A Spark Unseen (15 page)

“Mrs. DuPont will bring us tea,” I ventured, “and some …” I did not finish. I had no idea what else she might bring.

“Well,” said Mrs. Hardcastle heartily, peering through the pince-nez, “you were perfectly correct, Miss Tulman. This is a lovely room. Quite a lovely room after all.”

Generous, I thought, considering I’d practically dragged her in by the heels to look at the dust sheets. But I only smiled and said, “Thank you,” while Mr. Marchand sat quiet, playing with a coin in one hand.

“And where is Mr. Babcock today?” she asked.

“Oh!” said the first Miss Mortimer, the one with the bouncing blonde front curls. “Are we acquainted with Mr. Babcock? I believe Aunt Reynolds knows a family by the name of Babcock in Surrey.” Her round cheeks glowed with interest.

“Mr. Babcock is my solicitor,” I replied. “He traveled with me to Paris.”

Both the Miss Mortimers’ mouths formed silent Os as they exchanged one darting, and yet significant glance. How interesting, I reflected, to watch the seeds of a rumor germinate; I could almost see the story sprouting in their fertile minds right before my eyes. All at once I was quite looking forward to introducing these young ladies to Mr. Babcock. I hoped he would be wearing his flowered waistcoat.

“… quite well, Miss Tulman?” My gaze jerked to the second Miss Mortimer, with the brown frizz sticking out from beneath her blue bonnet. She was frowning at me.

“I am so sorry. What did you say?”

“I was inquiring after your health, Miss Tulman,” she said stiffly. “Aunt Reynolds said you weren’t feeling quite yourself last night.”

Mr. Marchand examined the coin as it flipped across the back of his fingers. “What the young lady wishes to ask and will not, Miss Tulman,” he said, voice slow and lazy, “is what in the name of the Holy Mother you have done to your face?”

I blushed — I could not help it — and only just kept my hand from creeping up to my bruised cheek. Mrs. Hardcastle laughed. “Oh, really, Henri,” she cried. “You are too much, truly!”

I arranged my face and sat a little straighter in my chair. “It’s nothing. I am not yet acquainted with the house, and I’m afraid I just … walked into a door. In the dark. That’s all.”

Mrs. Hardcastle clucked and had begun relating one of her own misadventures when Mr. Marchand leaned close and said, “And I had thought your aim in the dark better than that, Miss Tulman. It seemed so last night. Tell me, is that cut on your neck also from a door?”

A shadow moved across the entrance to the salon. “Ah,” I said. “The tea is here.”

The ladies stared, dumbstruck as Mrs. DuPont came with her severe hair and silent tread to set a tray with teapot, cups, sugar, cream, and a plate of wafer-thin biscuits that I was unfamiliar with on the table between us. She slid out the door like the living dead and I began to pour, counting sugar lumps and stirring with spoons, using the opportunity to think. How likely was Mrs. DuPont to keep her mouth closed, and what exactly did she know? How soon would my uncle wake, and what would happen if I was detained when he did? Would he try to leave the attic? I decided to take control of the conversation. Perhaps if I made myself sufficiently obnoxious they would all go away on their own. I set down my spoon.

“Miss Mortimer.” Both the blonde curls and the brown frizz looked around. They had been craning their necks, stealing glances into the foyer. Hoping for a glimpse of Mr. Babcock, I surmised. I said, “The Madeleine is a very fine building, I hear. Perhaps your aunt could recommend a course of study on Parisian architecture during your stay. I’m sure you would find it improving.”

I was pleased by an expression of disgust from one and a look of dismay from the other. “Aunt Reynolds doesn’t care a fig for fine buildings,” the blonde curls sniffed. “She has been very cross and out of sorts of late. I’m sure you must have noticed it at dinner. It makes one wish to visit the seaside or go somewhere else pleasant.”

“Like the emperor’s ball,” sighed the brown frizz.

Mr. Marchand had set down his cup and was playing with his franc again, letting it travel from finger to finger in a way that was rather astonishing. I deliberately kept my gaze away from him as I turned the conversation where it was least wanted. “Is Mrs. Reynolds politically minded, then? I had thought she was perhaps disturbed last night by the dissenting opinions on the war.”

The blonde Miss Mortimer almost snorted while her cousin gaped. Mrs. Hardcastle chuckled.

“Miss Tulman, my dear cousin Reynolds has likely never thought of politics in her life,” she said. “I fear that she is rather undone by the loss of her protégé.”

“Ah, the protégé!” said Mr. Marchand, snatching the coin from a flip through the air. “I hear of nothing else.”

I looked at them all blankly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand the term.”

“Why, Miss Tulman, having a protégé is quite the thing!” said the brown-frizzed Miss Mortimer.

“It shows your dedication to culture and the arts,” explained Mrs. Hardcastle. “My cousin was supporting a painter. …”

“Jean-Michel!” sighed one of the young ladies.

“Yes, Jean-Michel, whom she thought to be quite promising. He lived in a small studio upstairs, where he was developing his talent. But nearly two weeks ago, well … he just disappeared, I’m sorry to say. Left the house one morning and never returned.”

I thought of the room in the upper floor with the covered easels, my eyes darting reflexively toward the window, and when I did I nearly choked on my tea. The slouching man was back at his lamppost, a dripping newspaper held over his head, watching my house in the rain. I cleared my throat and said, “Have the police been consulted, Mrs. Hardcastle?”

“That part was rather thrilling,” confided the brown frizz.

“Don’t be horrible, Jane,” replied the other. “I can hardly think of something terrible happening to Jean-Michel. Such clever fingers when he painted …”

“You perceive my annoyance,” said Mr. Marchand, once again leaning close to my chair. I did not respond, hoping he would perceive mine. I glanced again at the man outside the window. Mr. Marchand began switching the franc from hand to hand so quickly it was difficult to follow with the eyes.

“Paris,” he pronounced, the coin moving back and forth, “is a city full of people.” The coin moved in a blur. “And where there are the people, then … poof!” He spread his hands with a sudden flourish, showing only empty palms. “Things, they disappear. It is the way of the world, is it not?”

Mrs. Hardcastle and the Miss Mortimers set down their cups and clapped, but not with so much amazement as to make me think they had never seen Mr. Marchand’s tricks before. He turned to me and said, “The protégé is not the only one with clever fingers,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Very … dexterous,” I said.

He smiled, and I saw that his eyes were not just brown, but many colors, shot through with yellow and green, impossible to say which might be dominant. His hands gave another flourish and the coin reappeared between two fingers. He laid it in my palm, still smiling. “For you, Miss Tulman, so you may hire a guard to walk you to the next door.”

Mrs. Hardcastle laughed uproariously at this, but my gaze went again to the window before landing back on Mr. Marchand. He was teasing me, but I could not tell if there was anything of substance behind his grin. And then I heard the squeak of floorboards from the ceiling. There were footsteps moving over my head. Someone was walking — no, running — through my bedchamber. I threw a startled glance through the salon door, where I could just catch a glimpse of the stairs. Had anyone thought to lock the storeroom?

“Shall you come to dinner again tonight, Miss Tulman?” the blonde Miss Mortimer was saying rather halfheartedly, her eyes on the franc in my hand. She was pouting. The noise of feet moving back and forth pattered above my head, and I looked again out the window. I needed these people to leave. Quickly.

“Thank you,” I replied, “but I have … engagements, early in the morning. And actually, I have much to accomplish this —”

“Oh!” said the brown Miss Mortimer, setting down her cup, “do you have other acquaintances in Paris, Miss Tulman?”

I saw Mrs. Hardcastle’s face perk with interest, and gave myself a mental kick. The floorboards groaned with the hurried steps. “No,” I said, a little too fast. “No, my visits tomorrow are …” My mind raced, searching for anything that would be dull to the present company. “… of a charitable nature. I plan to tour several public institutions, to improve what is offered to the villagers on the Stranwyne estate.”

I was gratified by the look of repugnance shared between the two young ladies, and the slight boredom of Mrs. Hardcastle.

“But this is noble, Miss Tulman!” said Mr. Marchand. “I have an interest in such things myself. Allow me to escort you on your tour.”

That captured the room’s attention. I felt three sets of eyes swing to me, waiting for my response. “No need to trouble yourself, Mr. Marchand. Mr. Babcock plans to escort me.”

“But he must be a man of much business, while I have nothing so worthy on which to spend my time. And we have already established that Paris can be unsafe.” He smiled again, stretching the tiny mustache, and all the eyes moved in tandem back to me. I felt my temper rising.

“I have already made my plans, Mr. Marchand, and I am sure I do not need an escort to go anywhere.” This was not remotely true; at the moment I would not have put a toe outside my own front door. But hearing one of the Miss Mortimers give a soft gasp was pleasurable.

I opened my mouth to speak, but was saved from saying anything more rude by a deafening crash from over our heads, a thundering cacophony that shook the ceiling and shocked the room. We all looked up, Mrs. Hardcastle through her pince-nez, and watched the chandelier pendants jiggle and clink. Then the footsteps started up again, just as frantic as before. Mrs. Hardcastle turned the pince-nez to me.

“Is there some sort of trouble upstairs, Miss Tulman?”

A row of curious faces looked back at me, waiting for me to speak. I opened my mouth, struggling to bring any sort of plausible explanation to my tongue, when with no warning Mrs. DuPont appeared in the doorway.

“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” she said, her black eyes canny, “for the terrible noise. Marguerite has dropped a tray.”

“A tray,” I repeated slowly, “dropped by Marguerite.”

Mrs. DuPont’s face did not change. “Yes, Mademoiselle. I will speak with her about her clumsiness. A thousand pardons to your guests.” She looked at me again, a bit triumphant, dropped the hint of a curtsy and left the room with a
whoosh
, as if she’d sucked all the air out with her. I knew Marguerite had not gone upstairs. I would have seen; I’d chosen my seat for the purpose. What a game the woman was playing.

“But what of our plans, Miss Tulman?” said Mr. Marchand. “I have a relative on the side of my mother, in the Hôtel des Invalides. The hospital there is one of the finest in France. And the tomb of the great Napoléon, it is there, as well. You cannot resist such an offer as that.”

I put my eyes on Mr. Marchand, and what I resisted was a very strong urge to suggest that he escort Mr. DuPont instead. “Mr. Babcock has already made up a list and secured my invitations, Mr. Marchand. I will await his pleasure.”

His friendly smile widened. “Then I will stop at the same time tomorrow, Miss Tulman, and if you wish to see the Hôtel des Invalides, I shall be happy to serve. If no, then I will not disturb you for the world.”

“Well!” said Mrs. Hardcastle, making me start, “I daresay the rain is slowing. Do you think we shall still have time to make the Madeleine, girls?”

I found the Miss Mortimers staring at me from the settee, teacups halfway to mouths, their faces a blend of mortification and incredulity that both flattered and insulted. The slouching man outside was folding his wet newspaper, and I heard the footsteps above my head move toward the landing. The thought of who might come running down those stairs had me instantly on my feet.

“Well, thank you so much for visiting, Mrs. Hardcastle, Miss Mortimer, Miss Mortimer, Mr. Marchand.” I gave them each a brief nod. “Do come again.”

Cups were set down in haste and Marguerite appeared from nowhere, showing everyone to their damp wraps and umbrellas. The Miss Mortimers peered up the stairs as they were ushered out, looking for the elusive Mr. Babcock, and I ignored the tip of Mr. Marchand’s hat after it went onto his head. As soon as Marguerite had shut the door and trotted off toward the kitchen, I ran up the stairs to my bedchamber.

There was no Uncle Tully. Only Mary on her knees in the middle of the floor, wrestling with an armload of clothing, my trunk lid propped up, the wardrobe gaping wide. From the tall chest, various drawers were hanging open, one of them pulled right from its slot to the floor, a jumble of candlesticks and small ornaments scattered where they’d fallen. I let out a long breath, and Mary looked up from her skirmish with the petticoats, freckles invisible beneath her irritated flush. The petticoats seemed to be winning.

“Are they gone, Miss? Well, that’s a relief and no mistake. Mr. Tully is awake and had his tea, but it’s playtime, Miss, playtime like you’ve never seen. He’s got that box of Mr. Babcock’s open and you know what it’s like when he’s got something new to grab hold of. There’s no reasoning with him, though he don’t look near ready to be out of a bed, if you’re asking me, which I note you ain’t. You’re meant to come upstairs at noontime on the dot, Miss, so mind your time, ’cause Lord knows I’m not going back up anytime soon. Mr. Tully yelled like the devil for me to be on my way and I locked the door — you forgot to do that this morning, Miss — and came down to do a quick spot of unpacking, and instead dumped a drawerful of candlesticks and I don’t know what else on the floor.”

She gave up her attempt to fold and wadded up my petticoats. “I don’t know how a body’s supposed to be doing their job, or how we’re supposed to be keeping ourselves to ourselves when it’s worse than the London Bridge about this place, people in and out, in and out the whole day through. And what with men on the sidewalk and that DuPont woman hanging about like a crow on a limb, it’s a miracle we ain’t done for already. And what’s to happen to Mr. Tully, then, Miss? And to you? We won’t be lasting out the week at this rate. …”