“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.
14
Mrs. DuPont left the room with the rustle of raven wings, only to be replaced by Mrs. Hardcastle, charging through the same doorway like a stampeding bull.
“Miss Tulman! Good morning! Good morning!” Mrs. Hardcastle grabbed both my startled hands, shoving a bundle of cloth into them. “Do accept our apologies for barging in, but the rain has quite ruined our trip to the Madeleine and I told the Miss Mortimers that we could just pop over to bring your shawl, and that you had invited us to tea anyway and would not mind in the slightest.” She looked over her shoulder. “See, girls, Miss Tulman doesn’t mind in the slightest!”
I managed a small smile as the two nieces of Mrs. Reynolds came sideways through the door, so as not to crush the dampened frills on their enormous skirts. They gave a small, tandem curtsy, expressions saying clearly that they were the ones who minded this visit if I did not. I wondered if Mrs. Reynolds had mentioned finding me creeping about their bedchamber. And then I saw dark, slicked hair and an impudent smile beneath a thin mustache.
“And of course you remember Mr. Marchand,” said Mrs. Hardcastle.
“Of course,” I mumbled. This one had watched me throw rocks at my own windows. His smile widened at my confusion. My gaze leapt past him to the window and the empty lamppost beyond it, my mind on Mrs. DuPont, the unexpected assemblage in my salon, and the sixty-six stairs that lay between all of this and disaster. Then I realized that we were standing about, and that we were standing about because of me.
“Won’t you sit down?” I said quickly. I discovered my shawl in my hands and tossed it to a table before finding the edge of a brocaded chair, one that afforded a good view of both the street and the stairs, while the others found places to be comfortable. The Miss Mortimers squished their skirts together on the settee to make room for Mr. Marchand, but he selected the chair beside mine instead. Dark whispering commenced behind gloved hands, and I was careful not to look in his direction. I remembered my promise to Mr. Babcock and attempted a pleasant expression.
“Mrs. DuPont will bring us tea,” I ventured, “and some …” I did not finish. I had no idea what else she might bring.
“Well,” said Mrs. Hardcastle heartily, peering through the pince-nez, “you were perfectly correct, Miss Tulman. This is a lovely room. Quite a lovely room after all.”
Generous, I thought, considering I’d practically dragged her in by the heels to look at the dust sheets. But I only smiled and said, “Thank you,” while Mr. Marchand sat quiet, playing with a coin in one hand.
“And where is Mr. Babcock today?” she asked.
“Oh!” said the first Miss Mortimer, the one with the bouncing blonde front curls. “Are we acquainted with Mr. Babcock? I believe Aunt Reynolds knows a family by the name of Babcock in Surrey.” Her round cheeks glowed with interest.
“Mr. Babcock is my solicitor,” I replied. “He traveled with me to Paris.”
Both the Miss Mortimers’ mouths formed silent Os as they exchanged one darting, and yet significant glance. How interesting, I reflected, to watch the seeds of a rumor germinate; I could almost see the story sprouting in their fertile minds right before my eyes. All at once I was quite looking forward to introducing these young ladies to Mr. Babcock. I hoped he would be wearing his flowered waistcoat.