02 The Grand Tour Read online

  "It would be more pleasant if it were not always in such a hurry," the Contessa confided, making a little face. "I think my husband is trying to make up for lost time. He was so busy, when Bonaparte was in France, and he did not have time for antiquities then. Now, it is all different."

  "Was he in the army?" I asked.

  "No, no," the Contessa said, shaking her head. "He would never have fought against Napoleon. Never! No, he was trying to prevent the Austrians from coming. It is a pity he did not succeed."

  "Forgive me, Madame, if I have misunderstood," I said. "But are you saying that your husband worked for Napoleon Bonaparte?"

  "Ah, you are English," the Contessa said with considerable vigor. "You do not understand how it was. Italy was in many little pieces before Bonaparte—as it is once again now that he is gone. The Emperor was a... a believer in unity. He was good for Italia."

  I was unsure how best to respond without provoking an argument, especially when it seemed to me that very few of the other Italians we had met agreed with this position, but Kate nodded sympathetically. "If your husband was unable to pursue his interest in the Etruscans while Napoleon was in power, it was even more generous of him to donate his collection to the city," she said.

  "He is very proud of his home," the Contessa said. "And... I think he hopes for some new and more dramatic finds soon. It is not so hard to let go of things of lesser value when one has the prospect of gaining those of greater worth."

  "More dramatic?" I said. "That would be quite an achievement. Kate and I visited the collection a few days ago, and I found it very impressive. Though I suppose if he does find Etruscan ruins in Vienna..."

  "He does not discuss it with me, you understand," the Contessa said earnestly. "But it is as you say: 'One cannot help but pick up a few things.' And I believe he has just such hopes. I beg you will not discuss it. It would be so embarrassing for him if he is wrong."

  "You may rely on our discretion," I said.

  "I believe it," the Contessa said. "But let us talk of something else. How long are you in Milan?"

  "Thomas speaks of leaving soon," Kate said. "I don't believe he has decided where we will go next."

  "You are leaving? You have hardly arrived!"

  "The Marquis was most concerned about the recent news," I said. "You must have heard—an Englishman found dead in a fountain! My husband was nearly as worried; he talked of returning to England at once."

  "I had heard of this; indeed, it would be difficult not to," the Contessa said. "The city is full of talk of it. But surely your husbands do not think it is common for Englishmen to drown themselves in our fountains! If it were an ordinary thing, it would not be so much talked of, you see."

  "That seems a most sensible way of looking at it," Kate said, cocking her head as if she were much struck by the Contessa's words. "I must remember to mention it to Thomas."

  "Besides, the Englishman who was found was a... a most unpleasant person." The Contessa ducked her head. "I should not say it, perhaps. But he... he spoke with me once, at a garden party, and I found him most distasteful."

  "I'm not surprised," I muttered.

  "Pardon?" the Contessa said.

  "You actually talked with this person?" Kate put in. "What did he say?"

  "Nothing that I wish to repeat," the Contessa replied, looking down. "He assumed— He was far too hasty, even if—"

  "I understand," Kate said sympathetically. "I met him once, some time ago, in England."

  "Then surely you can prevail upon your husband to remain in Milan!" the Contessa said. "It would be a shame for you to go so soon, when we have only just met."

  "I thought you and your husband would be leaving for Vienna soon," I said.

  The Contessa looked up, plainly startled. "Yes, I— It is not yet certain."

  "Well, we have not determined to leave yet, either," Kate said. "And if we do, perhaps we could arrange to meet in Vienna."

  The Contessa brightened. "I had not thought of that! Yes, that would be very pleasant."

  She and Kate discussed the matter from several angles, and then returned to talk of opera until the tea went quite cold. At last the Contessa departed, with much cordiality on every side. Her carriage had hardly rolled away from the door when James and Thomas pounced on us.

  "Well?" Thomas demanded. "What did he say?"

  "Who?" Kate asked, widening her eyes innocently.

  "You know perfectly well who," Thomas said. "Strangle."

  "Nothing to the purpose," I said. "Only what we might have expected him to say to a pretty woman."

  James frowned at the windows, in the direction the Contessa's carriage had taken. "That's a little odd. She doesn't seem like Strangle's usual fare. Too petite, and shy into the bargain."

  "And if Strangle was in league with the Conte to steal all those royal antiquities, it would be the outside of enough for him to try to seduce the Conte's wife," I said.

  Everyone turned to look at me. "Oh!" said Kate. "I hadn't thought of that, but you're right."

  "Why?" Thomas said. "What other important information have you neglected to mention that leads the pair of you to this rather startling conclusion?"

  "The rest of the Contessa's remarks," I said, and summarized it quickly for them.

  "So the Conte's a Bonapartist," Thomas said thoughtfully when I finished.

  "I think the travel itinerary is more indicative," James replied. "Especially if he's using Etruscans as an excuse. Only a complete cloth-head would look for Etruscans in Spain."

  "But what ought we to do?" Kate said. "Shouldn't we stop him somehow?"

  This time, everyone looked at her. She frowned at us. "Well, Mr. Brummell said, that very first night, that Vienna was the last place that Lady Sylvia ought to take the chrism. And if the Conte has it, and he is going to Vienna next—"

  "We shall have to do something about him," I finished.

  "Venice," Thomas said.

  "Yes, that might do," James replied. "And if we set it about that we're taking ship for Greece next—"

  "A ship?" I said. "You cannot mean to take a ship from Venice to Greece. I refuse. I'm not setting foot on a boat again until I've made a focus and had it long enough to be positive I won't be afflicted with that seasickness again."

  "I don't think they mean for us actually to go to Greece," Kate said. "Only to say that we are, so that the Conte doesn't worry that we're following him."

  "Oh," I said. "Of course."

  James and Thomas left to begin making arrangements. Kate stayed where she was, frowning slightly. "Cecy, are you planning on creating a focus soon?"

  "I've been planning on creating a focus for some time now," I said a little crossly, for I was beginning to think I would never have the opportunity.

  "Oh." Kate squeezed her eyebrows together, the way she does when she is worried about something but is not quite sure how to put it for fear of annoying someone else.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "It just seems a little... Aren't there an awful lot of things that could go wrong? Even without Lord Mountjoy and the Conte and whatever they're up to."

  "You're thinking of Thomas's first try," I said. "But I won't be in a hurry, and I won't have Sir Hilary interfering. Everything went well for him this time, didn't it?"

  Kate reddened and looked confused. "I, um—"

  "It must have gone well, or Lady Sylvia would have noticed and made him mend matters before we left Paris," I said. "It's not really a complicated spell, after all; it hardly takes more ingredients than those charm-bags I made for you and Oliver last spring."

  "Then those charm-bags were far more complicated than they looked," Kate said severely. "I, um, saw Thomas set things up this time."

  "Well, it's not much more complicated," I said. "And I've had James coaching me on the Latin, and reams of advice from Lady Sylvia."

  Kate had been about to say something, but she stopped short. "That's right," she said reluctantly after a minute. "Lady
Sylvia did say that you ought to create a focus soon. I remember."

  "The difficult part is deciding what it should be," I said. "Not something that's easy to lose or mislay, but not something that's difficult to keep nearby; not something too fragile, but probably not something too permanent, either—"

  "Not permanent?" Kate looked alarmed. "Why not?"

  "If the focus is something hard to destroy, then it is more difficult to change it to something else if one decides to do so," I explained. "If I were to, oh, use an emerald brooch as a focus, and then later discovered that it was inconvenient, it would take some complicated magic to transfer the focus to something else. But if I used something fragile, like one of those little glass ornaments we saw at the market yesterday, all I would have to do would be to smash it and start over with something else. Only, if one uses something too fragile, then one is very likely to drop it or sit on it or destroy it accidentally in some other way. Which would almost certainly happen at precisely the wrong moment. Things like that always do."

  "Not always," Kate said. "It didn't with Thomas's chocolate pot."

  "Well, it wasn't an accident that I smashed it," I said, "but you have to admit, it definitely broke at the wrong moment from Sir Hilary's point of view."

  "Yes," Kate said. "Oh, Cecy, I know it is very wrong of me, especially with Thomas and James so worried about it, but try as I may, I cannot be sorry that Sir Hilary is dead."

  "If he were alive, Thomas and James would be even more worried," I pointed out. "And they would probably have whisked us both back to England as soon as they realized."

  "I expect so," Kate said, but she still looked unhappy.

  "What is the matter with you today?" I said. "Except for when you and the Contessa were talking about opera, you've been cross as crabs all day—ever since Piers brought in the post. Were you expecting something?"

  "No, but there was a letter from Aunt Charlotte," Kate admitted. "She wrote a good deal about my responsibilities and—"

  "Stuff!" I interrupted. "The only one who has anything to say about your responsibilities now is Thomas. Go and talk to him about it."

  Kate brightened up at once and went in search of her husband. I do not know how it is that Aunt Charlotte so often has such a dreadful effect on Kate's spirits, but it has been so for as long as I can remember. Fortunately, Thomas has proved a most effective antidote. I rang for Walker and told her that she and Reardon had best begin packing, and sat down to give a few minutes more thought to the question of my focus, magic in general, and what the Conte and Lord Mountjoy could possibly be up to.

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  14 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Today I answered Aunt Charlotte's letter. I wrote in a kind and diplomatic style for which I think I deserve any amount of congratulation and reward. She and Georgy are back at home, ready for a few months of peace and quiet. In Georgy's most recent letter, while mourning the utter flatness of Rushton, she alluded to an arrears in her allowance. I take this (together with a remark of Aunt Charlotte's) to mean that Georgy's gambling debts have been settled and she is paying Aunt Charlotte back out of her pin money. The matter will be straightened out eventually, but I'm sure Aunt Charlotte won't be paid in full until sometime in the next century.

  Meanwhile, the only punishment that really means anything to Georgy is that Oliver has made it clear he is no longer enamored of her. Under that foppish streak of his, it seems there dwells a genuine prig. He has given Georgy to understand that, hardened gamester as she is, he cannot possibly return her affections. This enraged Georgy, as she has spent a good deal of time displaying her indifference to Oliver and demonstrating her social success. In her view, she had withdrawn her affections first. I think it is true, yet Oliver, quite typically, failed to notice.

  The best thing to come out of the gaming imbroglio is that Georgy and Oliver have at last lost interest in seeing themselves as Romeo and Juliet. It was long past time for that bit of silliness to come to an end. Aunt Charlotte feels precisely as I do on this point. This should make me feel better. In fact, it fills me with chagrin.

  Thomas says Georgy is sure to make a grand match next Season. To tease me, he lists the prospects, each of higher station than the last. I know Georgy too well to think she would choose a suitor for his title and fortune alone. At least, I hope I know her too well to think that. But Thomas says—

  Venice

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  20 October 1817

  Padua

  At the Sign of the Dovecote

  This is the first opportunity I've had in days to sit down and write properly. Now I can't remember what I was going to say. Something about Thomas and his absurd list of dukes, eligible and ineligible. Piers came in just then. Thomas and I were alone in the private parlor. Thomas was mending the fire and I was at the writing desk with this commonplace book. Piers murmured something to Thomas, and Thomas put the poker back among the fireplace tools with such force that the rack fell over.

  To Piers, Thomas said, "Find Mr. and Mrs. Tarleton and let them know." Piers took himself off at once. To me, Thomas said, "Lord Mountjoy's staff is under orders to prepare his carriage to depart at dawn."

  "Lord Mountjoy is leaving Milan?" I hesitated. "Will he take Theodore with him?"

  "I don't see why not. No matter who goes with it, his carriage is leaving." Thomas looked pleased with himself as he added, "Piers said the staff were told to prepare for the road to Venice."

  I was surprised. "Venice—not Vienna?"

  "It's on the way, isn't it?" Thomas capped my inkwell for me. "No time for your scandalous memoirs now, my ink-stained darling. If Mountjoy leaves Milan, we leave Milan, too."

  I let the remark about scandalous memoirs go for the moment as I regarded Thomas narrowly. "At dawn, no doubt."

  "No doubt whatsoever." Sometimes Thomas's good cheer is very nearly too much to bear. "For Venice, no doubt?"

  "Unless we change our minds," said Thomas. "You know how unpredictable we can be, careering about the countryside on our wedding journey."

  "I do. There's always the chance we may need to break our journey and indulge in a ritual of some kind."

  "I understand that's all the rage this season," Thomas assured me. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if Mountjoy stopped for a ritual or two himself."

  "I'll have a look at Uncle Arthur's list, shall I?" I suggested.

  "Excellent notion," said Thomas. "But first tell Reardon to pack."

  I blush to confess it, but at first I found foreign travel exciting. Every detail fascinated me. I have grown weary of fascinating details. My feet are cold. I am tired of foreign food and foreign languages. To see a famous antiquity, be it renowned throughout the world, I would not trouble myself to do any more than rise from my chair, cross the room, and look out of a window.

  I am not homesick. I do not long for the family I left behind. I'm just tired of traveling. I am heartily sick of Padua and I haven't been here above six hours.

  The hour before dinner I spent knitting a letter to Lady Sylvia beside the parlor fire, listening to the industry of others. Even when we travel with maximum haste, our party requires attention. The brunt of the work is done by our servants. Despite that, the innkeepers invariably shout at their own unfortunate servants. I use the word shout to be polite. Shriek is more accurate. I take some comfort in my own ignorance. At least here the shrieking is incomprehensible to me. All foreign hostelries run according to the same scheme. Shrieking is indispensable, as is some kitchen mishap to spoil the meal we have ordered. Many doors must be slammed, before and after one shrieks. At all costs, one must mend the fire just as it is starting to do nicely. With luck, entire private parlors can be rendered uninhabitable by smoke, only by a deft application of green wood. These are not the only incidents to provoke the shrieking. There are others, some of which seem to originate from no
thing but the pure desire to shriek. I think I begin to understand the impulse.

  James joined me in the parlor before dinner. He knows how to make a fire behave itself, thank goodness. He used the fire tools to good effect and drew up a chair beside mine. "Tired?" was all he said.

  I must have looked pretty bad for James to remark upon it. I admitted to some fatigue and asked after the plans for our journey to Venice.

  "We're making an early start. Provided Thomas encounters no difficulty with his plan, that is."

  "Thomas seems full of confidence." I thought better of the words the moment I'd uttered them. "Of course, he always does."

  James looked amused. "He does. You must be accustomed to it, since Cecy always does, too."

  Some of my traveler's sulk lifted as I remembered the occasion upon which Cecy persuaded the Reverend Fitzwilliam to venture out upon the dance floor with her, because she wanted to see him make good his boast of grace and agility in dancing the allemande. As thoughts of dancing often do, this made me think of Thomas. Dancing with Thomas is one of the finest pleasures in life. "There's much to be said for confidence, in the right place, at the right time," I said to James. I am sure I sounded stuffy, but he did not seem to notice.

  "Our meal will be ready in a moment," James said. "I'll bring Cecy if you will go and pry Thomas away from his mad schemes."

  "Our meal." I sighed. "If only it were going to be a proper meal. Even a bit of toasted cheese would make a nice change."

  "You are tired," said James. "The sooner you get a good meal inside you, the brighter things will seem."

  James went off to find Cecy. I went off to fetch Thomas. I am sure Cecy is very happy with James, and he with her, but I don't know what I would do if I were married to someone who reminds me that eating a hearty meal will improve my spirits.

  If I had said the same thing to Thomas, he would have agreed with me. What's more, he would have offered to try his hand at making me toasted cheese over the parlor fire, too. There would have been more ordering of servants, more slamming of doors, and, in all likelihood, more shrieking. But it would have been worth it.