A Poisoned Season

25

Whatever substance Sebastian slipped into my champagne had been innocuous enough, and we were all relieved when Robert's physician confirmed that there was no cause for alarm. Aside from sleeping extraordinarily late, I felt no ill effects the next day. Lady Elinor sent Isabelle to me in the afternoon, and I did my best to calm the girl's myriad worries about becoming the wife of Charles Berry. Not an easy task. It was obvious that her loyalty was fiercely divided. She wanted to please her mother, but she still loved Lord Pembroke, and the feeling had only intensified at Ivy's ball.

"He's simply the most exquisite dancer," she said. "He wouldn't stand up with me more than twice, but, oh, Emily, I would gladly have given anything to dance with him all night."

"Are you finding Mr. Berry an agreeable companion?"

"He's tolerable. I understand why Mother thinks he's a good catch, and I know that she's always done what's best for me. Do you believe she could be right? Am I too swept up in romance to be practical? Will I be happier with Mr. Berry?"

"Only you know the answer to that, Isabelle. Your mother's intentions are good. There is no doubt of that. But you alone can determine what sort of a marriage you are willing to accept."

"Mother insists that young people often fall in love before they really know what will make them happy."

"That's probably true." I thought about the time, during our first season, that Ivy had come close to being convinced she was in love with a particularly dashing army officer. He turned out to be the worst sort of cad, something her mother had suspected from the beginning. "I don't deny that mothers are sometimes useful for vetting one's admirers. But she never objected to Lord Pembroke, did she?"

"No, but she's certain that I'll be happier in the long run with Mr. Berry. Charles. I should call him Charles." She frowned. "Is it very awful, being married? One hears such dreadful stories."

"No, Isabelle, it's not dreadful in the least. Many people are quite content, even in arranged marriages. I was not in love with Philip when I married him, but the experience was far from unpleasant."

"Perhaps there's hope for me, then."

Had I any courage, I would have convinced the girl to throw over Mr. Berry and run away with Lord Pembroke. I'm ashamed that I didn't. How could I sit here and offer her comfort when I knew her future husband to be an utterly vile man? "I believe Mr. Berry's most-admired quality is his proximity to the French throne. Rumors suggest that he may be made king soon. Does that change his estimation in your eyes?"

"Do I want to be queen? I ought to say yes, but, honestly, the prospect terrifies me."

"An answer that shows more than a modicum of wisdom."

"Well, it didn't work out well for Marie Antoinette, did it?"

We talked for nearly three quarters of an hour, and I will say that, although it was abundantly clear that her heart was still very much with Lord Pembroke, she seemed less nervous about her betrothal by the time she left. I wish I could say the same for myself. If anything, I was more convinced than ever that someone needed to find a way to help her escape.

I sorted through the mail that had come that morning, half expecting to see something from Sebastian, but he had sent nothing. I did have a letter from Cécile, and knew when I read it that I would have to show it to Colin immediately. There was no need for me to go to him, though, for even before I had returned the paper to its envelope, he walked through my door, his eyes sharp, his features marked with a severity I had not before seen on him.

"Have you anything from Cécile?" he asked, not bothering to greet me.

"Yes, I do, I was about to come —"

He took the letter from my outstretched hand. "Good. I'm glad to have a date. We never suspected they planned to act this quickly."

"What will you do?"

"Berry told me not an hour ago that he's arranged for passage to France. He's using falsified papers so that no one will know he's there."

"Can't you stop him?"

"I'm to go with him."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"I see." I studied his handsome face. "Is there any chance the plot will work? Will the republic fall?"

"Not if I've anything to do with it."

"And Cécile?"

"Her role may be more important than mine, but it's you that I'm worried about. I don't like to leave you in the midst of your own intrigue."

"I'll be perfectly all right."

"No more drinking drugged champagne? Next time it could be laced with something less benign."

"Well, I've won our bet, so you can rest easy knowing that I have every intention of staying alive to collect my prize."

"What do you mean, you've won our bet? You most certainly have not."

"I've identified my admirer: Sebastian Capet."

"Would you recognize him on the street? Do you know where he lives? How to contact him without having to use the Times? I don't think you can say that you've really identified him."

"His eyes are an unmistakable shade of blue. Sapphire, really. I'd recognize them."

"A Bedouin with sapphire eyes. Is there any hope for me?"

I was glad to see some light return to his eyes but couldn't help thinking about Sebastian kissing me. Had it really happened? I could almost picture it, a foggy image, but the memory of soft lips was undeniable.

"Are you still with me?" Colin asked.

"Yes, sorry."

"I've spoken with Manning. He's agreed to help you with whatever you might need regarding the situation in Richmond. And should anything happen, telegraph me at once in Paris. I'll be at the Meurice."

Molly entered the room. "Excuse me, Lady Ashton, would you like me to light a fire for you?"

It was far too hot for me to want a fire, and I had never encouraged my maids to make a habit of dropping in, without being asked, to see if I needed their assistance.

"No, Molly, I don't." Her eyes were ringed with dark circles, and her skin was even more pale than usual. "Is something the matter?"

She looked at Colin, then back at me. "Of course not, madam. Just trying to be helpful." She bobbed a curtsey and disappeared from the room before I could utter another word.

"Are you keeping a close eye on her?" Colin asked.

"I've spoken with her multiple times. She insists that she has no idea what happened to the letters that disappeared from the library."

"And you believe her?"

"I do worry that she may still be in contact with Mr. Berry, but surely once he's in France he'll no longer be concerned with me."

"Someone is gravely troubled by those letters. If it's Berry, you might be in more danger now than ever. Just because he's out of the country doesn't mean that he can't harm you."

"But you've been convinced all along that he's not out to hurt me."

"I'm not always right, Emily."

"Do you expect violence in Paris?"

"I very much hope that we shall be able to stop this entire thing before it even begins." He pulled me towards him and bent down, resting his cheek against mine.

"I wouldn't object if you were to kiss me," I said. "You are leaving the country headed for an attempted coup. Who knows when you'll return? I feel almost as if I'm sending you off to battle."

"Very nice try," he said, stepping away from me. "But I won't be so easily seduced. Did I tell you that I've found the perfect engagement ring for you? It's from ancient Crete and is in the shape of a reef knot, gold inlaid with lapis lazuli."

"It sounds lovely."

"I keep it in my pocket at all times on the off chance that you might accept me. It wouldn't do to be unprepared."

"Will you show it to me?"

"Absolutely not. When at last you agree to marry me, I want to know that it's because you can't resist me any longer, not that you want my ring."

"You're a beast," I said. "I'm going to finish the letters this afternoon. I'll send you a message if there's anything of significance in them."

"Take care, Emily. I shall be thoroughly aggravated if I find that you've taken any unnecessary risks."

"But you'll forgive me the necessary ones?"

"How could I do otherwise?" He kissed both of my hands and left without once looking back. With him went all the warmth from the books and the ancient statues in the library, leaving me to a room filled with a conspicuous emptiness.

Continuing my work on the letters proved an excellent distraction from melancholy, and the further I delved into Marie Antoinette's correspondence, the more fascinating it became. Léonard fed her bits of information regarding the plans for the dauphin's escape, and the queen did not hesitate to criticize them. She had deep concerns about the loyalty of S, whom I identified initially as Antoine Simon, a cobbler who took charge of Louis Charles after the boy was taken from his mother's cell in the Temple.

According to the histories I had read, Simon had been notoriously cruel to the child, but some accounts claimed that his wife grew fond of their charge. This led me to suspect that she, not her husband, was S. The identity of B, however, completely eluded me. If B were the person who traveled with the dauphin, he was probably not someone who would have been mentioned in a history. It was unlikely that a recognizable figure could have pulled off the escape.

The queen's fears about S did not abate, but by the end of August 1793, she had accepted that there was no one else in a position to smuggle Louis Charles from his prison. Her concern now focused on the details of where he would go. One thing was abundantly clear: Marie Antoinette stated over and over that he was not to go to America. She did not want him to face such a long journey when his health was already compromised from being jailed. Léonard reassured her again and again that there was no plan to send the boy there; a safe house was already being set up for him in England.

The last two letters from the series were the ones that had been stolen, and I could only assume that they offered more details. Regardless, the information now before me conflicted entirely with the story of the dauphin presented by Charles Berry, who claimed that the plan all along had been to send the boy to the United States. Somehow, I found it much easier to accept these letters as factually correct than the word of a man who stood to gain a kingdom if he could only convince the world that his version of history was the truth.

The next morning, I went back to the letters but found myself distracted by the recollection of an exchange Mr. Berry had with Mr. Francis before the murder. I sifted through the papers in my desk until I came to the letter I'd found in Richmond: I thank you for alerting me to the situation you mentioned, and assure you that I have the matter well in hand. Had Mr. Francis known about Léonard's letters? And if so, was he sympathetic to Mr. Berry's position?

I wondered if I had missed anything in Mr. Francis's letters or possessions that pertained to either Marie Antoinette or to Charles Berry, and decided to return to Richmond. But first I scrawled a quick note to Colin to inform him that the code had indeed provided crucial information and left it on the mail tray in the hall, asking Davis to have one of the footmen deliver it to Park Lane before Colin left for France.

Much had changed in the Francis house since my last visit. The curtains in the drawing room were no longer closed, and bright sunlight streamed through the windows. Beatrice was playing the piano, and Mr. Barber sat cozily next to her on the bench, turning pages for her.

"Emily! I had no idea you were coming today." She leapt off the bench as a maid led me into the room. "Betsy, do try to remember to announce visitors before they come in." The maid curtseyed halfheartedly and closed the door rather loudly as she left.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," I said.

"Michael had just persuaded me to play."

"There's no need to explain," I said. "I've never believed that one's own life should stop after the death of a loved one."

"I should leave," Mr. Barber said.

"No." Beatrice did not look at him as she spoke.

"I came only to see if it would be possible for me to take another look at your husband's study. I'm hoping to find more of a connection with Charles Berry."

"Could you possibly come back later? Tomorrow perhaps? It's not a good time."

"Of course," I answered automatically, stunned by her response.

"Anything there now will still be there then," she said, her lips pulled thin in a forced smile.

There was nothing I could do but leave. I did not begrudge Beatrice any happiness she might find in Mr. Barber, and I certainly did not believe that the rituals of mourning did much to help a person manage her grief. But in denying me access to the study, she was not behaving in a manner I would expect of a woman desperate to find her husband's killer.

Rather than leaving Richmond, I decided to pay another call on Mrs. Sinclair. Happily, I found her at home, and she welcomed me with all the warmth absent from Beatrice.

"What a lovely surprise, Lady Ashton. I'm so glad you've come. My hall looks so much better without that horrid statue you persuaded Mr. Sinclair to give to the museum. I'll never be able to thank you enough."

"I'm glad to know that you're not suffering from the loss."

"I've heard that you're fond of such things, and please don't think I'm criticizing your taste, but I'd much rather have something more modern in my house."

"No offense taken, Mrs. Sinclair," I said, smiling.

"I've half a mind to bring you through the rest of the house to see if there's anything else the museum would take. Mr. Sinclair's grandfather traveled rather too extensively and collected all sorts of sordid things as he went. I'd love nothing more than to get rid of most of them."

Judging by the quality of art I'd seen in the few places I'd been in the house, this was an exciting prospect indeed. But for the moment, it would have to wait. "I wish I had more time today. Perhaps I could come back next week? At the moment I've more questions for you about Jeanne Dunston. Do you know if she left any personal effects for her son?"

"The housekeeper put aside what was in her room, but I doubt that Joseph will ever return to collect the box."

"Is there any chance you would let me take a look at it?"

"I don't see why not, though I can't imagine you'll find anything of interest. I imagine this has to do with the snuffbox again?" I nodded and smiled but decided not to say anything further. The fewer people who knew what I was doing, the better. Mrs. Sinclair rang the bell, and while we munched on lovely watercress sandwiches, the housekeeper was dispatched to the attic. She appeared a quarter of an hour later, carrying a wooden box that must have been covered with the dust now clinging to her dress.

I opened the container at once. Inside were the humble souvenirs of a life spent in service: two nicely embroidered handkerchiefs, a carefully mended pair of gloves, a photograph of a small boy, a postcard from the queen's Jubilee, an ivory rosary, and an extremely old Bible. The postcard was from a woman called Sarah and offered insight into neither sender nor recipient. The Bible was my only hope. The endpaper in the front cover was inscribed: To Bernadette Capet, on the occasion of her first Christmas in England, 1794.