Inside, stacks and stacks of papers were tied with brightly colored ribbons. Some seemed to be letters, others official documents or notices from the government. She gently picked up a small packet tied with a strand of lavender silk. Turning it over in her hands, she looked for clues as to what the contents may be. On the back of the packet she saw her father’s name printed in a beautiful script, obviously a woman’s. She pulled apart the layers to peek inside without having to open the bundle. She saw the opening line of what appeared to be a personal letter.
My Dearest Jean,
“A love letter?” Marguerite whispered. “Who would write my father a love letter?”
A terrifying thought occurred to her then. Was Pomphart’s plan to leave her trapped in this forgotten place? To die along with the rest of these memories? If no one could hear her then no one would find her. Pomphart could tell her father she had run away and no one would think anything of it, knowing how unhappy she was with the plans to move to Lyon. She looked desolately at the stacks of trunks. She pictured her skeleton being discovered decades from now and people weeping—“If only we’d known Pomphart was evil!” Maybe Captain Moreau would come looking for her when she didn’t board the ship in the morning. That would be an excellent drama. The ship … how desperately she wanted to be on that ship now!
Suddenly the door at the top of the stairs flew open and a bot plunged into the stairway. “M’lady Marguerite?” It was Outil’s soft metallic voice.
“Outil! You scared me half to death!” Marguerite plunged the letters into her pocket, they only just fit. “How did you find me?” She shut the trunk and ascended the stairs.
“Madame Pomphart does not have good intentions. I activated the homing mechanism on the cricket in order to observe your safety. When I saw that you were below the manor house I came at once.”
“There is a homing device in the cricket? Who has access to this?” She was both relieved and perturbed at the same time.
“No one, miss. It was installed as a precaution by Master Claude in case we were ever in need of your location. He never used it. I have only used it one other time as a test.”
Relieved, she pushed past her bot, heading for the light of the deserted hallway above. Turning back, she remembered her manners. “Thank you, Outil.” It seemed strange somehow to thank a mere bot for anything. Yet it seemed strange not to thank anyone who rescued you. She pressed on.
“Do you know if the homing device is what made these lights come on?” She showed the cricket to the bot, who carefully took it from her and expertly pushed two small panels on the underbelly of the bug. The light switched off.
“It might have been. I cannot be certain unless we perform another test.” Outil handed the cricket back to Marguerite and held the door back for her to pass.
“We don't have time for that now. Come with me to my quarters. I must locate my father immediately and I don't want to run into Pomphart alone.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “How did you get the door open?”
“I was constructed with dynamic fingers capable of several tasks, including lock picking.” Outil carefully closed the door and placed a slender finger to the keyhole; her finger immediately morphed into several shapes before resting on one that slid easily into the hole and, turning, clicked the mechanisms back in place.
“Amazing!” Marguerite wondered for a split second over the sheer brilliance of her friend—her love, then raced to her rooms where she began packing her bag for her voyage.
Chapter Nine
The look on Madame Pomphart’s face was priceless when Marguerite appeared at the dinner table in fine spirits. Marguerite wondered if the old woman had even bothered to check the cellar or if her intentions really had been to leave her there to die. Either way, things were working out exactly as Marguerite had planned, despite the temporary incarceration.
“Don’t you look lovely?” Her father’s voice sounded a bit sad as she sat at her seat beside him. Pomphart sat across the large table from her at his other side. “I’ve invited Madame Pomphart to join us tonight as a sort of celebration of your graduation.”
Marguerite’s heart was breaking for her father. She knew he wanted what was best for her and she couldn't bear to leave him in this sad mood.
“Father, I would like to propose something to you.” She took a deep inhalation as she prepared to weave her tale. “I have reconsidered my options and I believe I was foolish before. I should very much like to entertain the idea of Lord Delacourte courting me.”
Her father’s countenance immediately lifted, his eyes shone with wonder. “Are you certain?” A smile was spreading across his face.
“Yes, I am.” The lie stung in her mouth. She knew she was laying open the makings of an even bigger wound, but she just wanted one more happy night with her father. She wanted to see him merry and laughing rather than reserved and sighing while trying to do the fatherly thing and make his daughter responsible.
“Well then I believe a celebration really is in order!” He trumpeted merrily to the entire household, “Bring out the best wine! Pomphart, you will write to the Delacourtes first thing tomorrow morning! My girl! You will not be disappointed, I am certain of that.”
Marguerite smiled at her father and stole a glance at Pomphart whose face she couldn’t quite read. There was definitely a hint of disappointment there, but also a touch of triumph. Did the old bat think locking her in the cellar had actually changed Marguerite’s mind?
The rest of the evening went very well. Pomphart excused herself to her rooms early. An automaton was invited in to play the grand piano that had lain untouched in the music hall for nearly fifteen years. Marguerite and her father talked and laughed about old memories and she let him prattle on about future events, the wedding, the grandchildren. He was merry and lively with just a touch of wine, just the way she wanted to remember him. She couldn’t bear to think of his sorrow when he discovered she was gone in the morning, and not bound for Lyon, but somewhere much farther from his heart and much more dangerous.
“It is getting to be that hour, my dear.” He sighed with contentment and dismissed the bot as it finished a soft minute. They both rose from their settees.
“Thank you, Father.” She leaned in and embraced him.
“For what?” He leaned back and smiled into her face.
“For being my father, I suppose.” She paused, thinking. “And for being kind.”
“Well I can’t help being your father, my love.” He chuckled at his joke.
“Thank you all the same.”
The two walked amicably up the stairs toward their rooms followed by a procession of servants to help them ready for bed. Lord Vadnay’s rough palm clung to the soft, small fingers of his daughter until they were forced to let go and bid each other goodnight at the top of the stairs. It occurred to her that he hadn’t held her hand like that in at least a decade. She leaned in and kissed him softly on his leathery cheek. A lump crawled up her neck and into her throat.
He squeezed her hand one last time and smiled before turning toward his wing. Marguerite sucked in a breath and held it firmly in her lungs while she forced back the tears forming in her eyes. She turned to the maids waiting on the stair behind her.
“Send Outil up to help me undress tonight.”
The two girls looked at each other and shrugged before heading back down the stairs.
Marguerite proceeded to her room alone. The girl who prided herself on not having cried since she fell from the apple tree and twisted her ankle at age nine had nearly broken down twice in sobbing fits today. She sat on the bed and looked around her room at all the beautiful things she would miss: her clocks, gadgets, and spy glasses. She wiped a few tears from her cheeks and took another deep breath. The picture of her father smiling at her on the landing clung to her mind.
It was possibly the last time she would ever see him.
But she had no doubts. Her course was laid and at lea
st it was her own. She decided to take down a small pair of flying goggles from atop her wardrobe. They had recently been polished by a maid and the gear-work sparkled like new. Claude had designed them as an experiment. They were supposed to allow the wearer to see things at a distance with the turn of a dial. He’d hoped to include a special lens to allow for night vision, but it hadn’t worked. Still, they would be handy while traveling on the archaic dirigible the navy most likely had for them in port, and it was just one more thing to remind her of her ultimate goal: Claude.
She set them in her small case and closed the lid on the medium trunk just as Outil entered the room.
“You sent for me, miss?”
“Yes. I need you to stay here for the night, Outil.” She scanned the shelves of her room one more time, wondering if there was anything else of use she could cram into her luggage. “I still don’t know if Pomphart was trying to kill me or not and I have an errand very early in the morning I need you to help me with.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It occurred to her that she’d gotten used to Outil’s voice. It was almost sweet, almost soothing. As much as a bot’s metallic voice could be soothing, she guessed. She wondered at the care Claude must have taken with this incredible machine, built for her. Outil expertly unfastened the many buttons of her dress and quickly tidied the mess Marguerite left from packing while she climbed into bed.
She did not feel like crying, but she did feel a large knot of anxiety twisting in her gut like a nest of vipers. Now that everything else was taken care of she had nothing to think of but her coming adventure. The night lay heavy around her four-poster bed as Outil dimmed the lights which stilled the noises from her light-sensitive machines.
“Wake me one hour before sunrise, Outil.”
“Yes, miss.” The bot stood herself against the wall and powered her own lights off.
Chapter Ten
Escaping the estate proved harder than Marguerite anticipated. Outil did not ask any questions of her mistress and her strange errand in the dark. She carried the small trunk and carpetbag effortlessly, but it was still difficult for them to walk without making noise through the many darkened corridors of the sprawling mansion. They stopped several, times thinking they could hear someone behind them, and scared a scullery maid half to death when they came upon her cleaning out the main hearth to prepare for the day’s fire.
The excuse of moving items to storage fell flat on the maid’s ears but she did not question them further and looked like she wanted no part of whatever the truth was.
They chose the southwest wing to exit by as it was closest to the road to town, but were stopped by two male automatons.
“We are required to report every nighttime situation that is not of the norm to Sir Vadnay,” the first bot chimed out.
“You are not required to report this.” Marguerite used the most commanding voice she could muster.
“Authorization to override Sir Vadnay’s commands not recognized.”
“Ugh! What century were you built? I am Lady Vadnay, the good Lord Vadnay’s daughter. I am authorized to do whatever I like.”
“Authorization to change programming granted only to Lord Vadnay and Madame Pomphart.”
“Why should Madame Pomphart have authority?” Marguerite almost cried out in frustration, but she kept her voice low. “Outil! Do something! They will ruin everything!”
Outil replied quietly, “Yes, miss.” Then she set down the trunk, reached out her hands, and placed a palm on the chest of each bot. They stood staring with their blank mechanical eyes at the newer female version of themselves. Marguerite couldn’t imagine what Outil was doing.
All at once, the little red lights on their shoulders indicating power supplies were flowing started to fade and went out. The bots stayed frozen as Outil dropped her hands and retrieved her mistress’s luggage.
“What in France?”
“Old model bots such as these are sensitive to extreme temperature changes and will power down to prevent ruining their circuitry.”
“Really, Outil! You are amazing!” Marguerite held out her own hand to feel the place where Outil had pressed, but the bot snatched her wrist before she could get close.
“Best not to touch them until they have cooled down, miss, your fair skin would be injured.”
Marguerite continued to marvel at the speed and strength of this machine as they took a small side path that skirted the main road to town. They could not afford to be stopped again, but stopping proved to be inevitable.
“Outil, what is that?” Marguerite hissed under her breath as she held out an arm for the bot to stop. Her nerves were already on high alert traipsing through the darkness.
Ahead of them the path wound through a thick grove of strawberry trees. Off to one side a figure perched on a large rock was bent over itself and seemed to be sobbing.
“M’lady,” Outil whispered back, “it appears to be your acquaintance, Vivienne.”
Marguerite was astonished. “Are you certain it’s her? Whatever could she be doing out here?”
“Quite.”
Marguerite took a few tentative steps toward the figure, trying to spy for herself who the poor creature could be, praying it wasn’t a forest sprite or bait for some roadside bandit she’d read about in childhood stories. But even that would be easier to deal with right now than a weeping Vivienne.
As she drew nearer she recognized the limp blond hair and the tiny feet of her neighbor. Only she wore her night dressings and slippers. “Vivienne? Is that you?”
The girl shot up and screamed out a howl fit for a banshee.
“It’s me!” Marguerite tried to reach out to her, but Vivienne stepped back and screamed again. Marguerite fumbled in her pocket for the cricket and poked its belly until the light came on. “Look! Vivienne! I swear, it’s me! What in the world are you doing?”
“Ah!” Vivienne’s eyes grew wide. “It is you! I thought a ghost had got me for sure!”
“What are you doing out here? You’ll catch your death of cold. And why are you dressed like that? What is going on?”
Marguerite’s light shone right in the other girl’s face now. Her cheeks were scarlet from crying and the rush of surprise. But there was another color there, a purplish blue just across her left cheek. Marguerite came closer to inspect it.
Vivienne touched her cheek protectively, knowing the next set of questions about to be unleashed.
“It’s nothing, I was just, sad … I … couldn’t sleep, decided on a walk.” Vivienne dipped her head in shame and turned away from the bot and lady staring at her in disbelief.
“And I’m on a moonlight stroll to visit my dead mother’s grave.” Marguerite’s sarcasm and impatience weren’t hidden in the least. “Who did this to you?”
“What are you doing here?” It was Vivienne’s turn to realize all was not in the norm.
“If you must know, I’m running away to New France!” Marguerite was thrilled to finally be able to tell someone the plot she’d been cradling like a newborn in her heart.
Vivienne turned back to look at her friend, her face flat when she asked, “Whatever for?”
“Vivienne. Do you really think I’m going to let them haul me off to Lyon? And I’m certainly not going to marry that pompous bag of air Delacourte, although, I sort of told my father I would so that he’d cancel the trip to Lyon and celebrate with me.” It was Marguerite’s turn to hang her head in shame.
“You wicked thing!”
Marguerite couldn’t tell if Vivienne was serious or not. “What happened, Vivienne? Please tell me?” She was softer now, realizing more and more the amount of stress the girl must be under to be injured and wandering the path between their homes at this hour. “Please let me help you?”
“You can’t help me. No one can.” Vivienne began to cry again.
Outil spoke up then. “If I may be so bold … ” She waited for Marguerite’s response.
“Yes, what is it?” Her arm was around the sobbing girl’s bent shoulders now.
“It is common knowledge among servants and automatons that Vivienne’s father is fond of ruling with the fist and spares no one in the household his rage when it is kindled.”
“Outil! You old gossip!” Marguerite turned back to Vivienne. “Is this true? Did your father hit you? Did he turn you out?” Her pitch was rising with incredulity.
“No, no. I mean, yes.” She gasped for air between sobs. “He did hit me. We were discussing my coming-out ball and the plans and suitors and he just went into a rage with my mother about the cost and the fact that I … ” She sobbed again. “I wasn’t worth it.”
“How could he think … ” Marguerite trailed off.
“He said that no decent suitor would come for me and why bother with the expense? He wants to save the money for my little sister’s coming-out party next year.”
Marguerite had no idea that Vivienne’s family situation was as lopsided as all this. She had never liked her parents on the few occasions she’d had to meet them, and Vivienne’s timidity and simpering bothered her in the extreme, but for a father to favor his younger (and much more annoying) daughter was just unthinkable.
“Why did he hurt you, Vivienne?”
She sniffed and wiped her face on her nightshirt before continuing, “Because I couldn’t help myself. I … I lost my temper. I’ve never done that before with him. I just snapped. I told him it wasn’t fair!”
Marguerite had a hard time imagining the tiny creature having any sort of temper, much less hurling it at a beast of a man like her father. He was a massive six-and-a-half-feet tall with hulking shoulders and a thick frame. It was lucky he hadn’t broken her neck with the blow that bruised her cheek.
“After that I just went to bed. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore and I just couldn’t sleep. I felt like I had insects all over me. I had to get out of his house. I had to leave but I had nowhere to go! I guess I just lost my mind for a bit.”
The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl Page 7
