The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “There,” Thomas said with considerable satisfaction when we finally finished. “That should take care of things. Let’s go collect James and Kate before he decides I’ve turned you into a toad by accident.”

  “We should clear up before we go,” I pointed out. “If Mountjoy and the Conte notice sacks of colored chalk and puddles of wax and parrot feathers all over, they are bound to become suspicious.”

  Thomas agreed, though rather reluctantly, and we started working our way around the Basilica, clearing away all obvious traces of our spell. As we came to the rear of the Basilica, I heard voices behind the wall. “Thomas!” I hissed.

  Thomas nodded to indicate that he had heard me and gestured to me to hide. We slipped around the crumbling rear wall to a convenient clump of bushes. Thomas melted in among them with admirable ease. I followed, feeling thankful that I had had the forethought to wear a forest green walking-dress. A moment later we saw a group of people emerging from among the much more complete columns of the temple just behind the Basilica Julia. They started along the verge beside the Basilica, heading for the edge of the Forum, so that we could see and hear them all quite clearly as they passed by.

  The first to appear were two dark, stocky men in somewhat rough clothes. Theodore came next. He was dressed in a most peculiar fashion, in a robe heavy with tarnished gold embroidery. There was a wreath of stiff green leaves on his head and his forehead was shiny with oil. In one hand he carried a rusty sword, the same one we had seen in the museum in Milan; on the other was a heavy gold ring. His expression was rather blank, and he evinced no interest whatever in the antiquities around him but marched along as if he were in the middle of London. Behind Theodore came Lord Mountjoy, talking over his shoulder. It was his voice I had heard, and as he came through the columns I was able to make out the words.

  “—never liked the idea of such drastic changes,” Lord Mountjoy complained. “We had every reason to think the original spell would work perfectly. Now … Well, just look at the boy. He’s no different at all. If your alterations have spoiled the ritual, we’ve wasted six months of work.”

  “Patience,” said a woman’s voice, and, to my utter astonishment, the Contessa di Capodoro emerged from the shadows behind Lord Mountjoy. “It will take a little time for him to absorb his new role completely, especially since he was not expecting it. It would have gone better if you had prepared him more.”

  “It’s not as if I could explain,” Lord Mountjoy grumbled. “Heaven only knows what he’d have done if he’d understood properly.”

  A horrible feeling was growing on me. Lord Mountjoy and the Contessa were speaking as if the final ritual had already been completed. I glanced over at Thomas. He was frowning fiercely at the little group and did not notice.

  “Patience,” the Contessa said again. “We do not seek a mere Napoleon, remember. Our purposes require these changes. Unless you would prefer to shepherd your nephew through a decade of war before he rules all Europe unopposed?”

  “It will certainly be much simpler if people bow to him at once,” Lord Mountjoy admitted. “But I dabble a bit in magic myself, and there’s no reason I can see for changing the ritual from midnight to noon, let alone from the Basilica Julia to the Temple of Saturn. The Basilica is more suitable, to my thinking.”

  “That is because you do not know the Roman history so well,” the Contessa replied. I thought that she was annoyed, despite her outward appearance of calm.

  Lord Mountjoy did not notice. “Enlighten me.”

  “The Temple of Saturn is the oldest temple in Rome,” the Contessa said. “It is dedicated to the ancient god-king who ruled before Rome had an Empire, a god-king who ruled not by conquest, as Julius Caesar came to do, but by right. Since we—” She broke off suddenly, and her head came up as if she had heard something.

  “Yes?” Lord Mountjoy said.

  Theodore was by this time well ahead of the others, and was still marching steadily toward the edge of the Forum. The Contessa and Lord Mountjoy had reached the nearest end of the Basilica Julia, where they would have passed only a few feet from where Thomas and I were hiding if the Contessa had not stopped. I held my breath, but she was looking toward the Basilica and not the bushes.

  “What is it?” Lord Mountjoy asked.

  The Contessa waved him to silence. Frowning slightly, she began muttering under her breath. She made a sweeping gesture, and abruptly I felt quite ill. Beside me, Thomas gagged. It was very like the illness I had felt in the carriage outside St. Denis, just before the highwaymen stopped us and James was shot, but much stronger and more sudden.

  “Ah,” said the Contessa. She waved toward the bushes and said something in Italian to the two stocky men who accompanied her. They came up the steps and dragged Thomas and me out into the open. Neither of us was in any condition to resist.

  “What, what?” said Lord Mountjoy. “It’s that dratted Tarleton woman that Theodore keeps going on about. What’s she doing here?”

  “She and the Marquis have been attempting to interfere,” the Contessa said. “That is what I conclude from the aura lingering over the Basilica Julia. How fortunate that they chose the wrong place and the wrong time.”

  “Yes,” Lord Mountjoy said, rocking back on his heels. “Quite fortunate. But why did you drag them out? They haven’t done any harm, and now we have to decide what to do with them.”

  “We will bring them with us,” the Contessa said. “We cannot let them loose until the last spell is finished, or they may try to interfere again. Besides, they may be useful when we come to Nemi.”

  Though I did not have the strength to struggle, I did manage to wonder where Nemi was and what it had to do with their plans. Cavalier Coducci’s ritual had made no mention of that place, though it had specified a great many others. Naturally, the Contessa did not stop to explain to us. She spoke again to her two henchmen, then started after the rapidly vanishing Theodore. The men followed, dragging us along, and Lord Mountjoy brought up the rear, sputtering.

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  23 November 1817

  Rome

  At our lodging off the Piazza di Spagna

  This is speculation. Mere speculation. What I know for certain: Thomas and Cecy have not returned from their spell casting. No sign of them remains at the place chosen to set the spell. James and I searched it thoroughly.

  James returned to search again after he brought me back here. I wished to stay with him, but he insists one of us must be here to receive a message, should one be sent. That is good, sound, practical thinking. I’m glad that James is here to provide it. I find myself incapable. With every hour that passes, I find it more difficult to discipline my thoughts.

  This book has given me a place to record my reflections. I don’t wish to record the reflections I’m having now.

  If Thomas were here, he would tell me to stop being such a watering pot.

  Later

  It is after midnight, and still no sign of Thomas or Cecy. James sent me a message. Under the circumstances, he has notified the authorities of Thomas and Cecy’s disappearance. He is on his way to Lord Sutton to enlist all the help our embassy can provide. No word yet of Mountjoy’s whereabouts, still less the young Theodore. No doubt when we find one, we will find the other.

  Later

  I must be calm. I must remain collected. Yielding to my natural impulses will do nothing to help anyone, least of all Thomas. Therefore, I will remain collected. I will be calm. Unless I cannot control myself. In which case I must admit that I am succumbing to the vapors and take to my bed like the poor useless creature that would make me. I do not wish to take to my bed. I do not intend to succumb to the vapors. Therefore I am calm.

  Later

  Reardon has just brought me a plate of toasted cheese. Given the difference between Roman bread and bread at home, given the difference between the cheeses, she could not have done more to duplicate the toasted cheese of my wistful thoughts of home.
It was her intention to soothe and comfort me. It is not her fault that the kindness of her gesture overset me. I do feel better for having indulged in a few tears. In truth, it was my foolish distress over the sight of a flea that sent me up into the boughs. Nothing could have brought Thomas’s absence home to me more directly than the sight of a flea. I had almost forgotten fleas existed.

  If Cecy were here, she would tell me we must do something.

  I agree wholeheartedly. Yet I seem unable to do anything at all. If I were in an opera, I would have an aria to sing. That would be some comfort. Even if it wasn’t a very good aria, it would at least prove a distraction. As it is, I sit here in the dark and long for morning, even as I dread it. I think the same numb thoughts over and over. Thomas, where are you? You can’t be dead. Surely you cannot be dead. I would know it if he were dead. But if something terrible has happened to him, what am I to do? How can I possibly tell Lady Sylvia that her only remaining son has gone? It is too dreadful, simply beyond contemplation.

  When I find out what happened, when we know who is responsible for this, I shall insist upon a reckoning. James may carry out every threat he has made. He has my permission to beat anyone he pleases insensible. But I insist upon a reckoning.

  24 November 1817

  Thomas is still missing and Cecy with him. James returned a few hours ago looking perfectly haggard. He spent the small hours of the morning with Piers and the men they’ve enlisted to help in the search. He only returned here to shave and change clothes.

  With deep reluctance, James described last night’s interview with Lord Sutton to me. Our esteemed ambassador, who I gather was well flown with wine at the time, is inclined to treat the entire matter as a joke. The obvious explanation, according to Lord Sutton, is that Thomas and Cecy have run away together—an elopement of sorts—and that Mountjoy has nothing to do with anything. The embarrassment is unfortunate, of course, but the sooner one learns to live with it, the better.

  Poor James. It must have taxed his social ingenuity, as well as his temper, to the utmost. Then, after enduring such treatment, he had to return here and describe it all to me.

  Now I think of it, James might not have described it all to me. It might have been a good deal worse. It would be just like him to spare my feelings. What he told me was quite sufficiently dreadful. I won’t press him for more.

  Thomas would never try to spare my feelings.

  This really will not do. Watering pot, watering pot, watering pot!

  Why did I not insist that Thomas teach me to use magic? Without that skill, I am surrounded by tools and I cannot use them. All I need is the simplest location spell. Thomas travels with a staggering amount of luggage. Any article of his clothing would do—if I had the skill. Cecy’s pearl earrings have a spell ready cast upon them. So do mine. Alas, there is no way to make my pearl earrings take the slightest interest in hers. My own wedding ring, so inconveniently tuned to Thomas in the matter of nausea and faintness, could surely be of use—had I any skill whatsoever. But I don’t. If I get Thomas back, I swear I’ll make him teach me.

  I have gone through every article of our luggage—even Cecy’s things—and the only item that seems of any use whatever is the coarse powder Thomas swept up after Cecy blew up the desk at the Palazzo Flangini. Magical residue, he called it. The laws of probability on holiday, he said. What application the laws of probability will have, I do not know. It is not as if I know anything about them. But Thomas handled it with such care that I will be careful of it, too.

  Later

  With Reardon’s help, I intend to take steps. We have enlisted Walker as our chief ally. The moment the hour has advanced sufficiently to make a social call possible, I mean to visit Lord Sutton’s residence.

  It is hours until then. In the ordinary way of things, I would pass the time by writing in this journal. But now I find it difficult to form my thoughts into words fit for the page. I don’t wish to remember this.

  Last night was the first night Thomas and I have spent entirely apart since we were married.

  Later

  It is in the lap of the gods now. Or perhaps I ought to say goddesses. For the moment I have done what I can. Reardon has brought me another plate of toasted cheese, and this time I was able to eat every morsel. From that, and her general air of celebration as she told Walker about our call, I gather that I have acquitted myself well.

  From James’s description of Lord Sutton’s misapprehension, I knew it was vital I make it clear that Thomas and Cecy could not possibly have disappeared for the motive ascribed to them by common gossip. Therefore, I was determined that I would change the ambassador’s mind. No amount of common sense from James would do it, and no mere words of mine would succeed, either. It was incumbent upon me to present myself as a woman no man in his right senses would leave for another.

  As soon as it was light, I attempted to explain my intention to Reardon. I had not gone beyond the first halting words when her eyes lit up and she asked, “May Walker help?”

  “Of course. I shall need all possible assistance,” I said.

  Reardon said, “Chin up, my lady. I think you’ll be surprised at the difference a few touches can make.”

  “I’m willing to try anything,” I said. “Even gilding my toenails.”

  Reardon looked as if she’d tasted something sour. “There will be no need for that sort of thing, my lady.”

  Within the hour, I scarcely knew whether I was on my head or on my heels. Walker and Reardon between them had dressed me in the best of the Parisian gowns suitable for day, a pink morning dress, had done my hair in a style utterly foreign to me, and had applied themselves to those touches of immaculate grooming that I generally despair of.

  “This is Thomas’s favorite gown,” I said as Walker made slight adjustments to the bodice.

  “Of course it is,” said Walker. “In this gown, you in no way resemble a woman whose husband would leave her for another.”

  Reardon made a small sound of pure disapproval. “She is a lady, not a woman.”

  “No, no.” Walker was firm. “In this gown, milady is entirely a woman. Wait and see. It is the coiffure that renders the effect. Lord Sutton will not understand why he regards her as a lady, for all his attention will be upon the gown. Yet the coiffure will influence him without his knowledge, and he will treat her as the lady she is.”

  “I just want him to realize he’s made a foolish mistake,” I said tartly.

  “Hold still just one more moment,” said Reardon. “There. That does it.” Under her direction, I turned slowly in a circle so my two critics could survey their handiwork.

  “Head up, back straight,” said Reardon. “Shoulders back.”

  “The slippers are perfect,” said Walker. “No eye could fail to note the workmanship.”

  “With the right shoes, gloves, stockings, and hat,” said Reardon, “Lady Schofield would always be known for a true lady, no matter what gown she wore.”

  “But this gown makes it simple for the world to see with one glance that Madame la Marquise is a young lady.” Walker settled my mysterious pink shawl on my shoulders with precision. It was reckless to trust an unknown charm, but in my situation, the chance it could help me detect a lie was worth the risk.

  “Now keep your shoulders back, do not hold your chin too high, and all will be perfection.” Walker clasped her hands. “Just so.”

  “Thank you for your help.” I turned to Reardon. “Is the carriage ready?”

  Reardon handed me my muff and reticule. “Everything is ready, my lady.”

  Reardon and I did not exchange a word on the ride to the ambassador’s residence. I was ready for any of my usual domestic troubles, from a snagged stocking to a torn hem, but nothing untoward occurred. I had one moment of panic as I waited for the response when I sent in my card. What if my talent for telling lies would not extend so far as my need to tell the truth? What if Lady Sutton was not at home? What if she were not at home to me? What if m
y reputation was already insufficient to gain entry anywhere? How would Lady Sylvia deal with this situation?

  Lady Sylvia would demand entry, I decided, as I tightened my shawl around my shoulders. Its warmth and softness comforted me. If it turned into some kind of trap, I would tear it off and go without. Whoever sent that shawl, it reminded me of Lady Sylvia just the same. Just the thought of her steeled my resolve. When the butler returned to show me in to Lady Sutton’s presence, I did as I’d been told. Head high, shoulders back, chin up, but not too far.

  Lady Sutton was not, as I had hoped, alone. An elderly lady, with sharp features so like Lady Sutton’s that she must surely be her mother, was knitting by the fire. Lady Sutton was at a writing desk nearby. Both regarded me with the keenest of eyes as I stood in the doorway.

  Now I think of it, in the days of my London Season, I would have found their scrutiny disturbing. I would have wished myself miles away. Every step into the room would have been an adventure, for I would have worried that I would trip over the edge of the carpet or somehow contrive to slip and lose my balance for no reason at all.

  Nothing of the kind occurred. I met their scrutiny and returned it. Indeed, I felt a pang of triumph when I saw the way Lady Sutton’s eyes widened and then narrowed to study me.

  Yes, I told myself, that was exactly the effect I had hoped to achieve when I asked Reardon and Walker for their help. Just that look on Lady Sutton’s face. I let myself draw courage from my success.

  I suppose any fencing match begins the same way. We were all three of us extremely polite as we took one another’s measure. I apologized for intruding so unexpectedly. Lady Sutton introduced me to her mother, Mrs. Montgomery, and had me share the settee opposite. I let the exchange of pleasantries go on until I could see Lady Sutton’s curiosity agleam in her sharp eyes. When I judged the time was right, I asked the question that had brought me there.

  “I’ve come to ask your opinion, Lady Sutton, Mrs. Montgomery.” With what I devoutly hoped was a stately nod, I indicated my intention to consult both ladies. I schooled my countenance to convey my respect for their wisdom, my regard for their position, and the possibility that butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. “Would you advise me to seek an interview with Lord Sutton on my own behalf? There has been a grave misunderstanding.”