A Spark Unseen

13

I stepped through the shelf door into the dingy storeroom, where my empty steamer trunk sat, and crept down the stairs of a still and silent house. On the next landing, I discovered a large bedroom with shuttered windows, an unmade bed, and one of Mr. Babcock’s tall hats, and across from it a smaller chamber, bright yellow with white trimmings, containing Mary’s trunk and her knitting basket. I shook my head as I shut the door, the soft noise almost startling. The yellow room was obviously for guests, but who was I to deny Mary, who had left home and family for the sake of my uncle and me? Quiet pressed against my ears and I began to hurry down the steps. Where was everyone?

On the second floor, I found a small room with a convenience, the curtain moving slightly with the breeze that came through a broken pane of glass — poor Mr. Babcock, I must have given him quite a start — and then I found my room. There was no question that it was mine, because it had so obviously been my grandmother’s. The furniture was dark, tall, and heavy, nothing like the airy style in the rest of the house, the wallpaper only slightly brightened by the lighter shades of pink in a pattern that tended closer to red. My trunk hunched neatly at the foot of an enormous canopied bed, thick with fringed hangings, the noise of a French gilt clock on the chimneypiece rather loud in the silence. A small pile of papers sat beside the clock, pinned beneath a stack of French books that looked like fairy tales. A note in Mr. Babcock’s hand was propped upright on the top. I snatched it up, squinting in the dim.

Dearest Katharine,

Have gone to see to our passports, so the French shall have no need of the guillotine where we are concerned. Please find the fruit of my early morning labors below this note, with my compliments. I have put it forward that you are interested in charitable work and wish to study these institutions for the benefit of your own estate.

With my most sincere regards,

A. Babcock

I traded the note for the papers and flipped curiously through the stack.

Documents of differing sizes, all French, with various inks and signatures, gold foil emblems, official-looking insignias, and embossed shapes on each. I dropped onto the rose velvet chair beside the hearth. The word prison was the same in English and French, it seemed, and hospital could also be easily deciphered. These were invitations, permissions to visit places where a young man might have lost himself in Paris, and very probably, if I knew Mr. Babcock, certified license for me to pry into their every dark corner.

I bit my lip, water stinging just behind my eyes. Mr. Babcock had done this. He thought my search for Lane foolish and hopeless, and yet he had done this. For me. Such an obvious show of trust and affection was almost puzzling to me, would probably always be puzzling to some deeper part of myself, while at the same time a very different something inside me had been set loose, taken flight, and soared. My way was clear, the road smoothed. I would start as soon as I could be certain my uncle was settled. I riffled through the papers again, wondering if any of these places might be within walking distance of Rue Trudon. If I could only get a map of the streets, I could …

And then I froze. For the first time in many hours my mind went to the time before my uncle, to the man slouching against a streetlamp, and the short walk home that had become a chase. I’d been so distracted, so preoccupied, I hadn’t even mentioned the man to Mary or to Mr. Babcock. And where were they now? The clock on the chimneypiece ticked in the silence. I leapt from the chair, dropped the papers where I’d been sitting, and hurried to tug the drape back from a window that was nearly twice the height of my head. I jerked open one tall, louvered shutter, and a watery, gray light half lit the bedchamber.

The houses across the street were nearly identical to one another, only an extra space between window rows showing their delineations, and I saw a flower seller hurrying past, pushing her brightly laden cart at a trot beneath the heavy sky. Everyone was scurrying down the street or along the narrow sidewalks, making for the nearest shelter. All except for one. The man in the blue vest leaned against his lamppost, hands in pockets, unmoving, watching the doors of my house.

I stepped back, out of sight, the fear of the night before crashing down so that I could hardly stand. I whirled, ready to run down the stairwell, vaguely planning to yell until I found Mary or Mr. Babcock, but I stopped short, one hand jumping to my throat, only just holding in my gasp. A tall, thin shadow stood stock-still in my doorway. After a moment, the silhouette stepped forward, and the pale face and severe hair knot of Mrs. DuPont came into the window light.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped, a bit too loud.

Mrs. DuPont took another slow step into the room, black eyes sweeping over the still-made bed, my untamed hair, the muddy and wrinkled, garden-stained dress that I’d obviously slept in. Her sharp gaze lingered on my face and the hand on my throat went quickly to my cheek, feeling the soreness beneath my fingers. I’d forgotten the blow from the wrench. I wondered if I had a black eye. I dropped my hand and clasped them both behind me, returning Mrs. DuPont’s stare.

“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” the woman said, expressionless. “Mademoiselle said to come to her at half past ten, so this is what we do. I have come to tell Mademoiselle that we wait for her in the salon.”

Rain struck suddenly on the window glass behind me, and I clasped my hands harder. I’d completely forgotten my meeting with the DuPonts, though I saw no reason for her to know it. “Yes, thank you. I will come as soon as I am ready. Our meeting will not take long. Until then, please remain on the ground floor. On the ground floor only, please,” I said again, for emphasis. “And, Mrs. DuPont …” I lifted my chin. “… I do prefer to be called ‘Miss Tulman.’”

She met my gaze, and a strange, miniature war was waged then, a silent battle as we stared. I had not the first notion what we were fighting about, but it didn’t particularly matter; this unpleasant woman would be dismissed as soon as I could go downstairs. Mrs. DuPont ceased fire first, and had just deigned to nod when my brows came down.

“Who let you in the house this morning, Mrs. DuPont? I’m certain I instructed you to leave your keys.”

Her corpse-like face almost seemed to smile. “There was no need of the letting in, Mademoiselle,” she said, particular emphasis on the last word.

I would have said something further had she not at that moment been nearly run down by Mary, who came careening into the room with a tea tray. They circled each other, and Mary waited until Mrs. DuPont had glided away like a bird of prey before plunking the tea things on the table and looking me up and down.

“Well, Lord, Miss, what a mess you’re looking and no mistake. You could’ve been rolling in the gutters, as my mum would say. Is …” She gave a quick glance toward the open door and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Is Mr. Tully waking? I’m guessing he ain’t or you wouldn’t be down here. Have a cup a tea, Miss, till you’re giving them DuPonts the boot, then we —”

“Where is Mr. Babcock?” I asked.

“Here, my dear.”

Mr. Babcock appeared in the doorway, red-faced, winded, and in a frock coat dotted with rain. His short arms were stretched wide to each side, holding up a large, wooden crate that was obviously crushing his round middle. I allowed my curiosity free rein for about one second before blurting, “Last night the door was locked and a man chased me down the street and into our courtyard. He was here yesterday, when we got out of the carriage, and he’s outside now, watching the house.”

Mary turned from her progress toward the door, mouth open as Mr. Babcock gave me a sharp look. “Chased, you say?”

I nodded and he sighed once before he set the crate down with difficulty in the hall, coming into the room with a careful step, as if an improper haste might mar the sanctity of Marianna’s bedchamber. He peeked around the shutter. The windowpanes were running with rain.

“I noticed our new friend just this morning, I’m sorry to say. But the rain seems to have driven him in. For now.” Mr. Babcock blew out a breath. “I am not so much surprised by the event as the speed in which it has happened. He could be an agent of Wickersham’s, which would be the most logical, though if so he seems remarkably indiscreet. But we must also consider the possibility that this man could be visiting us on behalf of the French.”

I frowned. “But to be here before we even arrived, Mr. Babcock? How is that possible?”

“I think we must assume, my dear, that just as Lane was in France —”

“Is in France,” I corrected. I tried not to notice the look exchanged by Mary and Mr. Babcock.

“Your pardon. Just as Lane Moreau is in France, passing information to the British, one could assume that there are his counterparts in London, passing information to the French.” Mr. Babcock closed the shutter and shook his head. “He could also be nothing more than a common footpad, waiting for a young lady of means to step away from her door. It is a possibility.” None of us believed it. “Well, well. Until we know more, I think the wisest solution is to do nothing of interest on which he may report. And I must insist that neither of you young ladies leave this house alone. Can we agree upon that?”

Mary began a mumbling protest, but my gaze was pulled straight to the papers I had left in the chair. I had been planning to leave the house just as soon as possible.

“No need to look like that, child,” said Mr. Babcock, coming to pat me awkwardly on the shoulder. “I quite understand the difficulties, and I did not bribe half of France to not get any of the benefits. I shall take you first thing in the morning, or as early as you can be ready. Will that do? Assuming your uncle can be made comfortable, of course. I have brought him some things I hope will prove sufficiently distracting. …”

But whatever else he might have said was cut off by the kiss I planted on his sagging cheek.

“Well, well,” he said again, reaching down to straighten the buttons of his waistcoat. I knew he was pleased. But I also saw a shadow of sadness pass across his face.

I sent Mary to my uncle, to be certain he still slept, and ascertaining that I did not have a black eye, merely a bruise along my right cheekbone, shockingly purple, I made myself decent and left Marianna’s bedchamber. I counted each step as I descended, twenty-two from my landing to the lowest floor. That would make sixty-six stairs between the DuPonts and my uncle’s lair in the attic. It did not feel like enough.

The DuPont family stood assembled along the front wall of the salon, as if awaiting inspection, Mr. DuPont, I was happy to see, wearing all the clothing he should be. The dust sheets were gone, the window shutters opened to the steady drizzle, and a small coal fire glowed in the grate. It was a nice room, I thought, very bright and new looking, but I missed the dignity that came with Stranwyne’s dark and ancient shabbiness.

They must have arrived quite early to clean it, I thought, watching Marguerite stare dreamily at the gilded designs on the ceiling, hair floating about her head like a fluffy blonde cloud. I wished her elsewhere. Mr. Babcock had suggested I be gentle with the DuPonts — I was, after all, depriving them of what must have been an easy and welcome addition to their income — and I planned to be as just and reasonable as was possible. But the child did not need to listen while I dismissed her mother. Perhaps she did not speak English. I turned to ask, but Mrs. DuPont stepped forward before I could speak.

“You cannot send us away, Mademoiselle.”

I closed my mouth, and then said, “Mrs. DuPont, I most certainly —”

“Napoléon est mort,” Mr. DuPont interrupted, hat in his hands. I raised a brow in his direction.

“You will not send us away, Mademoiselle,” Mrs. DuPont repeated. “You will need the cooking and the shopping —”

“Napoléon est mort.”

“— and I am a fine cook.”

“Mrs. DuPont, I have no intention of —”

“And your salon, is it not pretty, just as the English like?”

“I —”

“We are good workers. Everyone says that we are. …”

“Then I am certain you will have no difficulty whatsoever in finding another position,” I said firmly, putting an end to the argument. “You will receive an excellent reference and a full month of wages, as agreed, so you may —”

“Napoléon est mort,” Mr. DuPont said loudly. I saw Marguerite, utterly unperturbed, reach up and take his hand. I softened my tone.

“— so you may begin elsewhere. I wish you all the best of luck. Please leave whatever keys you have let yourself in with and I will bid you a good day.”

“I think,” Mrs. DuPont said very slowly, “that what Mademoiselle wishes the most, is for the privacy. Is that not so?”

I stiffened slightly, a little frown on my forehead. I was certain her sharp gaze had not missed it. “Mrs. DuPont, I thank you for your time here, but your services are no longer required. Please leave your keys on the table in the foyer. Can I be more clear?”

“But I have already done so, Mademoiselle. Last night, as you instructed, before retiring to our rooms.”

I stared, uncomprehending, and then I caught the barest tilt to one corner of her mouth, a smug lift in an otherwise expressionless face. “Mrs. DuPont,” I said slowly, “exactly where are your rooms?”

She nodded just slightly, as if acknowledging the arrival of a long-awaited question. “In the servants’ quarters, Mademoiselle,” she replied, “across the hallway from the kitchen.”

I stood mute, drawing in five full breaths before I accepted the truth, and then my temper flared, as I was sure she’d meant it to do. Mrs. DuPont had never actually left the house. The DuPonts lived in the house. Without anyone’s knowledge or permission. I filtered through the memory of our conversations. Had she told me she was leaving or had I assumed? What had been said and done last night when we thought the house was empty? A wave of hot fury was spreading outward from my chest, but there was a cold, cold fear bubbling just beneath it. What might this woman have already seen? Or heard?

Mrs. DuPont waited quietly, unmoving, her black eyes watching me think all these things. “You will need servants, Mademoiselle,” she repeated.

“And tell me why,” I said deliberately, “I would retain a servant who has breached her contract with my estate, who has lived in my house without permission for …” I tilted my head, leaving the question in the air.

“Five years, Mademoiselle.”

“For five years,” I said. The flush of anger reached my cheeks. “Can you explain why I would keep such a servant, Mrs. DuPont, instead of bringing the police?”

“Because, Mademoiselle, I think you will wish for the servant that does not ask the questions. Am I not right? I think the servant who can hold her tongue will be what Mademoiselle requires.”

If Mrs. DuPont’s expression remained unchanged, I’m sure mine did not. All my fury was cooling, icing over with dread.

“Mademoiselle will need the servant who will not mind the comings and goings, who will not mind that they stay on the lowest floor. And we …” She indicated the man and child with a wave of her bony hand. I’d nearly forgotten they were there. “We can be very quiet, Mademoiselle. We know how to hold our tongues in the street. When Mademoiselle pays a good wage, we can all hold our tongues very well.”

Again we stared at each other, and if before there had been a battle between our eyes, this time it was not even a contest; Mrs. DuPont had all the weapons.

“I think we shall be very happy together. Do you not agree, Mademoiselle?”

We all turned to a sharp tap from the window. Mrs. Hardcastle was peering in from the other side of the smearing glass, pince-nez on her nose, an umbrella over her enormous hat, other indistinct bodies pressed around her. She was grinning, pointing meaningfully at my front door.

“You have visitors, Mademoiselle,” said Mrs. DuPont. “Marguerite, prend leurs manteaux, amèner les ici.” And to her husband she said, “Disparais!” He vanished without a word while Marguerite bounded toward the front door, where someone was already rapping. “You will need tea and sweet things,” Mrs. DuPont said gravely, her black eyes dancing at me. “I will prepare it, Mademoiselle.”

“Miss Tulman,” I whispered at her back. She looked over her shoulder and nodded once, her face as satisfied as a death mask could be.