Suddenly I realized just what Mr. Strangle had wanted to hire her to do. “That is appalling!”
“Just so,” Thomas said.
“And now he has gone,” Madame said with growing intensity, “and he did not even leave the money he promised—though I did not really expect it. I shall starve, and Annalise also.” She sank down on a chair and began to cry. “What am I to do? I am a respectable person, me, but the ladies, they want the references, and the dressmakers also, and even the maîtres des hôtels will not take on so much as a femme de chambre without the letters. An acte de mariage is not enough.”
“If that is the sort of position you would like to have, Madame, the matter is quite simple,” I said. “I will hire you to be my maid.”
James and Thomas both looked at me as if I had run mad. Kate cocked her head to one side. “But, Cecy, do you really think it will do?” she asked.
“Will what do?” Lady Sylvia’s voice said from the doorway, and she swept into the room. She studied Madame Walker’s tearstained face and refurbished turnout, then glanced at Thomas and James. Her eyes settled on Kate and me, considering. She waited.
“Madame Walker finds herself in a difficult situation,” I explained. “So I have just offered her a position as my maid.”
“I see.” Lady Sylvia reviewed us all once more. “And has Madame accepted?”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” Madame said, and burst into another torrent of rapid French, which even Lady Sylvia seemed to have difficulty in following for a moment.
Lady Sylvia nodded and raised a hand, cutting Madame off in midsentence. “Very good,” she said. “Raoul and Aubert will see you settled in. I gather you can start at once?”
“Oui, Madame,” she replied, and curtseyed. Lady Sylvia rang for a footman, instructed him what to do with Walker, and they left.
As the door closed behind them, James looked from me to Lady Sylvia and back. “Cecy,” he said at last, “what maggot have you got in your brain this time? You can’t believe that woman’s story!”
“Oh, but I do,” I told him. “And not just because she was so insistently waving her marriage lines, either. If she were—were—were truly not a respectable person, she would not be in such straits that she had to turn her gowns. Not with a face like that.”
“Hmm,” said Thomas. “You may have something there.”
“Also, she may know more about Mr. Strangle’s business than she’s told us,” I pointed out. “More, perhaps, than she realizes herself. If she can recognize those mysterious visitors of his, we may learn something really useful.”
“But, Cecy, are you sure?” Kate said. “After all the work you have done—the interviews and checking references!”
“Well, it’s obvious just from looking at her that she can dress hair and sew a neat seam,” I said. They all looked at me. I sighed. “I couldn’t just turn her out onto the street. And at least she’s French.”
James laughed suddenly. “My Lady Quixote! Very well; I won’t tease you about your new maid any longer.”
“An excellent notion,” Lady Sylvia said. “Now, if one of you would explain to me just what Madame Walker has already told you of Mr. Strangle’s business, everything will be quite satisfactory all around.”
From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield
14 September 1817
Paris
At Lady Sylvia’s house
At last, at last, the opera season has begun. Last night we went to The Marriage of Figaro. I think I have never truly heard music before. Thomas has promised to take me again in a fortnight, when The Barber of Seville will be performed.
The evening would have been one of the highlights of my life, even without the music. We dressed in our very best clothes. My gown was made of white velvet. With it, I wore my pearls, the longest pair of white kid evening gloves I have ever seen, and white kid sandals. Best of all, I wore one of the Schofield tiaras. Two of them are so elaborate I am not yet old enough to carry them off, but the one Lady Sylvia recommended is relatively simple, and as it is set with pearls, it was quite perfect. Reardon spent hours putting my hair up properly. It is an art, wearing a tiara, Lady Sylvia says.
The five of us arrived at the opera house at exactly the right time, just tardy enough to be fashionable, yet not tardy enough to be rude. Some people make their evening’s entertainment standing around outside places like the opera house, envying the fashionable world as it arrives. I would not find that a satisfactory way to spend the time. Unless Thomas were with me, of course. I feel sure he could shout very amusing things, if he were so inclined.
We survived the press of interested onlookers shouting critical remarks and gained the relative quiet of Lady Sylvia’s box. There was a brief, yet excruciating, period of Being Seen, as we were ogled by the occupants of the other boxes. Much flourishing of opera glasses, much looking down noses. For once, I didn’t care. I knew I was looking my best, I could tell from Thomas’s expression. I concentrated on sitting up straight and doing the tiara justice.
The overture began at last, and the fashionable world fell away. I forgot all about everything, even my tiara. The music was like—oh, I can’t think of anything that isn’t trite. Instead, I will compare it to that day last spring when I attended the investiture at the Royal College of Wizards and stumbled across the threshold into a garden far away. Between one step and the next, I crossed into another world.
The music was like that.
When we left the opera house, it was quite a disappointment to me that we spoke ordinary words. It would have seemed more natural to sing. I wonder if that is what birds do. Lucky birds, if so.
By the time we returned to Lady Sylvia’s house, the music had faded. I was in the real world again. But I hadn’t been alone on that voyage. It is always difficult to deduce what tune Thomas thinks he’s humming, but in this case, I recognized certain passages distinctly.
Only thirteen days until we go to the opera again. It seems an eternity!
17 September 1817
Paris
At Lady Sylvia’s house
At times I had grave doubts, but I have survived Lady Sylvia’s card party. I made a cake of myself, but it was only a small cake, and not in the usual way, for nothing whatever was spilt, torn, or broken.
With Lady Sylvia’s help and Cecy’s encouragement, I chose which of my new gowns to wear last night. It is the color and texture of a pink rose petal, and it fits to perfection. I wore my best pearl necklace, and when I put in the pearl eardrops Aunt Elizabeth gave me, I remembered the charm she cast upon them. If it worked so spectacularly upon Cecy’s, surely mine would be safe for one evening.
I haven’t dared to jinx it by remarking upon it aloud, but I’ve been having an extraordinarily good run of neither losing nor breaking things. I devoutly hope my luck will hold. As I readied myself for the evening, I made all sorts of bargains with Providence in hopes it would not give out spectacularly while I was in the presence of the Duke of Wellington himself.
I was ready in good time, but I stayed in my room until the last possible moment, eager to avoid any possible mishap. Perhaps it was a mistake to spend so much time alone thinking about it. As I waited, I grew more and more convinced that some great piece of clumsiness would befall me before the evening was over.
Thomas came to fetch me down and with a single glance took in my frame of mind. “Goose.” He crossed the room and took me in his arms. I rested against him, sending up a silent prayer of thanksgiving that my husband was not one to ask what was the matter or to need things explained. “It’s all right, you know.” He drew back a little to take a better look. “You do know, don’t you?”
“I know.” My words came out in a very timid way. “I’m just a coward.”
Thomas made a noise expressing disagreement and disbelief. “Gammon. You’re aware of the possibilities, that’s all. Social acuity is an asset.”
“I’m well aware of the possibilities. I’m aware that I have hardly
dropped a crumb in days. What are the odds that I spill something sticky on someone important tonight?”
I could tell Thomas was thinking it over. “You’re right. You haven’t had anything turn awkward since you dropped that jam-side-down slice of toast in your lap at breakfast last week.”
I’d forgotten that. “I was thinking of the sauce I spilt on my bodice at dinner five days ago.”
“Five whole days? You’re right. Steps must be taken.” Thomas chose a glass on a tray left on the tea table and poured water from the accompanying carafe until it reached the rim. “Hand that to me, please.”
I picked it up and the inevitable happened. An ounce or two of water spilt from the glass to the tray. Thomas took the brimming glass from me and put it back on the tray. “There. We’ll see if that helps, shall we?”
I mopped up the spill with my handkerchief. Thomas took the sodden bit of fabric away from me. “Find yourself another handkerchief, my dove, and we will go down to put it to the test.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound like shirking or whining, so I just looked at him. He held me. “You needn’t come down if you don’t wish to, but I hate the thought of you alone up here, castigating yourself.”
“I’m so afraid I’ll do something to embarrass you.” In fact, I had a strong presentiment I was doomed to. Not all the preemptive water spilling in the world would save me from my fate. “I just have a feeling I might—”
Thomas put me away from him, suddenly all decision. “I don’t like the cut of this coat above half. If you feel it coming on, spill something on me. It would give me a good reason to be rid of it.” Thomas put my hand on his sleeve and we left the room to proceed very slowly and very carefully down the stairs.
James looked as stylish as Thomas did, all sign of his indisposition gone. Cecy was resplendent in a green gown that did wonderful things for her eyes. Lady Sylvia, as ever, was the personification of breeding and taste. Her gown was simple to the point of severity, her jewels understated yet profoundly impressive. She leaned upon an ebony walking stick, her air one of perfect ease, ready to greet her old friends. It was her past we were meeting that night, her comrades in arms, her allies. As her guests arrived, I marveled at the army of affection she commanded, all the while I took pride in the role I played in her family.
Chicken stakes. The phrase makes wagering sound rather fun. Insignificant losses balanced against the insignificant wins and the all-important amusement of oneself and one’s friends.
Perhaps my dread of embarrassment turned on itself somehow. For whatever reason, I found the prospect of playing cards for an evening held no appeal. Indeed, it filled me with misgiving. Each time I inspected my hand, I asked myself if this was how Georgy had started on her road to disgrace.
It was my social duty to play cards, to help amuse Lady Sylvia’s guests. Therefore, I played cards. Yet my careful cheerfulness didn’t fool Thomas, for after the first change of tables, he collected me from the group I’d been about to join and beckoned a friend over to play in my place.
“My apologies, ladies and gentlemen,” Thomas said as he took my hand. “I will return her eventually. For now, duty calls.”
One of the men at the table knew Thomas of old, it was clear from his mocking tone. “You’re a dutiful man, Schofield. I’ve always said so. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.” We were chaffed good-naturedly, but they let us go.
Thomas escorted me out of the card room. In the small room adjacent to it, we were able to converse in an undertone.
“Kate, what is it? Do you have a headache? Have you torn your gown? I’ve been watching you play, and with every hand you look more and more unhappy.”
“No, do I?” I felt dismayed. I’d been trying so hard to conceal my feelings.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. I don’t object to playing cards since it is to oblige Lady Sylvia.” I trailed off before Thomas’s penetrating glance.
“Out with it.” Thomas was stern. “You don’t object to playing cards. Now that we’ve established that, what do you object to?”
“I’m being foolish.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. I am the arbiter of all things foolish, at least in this arrondissement. Ask anyone. So. Whatever it is that’s making you look so sad, tell me.”
“I wish I didn’t have to gamble.”
Thomas looked adorably confused. “What are you talking about? You aren’t gambling. This isn’t Watier’s. It’s a simple card party.”
“But I am gambling. We all are.”
Thomas shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. “We’re playing for chicken stakes. Nothing more. That’s not real gambling. Gambling is when there’s a stack of guineas the size of your head riding on the turn of a card or the throw of the dice.” Thomas did not seem to find this an unpleasant thought.
“Chicken stakes,” I repeated. “That’s how Georgy began. Soon enough she had to borrow my jewelry to cover her losses.”
“She’s your sister, so I will use moderate language, no matter how great the provocation.” Gravely, Thomas held my gaze with his own and I could not doubt his sincerity. “Georgy is an utter peagoose. You are not.”
“Georgy began by playing in a setting very like this, and she is now so hardened a gambler that she must at all costs be kept from it.”
“You, my buttercup, are not your sister. For which I offer frequent prayers of gratitude to a merciful God.”
At times, Thomas’s choice of endearments can be distracting. I believe he does it on purpose. I let the buttercup go and kept to the point. “You asked me what was troubling me and I am trying to explain. Georgy takes after Grandfather. I am his grandchild just as much as she is, and I’m afraid I will take after him, too.”
Thomas was much struck by this reminder. “Faro Talgarth, they called him. I’m sorry, Kate. I’d forgotten that.”
“He was clever about wagers, most of the time,” I conceded. “With all the practice he had, I suppose his expertise was almost inevitable.”
“He made quite a name for himself at the tables, I can’t deny it. I apologize. I wasn’t thinking.” Thomas took a quick look to be sure we were unobserved, and kissed me.
“You do that so well,” I told him. “Apology accepted.”
“I should apologize well. With all the practice I’ve had?” Thomas looked back into the card room. “They all look happy as children, even Old Hooky. You’ve not been missed by now, so you won’t be missed in future. I can think of several ways around the problem. I’ll leave it to you to choose. I could hereby forbid you to play, even for chicken stakes. I don’t recommend that alternative. It would be quick and easy, but, unfortunately, it is as good as a public statement that I don’t trust you not to have the family failing. Now, almost as easy, since we have an audience conveniently at hand, I could make a point of cajoling you to play cards.”
“But I don’t wish to play cards,” I protested. “Really, I don’t.”
Thomas was all patience. “Yes, Kate. That’s precisely what you say. As many times as necessary. Tell me you’d rather sit by me as I play my hand, smile at me with insipid sweetness, that sort of thing.”
“Oh.” Belatedly, I saw Thomas’s point. “I suppose I could do that.”
“Or you could simply say you don’t know any card games and you refuse to learn. No one minds a touch of the farouche in a new bride.”
I tried out an insipid smile. Thomas seemed to find no fault with it. “I’d rather sit by you and watch you play your hand.”
“So you shall, then.” Thomas looked a little wistful. “It’s the best choice. Some other time I will come the stern husband and forbid you to do something.”
“Oh, are you looking forward to that?” I asked.
“Yes, very much. Some other time you will obey me, as you vowed at the altar when we were married.”
I felt a pang of pure sentiment. My affection for Thomas surpassed even my g
ratitude for his ready understanding and sympathy. “I shall obey you, as I love and honor you.”
Something in my words seemed to touch Thomas deeply, for he looked at me with such an expression of soft and open affection that my breath caught. He said, “With my body, I do worship thee, Kate.” After a moment, he murmured in my ear, so close his warm breath tickled me. “We’ll have a spot of that later, if you’ve no objection.”
“Not the least objection in the world,” I assured him with heartfelt sincerity.
From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.
A card party sounds as if it must be the most pedestrian entertainment possible, but from the moment responses to Lady Sylvia’s invitation began arriving, it was obvious that an invitation from her carried the weight of a royal command. His Grace, the Duke of Wellington, was perhaps the most illustrious of the guests, but there were sufficient lesser luminaries present that when he arrived and glanced around, he asked Lady Sylvia whether she had ambition to take the place of the late Madame de Staël as the heart of intellectual Paris.
“None whatever,” Lady Sylvia replied. “If Paris wishes to have an intellectual center, she must make her own arrangements. I have quite enough to do already.”
His Grace gave her a sharp look down his long nose. “Indeed?”
“Indeed,” Lady Sylvia said. She made a completely unnecessary show of consulting the schedule of tables and said, “We shall be partnered later this evening. If you still wish to hear my views on Madame de Staël, you may inquire then.” Firmly, she introduced him to Kate and me and sent him in to mingle with the other guests.
For the first few rounds of play, we were all separated, doing our duty at different tables. I soon became accustomed to shifting partners periodically, and to hiding my annoyance when my partner misplayed and lost us the hand. I was quite enjoying myself when, at the end of a particularly good round, James appeared to collect me for the next game.
Since a number of the guests had elected to trade positions, and several had abandoned the card tables entirely for the refreshments at the end of the parlor (thus totally confusing Lady Sylvia’s careful arrangements), I was a little surprised to see him. We repaired to a table that had been set up in a rather cramped alcove in the library. Lady Sylvia and the Duke were already waiting, seated across from each other, so that James and I would play against them.
The Grand Tour Page 13
