The Secret History of the Pink Carnation (12 page)

It really was just as well that he would be rid of her in a few hours. Of course, since she was Balcourt’s sister, they would be bound to run into each other at the Tuilleries, but with any luck – and it was luck, Richard firmly reminded himself – she’d likely avoid him like the plague. And he could get back to his real job. This whole boat interlude…well, necessity made odd bedfellows.

Brusquely, Richard flung the shawl over the sleeping girl.

Amy mumbled something and flopped over. Right into Richard’s shoulder.

She must have been very soundly asleep, indeed, because rather than springing away in horror, she nuzzled against the fine wool of Richard’s coat. Instinctively, Richard’s arm rose to wrap around her shoulders. It was, of course, just a reflex reaction. With a quick, guilty look at Miss Gwen, who, thank goodness, was deep in a book and didn’t seem to notice that her charge was snuggled up against a member of the opposite sex, Richard clamped his arm to his side. He had no desire to find himself on the pointy end of Miss Gwen’s parasol for improper advances. And how much more infuriating it would be to earn a punctured kidney for half-unconscious improper advances to a girl who wouldn’t give him a civil how-do-you-do if she were awake. If he were to get poked by anyone’s parasol, it might at least be for something enjoyable. Not that it wasn’t rather pleasant having Amy curled up against him. She was soft, and warm, and smelt nice, too, notwithstanding their bathless night on the boat. Like – Richard gave an experimental sniff – lavender water. Nice. Richard sniffed again.

Thump!
Miss Gwen’s book slammed shut.

Richard’s head jerked up with enough force to make him dizzy.

‘Could you kindly contrive to breathe in a more decorous fashion?’ Miss Gwen admonished. ‘I have known sheepdogs with more genteel respiratory habits. Amy! Yes, you!’ Amy had begun to
stir next to Richard and seemed to be trying very hard to lodge her nose permanently in a fold of his coat.

‘What sheep?’ murmured Amy into Richard’s collarbone. ‘I detest sheep.’

A sound suspiciously like a chuckle emerged from Jane. Miss Gwen reached for her parasol. Richard prepared to dodge, but this time Miss Gwen’s instrument of torture had another victim at its tip. One well-placed poke in the ribs, and Amy’s eyes fluttered open.

‘Whaaa?’

‘You are to remove yourself from Lord Richard
at once.’

Her words had far more effect on Amy than the point of the parasol; Amy looked down at Richard’s coat, up at his face, and recoiled with such force that she nearly rebounded off the wall of the coach. ‘I…did I…oh goodness, I never intended…’

Richard plucked a curling brown hair from the wool of his jacket. Holding it out towards Amy, he said gravely, ‘I believe this belongs to you.’

‘What? Oh. Um, you may keep it.’ Amy was busy wedging herself back into the far corner of the seat.

‘Most obliged.’

Amy looked at him sceptically through bleary eyes and leant her head against the side of the coach. In front of her, Miss Gwen had resumed reading intently. Amy squinted at the letters on the spine.

‘You’re reading
The Mysteries of Udolpho.
’

‘How very clever of you, Amy.’ Miss Gwen turned a page.

‘I didn’t think you cared for – that is, I didn’t know you read novels.’

‘I don’t.’ Miss Gwen looked up over the top of the volume that gave the lie to her statement. ‘There was nothing else to read in the carriage and not all of us care to sleep in public.’ Looking much more cheerful once she had made her jab at Amy, Miss Gwen continued. ‘The style of the book is quite arresting, but I find the heroine entirely unsympathetic. Swooning solves nothing.’

‘You should write your own,’ suggested Richard. ‘For the purpose
of edifying young females, of course.’

Amy’s and Richard’s eyes met in a moment of pure amusement. Amy started to return Richard’s grin when it suddenly hit her that she had just exchanged a significant glance with Lord Richard Selwick. Amy hunched down in her seat, feeling beleaguered.

Good heavens, why couldn’t the man leave her be!

Abruptly, she turned her head and stared out the window. Paris couldn’t be that much farther, could it?

It could. It was well past teatime, or what would have been teatime had they been back in Shropshire, by the time the coach lurched its way through the gates of the city.

Robbins had slowed down to a pace little faster than a walk, not out of concern for Miss Gwen’s sensibilities (despite Miss Gwen’s threat after one hairpin turn that unless he slowed down she would take her parasol to him), but because the narrow streets would not permit anything more. Most were missing cobblestones; water and refuse ran in streams down the centre of the street, and Amy had to duck back as a rivulet of filth poured from one window to join the muck below. People scurried back and forth through the refuse, occasionally stopping to curse at the carriage. Amy added more colloquialisms to her rapidly growing collection.

‘How very French.’ Miss Gwen conspicuously held a handkerchief to her nose.

‘It’s not all like this, is it, my lord?’ Jane asked Richard in tones of such polite distress that Richard laughed.

‘Your cousin’s house is in a far nicer neighbourhood, I assure you, but, yes, much of Paris is in a sorry state. Bonaparte has grand plans to rebuild, but he hasn’t had the time to put his schemes into practice.’

‘Too busy conquering the world?’

‘I’m sure he would be flattered by your summation, Miss Balcourt.’

Amy flushed irritably and returned to her window.

Making a sharp turn that nearly sent Miss Gwen’s parasol into
Richard’s ribs, the carriage clattered into the stone courtyard of the Hotel de Balcourt – and stopped abruptly. The drive was blocked by a shabby black carriage; mud splattered its sides, and a shattered lamp hung drunkenly on the side nearer Amy. Several men were occupied in unloading large, brown paper packages tied up with string.

‘Why have we stopped?’ demanded Miss Gwen.

‘A coach is blocking the door,’ Amy explained. She poked her head back out. ‘Mr Robbins, could you please ask them to let us pass? Tell them the vicomte’s sister has arrived.’

Robbins puffed out his chest. With great enthusiasm, he shouted out in his ungrammatical French that they were all to clear out as the lady of the house had arrived.

One of the workers paused to shout back that there was no lady of the house.

‘There is now!’ declared Robbins. ‘Just who do you think that there lady is if she ain’t the lady of the ’ouse?’

The worker made an extremely rude suggestion in French. Amy, abruptly remembering that she wasn’t supposed to understand the language, opened her eyes wide at Richard and inquired, ‘What did he say?’

‘He voiced his disbelief as to your identity,’ Richard translated blandly.

Robbins, red-faced with fury, retorted with an inventive blend of French and English invective.

‘Really!’ exclaimed Miss Gwen, who had caught the English half.

‘Really, indeed,’ echoed Richard, looking quite impressed. That one comment about the reproductive habits of camels had been quite original.

‘This is ridiculous!’ Amy exclaimed.

‘I quite agree.’
Thump!
‘To refer to an innocent camel in that salacious way—’

‘No! Not that! This!’ Amy’s arm gesture encompassed the stalled carriage, the courtyard, and almost decked Richard on the chin.
Richard eyed Amy speculatively but concluded that bodily harm to him had been a by-product, not a goal. ‘Don’t you see? It’s ridiculous to remain mewed up in the carriage when we’re here already. Why on earth can’t we just walk to the door? That’s why we have legs, for heaven’s sake! I’m going to find Edouard.’ And with that, Amy unlatched her carriage door and prepared to hop out.

Only to be unceremoniously hauled back into the carriage by the scruff of her skirt.

‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Richard, making up in firmness what he lacked in originality. ‘You are not going out there.’

It was hard to glare at someone when he still had his fist wound in the back of one’s skirt. Amy yanked irritably away and twisted to face Richard. Much better. Able to glare at him full on, she demanded, ‘Why not?’

Richard raised a sardonic eyebrow and indicated the courtyard where two other men in varying states of dirt and undress had joined the first in exchanging less than witty repartee with Robbins. Amy hated to admit it, but he had a point.

‘But we can’t just sit here!’

‘I agree. I’ll go.’

‘You’ll go?’ Amy echoed idiotically. Wait – had Lord Richard just agreed with her?

‘I’m the only one who knows what your brother looks like.’

‘I suppose I can recognise my own brother,’ Amy muttered, but since she wasn’t awfully sure on that point, she muttered it very softly.

It was at that point that the door to the house opened and a portly man with too much lace on his cuffs emerged and began chastising the workers in the courtyard in rapid French, demanding to know the cause of the delay.

Richard swung out of the carriage.

‘Ho! Balcourt!’

The man raised his head. Like Richard, his hair had been cut short in the classical style made popular by the Revolution, but this
man had a pair of fuzzy sideburns crawling down his face towards his chin. They stretched so far down his face that they touched the absurdly high points of his shirt collar. It was a wonder that he was able to turn his head to look at Richard at all; his shirt points stretched up to his cheeks, and his chin was entirely buried by an exuberant cravat.

A voice emerged from the folds of the cravat. ‘Selwick? What are you doing here?’

Oh dear, that couldn’t be Edouard, could it?

Amy’s suspicions were confirmed by Richard’s next words. ‘I’m delivering your sister, Balcourt. You seem to have misplaced her.’

The last time she had seen Edouard, he had been a gawky youth of thirteen, preening in front of the mirror in the gold salon and tripping over his court sword. He had worn his hair in a queue tied with a blue ribbon and dusted over his adolescent spots with powder filched from Mama’s boudoir. To her five-year-old eyes, he had seemed impossibly tall. Of course, that might also have owed something to the heels then in fashion. Edouard had been so infuriated when she had sneaked into his room and paraded about in his heels… This man, his puce waistcoat straining across his stomach, his puffy cheeks pinched behind his starched collar – he was a stranger.

But then he looked towards the carriage.

‘My sister, you say?’

And all of a sudden, his face took on that exact same look it had worn all those years ago when he had caught Amy with his favourite heels.

‘Edouard
! It
is
you!’

Amy flung herself from the carriage. She stumbled a bit on the uneven cobblestones as she landed, but by dint of waving her arms about managed to keep herself upright. She heard a quickly muffled chuckle from Richard. Amy ignored it, the same way she ignored the bold stares of the French servants and the nasty smell rising from the cobblestones. Grabbing her skirts in both hands, she dashed at her
brother. ‘Edouard! It’s me! Amy! I’ve finally come home!’

Edouard’s face – or what one could see of it – wavered between bewilderment and horror.

‘Amy? You weren’t supposed to arrive until tomorrow!’

Chapter Ten

‘O
h, that explains why your coach wasn’t there! I knew there had to be a good reason! I was so sure we’d told you we would arrive today—’

‘We did,’ inserted Miss Gwen coldly.

‘—but we’re here and that’s all that matters! Oh, Edouard, I am so glad to see you again!’ Amy threw her arms impulsively around her brother.

Edouard patted her rather awkwardly on the back. ‘Likewise, I’m sure.’

‘And this is our cousin Jane, who is one of the cleverest, most wonderful people you will ever meet.’ Amy tugged Edouard across the courtyard towards the carriage. A great deal of tugging was required; Edouard eyed the filth on the cobbles with extreme distaste, mincing in Amy’s wake with all the care of a young lady in new-white slippers on a rainy day. Richard grinned at the sight. Everyone knew that Edouard de Balcourt had servants run ahead of him to lay wooden planks across the streets so he wouldn’t get his fine shoes and stockings dirty. But Amy was a force not to be gainsaid. ‘Jane! Jane, this is Edouard!’

Edouard murmured his greetings through the lace-edged handkerchief he had pressed to his nose.

‘Are we to sit here all day?’ demanded an imperious voice from the carriage.

‘Oh, and that’s Miss Gwendolyn Meadows, our chaperone and
our neighbour in Shropshire. Miss Gwen, do come down and meet my brother, Edouard!’

‘I am waiting,’ pronounced Miss Gwen, ‘for the carriage to deliver us to the house.’ Her disembodied voice emerged from the carriage with all the solemnity and terror of the Delphic Oracle.

‘Of course, of course!’ Recovering from his shock, Edouard scurried across the courtyard and muttered something to the waiting servants. The last brown packages made their way hurriedly into the house and the carriage clattered off through the gates.

Edouard intercepted Richard’s curious stare and hastily explained, ‘I’ve been redecorating the west wing – finally time to get rid of all that musty stuff my parents left, don’t you think? Anyway, it requires a lot of draperies. That’s what those were, you know. Draperies.’ Edouard rubbed his lace handkerchief across his perspiring forehead.

‘You haven’t changed everything, have you?’ Amy asked anxiously, as Richard’s carriage pulled up to the door.

‘No, no. Redecorating takes some time, you know. Mama’s room hasn’t changed a bit. You can use it as your own if you like.’

‘May I? Really?’

‘Well, yes, if you like.’ Edouard’s tone made quite clear that he couldn’t understand why she would, but as older brother would humour younger sister. He tried to exchange one of those male looks of complicity with Richard but Richard was busy watching Amy.

Amy’s eyes were shining as though she had been promised an extra Christmas in July.

Richard’s stomach turned over on itself in a sickening lurch. He hadn’t experienced anything like this since that time Miles had got carried away and whapped him full force in the gut at Gentleman Jackson’s. For one brief, insane moment, he wondered what it would be like to have her look at him like that.

Abruptly, Richard turned away and went to hand Jane and Miss Gwen down from the carriage. It seemed safer. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to put a safe distance between himself and the Balcourts and all of their connections. They were far, far too
distracting. Who the devil did he think he was fooling? There was no
they
about it. It certainly wasn’t Edouard de Balcourt who had kept him awake, pounding his pillow, or imperious Miss Gwen, or even level-headed Jane.
Amy
was far, far too distracting. Having spent the whole day avoiding him – or as much as one could avoid someone sitting next to one in the confines of a coach – Amy was utterly unprepared for the wave of disappointment that swept over her as she watched Lord Richard flee into his carriage and rapidly clatter out of the courtyard.

Gradually, Amy realised that Edouard was trying to steer her inside, jabbering away all the while. ‘So nice of Selwick to bring you – watch that step there – I trust you had a good journey?’

Amy pushed all thoughts of Lord Richard to a cupboard in the back of her head emphatically marked DO NOT OPEN. ‘What does the journey matter now that we’re here?’ she exclaimed a little too cheerfully. She gave her brother’s arm a quick, affectionate squeeze. ‘Thank you so much for inviting us, Edouard! I’ve been wanting to come home for the longest time and…oh my goodness.’

‘Isn’t it splendid?’

In contemplation of his front hall, Edouard’s agitation momentarily ebbed. His waistcoat threatened to explode as he puffed out his chest with pride.

‘Incredible might be the better word,’ Miss Gwen commented sharply.

‘It’s…it’s…’ Amy groped for words. ‘It’s quite the thing, I’m sure,’ she finished weakly.

Gone was the elegantly appointed foyer of her youth. Only the sweeping marble staircase remained the same. The tapestries and gilded mirrors had been stripped from the walls, the Louis XV tables from their posts on either side of the stairs, and the classical statues from their niches. In their place… Amy’s eyes bugged out. Was that really a sarcophagus in the corner of the room? Imitation obelisks flanked the entry to the east wing and mock sphinxes guarded the staircase. Unobtrusively, Jane placed a comforting hand on Amy’s shoulder.

Edouard beamed, at ease for the first time since Amy had arrived.
‘Retourd d’Egypte
is all the rage,’ he said complacently.

Amy stared incredulously about her. ‘Do we have to answer the sphinx’s riddle before we can go upstairs to bed?’

Edouard looked blank. ‘Are you tired?’

‘Don’t you remember the story Papa used to tell about – oh, never mind,’ said Amy. ‘Are the new draperies also Egyptian in theme?’

‘New draperies? Oh. Right. Um, no.’ Edouard stiffened again. He waddled over to one of his faux sphinxes and began absently stroking its stone head. ‘Um, Amy, about Mama’s room…’

‘It was so thoughtful of you to offer it to me.’

Edouard tugged uncomfortably at his immense cravat. ‘About that… It might be best to wait a week or two before you move to Mama’s room. The west wing’s rather a mess. Lots of dust and, uh, rats. Yes, definitely rats. So, um, you might not want to go into the west wing at all. Dangerous. And dirty. Very dirty,’ Edouard stammered.

‘If you think it’s unsafe…’

‘Oh, it is! Maid will show you to your rooms – bring you dinner on a tray – theatre engagement – must go – good evening!’ Edouard shouted for servants, aimed two kisses in the general direction of Amy’s cheeks, nearly toppled himself over bowing hastily towards Jane and Miss Gwen, and fled in the direction of the west wing.

‘Most odd,’ commented Miss Gwen.

Amy couldn’t help but concur. She would have to inspect the west wing at the first opportunity.

The first opportunity presented itself quite quickly. Miss Gwen,
Mysteries of Udolpho
firmly tucked under one arm, pronounced that she was having an early night and closed the door behind her with an emphatic clack that rattled the vase perched on a table outside her room and caused the footman following them to drop three hatboxes.

From her bedroom door, Amy paused and considered her route. The Hotel de Balcourt had been built, like so many houses of the seventeenth century, in a square around a central courtyard, with
the wings sticking out in front just enough to create the small cobblestone courtyard they had driven in through. Once she had figured that out, it was surprisingly easy to make her way towards the west wing. As long as she could see the greenery of the courtyard through the windows to her left, there was no way she could possibly get lost. Amy’s own bedroom was on the bit that jutted out to form the stone courtyard. Turning, she retraced her steps along the corridor towards the back of the house, past Jane’s and Miss Gwen’s rooms, past the closed doors of guest bedrooms, past a narrow servants’ stair.

After an age, the hallway finally turned, leading her into what, she thought, must be the north wing. A half-open door revealed a large suite that could only be Edouard’s. A heavy reek of cologne wafted through the doorway. Inside, Edouard’s valet hummed a bawdy ballad as he brushed his master’s frock coats. Amy tiptoed past very, very quickly.

More closed doors. Amy hadn’t realised quite how large the house was; by now, she had counted at least fifteen bedrooms, and she still hadn’t reached the west wing. But at bedroom seventeen, the hallway just stopped. Amy put her hands on her hips and advanced on the wall. The simpering shepherdesses in a large tapestry to her left shook their crooks at her and laughed at her perturbation. Amy disregarded them and stared at the plain red wall ahead of her. There had to be another wing there! Bearing in mind Edouard’s valet down the hall, she tapped lightly at the red wallpaper. Ouch. Amy nursed her bruised knuckles. The wall was decidedly solid. In fact, she was quite sure that had been stone under the red wallpaper.

Amy wandered back to the window overlooking the central courtyard. Ha! To her right, there was most definitely another set of windows. One was so close that she could probably climb from her current post onto the sill of the other… No. Amy discarded the idea. The courtyard below was elegant and flowering, but the shrubbery did not look like it had been designed to break a fall. There had to be an easier way in.

Of course! On the other side of the hall, the turn had occurred right after the window. Amy gave the immense tapestry another look. The rococo splendour of gazebos and gardens and lovers was really quite out of step with the cool classicism of the rest of the hallway. The red paper with its frieze on the top was designed to suggest Pompeii and ancient pottery. The few paintings scattered along the wall were classical scenes in the style of David, all bold colours, strong lines, and not a garden, gazebo, or lover among the lot.

Yet here the shepherdesses and their swains remained locked in eternal flirtation next to…a unicorn? That couldn’t be right! What were eighteenth-century lovers doing next to a medieval unicorn hunt? And on the other side of the unicorn hunt, the scene switched again, to a classical tragedy, where a lady in a charred white robe cried out in grief against a relief of burning temples.
Troy
,
Amy’s mind automatically provided.
Hecuba.
My goodness, it wasn’t one tapestry, but three! All hung side by side – and rather clumsily at that, now that she knew what to look for – as if to hide something.

Amy burrowed in the dusty fabric at the point where Patroclus seemed to be pointing his spear at a mangy unicorn. Groping for a door, she practically fell into the room behind the tapestry.

‘Papa…’ Amy murmured. ‘Oh, Mama…’

Amy stumbled into her parents’ suite, dizzy with memory. There were no dust sheets. Under a grey film of disuse, everything had been left exactly as it was fifteen years before when she and Mama departed for England, leaving Edouard and Papa behind. Her mother’s writing case lay open on her escritoire, the ink dry and caked at the bottom of the well. In her father’s dressing room, Papa’s wigs still perched in a row on their stands. Amy clenched her eyes shut, fighting off waves of recollection. Any moment now, Mama would scoop her up, and…

Amy could understand why Edouard had closed off their parents’ rooms.

Steeling herself, she followed the small spiral staircase down from her father’s study to the floor below. The boards creaked slightly
under her slippers, but they held her weight. She was in what had once been the library, before the Revolution had intervened. The dusty books called to her – through the grime, Amy could see the works of Homer in Greek, and a whole shelf of Latin works in elegantly tooled bindings. They could only have been Papa’s, Papa who used to snuggle her in his lap in Mama’s sitting room and tell her fabulous tales of centaurs and heroes and maidens turned into trees.

Amy scrubbed furiously at her damp cheeks and hurried into the next room. Papa’s books would have to wait for another time; now, her mission was to explore the west wing before Edouard returned.

Why, this was the ballroom! All of the furniture, a series of elegant couches and chairs, was pushed to the sides of the room, clearing the centre of the floor for dancing. The immense room stretched most of the length of the wing, and had a series of French doors opening onto the flowering courtyard on one side. At least Amy assumed they opened onto the courtyard. The glass was opaque with fifteen years’ filth. Squinting in the darkness, Amy wished she had thought to bring a candle. Along the walls, cobwebs draped candle sconces like lace, and spiders swayed inside their creations to the tunes of music only they could hear. At the very end or the room was a little raised area, which the musicians must once have occupied. It still contained a harpsichord, a harp – and a pile of brown-paper packages.

Amy crossed the room at a run, slipping and skidding on the parquet floor.

Those were the mysterious packages! And there were others, too: big wooden crates of all sizes stacked against the wall, next to more and more of the floppy paper parcels. Amy’s imagination thundered away like post-horses pounding down the Calais road. Draperies, ha! More likely disguises for the League of the Purple Gentian!