The Garden Intrigue

by Lauren Willig

“Livingston,” Augustus said flatly. “The younger one. Are you marrying him?”

  “It would be very hard for me to marry the older one,” said Emma sharply, “given that he’s been quite happily married since 1770.”

  Augustus gave her a look. “That’s not an answer.”

  “I’m not sure you deserve one.” Emma clawed at the itch on her arm, thwarted by her own gloved fingers. She squinted at Augustus, the sun full in her eyes. “I thought you were dying of a mysterious disease—or at least on the verge of fleeing the country. Instead, you drag me all the way out here to ask that?”

  Augustus was dark against the sun. “Horace de Lilly told me you refused the Empress’s offer of a position in her household. Is it true?”

  Emma raised a hand to shield her eyes. “What is this? Let’s interrogate Emma?” She was hot and itchy and irritable and unaccountably aggravated at Augustus, for reasons she didn’t quite understand and didn’t want to. “Yes. Yes, I did.”

  He looked like Cotton Mather ready to cast out a sinner. “Because you’re going back to America.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Emma flippantly. “I’m not going anywhere until after the masque is done. It won’t affect you.”

  “So you are—” Augustus stumbled a step back, his expression a study in confusion. “I didn’t think—I didn’t imagine you would really—”

  “Ever go anywhere?”

  That was her, everyone’s friend, Mme. Delagardie, always there, always available, excellent for confidences, fine to kiss when one was disappointed in love, but have a life or a love of her own? Not likely.

  “You didn’t imagine I would really what? Marry? I may not be your vision of Cytherea, but that doesn’t mean that no one wants to scale my tower.”

  Lies, all lies, but she was too angry to care.

  Augustus’s mouth opened and closed. Twenty-two cantos and she had rendered him speechless. “I never said that. I never meant—”

  “You never mean anything,” retorted Emma. “That’s just the problem. Words, words, words, all sound and fury signifying nothing. Heaven help you if you ever had to shout for help. You wouldn’t be able to put it in less than five cantos. You’d be drowned before you got out the cry.”

  Augustus ignored her ramblings. “Does he love you?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Who?” She wasn’t sure why she felt the need to draw this out, but she did. Revenge, perhaps. Revenge for dragging her out here, for making her worry, for peppering her with inconsequentialities, for pretending he cared who loved her and who didn’t. What did it matter? He wasn’t offering to take up the torch himself.

  “Livingston.” Augustus took a step forward. “Does he love you?”

  Oh, Lord, why was she doing this? Emma pressed her eyes together so she wouldn’t have to look at him. The sun made strange patterns against the lids.

  “As a cousin. He loves me as a cousin. That’s all. I’m not marrying him. I’m not going to America.” She forced out the words, tasting dust on her tongue, at the back of her throat. “Everything is exactly as it was.”

  Augustus drew in a deep breath, a long, rumbling breath that was a paragraph all of its own. “I’m glad,” he said softly.

  Was she meant to be glad he was glad? Emma felt her stomach clench with hurt and loss and confusion, all mixed together like cheap punch, the sort that burned the back of your throat and gave you a headache the following morning.

  “I’m so glad my life has been arranged for your convenience,” she said tartly.

  Augustus looked at her, relief written plainly across his face. “You’ve become one of my closest friends. Hell, you are my closest friend. I would have hated to lose you.”

  Emma couldn’t find it in her to respond. She knew he meant what he was saying, and meant it with all the fullness of his heart, but it scraped at the raw edges of her emotions. He pronounced it as though it were an honor to be bestowed upon her, the Order of the Most Excellent Friend, as though his feelings were all that mattered, his friendship, his loss. What about hers? What if she had wanted to marry Kort? Was his friendship alone meant to be compensation enough?

  She should be glad, she knew, glad he cared, glad he counted her a friend, glad he didn’t want her to go away, but, instead, she was tired and frustrated and dangerously out of sorts.

  Now that he had her life arranged to his satisfaction, Augustus was free to indulge his curiosity, “If you’re not leaving, why not join Madame Bonaparte?”

  Emma didn’t want to talk about it. If she were being honest, she didn’t want to talk to him. She shrugged. “I didn’t feel like it.”

  Augustus raised a brow. “You didn’t feel like it.”

  “If Madame Bonaparte was satisfied with my reasons, what is it to you? I wasn’t aware that I owed you an account of my actions.”

  Oblivious and undaunted, Augustus studied her face with the sort of curiosity usually reserved by naturalists for their specimens. “If you’re not marrying your cousin and you’re not joining Madame Bonaparte’s household—what are you doing?”

  Emma’s lips pressed together. “I am taking a lover and moving to Italy, where I intend to join a traveling commedia dell’arte troupe. All right?”

  Her voice veered dangerously high on the last word. She needed to leave. She needed to leave now, before she said something ridiculous or, even worse, started crying for no reason at all other than the sun and her aching head and the drops of sweat like slow torture, dripping, dripping, dripping between her skin and her chemise, making her itch and ache and want to stomp on something.

  She turned on her heel, prepared to stomp back to the house, when Augustus said something that stopped her in her tracks.

  “You’re running away,” he said.

  His voice was soft and low, like the prickle of sweat against her skin, barely there, but impossible to ignore.

  She should ignore it, she knew. Just ignore it and walk away. She was in a foul, foul mood and anything she said right now she would only regret later. She knew that, in the sensible, rational part of her brain.

  But she turned anyway. Turned and said, incredulously, “What?”

  Augustus folded his arms across his chest, looking offensively cool and comfortable in his billowing linen shirt, surveying her with all the superiority of his extra inches.

  “You’re running away,” he repeated. “You won’t marry your cousin and you won’t join the court. You won’t go back to America, but you won’t settle at Carmagnac. You didn’t even want to write the masque until someone cornered you into it.”

  “A pity I didn’t trust my judgment about that,” Emma shot back. “We might have been spared a great deal of bother.”

  “No risk, no reward,” said Augustus coolly. “You aren’t willing to take the risks, so you forgo the rewards. You play with people and ideas, but you drop them before they get too serious—in the nicest possible way, of course. You wouldn’t want to upset anyone.”

  “You might want to give that some consideration.” Emma could feel herself shaking, literally shaking, from her slippers right up to her sleeves. The buzzing of the bees had become a buzzing in her ears. “Not upsetting anyone.”

  “You want everyone nice and calm and at a safe remove.” He was looking at her as though she were a butterfly pinned to a paper. It made Emma want to scratch him. “You won’t even have it out with that cretin Marston. You won’t tell him no, will you? You just placate him and put him off and hope he won’t cause a scene.”

  Emma’s voice was shaky with rage. “My relationship with Georges has nothing to do with you.”

  Augustus took a step forward, holding her in his gaze like a duelist with his opponent in his sights. “Your relationship with Georges has nothing to do with Georges, does it? You only picked him because you knew you wouldn’t have to keep him.”

  The smug certainty in his voice made Emma want to slap him. “You know nothing about it,” she said coldly.

  “I know you,
” he said, and then, unforgivably, “you’re hiding.”

  “Hiding?” Emma echoed. There was a red haze in front of her eyes. “I’m hiding? What about you?”

  There was an old adage about hornet’s nests. Augustus had the uneasy feeling that he had just kicked one.

  “This isn’t about me,” Augustus said hastily.

  In fact, this wasn’t supposed to be about either of them. This was supposed to be about Mr. Fulton and his mysterious plans. For the mission, he had told himself, all for the mission. It would arouse suspicion for a man alone to be loitering by the Emperor’s summerhouse. But a man and a lady, in a rose garden…who would remark on that? Not to mention the niggling little matter of Horace de Lilly’s bombshell about Emma’s supposed betrothal.

  It had been such a nice, tidy little plan: eavesdrop on the Emperor, reassure himself that this American marriage was just another nonsensical rumor.

  Until it wasn’t. Tidy, that is. In fact, it was starting to feel distinctly out of control. What in the blazes had he been thinking? He hadn’t been thinking. It had just all followed, one thing after another. It had rattled him, thinking she might actually be going back to America, marrying that taciturn cousin of hers. The rest had just…come out.

  “This isn’t about me,” he repeated.

  “Oh, isn’t it?” said Emma. Her gloved hands were clenched into fists at her sides and there were two bright red spots in her cheeks that had nothing to do with rouge.

  “You’re going to get sunburnt, standing out here like this,” said Augustus solicitously. “Perhaps we had better—”

  “And whose fault would that be?” In her anger, Emma seemed to grow a good three inches. It took Augustus a moment to realize she actually had. She was standing on tiptoe in her ridiculous, frivolous, ribbon-trimmed slippers. That was going to hurt in a moment or two, but for the moment, she was buoyed up with rage. “But, no, you had to drag me out here to ask ridiculous questions and cast aspersions on my character. Heaven forbid you tear me to bits in the comfort of a shady drawing room. No. It had to be out here.”

  “I wasn’t trying to tear you to bits,” Augustus said soothingly. “I just wanted—”

  “I know,” said Emma viciously. “To talk. Fine. We can talk. Do you want to talk about running away? Let’s talk about you. A grown man and you don’t even own a waistcoat!”

  That wasn’t fair. “I own a waistcoat,” he said defensively. “I don’t see where that—”

  “Don’t you? You can’t even commit to an outer garment, much less anything else, and you talk to me about running away?”

  It was time to get this conversation back where it belonged. “I was simply pointing out,” Augustus said in the most reasonable tone he could muster, “that you have managed to dodge every single commitment that’s been presented to you. If not hiding, what would you like to call it?”

  Emma went off like a grenade. “You. You have the nerve to stand here and ask me that? What do you know about commitment? I’ve kept Carmagnac going all these years. I have a house. I have dependents. I have responsibilities.”

  Did she want to talk about responsibilities? He’d say saving England from invasion was a jolly big responsibility. Knowing that if your messages were intercepted, people would die—that was responsibility. Knowing that lives depended on the insipidity of his poetry, on his eschewing the bloody waistcoat—that was responsibility. Knowing that he could damn himself by a chance word, by a slip, by a murmur in his sleep, that was responsibility.

  He had eschewed friendships, family, outer garments, all for this, and she told him he had no sense of responsibility? If it weren’t a matter of both personal and national security, he could pin back her ears with responsibility.

  But he couldn’t.

  Emma was still in full spate. “And you? You live in rented lodgings. You have no friends that I’ve seen. And what about family? No wife, no children, no parents, no siblings…”

  “I had a sibling. A sister.”

  That got her. Emma broke off mid-rant. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—Was she— Is she—?”

  “Married,” said Augustus grimly.

  She had dwindled into a country housewife, counting the chickens, making soup for the poor, more interested in the pantry than poetry.

  Emma settled her hands on her hips, her lips set so tightly, Augustus was amazed she could get the words through them. “That’s what normal, grown-up people do, Augustus. They don’t go around posturing from salon to salon, spouting ridiculous bits of verse. They get married. They grow up.”

  He had never heard that tone from her before, not even in the most acrimonious of their debates about the final act of the masque.

  “You should talk,” retorted Augustus. “Is there any ballroom that’s safe from you? When was the last time you refused an invitation? Or a glass of champagne?”

  Emma’s voice rose. “Do you think I enjoy this—limbo? I was married. If Paul hadn’t died, I would still be married. I would have a nursery and children and something more to think about than the next dress and the next ball. But Paul died.”

  Augustus was caught up short by the raw pain in her voice. This was an Emma he had never seen before.

  He had never thought that she might have loved her Paul, not like that. She had been fond enough of him, she had made that much clear; she had missed him, that was fair enough; but with all the ups and downs and gossip and scandal, Augustus had just assumed, as everyone else had, that it couldn’t have been a terribly deep emotion. As she had said herself, she had been young.

  He was an ass. A complete and utter ass.

  He was also, alarmingly, bitterly jealous of a dead man.

  Emma’s fingers twisted together, like snakes in a Greek sculpture. Her words tumbled out, one after the other. “He couldn’t help dying and I couldn’t stop it. Neither of us had that choice or that chance. But you do. You have every chance in the world and you chose to be what you are.”

  Augustus’s lips moved with difficulty. “What am I?”

  He could see Emma’s throat move as she swallowed. “A fainéant. A do-nothing.” She blinked away tears, tossing her head defiantly back. “Do you know what I think?”

  Augustus had the uncomfortable feeling that he was going to.

  “I think you wanted Jane because you knew she would never have you.” Her eyes glittered with a strange, fierce light. “I think you wanted her because she was safe. Cytherea is only Cytherea because she doesn’t leave the tower.”

  “I—” Augustus couldn’t think of anything to say.

  He didn’t have to.

  The door to the summerhouse rocketed open, hinges screeching. A man stormed onto the stairs, red-faced with heat and anger.

  “Can a man get no work done?” raged the Emperor.

  Chapter 25

  Journeys perilous, risks, and hazards,

  Man-high waves and mutinous laggards,

  Are easy tasks to undertake

  Compared to facing one’s own mistake.

  —Emma Delagardie and Augustus Whittlesby,

  Americanus: A Masque in Three Parts

  Augustus and Emma froze in the face of imperial wrath, arrested mid-argument.

  Had they been speaking that loudly? From the expressions of amusement and derision, Augustus could only assume they must have been.

  It wasn’t just Bonaparte on the steps but the entire flower of France’s navy ranged behind him, staring over his shoulder in varying degrees of annoyance, curiosity, and yawning indifference. Even the bees on the roses seemed to have stopped their buzzing to pause and stare.

  Augustus had forgotten, at some point in their discussion, that Bonaparte was just a window away. He had forgotten about everything except Emma and the words pouring from her lips. They buffeted him like the wind and waves of Mr. Fulton’s machine, sending him racketing about as helplessly as Americanus in his ill-fated barque, his mast broken, his defenses down. He felt like a necromancer who h
ad summoned a storm only to find it turned against him, scourged with lightning, deafened by thunder.

  Metaphor again, always metaphor. If he clung to metaphor, he wouldn’t have to think about the meat of it, what Emma had actually told him.

  She wasn’t the only one who knew how to hide.

  Next to him, Emma sank into a deep and hasty curtsy. Augustus could see only the very top of her head, gilded by sunlight. “I beg pardon, sire. We were just…talking. About the masque.”

  “Practicing the love scenes, were they?” murmured one officer to another.

  Augustus could see the tips of Emma’s ears go red. It was the only bit of her he could make out. It made him feel like the worst sort of cad. Exposing himself to scorn and derision—well, he was used to that. To expose her to the amusement and censure of Bonaparte’s entourage, that was another matter entirely.

  Bonaparte made a grunting noise. “The production had better be worth the trouble.”

  Trying to draw attention from Emma to himself, Augustus said loudly, “We strive to amuse, sire. We trust the mellifluous meditations of our meandering marauders shall be to your certain satisfaction.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Bonaparte impatiently. “Next time, confine your scenes to the theatre.”

  “Sire,” said Emma, and bowed her head still farther.

  “Enough, Madame Delagardie, enough.” The Emperor was inclined to be benevolent. Chucking her under the chin, he raised her to her feet. He wasn’t a large man, but she looked very small in his grasp. A moment ago, Augustus would have sworn she was the size of the Athena Nike, able to overleap buildings and shake the foundations of empires with the volume of her voice. “There’s no need for that. We were done here anyway. Weren’t we, gentlemen?”

  There was a decided note of challenge in his voice.

  Admiral Villeneuve opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  Robert Fulton stepped forward, holding himself stiffly. “I do not imagine we can have anything more to say.”