The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “If it was ever there to begin with,” said Cecy.

  “Oh, I think it was.” Lady Sylvia wore her most thoughtful look. “I think it must have been. That is why the thieves fell out, I think.”

  “You think Sir Hilary was the one to hire the men who attacked us?” Thomas asked. “But how could he have known we had the chrism?”

  “He couldn’t have known.” Lady Sylvia looked as stern as I have ever seen her. “He had been stripped of his magic. He blamed us for that, quite rightly, I’m pleased to say. In his impotent rage, he hired footpads. I think the project Sir Hilary enlisted X’s help with must have been the attack upon us.”

  “That would explain the illness that incapacitated the three of us,” said Cecy. “Sir Hilary would have known he couldn’t send footpads to attack wizards without doing something about the wizards first.”

  “Sir Hilary could not have cast that spell, nor any other,” I said. “Not if he’d been stripped of his power.”

  “X seems mighty confident he could help Sir Hilary in his project,” said Thomas. “Perhaps we have X to thank for that nasty bit of magic.”

  “To be quite sure of that, first we must find X,” said Cecy.

  “But how?” James sounded fatigued by the very thought of the search for such a needle in a haystack, and I could not help but sympathize.

  Cecy unfolded the letter and offered it to Lady Sylvia.

  “How odd are the harmonics in this, I wonder? It may be able to tell us something about X.”

  Lady Sylvia took the letter and looked at it appraisingly, then held it out to Lennox and Reardon. “Gentlemen? Will you work with us on this matter?”

  Mr. Reardon merely nodded, but Mr. Lennox said, “It will be our pleasure, only I must warn you, the process will take some time.”

  “That’s good,” said Cecy, “because we will need to stay here in Paris for some time. Now that we’re finally here, we have several important things to do. But the most important thing right now is to prevent James from overexerting himself. May we meet again tomorrow? First thing in the morning, perhaps?”

  Mr. Lennox seemed amused by James’s faint air of discomfiture. “By all means. For now, we shall adjourn. Lady Sylvia, I’ll leave the documents in your care.”

  24 August 1817

  Paris

  At Lady Sylvia’s house

  Yesterday morning I left Thomas sleeping and came down to breakfast at the same time Cecy did. I tried to think how long it had been since the two of us had been given the chance of a quiet moment together. It seemed like years.

  “How is James?” I asked, as soon as we’d been brought our breakfast and left to ourselves.

  “Much better. He made his valet sharpen the razor twice when he was being shaved this morning. He’s much more like himself.” Cecy stirred sugar into her tea, buttered half her croissant, and set to with a will. You’d never guess it from her trim figure, but Cecy heartily appreciates her meals. “I think Paris agrees with him.”

  I said, “It’s lovely to be settled for a bit. We can all use the rest.”

  Cecy’s mouth was full, so she just nodded. As soon she could, she said, “It is lovely here. But we won’t have a chance to rest long. We have things to do. For one thing, we must find maids. We can’t go on borrowing Lady Sylvia’s servants forever and ever.”

  Maids. My heart sank at the thought. “Oh, dear. I suppose so.”

  “And we simply must do some shopping. We can’t pay calls and collect gossip wearing London modes—not in Paris! And in the matter of gossip, have Mr. Reardon and Mr. Lennox called yet?”

  Sometimes I forget that I was the one who had a London Season, not Cecy. “Of course not. It’s hours and hours until anyone would dream of calling on us here.”

  Cecy looked puzzled. “Mr. Lennox did say first thing in the morning, didn’t he?”

  “You and I are used to first thing in the morning in the country. First thing in the morning in the city is a very different pair of shoes,” I explained. “That’s one reason we’re having breakfast by ourselves.”

  “Indeed? I thought it a trifle odd.” Cecy finished her tea. “I hope they don’t waste half the day getting here. Though they did leave the letter with Lady Sylvia. That might be lucky. I suppose if they’re dreadfully late, we could start without them.”

  “I don’t know how much useful information they’ll be able to get out of an anonymous letter.” I poured us each another cup.

  “Of course you don’t. Neither do I. But Lady Sylvia’s experienced in these matters, and she seemed to think it was well worth a try. Mr. Lennox and Mr. Reardon did very well with that cap.”

  “They seem quite young to be friends of Lady Sylvia’s,” I observed.

  “They do, don’t they? Perhaps they’re related to someone she knew in her youth, back when she and the Bishop of Amiens were having adventures.” Cecy helped herself to another croissant. “Do you suppose it will seem as peculiar to our children, years from now, to think of us having adventures?”

  I thought it over. “It doesn’t seem at all peculiar that Lady Sylvia had adventures in her youth. She’s having them now, after all. But I admit I don’t see how it could possibly seem as peculiar as the idea that the Bishop of Amiens had adventures in his youth.”

  Cecy laughed. “It’s hard to imagine the youth, let alone the adventures. But I’m sure we’ll seem just as sedate and dignified in years to come, when we’re having breakfast with children as old as we are now.”

  I thought of my parents, long dead, and of Cecy’s Mama, whom she scarcely remembered, and I wondered what it would be like to sit at breakfast with them. I couldn’t imagine it. “I’m sure you’ll seem sedate and dignified to them. I doubt anyone will ever find me either one.”

  “Oh, Kate. Don’t be so sure. After all, there will be Thomas’s influence at work.” Cecy’s eyes danced as she said this, for Thomas had entered the room as I was speaking.

  “What’s this about my influence?” Thomas asked as he was served with coffee and croissants. “Ever a force for good, I assure you.”

  “We were just wondering if we’d ever seem as sedate and dignified as the Bishop of Amiens,” I explained.

  Thomas gave a great crack of laughter. “Don’t let the odor of sanctity deceive you. I think there’s a good bit of mischief left in the old boy yet. If anyone can bring it out, it will be Mother. I wonder how many more of the League we’ll meet before we’re done? Probably a good many of them are still right here in the city.”

  Cecy said, “I thought the League of the Pimpernel existed only to save victims from the guillotine during the Terror.”

  “That’s how it began,” said Thomas. “Once the Terror was over, the members were able to rest in safety. Yet the need to defend the innocent never ends. There will always be work for those of us who wish to use our wits against the enemy.”

  “Napoleon Bonaparte, I take it, was the most recent enemy?” I inquired.

  “One of many,” Thomas replied. “As the shape of the world has changed, the demands upon the League changed, too. There isn’t always agreement among the members concerning who the enemy is. But there is always an enemy somewhere.”

  “Do Mr. Reardon and Mr. Lennox have any connection to the League?” I asked. “I was wondering how your Mother came to call upon them for help.”

  “Mother’s social circle has always been wide.” Thomas went through his first croissant with as much speed and enthusiasm as Cecy. “She keeps her eyes open for competency, particularly in magic.”

  “Will they be back soon, do you think?” asked Cecy. “They did say first thing in the morning.”

  “Oh, they’ve been and gone already,” said Thomas.

  Cecy gave me a look and I felt my fine air of sophistication about my London Season droop and fade. I felt slightly better when Thomas continued.

  “Unaccountable, coming around so early. Mother said she didn’t think they’d been to bed at all. She dealt w
ith them and sent them on their way before I was up. Don’t worry. They’ll be back. This will be a long process.” Thomas handed me a note. “Mr. Reardon left this for you, Kate. Mother mentioned you were hoping to engage a maid while you were here. It seems Mr. Reardon has a cousin.”

  I read the note while Thomas demolished his second croissant. It was from someone named Emily Reardon, who begged me for the privilege of calling upon me to apply for a position as my maid. I felt my spirits sink. “Oh, dear.”

  Thomas patted my hand. “Take heart, my tea cake. She speaks perfect French, Mr. Reardon says, but she was born in Gloucestershire. You won’t need to speak anything but English to her.”

  Cecy looked horrified. “Kate, you can’t. You simply cannot travel all the way to Paris to engage a maid from Gloucestershire. It won’t do.”

  “Kate must do precisely as she pleases,” Thomas reminded Cecy, as he divided the last croissant with her.

  Cecy said, “Well, of course she must. But it’s such a waste. Do pass the butter.”

  25 August 1817

  Paris

  At Lady Sylvia’s house

  Miss Emily Reardon called upon me yesterday. She is a few years older than I, a young woman of the most reserved demeanor. According to her cousin Mr. Reardon, her father (that is, Mr. Reardon’s uncle) was under the authority of Monsieur Champollion when that distinguished scholar was in Egypt to record and study the cryptic inscriptions of the ancients. Unfortunately, his constitution was unequal to the rigors of the Egyptian climate. He died before he could return to France. Miss Reardon has been in service ever since the small inheritance he left her was exhausted. She is, by any reckoning, an experienced lady’s maid.

  After the opening pleasantries had been concluded, I dared to ask, “Forgive me for my impertinence, but you seem to dress very simply yourself. Is that your preference?” Or was it financial necessity? I left the words unsaid but they hung in the air between us. I had to ask, for everything about Emily Reardon was the model of severity, from her pelisse to her unornamented gown to the slippers she wore, plain and well worn.

  Miss Emily Reardon was entirely composed. “I assure you, I am expert in achieving the dress and hairstyles favored by ladies of fashion, though I do not affect such things myself.”

  I liked the way she looked me in the eye. She seemed not the least impressed by the grandeur of Lady Sylvia’s house, though her manners were unexceptionable. It was clear that she wanted and needed the position, but she would do nothing to make it seem she was pleading for it. There was a fine stoicism about her. I found myself wishing I had a turn for stoicism myself. Perhaps it can be learned.

  It seemed a tempting proposition, engaging Emily Reardon. In addition to her own qualifications, she would spare me the onerous task of meeting other prospective maids.

  “When would you be able to start?” I asked.

  Emily Reardon’s eyes lit up. “At once, Lady Schofield.”

  I stated the terms of employment (bless Lady Sylvia for going over the finer points with me before I arranged the interview), and Emily Reardon consented to them with every sign of pleasure. I decided she might not be as stoic as I had assumed.

  I have engaged her to start tomorrow morning, for I do not feel I can go immediately into the happy state of having a maid. I need a few hours to get used to the idea first.

  When Emily Reardon was gone, I did a brief dance across the drawing room and went to find Cecy.

  “I suppose it will have to do,” Cecy decided, when I’d recounted my ordeal to her. “Reardon’s only your first maid, after all. You can always hire a French maid next time.”

  “You can show me how it’s done,” I said, while privately promising myself I would stick to Emily Reardon even if she were as unaccountable as Thomas’s man Piers.

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

  As soon as I was able, I cornered Lady Sylvia regarding shopping. This was not immediately possible, as a number of business and household matters had arisen during her long absence from Paris, which required her attention. It was not until early afternoon, the day after Kate had engaged her maid, that the three of us had a chance to consult. We had just begun discussing the best time to visit the modiste, when a footman entered to announce a visitor.

  “Captain Reginald Winters,” the footman said.

  We all rose and curtseyed acknowledgment of the sandy-haired man in his twenties, in full dress uniform including a neat military mustache, who entered on the footman’s words.

  “Captain,” Lady Sylvia said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  “I am certainly the loser by it, Madam,” the Captain said, bowing over her hand with stiff formality. “But I am afraid I am not here on a social call. The Duke was much disturbed to hear of your encounter; he has been at some trouble to see the roads around the city made safe. He sent me to make certain you have suffered no ill effects from your unfortunate adventure, and to assure you that everything possible is being done to apprehend the miscreants.”

  “His Grace is all consideration,” Lady Sylvia murmured. She studied him a moment, and I thought her eyes twinkled. “No doubt you wish the particulars.”

  Captain Winters seemed taken aback by this forthright comment. “I do not wish to distress you, ladies,” he said uncertainly.

  “So you shan’t,” Lady Sylvia responded. “Raoul, ask the gentlemen to join us, please.”

  The footman bowed and left. Lady Sylvia presented Kate and me, and we resumed our seats. The Captain seemed relieved by this return to social normality, but his relief did not last long. Lady Sylvia apparently had a large acquaintance among the Army of Occupation and the poor man was hard-pressed to keep up with her queries about the current activities of all of them.

  The sitting room door swung open at last, and James and Thomas came in. The Captain rose and turned.

  “Reggie!” James said. “Haven’t you sold out yet?”

  “Obviously not,” Thomas said. “And someone appears to have had the bad taste to promote him.”

  “Bad taste?” Captain Winters responded with mock indignation. “No such thing! This is purely a matter of ability.”

  “Primarily your ability to find excellent wine for your commanding officers, even on bivouac, I expect,” James said. “Don’t you agree, Thomas?”

  “Undoubtedly.” Thomas studied Captain Winters. “Which puts me in mind of the fact that you still owe me that dozen bottles you promised after that dice game in Le Havre. And I’m sure you’ve been in Paris long enough to have found the best sources.”

  I believe they would have continued in this vein for some time had Lady Sylvia not called them to order. “While it is pleasant to observe the reunion of old friends, Captain Winters is here on business,” she informed Thomas.

  “Business?” James said to the Captain.

  “Investigating the attack on your carriage is my responsibility, for my sins,” Captain Winters said, raking a hand through his hair. “The army has officially turned that sort of thing over to the new French government, of course, but unofficially we’re still the ones everyone looks to when it’s a matter of public safety. And I’m the liaison for the City of Paris and environs, which puts this squarely in my lap.”

  “You are supposed to find out who shot James?” Thomas said skeptically.

  “Among other things. There’s been a rash of murders down in the Rue St. Roch; bad area, mostly fallings-out among thieves, but we still have to make sure there’s nothing more in it than that. There are at least two groups of Bonapartists plotting to take advantage of the split in the government—one lot seems to be preparing to assassinate the Duc de Berry; the other looks like it’s trying to suborn the leader of the Estates-Generale. Someone broke into the Sainte Chapelle two nights ago. And with the London Haut Ton flocking back to Paris, I have at least three ladies a day fluttering into my office to complain about something that isn’t satisfactory—the no
ise, the way the coach traffic was handled before their grande soirée, something.” He gave James a fulminating look. “If you’d had the least consideration, you’d have got yourself shot just outside Amiens and dropped this in someone else’s lap.”

  “It does sound as if you are very busy, Captain,” Lady Sylvia said composedly. “And with such a variety of things, too. Murders and assassinations certainly sound much more pressing than a mere holdup or a break-in.”

  I did not consider the shooting of my husband to be a mere anything, and I was about to say so when Thomas shifted slightly. Both Kate and James stiffened in reaction, and Kate gave me a warning glance. I swallowed the remark I had been about to make, just as Thomas said, “Yes, what was that about the Sainte Chapelle?”

  “Bonapartists, most likely,” the Captain replied. “There are still plenty of people who aren’t happy with the restoration, particularly the way the Bourbon has been running it, and the Sainte Chapelle used to be the royal chapel.”

  “Used to be?” Kate said.

  “It’s been used for storage since the Terror, and the new court hasn’t had it cleared out yet.”

  “Sounds like a prime bait for thieves,” James commented.

  Captain Winters shrugged. “You’d think so, but all this lot did was shove some crates around and make a mess. That’s why I think it was some of those—lunatics.”

  “A mess?” I said. “It doesn’t sound as if it was very tidy to begin with. How could you tell?”

  “Hah! You couldn’t miss it. Ashes and wax all over everything, and that awful stale smell you get from old incense.”

  “Some sort of ceremony?” Lady Sylvia mused. “I trust your wizards have been over the area carefully. If the chapel was associated with the monarch, someone may have been attempting a spell to interfere with them.”

  “We thought of that, my lady,” the Captain said. “But the wizards say there’s no significant magical residue.”

  Thomas pounced on the phrasing. “No significant residue?”