton Manor," Cecy replied.

  Theodore's eyes widened. "Not the Arthur Rushton whose distinguished paper upon the geographic origin of the first Etruscan tribes appeared in last year's proceedings of the Royal Society of Antiquaries?"

  Cecy seemed taken aback, so I said, "Yes, that sounds very like Uncle Arthur. We had Etruscans for every meal while he was e
xpounding his original theory."

  This was pure slander, and not merely because I did not live under Uncle Arthur's roof and so did not take my meals there. Uncle Arthur loves his subject, but he debates his theories only with those of equal erudition, largely through correspondence, and he is the last man in the world to bore his family with table talk.

  Theodore seemed to find this remark highly amusing. "Very good, Lady Schofield. Nothing would suit the Etruscans better than such convivial surroundings."

  I simply regarded him in mute confusion, but fortunately Cecy was able to take up the conversation again. "Your uncle appreciated the splendid collection as much as you did, I hope?"

  Theodore's regret was clear. "Only to the degree that any gentleman of breeding must admire the beauties of the classical world. My uncle is no scholar, though he appreciates the achievements of others." Despite the firmness of Theodore's words, something in his tone suggested to me that we were hearing Theodore's hopes for his uncle more clearly than his experience of the man. "He does not pretend to an erudition he does not possess."

  "Unlike Mr. Strangle," I murmured.

  Cecy forged onward. "You may be able to enlighten him as your travels continue. If you are here in Milan for some time, you will surely have a chance to discuss the splendors of the city with him at length."

  "My uncle is less concerned with the splendors of the past than with the splendors of the present," said Theodore, with a trace of sadness. "The palaces of Vienna mean far more to him than the splendors of Rome. He has quite a different itinerary in mind from the one I would have liked."

  "Vienna?" Cecy looked puzzled. "There aren't any antiquities there, are there?"

  "Only the Dowager Empress, Mr. Strangle said," Theodore replied.

  "That is precisely the sort of remark I should expect Mr. Strangle to make," said Cecy. "I cannot regret his dismissal. I am sure your uncle's influence will be far more salutary."

  "My uncle shares your views," said Theodore. He gazed upon Cecy with such intensity that I was forcibly reminded of a sheepdog. Or possibly just a sheep.