That captured the room’s attention. I felt three sets of eyes swing to me, waiting for my response. “No need to trouble yourself, Mr. Marchand. Mr. Babcock plans to escort me.”
“But he must be a man of much business, while I have nothing so worthy on which to spend my time. And we have already established that Paris can be unsafe.” He smiled again, stretching the tiny mustache, and all the eyes moved in tandem back to me. I felt my temper rising.
“I have already made my plans, Mr. Marchand, and I am sure I do not need an escort to go anywhere.” This was not remotely true; at the moment I would not have put a toe outside my own front door. But hearing one of the Miss Mortimers give a soft gasp was pleasurable.
I opened my mouth to speak, but was saved from saying anything more rude by a deafening crash from over our heads, a thundering cacophony that shook the ceiling and shocked the room. We all looked up, Mrs. Hardcastle through her pince-nez, and watched the chandelier pendants jiggle and clink. Then the footsteps started up again, just as frantic as before. Mrs. Hardcastle turned the pince-nez to me.
“Is there some sort of trouble upstairs, Miss Tulman?”
A row of curious faces looked back at me, waiting for me to speak. I opened my mouth, struggling to bring any sort of plausible explanation to my tongue, when with no warning Mrs. DuPont appeared in the doorway.
“Your pardon, Mademoiselle,” she said, her black eyes canny, “for the terrible noise. Marguerite has dropped a tray.”
“A tray,” I repeated slowly, “dropped by Marguerite.”
Mrs. DuPont’s face did not change. “Yes, Mademoiselle. I will speak with her about her clumsiness. A thousand pardons to your guests.” She looked at me again, a bit triumphant, dropped the hint of a curtsy and left the room with a whoosh, as if she’d sucked all the air out with her. I knew Marguerite had not gone upstairs. I would have seen; I’d chosen my seat for the purpose. What a game the woman was playing.
“But what of our plans, Miss Tulman?” said Mr. Marchand. “I have a relative on the side of my mother, in the Hôtel des Invalides. The hospital there is one of the finest in France. And the tomb of the great Napoléon, it is there, as well. You cannot resist such an offer as that.”
I put my eyes on Mr. Marchand, and what I resisted was a very strong urge to suggest that he escort Mr. DuPont instead. “Mr. Babcock has already made up a list and secured my invitations, Mr. Marchand. I will await his pleasure.”
His friendly smile widened. “Then I will stop at the same time tomorrow, Miss Tulman, and if you wish to see the Hôtel des Invalides, I shall be happy to serve. If no, then I will not disturb you for the world.”
“Well!” said Mrs. Hardcastle, making me start, “I daresay the rain is slowing. Do you think we shall still have time to make the Madeleine, girls?”
I found the Miss Mortimers staring at me from the settee, teacups halfway to mouths, their faces a blend of mortification and incredulity that both flattered and insulted. The slouching man outside was folding his wet newspaper, and I heard the footsteps above my head move toward the landing. The thought of who might come running down those stairs had me instantly on my feet.
“Well, thank you so much for visiting, Mrs. Hardcastle, Miss Mortimer, Miss Mortimer, Mr. Marchand.” I gave them each a brief nod. “Do come again.”
Cups were set down in haste and Marguerite appeared from nowhere, showing everyone to their damp wraps and umbrellas. The Miss Mortimers peered up the stairs as they were ushered out, looking for the elusive Mr. Babcock, and I ignored the tip of Mr. Marchand’s hat after it went onto his head. As soon as Marguerite had shut the door and trotted off toward the kitchen, I ran up the stairs to my bedchamber.
There was no Uncle Tully. Only Mary on her knees in the middle of the floor, wrestling with an armload of clothing, my trunk lid propped up, the wardrobe gaping wide. From the tall chest, various drawers were hanging open, one of them pulled right from its slot to the floor, a jumble of candlesticks and small ornaments scattered where they’d fallen. I let out a long breath, and Mary looked up from her skirmish with the petticoats, freckles invisible beneath her irritated flush. The petticoats seemed to be winning.
“Are they gone, Miss? Well, that’s a relief and no mistake. Mr. Tully is awake and had his tea, but it’s playtime, Miss, playtime like you’ve never seen. He’s got that box of Mr. Babcock’s open and you know what it’s like when he’s got something new to grab hold of. There’s no reasoning with him, though he don’t look near ready to be out of a bed, if you’re asking me, which I note you ain’t. You’re meant to come upstairs at noontime on the dot, Miss, so mind your time, ’cause Lord knows I’m not going back up anytime soon. Mr. Tully yelled like the devil for me to be on my way and I locked the door — you forgot to do that this morning, Miss — and came down to do a quick spot of unpacking, and instead dumped a drawerful of candlesticks and I don’t know what else on the floor.”
She gave up her attempt to fold and wadded up my petticoats. “I don’t know how a body’s supposed to be doing their job, or how we’re supposed to be keeping ourselves to ourselves when it’s worse than the London Bridge about this place, people in and out, in and out the whole day through. And what with men on the sidewalk and that DuPont woman hanging about like a crow on a limb, it’s a miracle we ain’t done for already. And what’s to happen to Mr. Tully, then, Miss? And to you? We won’t be lasting out the week at this rate. …”
I sank into the velvet chair, not bothering to dam Mary’s flood of words. Mostly because they were true. Every last one of them. This was becoming less a matter of whether Uncle Tully would be found or not, and more of a race to see who would be the first to make the discovery.
I closed my eyes, and for one moment, for a fleeting second, sitting in that chair behind the darkness of my eyelids, I wished that I was empty-headed and vapid, with an over-trimmed dress and nothing more pressing than rain on the way to the Madeleine.
What I truly wished was that Lane was here, telling me what I should do.
15
I dreamed of Lane that night. Maybe because of the search I would start the next morning, or maybe because of the afternoon I had spent with my uncle, watching him “play,” as Lane and I had done together so many times before. Though I doubted even Lane had ever seen the state my uncle Tully had been in that afternoon. The contents of Mr. Babcock’s box — coils of wire, jars of hazy fluid, and other things I did not understand — had my uncle’s attention at such a fevered pitch, an almost manic intensity, that I wasn’t certain Uncle Tully ever fully realized I was there. In any case, I dreamed of Lane, as I often did, but this was a dream that felt more like memory, though I knew it wasn’t real.
“Fais attention,” he was saying, “aux femmes déterminées. That’s what my dad always told me.”
We were in my green morning room at Stranwyne, and Lane had his elbows on the back of my chair, toying with one of the small curls below my hair knot. He was unshaven, uncombed, and just a little annoyed with me, but I did not move away or reach for the stack of ledgers that lay waiting on the desk.
“You know I don’t speak French,” I replied, deciding to feign petulance. He knew I was pretending.
“He said to ‘beware of strong-blooded women.’ And good advice that was, too. Don’t you think that was good advice, Miss Tulman?” I smelled the outdoors and molten metal. I’d never been aware of scents in a dream. “Come with me now. Work’s done for the day.”