Grave Expectations (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 4)

"
A
h
, Mademoiselle Holloway, Monsieur Fitzroy. I have been expecting you. Please come in. Sit." The matron's accent sounded like a cat's purr with its rolling Rs and softly tumbling consonants. Her kind smile rippled across her face and reached her gray eyes. Eyes that looked at me with as much wonder as I had looked at Paris through the coach window.

"Thank you for seeing us," Lincoln said, holding a chair out for me.

"Would you mind continuing to speak in English," I said. "I'm afraid I know very little French." Since docking at Calais several hours ago, I'd learned the words for yes, no, thank you, please and hat, after it blew off in the wind. I'd also discovered that a
pâtisserie
was heaven in a shop.

"Not at all." The matron clasped her knotty hands on the desk in front of her. "You look like her. Your face, your chin, nose, hair. So pretty."

A blush crept up my throat and threatened to engulf my cheeks. I was acutely aware of Lincoln sitting beside me. I didn't need to see him to know that he watched me. His warm gaze made my skin tingle.

"Thank you." In an effort to shift the focus off me, I leaned forward. "Please tell me about her, Matron."

"I will try."

The matron of the St. Madeleine orphanage in Paris had sent Lincoln a letter after he'd learned that I'd been adopted from that institution as a baby. She had provided him with brief details about my mother, and she now repeated these facts. Ellen Mercier had been unwed when she gave birth to me. She was educated and most likely from a good family but had perhaps been cast out when she became pregnant. She'd been gravely ill and had given me to the orphanage in desperation. She'd asked them to find me a nice home, so when the English vicar and his wife inquired about a child to raise as their own, I'd been handed over to them and whisked away to London. The woman I'd grown up believing was my mother was now dead, buried in Highgate Cemetery, and the man I'd called Father had disowned me when I'd raised her spirit at the age of the thirteen. Despite calling myself Charlotte Holloway, I was not a Holloway. Nor was I really a Frankenstein, after my real father. I was Charlie. Just Charlie. That was enough—for now.

"I would like to have known her in happier times," the matron concluded. "She had a quick…what do you English say? Witty?"

"Wit," I said. "A quick mind."

"A quick mind, yes, and a good heart. She had two pair of shoes, and gave her spare to a girl here. A poor girl, so thin and cold with no shoes. Ellen, your mother, insist. She was kind." But instead of smiling at the thought of my mother's kindness, she frowned and shook her head. "Perhaps that is why she find herself in trouble."

"Did she tell you anything about my father?"

"No. We begged her to tell us. We would write to him, you see, and ask that he give you his name, or money if he had any. But she refuse, most strongly. I do not think he was a good man."

"I met him," I told her. "He's dead. And you're correct—he wasn't a good man."

Her eyebrow inched up her forehead, but I didn't elaborate. Victor Frankenstein was dead, and I didn't want to waste my breath on him. He may have been my real father but he didn't care for me as a father ought. He only wanted me for my necromancy and to fulfil his mad medical dreams.

"Is there anything else you can tell me about her, Matron?"

She sighed. "That is all, I am sorry to say. But!" Her face folded into a map of crinkles. "I have something for you. Something she wanted you to have."

"Your letter to Linc—Mr. Fitzroy—mentioned it." I felt myself rising from the chair in anticipation and firmly clasped the chair arms to ground myself. "What is it?"

She flattened her hands on the desk, and that's when I noticed an envelope sealed with a plain red wax seal. She handed it to me.

The envelope bulged in one corner. "Thank you," I heard myself murmur. I stared at the envelope. It was the first thing I'd held that my mother's hands—my
real
mother—had also touched. It was such a small thing, so insignificant, but it felt more wondrous than all the artifacts in the British Museum.

Lincoln touched my arm. "Charlie?"

"I'll open it at the hotel." I clasped the envelope tightly in my gloved hand and rose. My legs felt unsteady but I stood without assistance. Lincoln moved closer, as if to support me if I stumbled. "Thank you, Matron," I said. "You've been very kind. Thank you for your care all those years ago, of both my mother and myself. It is very much appreciated."

She came around the desk and took my hand. "You are welcome,
mademoiselle
. It is a joy to see you grown and in good health. It fills my heart to know that we gave you to a good family."

I didn't correct her. She didn't need to know about the cruel words Anselm Holloway had flung at me as he forced me out of the house I'd called home. She didn't need to hear how he'd almost killed me in an attempt to 'cure' me of my necromancy. Besides, my adopted mother had been good to me. She, at least, had loved me. Of course, she hadn't learned of my strangeness during her lifetime.

"We will be in Paris for a few more days," Lincoln said in his brisk but bland tone. "Would you mind drafting a letter stating that Charlotte Holloway, now of London, was left here as a baby eighteen years ago by Ellen Mercier and given to Mr. and Mrs. Holloway."

"Whatever for?" I asked.

"It may be required for legal reasons."

"What legal reasons?"

His gaze turned cool. The topic was not up for discussion. Or so he thought. I would finish the discussion out of the matron's hearing.

"
Bien sur
," she said.

"Send it to
Le Grand Hôtel,
on the
Boulevard des Capucines
."

Her eyes flared ever-so slightly at the salubrious address. "I'll write it today. Goodbye,
monsieur et mademoiselle
. Good fortune to you both."

She escorted us through the orphanage's labyrinth of stone corridors to the front door, but Lincoln paused before passing through the giant arched doorway. "Do you know where Ellen Mercier went after she left here?" he asked.

"I am afraid I do not," the matron said. "She was too ill and would not have survived long." She gave me a pitying look.

"Why did you ask that?" I whispered to Lincoln as he escorted me down the orphanage steps. "Do you want to make sure she's dead?"

"Yes."

His bluntness shouldn't have surprised me. He was, after all, not only here for me, but as the leader of the Ministry of Curiosities. The file on Ellen Mercier was open. Until we had proof of her death, he couldn't close it.

Lincoln spoke to the coachman who'd waited for us and paid him. I took Lincoln's offered hand and climbed into the hackney. Our fingers lingered longer than necessary, the touch sending a tiny shockwave through my body.

"Why did you ask for a letter of…?" What was such a letter called?

"Authenticity?"

I swear the corners of his mouth kicked up in a smile, even though his lips didn't seem to move at all. I laughed. "I suppose it could be called that. But why?"

The contours of his face changed, and a small line appeared between his brows. "Holloway made it seem as though he is your real father. When he brought you to England as a baby, he pretended you were their natural child, born in France. As far as English law is concerned, he is your legal guardian. A letter from the matron will go some way to proving that you are not his legitimate child. You do not wish him to be your legal guardian, do you?"

"No, certainly not. But he has disowned me. Surely any legal claim on me is now irrelevant."

"What if he decides to no longer disown you? What if he exerts his legal right, perhaps in the hope of curing you?" His jaw hardened. "I can't risk it."

"I see," I murmured. "Do you think the matron's letter will stand up in court, if it came to that?"

"If not, I will bring the matron herself to England to testify on your behalf."

"Failing that?"

His gaze shifted to the window. "I will do anything in my power to insure you are not under that man's guardianship."

I didn't ask how he would accomplish that; I didn't want to hear the answer. Hopefully, it could be settled legally and without violence. "Unless Holloway demands I return home with him, there is no need for my guardianship to become an issue at all. And I cannot imagine he wants me near him now. I'm quite sure I terrify him."

Lincoln frowned again. "Charlie, I don't think you understand."

"I do. I understand that he can exercise his legal claim over me, but only for three years. Two, in fact. I will be nineteen soon. But why would he? I have no fortune and nothing of value for him to take from me. If he wishes to remove my freedom, I will simply run away again, and you can hide me. Besides, he's in jail. He can do no harm from there."

The coach rolled to a stop outside our hotel. Instead of alighting, Lincoln leaned forward and grasped my hand in both of his. His dark, earnest gaze penetrated mine. "Charlie—"

He was cut off by the driver's barked order. With a pursing of lips, he got out and assisted me down the step. The hotel porter gave me a friendly smile and asked, in terrible English, how I had enjoyed Paris.

"Very much, thank you, but I have not seen a great deal yet. Hopefully tomorrow."

"You did not see my beautiful city?" He clicked his tongue. "But you must!"

"We had an errand to run this afternoon."

"It is late. Mademoiselle is tired,
oui
?"

"
Oui
. It's been a long day."

He went on to recommend some eateries to Lincoln in French, giving me an opportunity to admire the
Boulevard des Capucines
in the late afternoon. Despite the shadows, it was a pretty thoroughfare with its slender trees, now bare of leaves, and grand buildings with bright awnings. People walked quickly past, wrapped in furs against the cold wind, and coaches, omnibuses and carts jostled one another in their hurry to reach their destinations before dark.

Before Lincoln and I left London, my traveling guide told me that Paris was the city for love and lovers. A city "bursting with vibrancy," he'd said. "A delicious confection that teases, is never coy, and is always fresh." Considering my traveling guide had been Seth, I probably should have known his perception of the city would be influenced by his roguish escapades with the ladies of Paris.

While the city wasn't quite as he'd described, it wasn't like Lincoln's version either. When I'd asked him for his impressions of the city, as we waited for the boat to depart at Dover, he'd told me it was "much like London" and left it that. He'd not been overly talkative, and it wasn't until we settled on the boat and his jaw turned green that I remembered why. Seasickness kept him in his cabin the entire crossing, and it wasn't until we were an hour into the train journey from Calais to Paris that his color returned. He refused to discuss his wellbeing with me, despite my numerous questions. It would seem the topic of his weakness, as he thought of it, was off-limits.

I took his offered arm and we entered the hotel together. My mother's letter felt like a lead weight in my reticule, and I could hardly wait to reach my room to open it.

"Sit with me," I urged Lincoln at the door to the small sitting room that adjoined my bedroom. "I might need your support as I read it."

He followed me inside and stoked the coals in the grate as I sat at the table by the window for the light. I opened the envelope with shaking fingers and peered inside.

"It's a necklace." I tipped out the silver chain and pendant onto my palm. The pendant consisted of two circular rings, one inside the other, which could swivel independently. A spherical orange-brown stone was inset into the smaller ring. It could also swivel on its axis, like a globe. "It's quite pretty."

Lincoln held out his hand and I laid it on his palm. "It's amber." He turned it over, rubbed his thumb around the sphere, and held it up to the light. "No inclusions. It would be worth a small sum." He handed it back to me. "Is there a letter?"

I checked inside the envelope and my heart leapt into my throat. I removed the piece of paper and my heart dove a little. "Will you read it? It's in French."

He sat and took the paper. The letter wasn't long, but he took some time reading it first before he translated.

"I suppose she means necromancy," I said lamely. I felt somewhat numb listening to her words, written so long ago. It must have felt quite strange for her too, writing to a baby.
Her
baby. I swallowed past the lump in my throat. "Please go on."