A Spark Unseen

20

For the next hours, my activities were polar extremes. I received a reply by telegram from Mr. Babcock’s offices, arranging for the transport of his body to the family burial plot in Westminster. And I was fitted for a dress, my perceived social standing high enough to gain me credit for the cloth. Mrs. Hardcastle, Mary, and a tiny French seamstress became an unlikely team, united in the common purpose of making me fit for an emperor I heartily despised. I could only hope the dress wouldn’t be the cause of my new life in a French debtor’s prison.

“Would you like to trade places with me, Marguerite?” I asked the child. She was sitting in the corner, one of the French fairy-tale books I’d found in my room propped open in her lap. I’d realized that these must be her books, that my grandmother’s room was a place she came often, but she was not reading this time. She was watching, wide-eyed, as I stood, arms over head in my underclothes, having swaths of cloth pinned all over me, listening to a frank discussion on certain aspects of my figure as if I were an interesting piece of horseflesh. “They’d never notice,” I whispered to her. I was rewarded with a giggle.

I’d never asked Mrs. DuPont about the comings and goings at the courtyard door — too many other worries had intervened — and she had never asked me about the bells that rang all over the house about once every hour when I was not above stairs. Curiosity seemed to be sadly lacking for the both of us, until on my way to the attic room after my fitting, I happened to glance out the round window on the upper floor. Far below, I saw a young man talking with Mrs. DuPont at the courtyard door. I watched as he put something slyly in her hand, perhaps a letter or something folded in paper.

I hurried down the stairs and around the landings, through the foyer, and into the back corridor. But Mrs. DuPont was no longer there, and there was no one at the door. She wasn’t in the kitchen either, only Mr. DuPont, staring dreamily at the wall, eating a bowl of porridge. I ducked away before he could see me and start one of our bizarre one-sided conversations, and found myself staring at the closed door to the servants’ quarters.

I was not actually lacking curiosity, far from it; the door to Mrs. DuPont’s room was a terrible temptation, even more so than the time I had succumbed and opened Lane’s. And this time I knew the house belonged to me. I reached out a hand for the door latch. For all of our posturing and squabbling over names, for all of her glorious dinners, hoping I would choose ease of service over actual authority in my own house, I was frightened of Mrs. DuPont. I did not understand her, could not make out where her allegiances lay except with the Bonapartes. Was her enthusiasm that of a loyal subject, or a more personal devotion? If she knew enough to lead the emperor’s agents to my uncle, surely she would have already done so? I put my hand on the latch.

Of course, she also might be choosing an income over the emperor, and there was the nexus of my fear. I was afraid of what Mrs. DuPont might do if she thought I couldn’t pay. And despite having searched through many of Mr. Babcock’s papers, the location of my money in Paris was still an enigma. I dropped my hand from her latch, and instead stepped out the back door and into the courtyard.

The sun was lowering, sinking down behind the steeply pitched roofs, and I could hear children in some other part of the garden, behind a screen of hedges, but that was not what captured my attention. I had come to see if there was any sign of the young man, and there he was, just a little way down the path, a large, strapping sort of lad with his pants tucked into his boots. But he was not with Mrs. DuPont. He was with Mary, and Mary was giggling in a way that showed perhaps one-third of the sense I knew her to possess.

The young man took one of Mary’s hands and kissed it before leaning forward to whisper in her ear. I felt my eyebrows rise. Mary Brown had always held strong opinions about her proper duties as my maid, but the role she’d felt most keenly was that of chaperone, a rather prudish, overprotective one, in my opinion. Mary would snap like a disgruntled goose if Lane’s skin ever brushed anything other than my hand. Not that we hadn’t outwitted her. Often. But we’d certainly never done so in public.

Mary caught sight of me and yanked her hand away, pushing the young man from her ear. The boy looked over his shoulder, grinned, made a motion as if he was tipping an invisible cap, whispered one last thing in Mary’s ear, making her giggle, and then trotted away down the path. I walked out to meet her, and Mary tossed up her chin, despite the fact that her freckles were disappearing beneath blotches of pink.

“Robert is a right nice young man,” she said with no preamble. “And you don’t say ‘Robert’ when you’re French, you say ‘Ro-bear’ like there’s a big, furry animal on the end of it. He brings the groceries to Mrs. DuPont, and he’s good to that Mr. DuPont, even though the man ain’t much of talker, if you take my meaning.”

“I thought you said there weren’t any groceries, Mary.”

“I said there weren’t any groceries that time, Miss. He’s a nice boy,” she said.

“I’m sure he is,” I replied carefully. “Does Robert … does he speak English?”

“Not so much. But he’s teaching me French, and I can’t be spending all my years up in the attics, Miss.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Part of me wanted to laugh, the other was aware of a great, empty void in my chest, a reminder that I was full of echoes. “But, Mary, surely … you couldn’t have known Robert very long, could you?” The last I’d counted, we had been in Paris for exactly four days.

I had thought this quite gentle as far as a remonstrance went, but Mary’s brows came down, still on the defensive. I took her arm, and she let out her annoyance in a little puff of air. Then she leaned her head on my shoulder, and we began walking back to the house. This was not the way a lady was supposed to walk with her maid, I supposed, but then again, I did not have a history of correct behavior with the servants. I wondered how she would feel if tonight went badly, if I decided we had to take Uncle Tully and flee from Paris. It seemed that any move I made — or didn’t make — was bound to hurt someone. My feet felt heavy in the gravel as we approached the back step.

“Miss,” Mary said suddenly, straightening up. “I’ve been thinking on this for a while now, Miss, only I hadn’t said, but … that Lane Moreau, now.” My arm stiffened slightly in hers. “Before you was coming to us, he didn’t go about with any of them other girls in the village, not a bit of it, and he could’ve, Miss, Lord knows he could’ve. Mostly he was with Mr. Tully, of course, and we’re both knowing what a job that is. But when you came, you was the only one I saw turning his head, and you turned it proper, if you don’t mind me saying. But, Miss, if all that’s so, and if he weren’t dead these months, and was just next door only now he ain’t, then why in all this time wasn’t he writing to you, Miss? Not even a line or two, not using his name?”

Every muscle inside me was now clenched and tense. Mary, in her usual way, was putting her thumb “right on the sore spot,” as her mother would have said. I didn’t know the answer to her question.

Mary went on. “Unless — and I hope I ain’t hurting your feelings none, Miss — but, unless maybe he was finding somebody else? He’s been gone a long time, and there’s lots of girls running about Paris, I’ve noticed, girls that ain’t so far above him. But what I’m really wanting to know, Miss, is … do you think they’ll all be changing their minds someday?”

I’d been so focused on my own worries that I hadn’t seen the direction Mary’s thoughts were taking. I turned my mind from my own conundrums and squeezed her arm.

“I’m not certain, Mary. But I would guess the shorter the acquaintance, the more changeable a mind could be. Wouldn’t you agree?” I tried to smile at her serious face.

“Well, Miss,” Mary said, “if we’re swapping advice, and if you don’t mind a dose of it from me, I wouldn’t trust that Mr. Marchand, Miss. Not for a minute, Miss. He looks at you like a fox in a chicken coop what’s got only one hen.”

I attempted a smile for the second time, but I couldn’t summon it. It wasn’t Henri Marchand or Mrs. DuPont or even the emperor of France I was afraid of this evening. The name of my deepest fear was Katharine Tulman, and whether tonight she would once again be making a terrible mistake.

At nine o’clock, I stood in front of the mirror in Marianna’s room, fidgeting. Uncle Tully was well, his bruises more faded, the upstairs attic now resembling a mechanical nest. My bruise was almost undetectable, but the small cut, I feared, was going to leave a scar. I had a bag packed beside the door of my room, and one of Dr. Pruitt’s little brown bottles on the chimneypiece, just in case the night went badly. I had not yet mentioned the idea of fleeing Paris to Mary, but I saw her eying the bottle and guessed that she was drawing her own conclusions.

But my hair was done, my dress almost so, the poor little French seamstress still on her knees at my feet, frantically stitching. There had been no time for complicated tucks and flounces, so Mrs. Hardcastle had suggested we rely on simplicity and the beauty of the material instead. I was enveloped in layers of rich velvet in an emerald green, yards of it, heavy and hot where it was not too breezy. There were places that were much too breezy. Mary stood behind me, fumbling with the buttons.

“Good heavens, Miss!” she fussed, giving me a light whack on the exposed skin of my back. “Will you stop your moving about?”

The seamstress looked up from her last line of stitches, scandalized. I managed to stand still for three more buttons before surrendering again to my nervousness. It was just like the night before my eighteenth birthday, another night when I had wholeheartedly regretted my choice of clothing, mostly because the girl looking back at me had not resembled Katharine Tulman. Then I had been remarkably pretty. For me. Tonight I was all eyes and pale skin — too much pale skin — and cascading curls made red by the color of the velvet. I was not remotely pretty; I was exotic, and I wished I could stay home, for more reasons than just my wardrobe. The seamstress pulled the final stitch, Mary did up the last button, and we all stared at my reflection in the mirror. My stomach squeezed.

“Fine,” I said to the alien creature in the mirror. “Let’s get this over with, then.”

I soon discovered the difficulties of getting through a door while wearing an enormous hoopskirt, and then the dangers of negotiating stairs when one could not catch a glimpse of her own feet. I took the steps slowly, feeling for each solid surface beneath my slippers, which must have made my entrance downstairs rather dramatic, because Henri Marchand, who was waiting in the foyer, nearly dropped his cigarette. Mrs. Hardcastle was there as well, ogling the scene through her pince-nez, gathering some juicy bits of news for the girls next door, no doubt. I breathed out my relief when I made it safely to the bottom of the stairs.

“My!” said Mrs. Hardcastle, patting my arm fondly. “I wish Alice Tulman could have been here to see that, I daresay. What a face she would be making! Have a lovely time, my dear.”

I tried to say something in reply, but nerves had made me mute. Henri did not smile, either, insolent or otherwise. He had a white rose in the buttonhole of his black coat. He said nothing, just offered his arm. I took it.

In the carriage, Henri was quiet, looking thoughtfully out the open window as he smoked. It was a cool evening, but I had decided the smoke was a greater evil than the cold.

“This invitation,” he said, breaking the silence, “it comes from the emperor himself, or from the empress, or someone high in their circle of friends, yes? Do you know why this is?” I was thinking how best to answer, but before I could he turned his face to me and said, “And if you did know, Miss Tulman, would you tell me?”

I sighed. “No. I probably wouldn’t. I’m sorry.”

He laughed, but there was no humor it. I could see the lack of it in the light of passing streetlamps. I truly was sorry. I felt guilty, putting him to so much trouble without explanation.

“There is a purpose to the evening,” I said, “of that I am certain.” It was what I found so frightening. “My thought is to just remain as unobtrusive as possible, and see where the night leads us. I’m sure all will become clear.”

He laughed again. “Miss Tulman, in case you do not know, you will not remain ‘unobtrusive,’ as you say, in that dress.”

“Don’t be impertinent,” I said, holding back a smile.

“Just stay close to me,” he said, not impertinent at all.

Light blazed at the Tuileries, eclipsing the stars. From every door and window, and from the dozens of bonfires set along the drive, showing the way for the carriages. We drove through an enormous stone arch, life-sized statues of horses on its top, through a gate, and followed the line of fires to the doors. I had elected not to wear a wrap even with the slight chill, not having anything near fine enough, and when we were shown inside, I was glad. The crowd was dense, the heat of so many bodies sweltering even with so much of my upper half exposed. We ascended a very grand staircase, one with the crowd, moving with them through a columned gallery, past guards standing motionless in their finery, and then from room to ornate room, deeper and deeper into the palace, not speaking to each other or to anyone else, but eliciting stares nonetheless.

I’d been wrong, I realized, that first night at Mrs. Reynolds’s, about what people wore to a ball. The extravagance of satin, lace, curls, and glittering gems was beyond anything I could have imagined. But it was the heads I was watching again — I could not help it — eyes searching for one that was tall and dark. There was no reason in the world for Lane to be here, I knew that; it made no sense for him to be. But that one partial word written in his hand had me looking all the same.

We entered a large, open hall, even more crowded, two stories high with a balcony, and after a quick count, exactly one dozen arched windows. The hall was all marble and statues, candelabras and gilt, so much gilding that the entire domed ceiling was covered with it, dully reflecting the crystal chandeliers. The walls were thick with portraits and flowers, the scents mixing with the many different perfumes in the air. It was dazzling, the noise of French voices and skirts and shoe heels and laughter and the clinking of glass all too much to listen to. But everywhere I did listen, I could hear the same name, and everywhere I looked, in brocade, on the tapestries, emblazoned in pieces of silver, there was the large letter N. Napoléon. Everything was Napoléon.

I clutched Henri’s arm and whispered, “If you see the emperor, you will point him out?”

“I do not think I shall have to, he will …”

The man in front of me stepped back, treading on my skirt, and I realized that the front of the room was clearing, the crowd pressing backward. Violins began to play, and the noise subsided. Over the shoulders and heads I saw four large contraptions being wheeled into the now open end of the room, each tall, light brown, and with the same fat, cylindrical shape. Black-and-yellow papier-mâché insects were attached to them by thin wires, floating and bobbing as they came to a stop. They were supposed to be beehives, I decided, one giant bloom of a purple violet set between them.

The music swelled and I jumped as women burst from the beehives, breaking through the brown paper, dressed in stiff, short, black-and-yellow skirts showing all their legs and wearing bodices that looked like nothing more than corsets. I was a bit shocked by this, though no one else seemed to be. Wire antennae were attached to the ladies’ hair knots, and they immediately began to prance about, spinning on their toes, little skirts bouncing, stretching arms and kicking legs. But always they circled the enormous violet, adoringly, as if it were the sun of their universe, or a god they were compelled to worship.

“The bee,” Henri whispered, “it is the symbol of the Bonapartes, and the violet their chosen flower. The emperor, he is very superstitious about such things. Did you hear the ladies behind us, speaking of the spiritualist in the palace? He …” Henri must have taken a moment to look at my face because he paused his story. “Have you never been to the ballet, Miss Tulman?”

I shook my head, unable to take my eyes from the spectacle. It was the single most ridiculous thing I’d ever seen in my life. I heard Henri chuckle. The girls finished their dance, hop-trotting away to thunderous applause, the beehives were pushed aside, and the noise fell away to low muttering. The servants stationed at each doorway suddenly and simultaneously hit their staffs against the marble floor, creating a resounding crack. The room fell silent.

“L’Empereur … et l’Impératrice … de la France!” one of them shouted, exaggerating the words.

The emperor appeared beneath an archway of crimson hangings, his arm outstretched to hold the hand of the empress, walking perhaps two feet to his side. The couple paused, and then entered their ball. We watched them walk, the entire assemblage, all our eyes together, as they made slow progress toward a raised platform with gilt chairs set upon it.

The Empress Eugénie was a rather average woman, pale, but with a belt made of what I assumed were diamonds, and a grand pile of blonde curls topped with a sparkling diadem. But my gaze only glanced over her, landing firmly on Charles-Louis Bonaparte, Napoléon III. Not as tall or as imposing as I might have thought, despite an extravaganza of medals on his red uniform and an impressively waxed mustache. But his smile, his little nods to acquaintances here and there while we stood, the entire assembly listening to each of his footsteps, struck me as self-satisfied. Smug. How I hated him. For Mr. Babcock, for John George, and for what he had done to me, my uncle, and possibly Lane. Even I was surprised by the violence of it.

“Miss Tulman?”

I looked up to see Henri Marchand’s dark eyes on me. I think it was the second time he had said my name.

“Perhaps we should dance, yes? That would be the easiest way, I think, to search the room.”

So he had seen me looking on our way in. Was there anything he did not notice? I had not even realized that the orchestra was playing. The emperor was seated on the platform now, one leg thrown out inelegantly, kissing a lady’s proffered hand, and then Henri’s voice was in my ear: “And if you do not stop looking at the emperor like that we will be removed by the guard before we can.”

I pulled my eyes away from Napoléon and smiled wanly as I took Henri’s hand, though I could not feel it through my glove, a bit shaken by my own anger. It wasn’t until we reached the edge of the dance, where black-suited men spun the ladies with their twirling, swishing skirts, that I had the sense to panic. I looked up at Henri. “I … I don’t actually know how to do this, you know.”

“No?” He kept my left hand in his, lifting it in the air, then used his other arm to place my right hand on his shoulder before taking me by the waist. “You have never danced with a young man?”

My curls moved slightly as I gave my head one tiny shake. When Lane and I had gone to a ballroom, we’d rolled about on skates. Henri leaned forward again, whispering in my ear. He smelled faintly of spices and strongly of cigarettes.

“Follow my feet, three steps in a square, the fourth step a turn and we begin once again. Leave it to me, and you watch the faces.”

Two times through the steps and I had it. Or had it well enough. It was mostly counting, after all. Rolling had been harder, but significantly more fun. I dared not look up, lest I see a teasing smirk, so I began to watch the crowd, not really knowing what I was looking for, other than the tall, dark head and gray eyes to go with it. I thought of those eyes in all their moods: storm, stone, or waveless sea. I wondered what their mood would be when they once again looked at me.

Three more turns with these thoughts, and I realized that there were indeed eyes on me, though they did not belong to Lane. I could not look at any one person without either catching their glance, or seeing their gaze invariably turn my way. And it was not just me that was attracting the attention. The women especially, I saw, gave me a quick glance up and down before settling the rest of their interest on my partner. I looked up at Henri, a little startled. I’d almost forgotten he was handsome, though the fact had evidently not escaped him. He was returning each of these coy little compliments with a smile that was deliberately dashing.

He looked down, saw my raised brows, and grinned like a little boy. Then he leaned close again and said, “Do you see the Englishman with the champagne glass, standing to the left of the emperor? That is Cowley, the British ambassador, and the man he speaks with is the son of Napoléon I, though not the son of any of Napoléon’s wives, of course. He resembles his father, no?”

We turned, and turned again, and when I was facing the right direction once more Henri continued. “And the man on Cowley’s right, that is the brother of the first Napoléon, who the emperor has made his heir until he has children, and the other, with the bald head, that is Charles de Morny, the emperor’s half brother, the illegitimate son of his mother. And that man,” Henri said on the turn, “do you see him, with the big woman? That is the illegitimate son of the emperor’s father.”

I eyed the man, dancing rather well with a stout woman in a startling shade of salmon, and tried unsuccessfully to process the Bonaparte family entanglements.

“And that woman there, who sits chatting with the empress, she is rumored to be the emperor’s most recent mistress.”

I turned to see what Napoléon III might think of this, but he was not noticing the empress, I saw, not in the slightest. He was staring, directly and unwaveringly, at me. I was jarred by his look, by the absolute single-mindedness of it, as if there were no others present in this ballroom, only the two of us, watching each other across a space of maybe twenty feet. And there was something in this, the intensity, the penetration, giving nothing away, that rang recognition deep inside me, a faint noise like Uncle Tully’s bells; I could hear the ringing, and yet was unable to identify the power that made them chime. How I hated him.

Henri and I spun about in the dance, the crowd closed in, and the shared gaze was broken. I was looking back over my shoulder, wanting to know if those inscrutable eyes were still on me, when I realized that we had stopped dancing, that Henri was stepping back politely, letting me go, that someone had tapped his shoulder to take his place. There was another hand in mine, another hand on my waist, the music playing on. And when I looked up, I was three inches away from the beatific smile of Ben Aldridge.