“Come now, Mr. Fairchild, you cannot think her capable of such a thing!”
“It is beneath me to say it, but I implore you not to judge me. I have always felt a bit protective of Bainbridge. There is so much bluster to him, with all his talk of being useless and vapid and bent on nothing but debauchery. Beneath all that, I think he is not so corrupt as he would like us to believe.”
“I could not agree more.”
“If only you had married him!” He finished his cigarette and flicked away the butt.
“That, Mr. Fairchild, would have been a disaster.”
“Forgive me. I speak out of turn. I am a great admirer of your husband. He is a gentleman worthy of you. I suppose if I am critical of Miss Wells it is because so much in her behavior reminds me of one of the first questions Bainbridge posed in a letter he wrote to me soon after meeting her in Cairo. ‘Can such a girl exist?’”
“You think her character false?”
“I should like very much to know if she was so fond of whisky and cards and gentlemen behaving badly before she decided she wanted to be a duchess.”
“She has a fortune of her own and has no need for his.”
“But you know these Americans, Lady Emily. They long for the satisfaction of a title. They are all scrambling to increase their fortunes and their influence. That is the trouble with a meritocracy. One always feels that one must prove oneself, over and over. Once in possession of a title, however, one may sit back, breathe deeply, and enjoy it.”
“I don’t see what difference it will make to her father,” I said, “and he is the one scrambling to keep the fortune multiplying.”
“The title secures their social rank, even with their fellow Americans, who are not supposed to care about such things. I have no doubt his business associates are not so immune to the luster of blue blood. After all, what they really want is to be admitted to the club. They cannot be born into it, but with a big enough fortune, they can buy their way in through marriage. Lord knows there are enough impoverished noble families in Britain to satisfy their needs.”
“So you think Miss Wells is after nothing more than a title?”
“I do.”
“I suppose it is difficult for me to understand the appeal.”
“That, Lady Emily, is because you were born with the blood. An earl’s daughter will always be an earl’s daughter. You take it for granted, and have been afforded the privileges of rank all your life.”
“Do you think she will make him happy?”
“For a while.” Mr. Fairchild tossed his ivory-handled walking stick into the air and caught it without breaking his stride. “Bainbridge is unlikely to remain a devoted spouse when at last the time comes that whisky and cards are less interesting to his wife than they appear to be now. That is not much different than most marriages, so I ought not be concerned. Yet there is something about her…” His voice trailed. “We must speak no more on this subject. Bainbridge is happy, and the choice of wife is his alone.”
“Did Mr. Neville approve of the match?”
“Wholeheartedly. I think he was half in love with Miss Wells himself. Not, mind you, that he would have ever acted on the emotion. Enough, though. Let us enjoy this fine day while we can. Why court trouble before its time has come? It is good to be outdoors and engaged in physical activity. Perhaps we could organize a game of croquet when we return to the hotel.”
“I should have thought you would suggest cricket,” I said.
“We would not have the correct number of players even if I could convince you ladies to play. Although, if I may be so bold, you would look quite fine in whites. Refashioned in an appropriate style, of course.”
The steep streets of Le Suquet had slowed our progress considerably, and our pace was hardly half what it had been along La Croisette. Houses lined the narrow passages, their walls painted pale shades of yellow, ranging from the creamiest vanilla to the deepest gold. Their shutters, pastel green, blue, lavender, and lilac, were closed against the heat of the day—Amity should, perhaps, have had us make an earlier start—and flowers spilled from the window boxes beneath a handful of them. This section of Cannes felt a world removed from the seaside, with its grand hotels and wide promenade. Here no one had bothered to plant palms. The gardens were filled with citrus trees and redbuds and the evergreens imported by Napoleon’s soldiers at the beginning of the century. Men in striped shirts populated the outdoor tables at quiet cafés, waiters bringing them cool glasses of the rosé wine produced in nearby Provence.
The number of tourists we encountered declined as we continued our climb up the increasingly steep hill. Most of them preferred to stay on La Croisette and the fashionable streets nearby or, if they proved slightly adventurous, took carriages to view the medieval church at the top. As we approached Notre Dame de l’Espérance, the pavement opened into a wide staircase that led to the old castle walls.
“None of you should ever forgive me for making us do this in the heat,” Amity said. “It was much cooler down by the sea. I did not realize the sun up here would be quite so unforgiving.”
“Not nearly so bad as Egypt,” Jeremy said, exchanging a nauseating look with his fiancée. “I can think of several occasions on which we suffered more there.”
“Correct as always, darling,” she said, and kissed him.
“Ho!” A voice came from the walls above. “You are all pathetically slow. I have been here for ages.” It was Augustus, standing on the ramparts, a large yellow carnation in his buttonhole and an umbrella shading his pale features.
“What a treat,” Margaret said, dropping Colin’s arm and looping hers through mine. “I do despise that boy.”
“This is a topic that can do me no credit,” Mr. Fairchild said, leaving us to it. “Deliver me, Hargreaves.” They pulled ahead, leaving us to continue our discussion in private.
“I have not had much conversation with him,” I said. Margaret slowed her pace so that we fell behind the rest of the group. “He scuttles away whenever I speak to him.”
“I have talked to him enough to believe that he is the sort of person who might enjoy tormenting kittens,” Margaret said. “There is cruelty in nearly all of his comments.”
“Does he not collect butterflies?” I asked. “I recall Amity saying something to that effect.”
“Yes, and I am convinced he does so only because he likes sticking pins through them. Lord, it’s hot. Will we ever reach the top of these stairs?”
We did, although it took a considerable effort in the heat, but the view from the top of the old walls proved well worth the climb. The church stood immediately beneath us. Opposite it, to the north, the terra-cotta tiled rooftops of the city spread farther below us, but to the southeast they gave way to the Mediterranean, whose waters, now the color of lapis lazuli sprinkled with silver, had become rougher since we left the hotel. The wind felt stronger as well, but that was to be expected on the ramparts. I was surprised, however, to feel a shiver go through me. Colin came up behind me and draped a shawl over my shoulders.
“I knew you would feel chilled by the wind after the exertion of the climb.”
“You are very good to me,” I said. He wrapped his arms around me and I pressed against him. “Margaret has already gone down to the church and appears to be questioning an unsuspecting priest about something or other. She has got Mr. Fairchild in tow,” I said. “Jack is helping Christabel with her camera near that olive tree—”
“I prefer the view of the sea,” Colin said.
“Do allow me to finish, please. Amity and Jeremy are with her brother, still on the walls, but a fair distance from us. Which means, my dear husband, that we are very nearly alone.”
He eyes sparkled. “Your powers of observation are enviable,” he said. “I cannot believe I was foolish enough to allow the view to distract me when I ought to have been—”
I turned to him and kissed him. Had I allowed him to keep talking, the opportunity might have escaped us. “I
think the monks would have approved, do you not? They would not have constructed their church and castle and walls in such a romantic spot otherwise.”
“Surely the monks constructed these battlements with an eye to defense rather than—”
He stopped as a scream pierced the air. It was Amity. We moved as quickly as possible along the rough and uneven path through the ramparts until we reached her. Her face, drawn and pale, and her eyes, filled with tears, suggested some sort of injury, but it was Jeremy, not her, who appeared to be the worse for wear. He had fallen, face first, into the crenel between the solid parts of the battlement and appeared to be convulsing.
“Jeremy!” I pushed Augustus away and reached for my friend, stopping only when it became clear the convulsions were due to laughter. “What happened?”
“Oh, my dear, dear Amity.” He ignored me altogether and reached for his fiancée. “You ought not shriek like that—it will make a man think something terrible has happened.” He covered his mouth with his hand and shook his head, unable to control his mirth. “What will our friends think? If you were behaving like a lady, my dear, you would not want to draw attention to the fact that I tripped.”
“Jeremy—”
Amity interrupted me, but Jeremy had not so much as taken notice of our arrival. “I tripped, my love,” she said, brushing away her tears, “and I fell right against you. Thank heavens the force wasn’t enough to send you…” She gulped and the tears started again.
“It would have been difficult to get him to really fly.” Augustus’s voice was flat. “The crenel is nearly three feet deep, I would say.”
“Thank heavens for that,” Colin said. “Are you hurt in any way, Bainbridge?”
Jeremy was brushing dust from his jacket. “I am not certain that my lapels shall ever truly recover, and my pride has, without doubt, taken a serious blow. Other than that, I am entirely unharmed.”
“How did this happen?” I asked.
“As I said, Emily, I tripped.” Amity’s eyes were dry and clear again. “These cobbles or stones or whatever paves the walk are slippery—and we both know that ladies’ shoes are not meant for vigorous expeditions. The smooth soles are a hazard on any surface. I reached out for Jeremy as I started to fall, but wound up pushing rather than grabbing him. You are quite certain I have not hurt you, my love?”
“Quite,” Jeremy said, kissing his fiancée on the cheek. “Are we going to look at this wretched church or not? I can’t say I have a mad desire to stay up here any longer.”
We descended from the walls—all of us, that is, save Augustus, who remained perched above, looking down in our direction with an eel-like grin on his face. I cannot claim any strict knowledge of eels, but I am certain that should one ever have the occasion to grin, it would bear an uncanny resemblance to him. Even after I turned away I could feel him watching me, and I was happy to disappear into the cool darkness of Notre Dame de l’Espérance. Happier still that Colin had had the foresight to bring me a shawl.
It did not take long to tour the small but lovely church, and soon we were back outside and again in the sun. We crossed through a stone archway and into a yard next to the old castle keep. Margaret and Amity had already made their way inside, the rest of the group trailing behind them—all except Augustus, who was now sitting on a wall much lower than that of the ramparts we had crossed. I walked over to him, nodding to tell Colin to go with the others.
“It is much warmer again here,” I said, sitting a few feet away from him. “The wind is not nearly so strong as it was above. I am struck as well by the difference in temperature when one is in the shade versus the sun.”
“I feel neither heat nor cold,” he said, not looking at me. His attention was focused below us. Flowering shrubs and trees planted along the wall were flourishing, and butterflies flitted from blossom to blossom before coming to rest on the fernlike leaves of a smallish mimosa tree.
“Do you know the name of that one?” I asked, pointing to one of the flying creatures whose wings were a striking shade of blue. “I cannot think when I have seen a butterfly quite that color.”
“It is the Iolana iolas, in French l’azuré du baguenaudier. I am quite certain you have creatures of a similar shade of blue in England.”
“I do not doubt you, but I cannot remember seeing one. It is such a lovely blue.”
“The underside of its wings are grey, utterly unremarkable.”
“Yet the tops almost shimmer,” I said. “Such beauty.”
“Beauty does not interest me,” Augustus said.
“Why not?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I like things that are deeper, that have meaning and truth.”
“That is a noble position, Mr. Wells. Many young men are easily distracted by exterior trappings.”
“I am not so very young, Lady Emily. I am twenty-three years old.”
I would have guessed he was no more than seventeen, but now, as I studied his face, I could see it was more mature than it appeared at a casual glance. “Not so very young, then,” I said. “I understand you are something of an expert in the study of butterflies.”
“I prefer burnets. They are a type of moth.”
“What color are they?”
“They are a genus, Zygaena, so their members can be any number of colors.” His tone felt like a reprimand. “I like the red and black ones the best.” An Iolana iolas landed on the wall next to him. He flattened his hand, palm up, near it, as if coaxing the delicate creature to come to him. The butterfly, looking almost as if it were hopping, moved onto his palm, and slowly Augustus lifted it until it was nearly level with his eyes. “They are very fragile, you know.”
“My nanny told me to never touch a butterfly’s wings,” I said. “That doing so rubs off the scales and leaves him unable to fly.”
Augustus grunted. “Not quite true, but it is the wicked sort of tale people like to tell children.” He lowered his hand and then, moving with deliberate care, reached out with a single finger from his other hand and gently stroked the butterfly’s wings.
“I don’t think you ought to—”
“Are you squeamish, Lady Emily?” He held up the finger to me, and I could see traces of powdery blue on it. “I shall keep going. Our friend will still be able to fly, he just won’t be such a lovely shade of blue.”
“Stop, Augustus!”
“Have you ever seen an old butterfly?” he asked. “Sometimes they have patches on their wings that are almost translucent where the scales have been rubbed away. It can happen over time.” He was petting the wing again.
“Please stop. Why are you doing this?”
“Because I like to. I am giving him character, making him appear older and wiser than he is.”
I clapped my hands loudly, startling the poor creature to fly away. “Butterflies are not meant to show signs of character and wisdom, Augustus. You might have harmed it.”
“I believe, Lady Emily, that I am better acquainted with butterflies than you. You may have harmed it far more than I by scaring it. As you saw, it was still perfectly capable of flight. I caused it no substantial damage.” He held out his hand flat again. “Here. Let us catch another.”
“No, Augustus, I do not wish to do any such thing. Please leave them be.”
“You do realize it is necessary to kill them if one wishes to study them, do you not? Science requires it. Is it not a beautiful thing, a discipline that requires darkness to reach the light?”
Amity
Four months earlier
Restlessness consumed Amity almost from the moment she arrived in Cairo. She might have told Jack she believed the society was second only to that in London, but in fact she would have preferred Paris, or some other cosmopolitan capital. Although she had come to adore India, she did not miss its humidity, yet she did not prefer the dusty heat of Egypt. Cairo was a filthy place, full of whining children, their hands outstretched, begging with thin, wheezing voices for money, no matter where she turned. Chr
istabel, however, felt altogether differently about it. She had come with the intention of catching a glimpse of some distant sort of relation, an eccentric lady who had married an even more eccentric archaeologist. Unfortunately, the lady in question proved uninterested in family connections, and would not agree to a meeting. Christabel took the failure of her purpose in stride, and threw herself into exploring the region and enjoying its society.
She insisted that Amity accompany her when she shopped for trinkets in the Khan el-Khalili, rebuking her friend when Amity insisted there was nothing to be seen that she would wish to purchase.
“How can you not long for these little leather slippers?” Christabel asked. “The work on them is exquisite and you will never find their equal in New York, of that I am certain. I am taking three pairs, and I shall feel like an exotic princess every time I wear them.”
“You are very easily amused, Christabel.”
“I do not take your remark as a criticism. What has happened to you, Amity? You were unhappy when you arrived in India, but no sooner had we started exploring than you fell in love with the place. Will you not give Egypt the same chance?”
Amity curled her lip. “Were it possible to escape from the feeling of constantly having sand rubbing against my skin, I might.”
“You will feel differently after we see the pyramids tonight.”
Christabel’s optimism proved incorrect. Amity appeared in all ways unimpressed by the Giza plateau, and refused to climb to the top of the Great Pyramid.
“There is no view to see in the dark,” she said.
“Look at the stars above us, Amity,” Christabel said. “Imagine being even closer to them, with the lights of Cairo stretched out before us.”
“I thought we would have seen Jack by now,” Amity said, not bothering to so much as glance at the stars. “We have been here for nearly three weeks.”
The Adventuress Page 6
