This wasn’t what they had fought for, he and Julie.
André took the candle with him, using it to light his way to the room he had appropriated as a study.
There was a crayon drawing of Gabrielle and Pierre-André propped over the mantelpiece, the only item of personal significance that André had brought with him from Nantes to Paris all those years ago. In it, Gabrielle was a curly-haired five, Pierre-André a round-cheeked infant.
It was the last work Julie had done before she died.
Perhaps she was the lucky one, Julie, not to have seen how it all turned out, all their brave dreams of a world reborn. How joyously they had donned the Revolutionary cockade, seizing the chance for all their philosophies to be made flesh. Ancient injustice was to be banished, feudal dues abolished, the antiquated system that pitted noble against commoner erased. The Age of Reason had at last arrived, and they were its heralds.
André had attended the National Convention as one of the Nantes delegation, raising his voice against the entrenched evils of privilege and power, while Julie put her arguments into paint, creating bold historical scenes, mostly drawn from Ancient Rome, all depicting the triumph of Republican virtue over aristocratic sloth. Her Mother of the Gracchi had been all the rage, eclipsing even David’s Oath of the Horatii in its depiction of the sacrifices for one’s country incumbent upon a good citizen.
But not these sorts of sacrifices. Nor the ones that had been demanded by the guillotine in the name of public safety. That wasn’t the sort of world he and Julie had so optimistically planned to bequeath to their children.
Oh, Julie. André was tired and lonely and his head hurt.
Draping his coat over the back of his chair, André carefully lowered the fifty-odd pages of notes he held under his arm onto his desk. He would just go say good night to Gabrielle and Pierre-André before he went back to work. It was probably nothing more than a fancy, but he hadn’t been able to rid himself of the unease that Delaroche’s words had aroused in him. He didn’t want Delaroche anywhere near his children.
André could feel the warmth of the nursery through the door even before he entered. It seeped through his bones straight into his soul, the knowledge that while outside the world might be mad, within lay peace and serenity, his children warm and safe.
André pushed gently at the door, one of the flimsy half-panels to which the last century’s aristocratic set appeared to be prone. The door gave an appalling groan as it opened, but there was no answering noise from within the room, no scramble of little feet or cries of “Papa!” There was only the crackle of coal, the click of Jeannette’s knitting needles, and the creak of her chair as she rocked back and forth beside the hearth.
Pierre-André’s hobbyhorse lay abandoned on its side; Gabrielle’s book sprawled discarded beside the hearth.
André spoke into the stillness. “Where are Gabrielle and Pierre-André?”
Jeannette didn’t bother to look up from her knitting, although the needles moved with a fervor that suggested repressed emotion. “They’re off with their governess.”
She pronounced the word as though it were something foul.
“Outside the building?”
“That’s generally where out is,” Jeannette said snippily.
Jeannette had always considered him an unnecessary adjunct to her Miss Julie, to be tolerated on sufferance because he was the means of creating new babies. Otherwise, he was simply an annoyance. An annoyance who paid her salary, but that was beside the point. Jeannette didn’t allow herself to be swayed by such crass motives as money.
“And didn’t I tell her that it was too cold out for the little mites? But, no. It was ‘Walking is good for them’ and ‘They need the exercise.’ As though the Paris air could be good for anyone, nasty, smoky stuff.”
Outside, the shadows had congealed into full darkness. Bare tree branches shifted ominously against the window, scratching at the glass. “Where did she take them?”
Jeannette lifted her needles in the air, at great peril to her knitting. “Why ask me? I’m just the nursemaid. Not that anyone bothers to tell me anything. Oh no, I’m just the one who sat by them when they were sick and nursed them through their fevers and mopped their little brows.”
Brow-mopping was always a bad sign, but André had other things on his mind. The streets of Paris were dangerous and ungoverned at night, no place for two small children. “How long have they been out?”
Jeannette looked darkly at her knitting. “Long enough that their poor little fingers will be quite frozen through. Out without a carriage, in this weather! And what’s to say that she’ll even bring them back, I ask you?” She glowered fiercely at André. “This is what comes of taking on strangers.”
André spoke harshly to cover his growing fear. “If you suspected something amiss, why didn’t you stop them?”
“Me, interfere?” Jeannette rocked back and forth in her chair. Click, click, click went the needles. “She’s the governess. I’m just their old nursery maid. Never mind that I’m the one what’s been with them since they was born, the poor motherless mites. Oh no. They have a fancy Paris governess now.... Wait! Where are you going?”
André was already halfway out the nursery door. “To find Jean,” he said tersely.
André’s heels clicked eerily on the old parquet floors, echoing off the marble walls. The old courtiers in the mural above the stair seemed to be laughing at him behind their fans, taunting, mocking. The references had checked out—but how hard would they have been to forge? Any of the families might have been bribed.
He could hear Delaroche’s voice, musing on the frailty of young flesh, like the low notes of the chorus in an opera just before the pit opened onto hell and damnation.
André’s candle cast grotesque shadows along the wall, pursuing him down the stairs, whispering warnings. Was it usual for governesses to remove their charges from the premises, and on the first day? He wouldn’t know; he had never had one. But it felt wrong. He and Jean could fan out, search the streets. The children were related by blood to Fouché; a man would have to be bold, mad, or a fool to harm them.
Unfortunately, that still left a large portion of the population of Paris.
André quickened his steps, racing to outpace the nightmare images that dogged him. He was almost to the bottom of the flight when the door to the courtyard creaked open, bringing with it a blast of cold air and a small boy in red mittens whose color even the semidarkness couldn’t dim.
André’s foot came down heavily on the marble floor. He was speechless with wonder and relief.
“Papa!” Pierre-André cried gladly, and rushed towards him as Gabrielle followed behind, too old and grand to run at him, and the governess last, tidily closing the door behind them.
“Good evening, Monsieur Jaouen,” she said, as though she hadn’t just given him the worst fifteen minutes of his life.
“Where in the blazes have you been?”
The expression on everyone’s faces turned from pleasure to alarm, except for the governess, whose entire range of expression seemed to be limited to stony and stonier. It was hard to tell which was which, but André thought she went to stonier.
Pierre-André flung his arms around his father’s waist. “We bought books, Papa! And I saw purple feathers.”
André touched his fingers lightly to his son’s head, feeling the silky softness of his baby curls. So precious. So fragile. André scowled at the governess. “What were you doing, taking the children out after dark?”
The governess very carefully stripped off her gloves, finger by finger. “It was light when we left. Sir.”
André raised a brow. “Surely one so well-versed in the natural sciences would know that when the sun rises, it also sets.” His booted foot began to tap an angry tattoo against the marble floor. “I returned home from the Abbaye to find the children gone, with no word as to their whereabouts. Not a good beginning, Mademoiselle. Not a good beginning at all.”
&nb
sp; The governess’s eyes shifted to Jeanette, who had followed André down the stairs and was standing just behind. She looked smug.
“But I told—” Catching herself, the governess pressed her lips tightly together, her chest swelling as she breathed in deeply through her nose. It took her only a moment to compose herself. Studiously not looking at Jeannette, she said, “Forgive me, Monsieur Jaouen. I had meant to return before dark. Our outing took longer than I intended.”
She wasn’t a snitch, the governess, he would give her that much.
“What was this outing that was so vital that it had to be accomplished immediately?” He folded his arms across his chest and stared the governess down. Or, at least, made the attempt.
Gabrielle sidled up beside him, ranging herself by his side, against the new governess. It offended André’s sense of fair play. They were three against one. Four if one counted Jeannette, which André didn’t. Jeannette would never willingly join any team to which he belonged.
The governess met his gaze without fear. “I took Gabrielle and Pierre-André to a bookshop. They were badly in need of basic texts.”
Books. He hadn’t thought of books. Given that he had lived most of his life among books, it was an alarming oversight.
“Why didn’t you ask me?” he asked gruffly.
The governess chose her words carefully. “I wasn’t sure,” she said, “when the opportunity would arise.”
“You might have sent a message to the Prefecture.”
“I didn’t wish to disturb you.” The governess bowed her dark head. It ought to have been a pose of humility. Instead, André felt that he was the one being shamed. “Sir.”
“Next time,” he said imperiously, “make out a list and send Jean. He can fetch whatever you need.”
“Thank you. Sir.”
All those “sirs” were beginning to get on André’s nerves. “Why didn’t you ask for the use of the carriage?” he asked. “It would have been made available to you.”
The governess lifted her chin, looking particularly governessy. “I thought the exercise would do the children good. It isn’t healthy to keep them in the house.”
It wouldn’t have annoyed him so much if he didn’t agree. “I would prefer you keep them close to home as much as possible. There are dangerous people about.”
André half-expected the governess to argue. In fact, he rather hoped she would. A nice, acrimonious exchange might go some way towards relieving his harried feelings.
Instead, she paused, her lips pursed. She looked thoughtful. Too thoughtful. “It was, perhaps . . . imprudent. I will not make the same mistake again.”
André hadn’t spent the last five years interrogating people for nothing. There was something she wasn’t telling him.
“Papa!” Pierre-André was tugging at the edge of his waistcoat.
The governess distracted him from his speculations by adding, “Naturally, had Monsieur made his wishes clear, I should, of course, have respected those instructions.”
So much for the show of meekness.
André held her gaze. Her eyes were a particularly dark brown, so dark they were nearly black, fringed by lashes as thick and dark as her hair, lashes a courtesan would envy. “Consider them instructed,” he said.
Pierre-André wriggled under his arm. “We bought books, Papa!”
The governess inclined her head in assent, but there was something too regal about the motion to be called obeisance. “I will be sure to check with you before I arrange any other outings in the future.”
“See that you do,” said André, but the words felt rather like an afterthought. He had already been dismissed. Quite impressive, all around. It was enough to make one believe her claim that she had been keeping small children in check for sixteen years.
Pierre-André yanked on his waistcoat so hard that André saw stars. “Look at my books, Papa!”
Wincing slightly, André yielded to the pressure. He, after all, had not had sixteen years’ experience with children. “Your books?” he repeated, with an attempt at interest. He felt suddenly very, very tired and more than a little bit dim, all the fear and anger leaching away into fatigue. “Oh. Books.”
Right. The papery things for which the governess had dragged his children out around Paris. He really should have thought of books. It had never occurred to him. Père Beniet’s library had been like the magic cave in a fairy story; one needed only to wish on it for the right book to appear. The books had been boxed; the house in Nantes sold. It seemed impossible that it no longer existed.
“Look, look, look!” urged Pierre-André.
Blinking, Jaouen braced his hands on his son’s shoulders and looked down at the book he was holding out to him. The book was so large that Pierre-André staggered with the effort of holding it open. André took the book from him, stooping to hold it at his level.
“Those look like flowers,” André said.
“Natural history is part of the education of a gentleman,” said the governess primly.
“Which I would know if I were one?”
The governess froze. “I would never presume—that is . . .”
André decided to put her out of her misery. “I studied natural philosophy too, as a boy,” he said, directing his words to his son. He glanced up at the governess. “Including botany.”
“I will be starting them on Latin as soon as an appropriate text arrives,” said the governess quickly.
“Primarily, I ask that you keep them safe.” Feeling that he had made his point, André put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. Gabrielle looked solemnly back at him, all big eyes and snub nose, like a puppy waiting to be petted. “I’ll be up to see the rest of your books by and by,” he promised.
Pierre-André pouted. He had heard “by and by” before. Gabrielle didn’t say anything, but her face closed up, like clouds drawing together.
“Come along, children,” said the governess. “Jeannette will get you out of your outdoor things and then you can have a story.”
In a shot, Pierre-André was away, scrambling up the stairs. “Jeannette! Jeannette!”
“Gently!” the governess called after him, and, for a wonder, Pierre-André actually checked his vociferous progress. For about two seconds.
Gabrielle looked to her new governess. Without a word, the governess took a book off the pile in her arms and handed it to her. Quietly, Gabrielle followed her brother up the stairs.
“Sir,” the governess said, and dipped a curtsy as she turned to go.
The obeisance didn’t suit her. The pretence of humility sat uncomfortably with her, like a garland of flowers draped across steel. There was something akin to armor about the stern gray of her dress. It fit snugly against her back, emphasizing the resolute line of her spine.
It bothered him that she felt the need to curtsy. It needled him deep in his republican entrails.
“If you would, Mademoiselle—” What was her name again? Worse and worse that she was a member of his household and he couldn’t even remember her name, just her position, as though she were a piece of furniture, something fungible, designed for his service.
It had been something to do with gray. Gray like her dress and the confining stone of the Abbaye. Gris. Yes, Griscogne, that was it.
“Mademoiselle Griscogne?”
The governess paused on the second step. She turned back to him, her face carefully expressionless. André wondered what she was really thinking. Nothing complimentary, he suspected.
“Yes, sir?”
“Tell Jeannette to send down a coffee and a headache powder to my study. I know she has them,” he said.
“I shall do my best to extract them from her, sir,” Laura said.
The faint outlines of a smile altered the tired lines of her employer’s face. “Without thumbscrews, if you please,” he said, and turned to go.
Laura paused, one hand on the banister. She thought that was a joke. She hoped that was a joke. With one who worked for Fouch�
�, one couldn’t be quite sure. Thumbscrews might be a requisite part of the job description.
For a moment, there, she had thought he intended to use them on her.
That had either gone very well, or very badly. She wasn’t quite sure, but she did know she could use a headache powder of her own. Her ears were ringing, either from the prolonged exposure to cold or to Jaouen; either one would have the same effect. She seemed to have forgotten to breathe for the duration of most of that interview.
But he hadn’t sacked her. Whatever else had happened, he hadn’t sacked her.
This was, however, shaping up to be the oddest relationship she had ever had with an employer, and that included the viscountess who believed she was the reincarnation of Cleopatra. Laura’s employer had spent most of her time draped across a sphinx in the salon trailing diaphanous draperies, but she had left Laura to do what she would with the children, who were named, appropriately enough, Mark and Anthony.
Laura watched discreetly as Jaouen walked briskly through a door at the far end of the hall. Even as visibly tired as he was, his movements vibrated with purpose. His study must lie that way, and in it whatever papers he had brought back from the Abbaye. By tomorrow, those precious papers would already be back at the Prefecture, out of her reach. She needed those papers and she needed them now, before Jaouen took them away with him again.
Jaouen had just given her the perfect excuse.
Laura paused on the threshold of the schoolroom as the germ of an idea began to form.
Jeannette, misinterpreting Laura’s hesitation, jerked her head to the left, to a door all but concealed in the paneling. “I put your bag in there.”
The Orchid Affair Page 8
