The Grand Tour Page 3

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  12 August 1817

  Calais

  At Dessein’s Hotel

  I WAS A MODEL OF genteel deportment. I forced myself not to come downstairs until the clock had struck six. The others were in the parlor before me. Thomas and James bantered cheerfully between themselves. Lady Sylvia looked rested and refreshed. Cecy’s customary high spirits had returned, and there was nothing wrong with me but my usual dread of social discomfiture.

  Cecy tucked my hair up at the back, made me turn slowly to inspect my buttonholes and hemline, and pronounced me neat as a pin.

  Thomas chaffed me gently about my skittishness and reviewed the protocol of the situation with me. I was to be the hostess, and, therefore, Mr. Brummell was my honored guest. He would be on my right. Thomas would be at the other end of the table, to be sure, but it was not a very large table, just the six of us. If I did anything dreadful, everyone there was related to me except Mr. Brummell, and he had better manners than all the rest of us put together. Therefore, I had nothing to fear.

  “After all,” Thomas finished, “it’s only dinner. What can go wrong?”

  I felt we all looked rather nice as we went in to dinner. Elegant, but not ostentatious. It seemed terribly odd to take precedence over Lady Sylvia but I braced myself for the ordeal. Mr. Brummell made it plain that he knew Thomas and James, as well as Lady Sylvia, quite well. His table talk was divided evenly among us. The soup course yielded to the fish and I began to relax. Perhaps Thomas had been right all along. Perhaps playing my role in Society would come to me as I went on. Perhaps a bit of practice was truly all I required.

  As the fish course began, I heard a soft creak overhead. I glanced up in time to see a piece of the plaster ceiling the size of a wagon wheel bid farewell to its grip on the laths above and crash down on the table. Soup tureen, candelabra, glasses, and plates alike were cast into chaos.

  “Dear me,” said Mr. Brummell.

  The servants left the room. In the distance, I could hear the innkeeper’s bay of alarm. Close at hand, I could hear soup dripping to the floor, a not-unmusical trickle.

  I put down my spoon and looked around the table. Opposite me, Thomas was as expressionless as I have ever seen him. I worried what his honest response to this catastrophe might be, that such impassivity was needed. Cecy’s eyes were wide with astonishment. Lady Sylvia used her napkin to extinguish a sprig of the floral arrangement where a fallen candle was trying to smolder into flame. I think James was trying not to laugh. With all the aplomb I’d learned telling fibs as a girl, I turned to our guest. “Mr. Brummell, with such fine weather, we thought it might amuse you to take the rest of the meal in the classical fashion, al fresco in the garden. I hope you will accompany me?” My conscience intruded. More honestly, I went on. “It may take some time for the table to be laid—indeed, there may not be a table at all.”

  “But the menu is worth the wait, I promise,” Thomas added. He was still straight-faced, but I could see now what he’d striven so hard to hide from me. Amusement. I would not have thought it possible, but I felt my affection for Thomas increase. He probably thought it would have wounded my feelings had he laughed aloud.

  “Not only that, the open air can sometimes be more private,” said Lady Sylvia with a smile.

  I only wish that everyone I ever told a bouncer to could be as willing to be deceived as Mr. Brummell. He was courtesy itself as he offered me his arm. “Then by all means, Lady Schofield, let us enjoy a fête champêtre. I believe there is to be a particularly fine moon tonight.”

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

  There was a delay while the staff constructed a trestle table in the garden. Once it was covered with the tablecloth, and the chairs were moved outdoors for us, it looked well enough. The fish course was lost, unfortunately, but the rest of the menu made its way forth from the kitchens in good order.

  At the end of the meal, we left the gentlemen to their port, but they did not linger long, and joined us in the private parlor upstairs after a very few minutes. (James explained to me later that Mr. Brummell preferred to limit his indulgence, as port tended to aggravate his gout.)

  As the door closed behind Piers, leaving the six of us entirely to ourselves at last, Mr. Brummell settled into a chair and said, “I notice, Lady Sylvia, that amid your amiable reminiscences over dinner there was no mention of the Royal College of Wizards. Ought I to attach some significance to this omission, or have they merely been even duller than usual these past few months?”

  “You always were a clever one,” Lady Sylvia said. “In fact, I am a little surprised you hadn’t heard already. The expulsion of Sir Hilary Bedrick from the Royal College, barely three months after his investiture, created quite a scandal.”

  Mr. Brummell lowered his eyelids a trifle; his expression bore a strong resemblance to the one the Vicar’s cat used to assume when she was pretending not to be interested in something so as to lure it close enough to pounce on. “Indeed it did,” he replied. “It is, however, a scandal peculiarly devoid of details. Normally, the reasons behind such an abrupt departure are bandied about in the most common fashion imaginable. Nor have I had the pleasure of dining with him recently, though it is usual for persons who are, ah, under a cloud to take refuge on the Continent until some new scandal permits their return to Society. Which, no doubt, accounts for the distressing lack of style exhibited by so many English persons in France—present company, of course, most thoroughly excepted.”

  “I don’t think Sir Hilary will want to dine with you, cloud or not, once he hears you have recently supped with us,” Thomas said.

  “I am much obliged for the warning,” Mr. Brummell said earnestly. “I must certainly see to it that he hears no such thing.”

  I shivered a little, remembering the strange little cloistered garden where James and I had spent a night as Sir Hilary’s prisoners. “You don’t really think he’ll come to France when the Royal College has finished with him, do you?”

  “Finishes with him?” Mr. Brummel’s eyebrows rose. “Do you know, I was under the impression that they had finished with him already. That is normally what expulsion means.”

  “Not in this case,” James said grimly. “And never fear, we do intend to tell you the whole. But it will make more sense if we tell it in order. You remember that chocolate pot of Thomas’s?”

  “The blue one? Quite well; I tried several times to get someone to duplicate the shade for one of my snuffboxes, but I never quite managed it.”

  “Yes,” said Thomas, sounding a trifle put out. “That one. It… inadvertently became the focus for my magic.”

  “Inadvertently?” The Beau looked amused. “My dear Sir!”

  “These things do happen,” Lady Sylvia said, frowning both Thomas and James to silence. She then proceeded to give an admirably succinct summary of the events leading up to Sir Hilary’s expulsion from the Royal College: his conspiracy with Miranda Tanistry Griscomb and their various attempts to enchant Thomas into marrying Miranda’s stepdaughter (which Kate foiled quite neatly) or to drain Thomas’s magic through the stolen chocolate pot (which ended when I deliberately smashed the pot to smithereens); Miranda’s attempt to steal Kate’s youth (which backfired fatally, thanks to Lady Sylvia); and, finally, Sir Hilary’s attempt to murder James and my foolish brother, Oliver, and to drain me until I lost my wits (frustrated by the timely arrival of my Aunt Elizabeth and my magic tutor, Mr. Wrexton).

  “Under the circumstances, the Royal College of Wizards felt that expulsion was not enough,” Lady Sylvia finished. “By no means. No, they wisely decided to strip Sir Hilary of his magical abilities before exiling him from England. The process is somewhat lengthy, which is no doubt why he has not yet passed this way.”

  “Unless he has chosen to go to the Low Countries,” Mr. Brummell said in a thoughtful tone. “I am much obliged for your information.”

  “Then perhaps you will be wil
ling to advise me in return,” Lady Sylvia said, and to my surprise she drew the little alabaster bottle from her reticule and passed it to Mr. Brummell. “This was delivered to me under rather mysterious circumstances this afternoon. What do you make of it?”

  Mr. Brummell’s face went quite expressionless. He fingered the bottle for a moment, then, holding the stopper carefully in place, he turned it over and made a brief examination of the underside. “Ah,” he said in a satisfied tone, and returned it to Lady Sylvia.

  “‘Ah’?” said Thomas. “I could have said that much myself.”

  “You just did,” James told him.

  Mr. Brummell ignored them both and looked at Lady Sylvia. “I believe the rather blurred mark on the base of the flask is the seal of the Archbishops of Notre-Dame in Paris. As you might reasonably be assumed to be traveling to Paris, I suspect you were meant to take the flask there.” He paused, considering. “Under the present circumstances, I am not at all sure that would be wise.”

  “I thought the last Archbishop of Notre-Dame was executed years ago, during the Terror,” Kate said.

  “He was,” Mr. Brummell replied. “Archbishops are, however, replaceable … very careless of the French revolutionaries not to have thought of that when they were going about executing people. Though I am quite sure it was not the new Archbishop who set his seal on your flask.”

  “I see.” Lady Sylvia studied the flask for a moment, then replaced it in her reticule. “And where would it be wise to take this interesting acquisition?”

  “I do not know,” Mr. Brummell said, frowning. “But I can say with certainty that there are at least two other places you ought not to take it.”

  “And those are?”

  “Vienna.” Mr. Brummell paused. “And the island of St. Helena.”

  I stared at Mr. Brummell in considerable astonishment, as did Thomas, James, and Kate. Lady Sylvia was the only one of us to keep her countenance unmoved. The significance of St. Helena was immediately obvious—that was where Napoleon Bonaparte had been sent after his defeat at Waterloo and where he was still imprisoned. Vienna, however…

  Then Kate frowned and said, “But what possible connection is there between a flask of sweet oil and Napoleon Bonaparte or his wife?” and I recalled that Bonaparte’s second wife, Marie Louise, had been an Austrian archduchess, and that she had returned home with their son following his exile.

  “There is, quite probably, no connection at all,” Mr. Brummell replied with unimpaired calm. “In which case, it would be advisable for things to remain that way. I must also caution you to be circumspect in whatever letters you may happen to write. The cabinet noir is as active as ever, and while it is nothing like as sophisticated as it once was, nor as much heeded, it might still cause you a certain… inconvenience.”

  “What is the black cabinet?” Kate demanded.

  “The black chamber is a department of the French government devoted primarily to opening people’s mail,” Thomas replied. “And, of course, reading it once it has been opened.”

  “They have an official department to read people’s private mail?” I said, outraged.

  “Not exactly,” Thomas said. “Reading private mail is, after all, illegal, even in France—at least, the Legislative Assembly declared it so after they deposed Louis XVI. So did the Constituent Assembly a few years later. That’s why the cabinet noir is a secret department, not an official one.”

  “It can’t be all that secret,” Kate said, “or you wouldn’t know so much about it.”

  “That,” said Thomas smugly, “is due to the fact that I am not French.”

  “It is due to the fact that you can’t resist poking your nose into whatever happens along, any more than Cecy can,” James said with some severity.

  I opened my mouth to make a stinging retort, then closed it firmly. One ought not to make a scene in company, and though I confess that such considerations have not always restrained me in the past, I simply could not do so when the company in question was Mr. Brummell.

  Lady Sylvia gave me an approving nod, and turned a quelling frown on James. “I must thank you for the information, Mr. Brummell,” she said when it was clear that James had subsided once more. “I am not fond of inconvenience.”

  “I had suspected it,” Mr. Brummell replied gravely. “Speaking of which, I should mention that your old acquaintance Lord Eking was here with his wife two days ago; you only just managed to miss them.”

  “How fortunate,” Lady Sylvia murmured. “Do you happen to know where they planned to travel next? And who else is likely to be in Paris at present?”

  I was far more interested in learning more about the flask and its contents, and the reason why Mr. Brummell thought it ought not to come near Napoleon Bonaparte or his unfortunate wife, but it was quite clear that neither he nor Lady Sylvia intended to discuss the matter further. They passed quickly from discussion of acquaintances who might be in Paris to reminiscing about those they had known in the past. At length, Mr. Brummell rose to take his leave. As he made his adieux, he murmured something in a low voice to Thomas, and then departed. Thomas looked after him with a very curious expression on his face.

  “What was that about?” James asked at last.

  Thomas turned, looking thoughtful. “More advice.”

  “And shall you take it?” Kate asked in the tone that means she does not consider the answer adequate but prefers not to make a fuss about it just at present.

  “Very possibly.” Thomas hesitated, then sighed. “He advised me to create a new focus as soon as may be.”

  “Quite a good suggestion, I think,” Lady Sylvia said.

  James eyed the door pensively. “A good suggestion, perhaps—but not exactly a reassuring one,” he said, and on that note, the evening ended.

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  12 August 1817

  Calais

  At Dessein’s Hotel

  N.B. Consult with Lady S. about engaging a suitable maid. I have never done such a thing in English. Doing so in French much worse.

  N.B. Mend hem in second-best petticoat.

  THOMAS HAD A WORD with the innkeeper after our dinner guest had departed. He made it abundantly clear why we would be leaving the next day, reasons that owed nothing to the fact that Lady Sylvia had arranged rooms for us in Amiens.

  Piers was not to be found when we retired to our chamber. Thomas had a few more words to say. He finished off with, “Can’t think where the fellow gets to.”

  “Never mind.” With much tugging on my part, and a little more swearing on Thomas’s part, I helped Thomas out of his coat, which was all we wanted Piers for, anyway. “He does know we’re leaving tomorrow, doesn’t he?”

  Thomas plucked at the knot under his chin until the starched linen came loose. “With plaster in the soup, I should hope he knows we’re leaving.”

  I couldn’t help saying, “Plaster in the fish.”

  “You’re not going to take up contradiction as a hobby, are you?” Thomas finished unwinding his neckcloth and draped it over a chair for Piers to deal with.

  I felt dismayed. “Oh, dear. Do you think I’m taking after Aunt Charlotte?”

  Thomas put his arms around me. “Don’t look so stricken. I didn’t mean it. After all, you were right. It was in the fish.”

  “It was everywhere.” I let my cheek rest against his shoulder. “What must he have thought?”

  “Oh, hang Brummell. It’s over and done with now. I was proud of you.”

  “You were? Truly?”

  “Truly. Never saw a woman to match you for sangfroid.” Thomas gave me a little shake.

  “Oh. Thank you, Thomas.” I hid my smile. Flowery, Thomas’s sentiments were not, but no one could doubt his sincerity. “Are you going to give some thought to Mr. Brummell’s advice on creating a new focus?”

  “Of course. He’s right. I need to take care of that. Think of something for me, will you? Something crafty and brilliant?”

/>   “Not a chocolate pot?”

  “Not a chocolate pot,” Thomas agreed wholeheartedly. “Never quite left off feeling silly about making a pig’s ear of it that time. This time it’s going to be something clever.”

  “That’s good. What will it be this time?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m leaving it to you. I want it to be perfect.”

  “Oh, Thomas—”

  “What?”

  Any words I could muster seemed foolishly small in comparison to my feelings. There I was, with my own true love, who trusted me as I trusted him, and we were in each other’s arms, and the rest of the world was far away. “Nothing.”

  Thomas seemed to understand me despite my tongue-tied muttering. “Never mind. I haven’t finished telling you how much I admire your sangfroid.”

  We were both sleeping soundly when the alarm was given in the small hours of the night.

  “Thief!” Lady Sylvia’s voice was unmistakable. “Stop, thief!”

  Lady Sylvia must have issued a more magical command as well, for someone uttered a wild cry of surprise and dismay that made the little hairs on the nape of my neck bristle. Glass broke. Then came silence, followed by the inevitable sounds of a household rousing in the dead of night.

  I followed Thomas out of our room in all haste.

  “What is it? Is it a fire?” The innkeeper emerged from his quarters in slippers and nightshirt. No one knew what was happening, so no one attempted to answer him.

  I tried to see over Thomas’s shoulder as we peered into Lady Sylvia’s bedchamber.

  “Mother!” Thomas was alarmed. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, dear. Quite all right. I’m afraid he escaped, drat the man.” Someone had managed to light a lamp, and the shadows danced in Lady Sylvia’s room. She was sitting up in her bed, looking displeased with herself.

  “Who was it?” Cecy demanded, her curiosity unquenchable as ever. She and James were behind us. Cecy was as bundled up in her dressing gown as I was in mine. James wore a garment similar in style to Thomas’s dressing gown, vivid scarlet picked out with black and gold embroidery. Neither of them seemed to have been asleep at all.