02 The Grand Tour Page 20

  Later, I asked Reardon if she ever missed toasted cheese. "I don't care if I never see another bit of it," she told me. "I think some people are lucky to be so fond of a place they are going back to. But it's not lucky if they let that blind them to the place they find themselves. I have never had better food than these past few months, and I am never likely to again. I'd hate to miss a morsel."

  As she put me in my place, she put my hair into its place.

  So I came away from that exchange improved in two ways.

  "How do armies do it?" I asked Thomas last night, and he laughed at me.

  "Fear helps. Not of the enemy. Of the officers in command." All very well for him to joke. We left Milan five days and many miles ago. Thomas and James have spared no exertion, still less expense, to reach our destination in time to catch up with Lord Mountjoy and Theodore Daventer. We have made remarkably good time, given the inclement weather. I thought the word rain inadequate for the weather we had in Milan. The combination of rain and wind we have encountered since our departure has been worse.

  I would not call our journey uncomfortable. After all, we are not riding mules. What slight hardships there are, we have grown accustomed to. James and Thomas manage the logistics of coaches and innkeepers, Reardon manages the luggage, Cecy follows our progress on the map, and I try not to lose any more gloves than I already have. Our chief enemy is boredom. Mile upon mile, change upon change. The road is not bad, but it is not good enough to permit a passenger to read or nap.

  Piers has shown himself to be surprisingly adroit at questioning the staff at each place we stop. Thanks to his efforts, we had a good description of the carriages ahead of us on the Venice road. One equipage in particular riveted our attention.

  Piers made his latest report before dinner tonight. "The stable boys here told me there is a carriage answering the description of Lord Mountjoy's not six hours ahead of us. The only passenger in the coach is a lady."

  James looked at Thomas. Thomas just looked surprised.

  "Not Lord Mountjoy, then," James said.

  Piers said, "No, Sir. The lady—I should say woman, rather—fits the description of Eve-Marie."

  "How gratifying," said Thomas. "Did they happen to hear the fair traveler mention a destination?"

  "They heard only her demands for haste. Haste is her only consideration. The fastest horses at every change, no matter the expense. Also there is one trunk in particular that she is concerned with. Whatever it contains, it must be very important. She doesn't let it out of her sight."

  "What does it look like?" asked Cecy.

  "A trunk. An ordinary trunk. But she does not treat it as if it were at all ordinary. She treats it as if it contains something precious. Something delicate, even."

  I looked from Piers to Thomas, to James, to Cecy, and I could feel the expression on my face was a match for theirs. Sheer curiosity. Wild speculation.

  "Six hours ahead of us, and we've been here two hours," said James thoughtfully. "She could be in Venice by now."

  "Or she could be on the road beyond, headed for Vienna," countered Thomas.

  "Or she could be taking ship from Venice to somewhere else," said Cecy. "How provoking, if she takes to the water. She will give us the slip entirely."

  "How will we find out which it is?" I asked. "And how will we find out where Lord Mountjoy and Theodore go if we are haring off after Eve-Marie?"

  "Eve-Marie was the only passenger in the coach all along, wasn't she?" James said. "They've given us the slip."

  Piers grimaced. "Sorry. It was foolish of me to assume that Lord Mountjoy's coach necessarily contained Lord Mountjoy."

  "It can't be helped. You've done well," said Thomas to Piers. "Get something to eat and what rest you can. We'll be in Venice tomorrow. We can't make any final decisions until then, so there's no point in tormenting ourselves over it."

  Dinner was welcome and bed afterward even more so. Traveling in haste is as uncomfortable as sitting a trot. One bounces along until one's teeth rattle, with no confidence that the discomfort will ever end. Inefficient and unpleasant, that's the disadvantage of foreign travel. Damp beds, bad food, and not enough hot water.

  No mules, though.

  23 October 1817

  Venice

  Palazzo Flangini

  We arrived in Venice the day before yesterday, muddy and exhausted. If we looked like something the cat dragged in, it must have been a very undiscriminating cat, indeed. My bonnet was destroyed with the wet, the hem of my gown stiff with mud. I looked as if I had walked from Milan at the tail of a cart. I almost felt as if I had. My weariness had one benefit. I did not care how I looked or who I met. I could have been presented to Bonaparte himself and not turned a hair.

  So tired was I—and so travel-soiled—that I did not care in the least how I clambered in and out of the gondola that bore us to our lodging. What harm would a ducking do me, in the event I did fall into the canal? It might help with the mud stains on my clothing.

  As sometimes happens, indifference cured my usual clumsiness. I was almost nimble.

  When we reached our lodging, I did not even bother to remark at the splendor of this place. Magnificent is not too strong a word. But I did not have the spirit to notice. The very floor seemed to rise and fall beneath my feet, I was so weary. Reardon brought me hot water and helped me out of my ruined clothes, I remember that. There was a meal on a tray, Reardon's doing again, I'm sure. A bite or two was all I could manage. Then I was in bed and asleep.

  I woke in the small hours yesterday morning when Thomas joined me. He was chilled to the bone. By the time I'd done something about that, I was wide awake. Unfortunately, Thomas was too tired to do more than mutter a few answers to my questions.

  Yes, Eve-Marie has been seen at a hostelry on the edge of the city, and has apparently arranged to stay for more than a mere change of horses.

  No, Thomas doesn't know how long we are going to stay in Venice ourselves, but he had no intention of moving so much as a single muscle for the next twelve hours.

  Yes, Thomas will see to it that we attend the opera at La Fenice at the earliest opportunity. But not for twelve hours or so.

  I remembered Thomas's remark that last evening in Milan. "Scandalous memoirs," I said in his ear.

  Thomas made a soft noise comprised of sleepiness and interest and murmured, "What about 'em?"

  "Is that what you think I'm writing in my commonplace book?"

  "Isn't it?" Thomas sounded hurt. "Lord knows I've given you enough material."

  "There can be nothing scandalous between husband and wife," I reminded him.

  "Not if they have a little good sense and are lucky enough to be married to each other, no," Thomas conceded. "All the same, you've been writing a devil of a lot. You'll be out of pages soon."

  I had concerns of my own about that. "I suppose I should try to confine myself to the essentials."

  Thomas snorted. "Nonsense. It won't be the essentials we'll be interested in fifty years from now. It will be the details that seem unimportant, the things we will have forgotten. That dish of mussels I ate. The way I tie my neckcloth. This conversation. Blaze away, my tea cake. I'll buy you another book tomorrow."

  I had to ask. "Do you really think everything I write down is about you?"

  Thomas said, "Well, this next bit had better be. I insist."

  It is very bad for Thomas's character when he gets his own way all the time. That's why I'm going to omit the next bit. If he has forgotten it in fifty years or so, too bad for him. I won't have.

  It was not twelve hours later when I awoke, but Thomas was gone just the same. Reardon brought me another tray. I consumed the contents with enthusiasm, pulled up the coverlet, and fell asleep again. Somehow, the entire day slipped away from me. It was not until this morning that I had a chance to explore our splendid new accommodations.

  Thomas does nothing by halves. We have hired an entire palazzo on the Grand Canal. The terms seem ruinous to me, bu
t perhaps we will not be here very long.

  For, indeed, Thomas has hardly let me unpack, so certain is he that we will be off on our travels again at a moment's notice. He and James have worked with Piers to arrange a watch upon Eve-Marie's hostelry. When she departs—or, at least, when Mountjoy's carriage departs—we will know of it almost immediately.

  Because Thomas isn't often wrong, and because he was kind enough to bring me a new bound book for when I fill the last pages of this one, I set down here a recipe for the dish of mussels he likes so much.

  Zuppa di cozze:

  Scrub a good supply of mussels and discard any that do not open when they should.

  Heat some oil and add garlic. Just before it has cooked too long, put in some parsley and stir.

  Squeeze in the juice of half a lemon; add a small glass of white wine, a small glass of water, and the broth made when you heated the mussels to see if they were good. You should have strained that broth before you added it.

  Put in the mussels. Cook until done. Serve piping hot in a well-warmed tureen.

  N.B. Where is my left best glove? It is not possible that I lost it. I packed them both with the greatest of care. I remember distinctly. I was thinking how lovely it will be to wear them when we go to the opera again.

  25 October 1817

  Venice

  Palazzo Flangini

  The inevitable has happened. I have fallen in the canal. Fortunately, we were not in any great haste. I was able to return here to repair my appearance without discommoding anyone else. Now that it has happened (I felt sure it would ever since the first time Thomas mentioned the possibility), I can stop worrying about it. It was extremely nasty, and I wouldn't like to go through it again, but I seem not to have sustained any ill effects.

  It happened, as so many of my mishaps do, in the pursuit of pleasure. Thomas and James were off to the embassy to see if we had received any mail, so Cecy and I were left to our own devices. Everyone tells us that the fortunes of Venice are in eclipse, that the ruin of the Republic, the ill will of Bonaparte, and the machinations of Prince Metternich have made the city a mere chattel of Austria forever-more. I am sure the people we speak with know precisely what they are saying. All the same, if this is La Serenissima in eclipse, I can only marvel at what the city must have been in her glory. What wonders must have been taken for granted, to make this place a mere shell, a shroud for the ruined beauty that remains.

  Rushton may be flat, but flat has its advantages. I grew up under a marvelous sky. London was wonderful, but sometimes I missed the sky of Rushton. Venice is, in its way, a city as wonderful as London yet possessed of a sky to rival Rushton.

  Its many little flights of steps deceive one into forgetting that Venice is built on the flat. Yet it is, and it is accordingly possessed of its own marvelous sky—pearly, at times opalescent.

  How glorious is Man, that his works can result, in a mere thousand years, in this remarkable mix of stone and water, where jewels are as common as glass and the glass itself resembles jewels.

  It was glass that caused my downfall, the quest for Venetian glass. Cecy and I were bent on a shopping expedition. Cecy had a list. There are times when her resemblance to her father is startling. Cecy with a list can be utterly relentless.

  Cecy's list took us (and our maids, of course) into many, many shops. In and out of the gondola, in and out. Custom made me careless. For once I did not slip, nor trip. I simply stepped where I thought the gondola was. And it wasn't. I went down feetfirst into the filthy water of the canal.

  My skirts buoyed me up long enough for me to catch at the gondola's side. In temperature, the water of the canal was not much different from the pond at Rushton. Very different, alas, in smell.

  Cecy, as usual, was aplomb itself. She and the gondolier hauled me in before I could do more than utter a stifled shriek.

  Reardon helped me wring out my skirts, assuring me all the while that someday I may be able to wear that gown again.

  We went directly back to our palazzo. Reardon may or may not be right about salvaging the gown. Meanwhile, I have bathed and changed. As soon as my hair is dry enough to be presentable, I will leave off this entry and go see what Cecy is doing.

  Later

  For once my clumsiness may have been a good thing. While I was whiling away the time it took to dry off by writing in my commonplace book, Cecy was left to her own devices in the palazzo. I suspect her of planning something in connection with the construction of her focus. No matter her reasons, she had just emerged from one of the disused rooms at the back of the house when she surprised an unfamiliar figure in the corridor. Not unreasonably, she improvised a weapon, I believe a pair of fireplace tongs, before she asked the intruder his business.

  The intruder said, "What are you doing back so soon?" in Thomas's most curmudgeonly tones.

  When Cecy described the scene to me, she sounded almost awed. "I knew it was Thomas. Even if he hadn't spoken, I would have known. He didn't look the least like himself, but I could tell it was him. I think I am making progress with my studies."

  At the time, she looked Thomas square in the eye and told him I had fallen into the canal.

  "Why didn't you say so?" said Thomas, most unreasonably, and came to me at once, plucking his false beard as he went.

  Cecy, always considerate of the servants, returned the fireplace tongs to their rightful spot before she followed. This was perfect, as it gave me a moment to assure Thomas of my safety before she joined us.

  When he was sure I was unharmed, Thomas indulged in a bit of scolding. "I've seen you fall in the duck pond at St. James's Park. I've done all mortal man can do to keep you from falling in the English Channel. I bring you all the way to Venice and this is how you thank me? You fall into a canal behind my back? Kate, you are a monster of inconsideration."

  "Yes, I know." I continued to towel my hair dry. "It won't happen again."

  "See that it doesn't." Thomas went to his room to remove the last traces of his disguise.

  Cecy told me all about her encounter with Thomas while I toasted myself dry beside the fire.

  When he rejoined us, Thomas was properly dressed. Cecy started in with questions. Thomas ignored her while he selected the plumpest cushion. He dropped it at my feet and sat on it so that he could lean against my chair as he basked at the fireside. After a few moments he tilted his head back to look up at me pleadingly. "Make her stop, Kate."

  It is a wife's duty to be honest to her husband. "I can't, dear. No one can. Unless James is back from the embassy?"

  "Not yet, worse luck," said Thomas.

  "Just tell us about it in your own time. That way, Cecy won't need to ask any more questions. Will you, Cecy?" I gave Cecy a pointed look.

  Cecy's eyes widened. "Of course not."

  "Of course not. Oh, very well." Thomas sighed. But once he'd given in, he gave us a full account. This is what Thomas told us:

  "Eve-Marie shows no signs of leaving Venice. On the contrary, she has kept regular hours since her arrival. Each day she leaves her lodging at midmorning and returns at midafternoon. She doesn't always go to the same place, but she is always gone at the same time."

  "She gives the servants a chance to turn out her room," Cecy ventured.

  Thomas quelled her with a look, or tried.

  "That wasn't a question," Cecy countered, undaunted.

  "She goes out for luncheon," I said. "What then?"

  "Then nothing. But today I made it my business to be among the visitors to the hostelry between the time Eve-Marie left her chamber and the time she returned."

  "You disguised yourself and went there by yourself to spy on Eve-Marie." Cecy was careful to keep her words a declarative sentence, but the accusation in her words was plain. "Without telling anyone."

  "James knew. He insisted Piers accompany me. We debated telling you, and before you start, James wanted to tell you. I overruled him."

  Cecy didn't have to speak. Her expression made her low o
pinion of this high-handedness all too clear.

  "If we hadn't come home early and surprised you, would you have mentioned any of this?" I asked.

  Something in my tone made Thomas turn hastily and take my hands in his. "Of course I would. As soon as James is back, we must have a full council of war. I'm not sure of the significance of what I learned and I don't know what to do next."

  "What happened?" Cecy asked. "What did you learn?"

  Thomas kissed my hand and let it go. "I left Piers outside and went in the servants' entrance. I took the precaution of casting a spell to make myself difficult to see."

  "An invisibility spell?" Cecy looked intrigued.

  Thomas answered Cecy as one enthusiast to another. "Not exactly. I've never encountered an invisibility spell that didn't carry the unfortunate side effect of temporary blindness."

  "Oh, that sounds most unpleasant," Cecy said.

  "It is, so don't let yourself be taken in by any promises of easy invisibility," Thomas cautioned. "I arranged matters so that I was difficult to look at directly. Someone might see me out of the corner of his eye, but he would look away and take no notice. It's less showy but easier to sustain."

  "I'll remember," said Cecy.

  "I'm sure you will. Remember to tread lightly, for anyone can hear you coming, even if they'd prefer not to see you." Thomas abandoned the magic lesson to return to his story. "I found my way to Eve-Marie's room by trial and error. I think you must be right about the housekeeping, Cecy, for that is certainly what was going on when I found it. When the room was finished and the servants had moved on, I went through Eve-Marie's things."

  "The trunk!" Cecy and I said in unison.

  "You searched the trunk?" I asked Thomas. "What did you find?"

  Thomas had turned back to look up at me, eyes bright with mischief. "Nothing."

  Before we could begin to pepper Thomas with our questions, James came into the room carrying a substantial parcel of mail.