I drove the steam carriage south until I reached the southwest part of the city. Here, most of the lots were empty grass. William Penn's desire that the populace would spread out between the two rivers hadn't really taken hold, as most of the residents stayed to the Delaware River.
Wearing my printer's clothes, I put a fresh coat of black paint on the steam carriage, removing the visible traces that it had come from the Continental Army's marshalling yard. I left the paint behind a stone wall before driving to the Schuylkill River and turning off the steam engine. I didn't want to waste what little fuel I had, and Anne Bingham's party wouldn't commence until evening.
Sitting on the back of my carriage, watching the fishing boats and other small watercraft float by on the brown river, I considered what I knew.
First and foremost, Morwen Hightower was a foreign assassin sent to kill someone with the poisoned chocolate in my pocket. The identity of the target was unknown, but there would be plenty of high-ranking officials at the launch of the Brave Eagle, including President Washington himself, who, as I considered it, seemed the most likely target.
The second item of concern on my list was the duck egg. Anne Bingham wanted it back, but I didn't know where to find it, and until I did, that powerful woman would make my life in the city miserable.
The other problem was the lack of powder. Without it, I wouldn't last another month. It bothered me that Ben would have left for so long without leaving a message, and in the back of my mind, it seemed like I was missing something that would tell me where he was located.
I weighed the Eternity chocolate in my hand, the paper crinkling as I flexed my palm. What if Morwen Hightower had somehow killed or kidnapped Ben? Why else would she have been watching his place? Maybe these things were connected, as I’d first thought.
As the day passed, I grew no nearer to the truth, succeeding only in throwing doubt into my assumptions. When it was time, I climbed back into the carriage and changed into the dress I'd worn at the Spanish court.
It was a pale blue and silver brocade gown with a white lace mantilla. The ensemble looked better with a neckline full of jewelry, but I'd little left and I didn't want to stick out at the party. It was going to be hard enough to move around without being noticed by Mrs. Bingham. I hoped the graying of my hair and the different attire would be enough of a disguise.
I reached the Binghams’ after the appointed time, when the gas lamps glowed that rosy light that turned the city into a bright dream. Steam carriages lined the streets on either side. The drivers, in their puffy tan breeches and white shirts, stood in clumps, chewing on cigars and speaking in hushed voices. A pair threw a rag ball between themselves to pass the time. I left my carriage up the street in an alley. It wouldn't be seemly to be seen driving my own vehicle.
The Bingham Estate took its design cues from ancient Rome. A river of white marble led up to the doors, outlined in colonnades. Festive lanterns hung from stately ribbons along the cast-iron fence, behind which the bushes had been manicured into grand ovals.
A doorman held his white-gloved hand out for my invitation. I stared at his hand as if he were a beggar asking for alms. When he shook his hand to ask again, I replied with a sniff.
Like duelists facing off, neither one of us wanted to make the first move, until finally, another couple approached and he retracted his hand and nodded inward.
With that unfortunate encounter over, I slipped into the crowd, keeping my eyes open for Mrs. Bingham. By the overwhelming scent of perfume and cologne wafting through entryway, I quickly determined that nearly every senator and distinguished businessman in Philadelphia was in attendance. I also saw a fair number of high-ranking military officers in their Continental blues, speckled in ribbons and awards from the Revolutionary War.
The interior had been decorated with the latest fashions in London, straight from Seddon's, quite befitting for a couple of Federalists. The railings and arches were festooned with the colors of the country, almost as if it were a political rally.
I listened to the conversations as I wandered, keeping a languid pace, nodding and smiling to those I passed. There was an air of anticipation at the party, an excited titter that spoke of grander things. It wasn't until I overheard the quiet talk between the more distinguished guests that I understood it.
Servants in black tailcoats carried foodstuffs through the party. My stomach nearly revolted when I let one pass, so I had to stop the next. I wolfed down the contents of his tray, shoving the puffy pastries filled with a tangy melted cheese past my lips like a five-year-old hunkered down at a bowl full of sweets. He left me wide-eyed, and I doubted he would ever forget the gray-haired old lady who devoured the entire contents of his tray. I let out a frisson of indigestion before continuing.
Moving through the library, which was stacked with precious books, I nearly fell over myself when I saw Voltaire. I wasn't the only uninvited member of the party. Though it seemed nearly impossible, given the state that he'd left my home in, he stood surrounded by a circle of admirers as he lectured them in his lyrical French accent.
He'd composed himself quite well, considering, having donned a coifed wig, liberally powdered. He'd covered his face with a fine white makeup and a light blush on the cheeks, as had been the fashion in France a decade ago.
Even his clothing, though eccentric, fit the image of the genius provocateur. Except that Voltaire was supposed to have died over twenty years ago. From across the room, I could hear questions being asked, and him responding in his name. Did they not know he was over one hundred years old?
If Ben were here, he would have thrown him out of the Transcendent Society, for we were supposed to stay anonymous. But as I watched him, behind the mask of his former self, I saw the bloodred eyes of the lunatic in my home and shuddered at the thought of why he was at the party.
Stepping out of the room, I didn't see Warden Snyder until I'd backed into him. He seized my wrist with a callused hand, his eyes wide with a mixture of rage and disappointment.
Chapter Seventeen
"You'll be coming with me, Miss Carmontelle," he hissed under his breath.
"Wait," I said, batting at his wrist as discreetly as I could, though it was hard because his grip was making my fingers go numb. I didn't want our altercation noticed by this crowd, or by Voltaire in the other room. "Not here."
"Not here?" he said, his mustached upper lip forming a drooping arch. "Do you think me a cock robin? You blasted me with that stick of yours."
His voice rose with insulted fury, catching a few glances from those standing nearby.
I stretched my right eyebrow up and kept my voice as low as possible, barely even moving my lips. "Are you prepared to make a scene on the night that William Bingham announces his interest in becoming the next President?"
"What?" he said, again too loud, catching baleful glances.
"Hush, Simon," I said.
He blinked heavily, visibly reacting to being scolded by the woman he was to be arresting. I never said I stuck to the traditional roles of anything.
Simon's anger was replaced with honest curiosity, and his shoulders and head hunched down to my level. "He wants to be President?"
"It would seem so. Look around at the accoutrements, the number of senators. I believe President Washington and his wife are here somewhere as well," I said.
Simon glanced around as if he were going to see them walking through the party. His gaze narrowed as he returned to me. "How did you get here?"
"I speak the secret language of servants," I said cryptically.
He seemed to have calmed, but he still had my wrist captured. "Well, I shall have to take you to the courthouse, just the same."
I tugged against his pulling and set him in my gaze. "If you try to take me out of here, I will fall to the ground and scream that you are assaulting an old woman."
He swallowed. "Do you think me beetle-headed?"
"No," I said, "which is why I made the threat. Do you think Mrs.
Bingham will be happy with you if you upset the party? These kind of events are choreographed for maximum political effect."
His gray eyes searched me. "How do you know these things? Who are you really?"
"A printer, an observant woman, and a teller of truths. Maybe those are the only things that matter," I said, feeling my chest grow heavy. "And if your patron, Mrs. Bingham, wants her egg back, I need my freedom."
"You have it?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Not yet. But I think I know how to find it."
"How can I trust you?" he asked, frowning.
"You can't," I said. "But you have no other choice. If she doesn't get her prized duck egg back, she'll blame you—and I doubt your position in the city is solid enough to withstand that."
He flinched, and I hated myself for it. I was using what I knew of his debts to the Bank of North America against him. He was in as bad a situation as myself. But neither one of us would survive if I let him take me in. I just hoped he'd see it that way when it was all over, though of course, I knew that was hopeful delusion.
"You're a complicated woman," he said, his face blank, his gaze weary with sadness.
"I'm actually quite simple," I said. "It's the world that's complicated, and no one person may understand it all."
With a bone-weary sigh, Simon released my wrist, which I held to my bosom and rubbed the feeling back in.
"I have one more problem to bring up," I said.
His face fell as if the strings had been cut. His eyes, those gray eyes the color of rain, glistened. My chest tightened by the screws of his sadness. I felt for him, the honorable Warden, caught between the expectations of his duty and his heart. He was the kind of man more comfortable on a horse in the wilderness, leaning into the patient gait of his mount, random sunbeams playing upon his rich, brown hair.
"The thing that was behind my cellar door," I said, and when his gaze shot up and hardened, I continued, "you saw it, didn't you?"
"It knocked me over and fled into the kitchen," he said. "So I left to retrieve my pistol and when I returned later, the door was locked. What was it and why were you keeping it?"
I tugged on his brown jacket until he stepped around the corner, and nodded to Voltaire standing at the center of his adoring fans. Simon's eyes widened with recognition.
"By the blazes, that's him," he said. "Who is he?"
"That's Voltaire," I said, then cleared my throat, remembering he was supposed to be dead. "Well, a man who's impersonating the famous French writer."
"What was he doing in your cellar?" he asked.
I paused, trying to determine what part of the truth I could tell him. "He's a friend, a sick friend, and I was taking care of him when he went mad and attacked me. I locked him in the cellar."
"I didn't think it was a man, but a beast," said Simon under his breath.
"Something's wrong with him," I said. "I worry what he might do here."
"You consort with strange people," he said.
I shrugged. "The price of an interesting life."
"What should I do about him?" asked Simon.
"Watch him. Make sure he doesn't go mad again," I said.
He turned on me. "While you cause mischief elsewhere in this house. This is all your game, isn't it?"
"Not one I wanted to play, Simon," I said, touching his arm. "But once the pieces were pushed into motion, I had no choice but to play my best or be taken off the board."
Simon seemed unsure of how to take my admission, but it was the truth. It was this same thinking that had led me to realize so long ago, that if I didn't move to put Catherine on the throne, that drunken, mean-hearted husband of hers, Peter III, would have killed us all during one of his loathsome pranks.
I left Warden Snyder at the edge of the library. He glanced between me and Voltaire, conflicted by the twin issues. I knew how he felt, yoked to chaos.
In case Simon changed his mind, I moved deeper into the house, to the less occupied sections, keeping an eye out to avoid Mrs. Bingham. I found myself in a mostly empty trophy room. A couple well-to-dos chatted near a stuffed brown bear on the far side of the room. The bear, which stood taller than the couple by a foot or two, had been set into a ferocious pose, though I knew that it had probably been peacefully drinking by a stream when it was shot.
The rest of the walls contained other creatures killed and locked into the appearance of life by the taxidermist. William Bingham seemed to be an avid hunter. I prepared to move into another room to look for a small group with which to ingratiate myself, so I might learn more about the immediate desires of the Federalists, when I heard the clicking of nails on wood.
Voltaire stood on the far side of the room, bloodshot eyes regarding me with a predatory glare. His elongated nails scraped along the painted wood of the door frame. Without the perfumes from the other room overwhelming my senses, I caught the scent of old urine. The other couple in the room seemed to sense something wrong and moved out the other door, passing as far away from Voltaire as they could.
I escaped down the hallway, finding the way empty. Over the industrious sounds of servants preparing more food and drinks in the nearby kitchen, I heard the clicking of nails on the walls as he followed and imagined his arms spread wide, like a winged beast landing with talons outstretched on a skittering mouse.
A couple of servants passed me, but I continued further into the house, moving up a winding staircase that led to the second floor. The upstairs hallway had portraits of noted Federalists, including Hamilton and Adams, between the doors. I touched the picture of Ben Franklin as I passed, smiling upon seeing my friend and knowing he wasn't sympathetic to the Federalist cause as would be indicated by his portrait. The echoes of Voltaire followed me up the stairs, so I opened a random door and stepped through, clicking the lock.
"May I help you?" asked a woman's voice from behind me.
Seated on a cushioned chair by the curtained window was Martha Washington, the President's wife, hair white with age and contained within a pair of exquisite ivory combs. She had the patient gaze of someone in their upper years, and her lips had the hint of a smile lurking on them.
"Madam Washington," I said quietly with a curtsey. "My apologies. An unpleasant fellow was following me and I wanted to avoid further encounters. May I stay a moment until he passes?"
Her warm laugh invited me to stay, and when she opened her mouth to speak, I motioned towards the door. She placed her withered hands in her lap as if we were children playing a game. I smiled to reassure her that there was no danger. At least not while we stayed hidden from the madman Voltaire.
The Frenchman moved down the hallway in near silence. I could only hear his faint breathing and the occasional sniff. When the door handle rattled, I nearly let out a noise of surprise. I was afraid he might try breaking down the door if he thought I was on the other side, but then the sounds of men speaking filled the hall and I no longer felt the presence of Voltaire on the other side of the door.
I let out a breath and rubbed my temple with a shaking hand. Martha Washington was studying me closely, the spark of intelligence in her gaze like a keen blade.
"An unpleasant fellow?" she asked with one eyebrow raised.
"He wants something from me that I do not have," I said.
"Ahh," she said, as if she understood. "Men are like that." Martha lifted a bowl filled with gold leaf wrapped treats. The design was familiar. "Would you like a chocolate? I find a little sweet always makes these unpleasant affairs more bearable."
I took a chocolate so as not to appear rude. "Thank you, Madam Washington."
She had hers unwrapped and placed it in her mouth. Then she closed her eyes and made unladylike noises. "Such flavor. They were a gift from the new chocolate shop in town. I swear they make me feel twenty years younger when I eat one."
I ate my chocolate, unconcerned about the source since she'd eaten one already. "Yes, quite delicious. That shop is a marvel."
With the treat eaten,
Martha stared out the window and let loose a heavy sigh.
A wave of heat rushed to my cheeks. "My apologies again, Madam Washington, for imposing on your quiet reflection."
She laughed again, higher and sharper, patting her own leg. "No apologies, please. Like you, I was avoiding an unpleasant fellow. These events tire me out."
"An unpleasant fellow?" I asked. "Which one?"
She gave me a conspiratorial grin. "All of them. A bunch of dandy prats, those Federalists."
We shared a chuckle and then her face drew serious. "You haven't introduced yourself."
"My manners are terrible," I said, moving to her side. I took her hand and kissed it like I would have with my sovereign. "I am Yeka Carmontelle."
It was the name I used when moving through Europe incognito. The given name was based on my full moniker, Yekaterina, so that I would not hesitate when it was spoken. The family name came from one of my favorite painters. My accent could be confused with French, unless one had lived there, but Madam Washington wouldn't know, or so I hoped. If word got out that I was in Philadelphia, then I would soon be receiving visits from Emperor Paul's assassins.
She gave me an appraising stare, the corners of her eyes crinkling with thought, deepening the wrinkles, though her lips still smiled.
"A French woman in Philadelphia and at the home of the Binghams’. What an odd combination," she said.
"Life brings with it unexpected challenges," I said. "I should take your leave, I'm sure there's not much more time until the announcement."
"Ha," she said. "Is it that obvious? It was supposed to be a secret."
"Apologies again, but it seemed the likely conclusion to the party based on those in attendance and the gift to the military in a few days," I said.
She raised her eyebrows and made a noise of amusement. "I guess we aren't as clever as we think we are." She speared me in her sights. "On whose behalf are you here?"
"No one, Madam. Or I guess, on behalf of myself," I said.
A Cauldron of Secrets (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 2) Page 12
