I looked up from the letter. “Mrs. Cooper says someone has dug up Uncle Tully’s grave. She is quite upset about it. It happened during the night, two … no three days since. They’ve filled it back in again.”
“Lord!” said Mary.
I dropped back into my spot on the settee. We thought this would happen, but now that it had, what did it mean? Did Wickersham know my uncle lived, or no? I pushed a finger against my throbbing temple. Seeing Mrs. Cooper’s writing, like a little piece of Stranwyne in Paris, had left me shaken for other reasons as well. Mr. Babcock was to have been steward of the estate while I was away. How was I to safeguard my uncle and Mrs. Cooper, and manage the entire village as well, now that he was gone?
A noise interrupted my thoughts. The front door was opening, and I could hear Mrs. DuPont’s French, and a deep male answer. I jumped up from the settee.
“She knows you ain’t dressed, Miss, even she wouldn’t …”
But Henri Marchand was through the salon door before Mary could even finish her thought, hat in hand, preened as always, stopping mid-stride at the sight of me. He did not smile, though his brows went up slightly, and he took me in from head to toe for a trifle longer than was strictly needful. I snatched up the blanket I’d left on the settee, wrapping it about myself like a shawl while Mary’s hands went to her hips. She was bristling like an angry cat.
“A gentleman,” she said loudly, “would turn himself about and be going out the way he came!”
If she had hissed and spat at the man, I would not have been surprised. Henri opened his mouth, undecided, took one step backward and that was when the bell beside the hearth rang, sudden and shrill. I jumped, but Mary merely scrunched her freckles, her face a picture of pained resignation. Bells were ringing all over the house. I straightened my back.
“Mr. Marchand,” I said over the noise. He pulled his gaze from the bell to my face. “I’m very glad you came. I wonder if you would mind escorting me next door?”
He opened his mouth, as if to ask a question, only to shut it once more. I could see him trying not to let his eyes wander.
“If you would be so good as to wait while I make myself decent? I shall take care of those bells and won’t be a moment. Marguerite is having a bit of a joke with the bellpull, I suppose. I promise not to take more than a few minutes of your time.”
I held the blanket ends together as I passed by his gaping face, Mary flanking me like the palace guard. I paused and turned around in the doorway. “Or wait in the dining room, if you’d like. I’d bet ten francs there’s a breakfast in there fit to feed the emperor.”
18
When Mary ran upstairs to my uncle, the bells went quiet. I dressed quickly, pulling a brush through my hair’s length from crown to waist, hoping Henri was focused on eating rather than any lack of strings on my uncle’s bells. I needed to get next door without incident. There was at least one small safeguard I could accomplish today, one small something within my power, but it was going to require a humbling I dreaded. But doing anything, even something that would humiliate me, was better than sitting in wait for the next disaster. Mary flew in the door, breathless.
“He’s up, Miss. And making his own toast, if you can credit it. But he was getting a bit of honey on the sleeve, and that’s what the bells was for. I reckon he’s thinking to push on his little key and make them bells ring every time he’s needing something and we ain’t there, heaven help us.”
Heaven help us, indeed. She came over and pulled hard on my corset strings. And what in the world could Mrs. DuPont be thinking of all this? They would have to go today, if I had to find them rooms myself and pay for it. Then I paused in my planning and bit my lip. Mr. Babcock had taken care of all my money in Paris. At the moment I didn’t even know where it was located. I’d had to borrow the price of his body from Mr. Marchand. If Mr. Babcock had not already paid Mrs. DuPont, there might be trouble much sooner than I was prepared to deal with it. When Mary tied the strings, I jerked on a dress, hurried to the desk in the corner, and began to write.
“Do you have any money, Mary?”
She looked up at me in surprise. “I ain’t sure, Miss, I …”
“See if you can scrape up the price of a telegram. I need to get word to Mr. Babcock’s offices. Look in my bags. Perhaps Marguerite will know how to get it sent?”
I scribbled out the last words. “And Mary, I need you to do another thing for me, just as soon as you send the telegram. Go to Mr. Babcock’s rooms, box up all his things, especially his papers, and bring them in here … no, maybe up to the attics. The police are going to come and “seal” his possessions, or that’s what they called it, because we are not relatives. We’ll get them to the right person in due course. …” I realized I had no idea who that would be. “But he was bribing officials, Mary, and I don’t know who to trust with his paperwork. And he’s got all my money somewhere — I’m certain he never got it to a bank. And on second thought, do that first, before the telegram. Leave them a few clothes for show.” I kissed Mary’s cheek, for once not letting her get a word in edgewise, and went downstairs to find Henri shoveling eggs from plate to mouth. He stood at my appearance, dabbing the little mustache with a napkin.
“Miss Tulman, I am sorry to —”
I cut him off. “It’s no matter at all, Mr. Marchand. Do you mind if we just go?”
I stayed rather close to Henri Marchand, even though he smelled strongly of cigarettes. The slouching man was at his lamppost, just as Mary had said, in his blue vest today, eyes following us. I’d forgotten my bonnet, and felt naked for it as we moved down the sidewalk. I knocked on Mrs. Reynolds’s front door, feeling horribly exposed, and with my heart beating hard, making my headache worse. Henri shifted his feet.
“Miss Tulman, I wish to say that …”
“Do hush, Mr. Marchand. It was all my fault and there’s really no need.”
He hushed, and Hawkins opened the door, looking down on my bare head dubiously.
“Miss Tulman and Mr. Marchand to see Mrs. Hardcastle,” I told him. “I shan’t take up but a moment of her time, so if you would be so kind.” I did not wait for an invitation, but came right past the startled Hawkins into the dim, overfilled foyer, letting Henri follow. “Shall we wait in the drawing room?” I opened the door myself and went into the drawing room before the poor man could say a word about it.
I sat down on the settee, hands in lap, while Hawkins went to inform Mrs. Hardcastle, and Henri opened the drapes, letting in the morning sun. He observed the street and then he sat as well, hat on his knee, regarding me.
“Are you well today, Miss Tulman?”
“Not particularly,” I answered. He tilted his head slightly, acknowledging this likelihood.
“And you are in the midst of some trouble, no?”
“Oh, I am in the midst of some trouble, yes,” I answered. I looked about the room. It was nicer, I thought, than the other rooms in the house. Perhaps Mrs. Reynolds had paid less attention to it, or had just not had the opportunity to fill it to capacity. I got up to examine the watercolor behind me, too restless to sit. I did not look at Henri when I said, “I do want to thank you, Mr. Marchand. Most sincerely. For your help at … and with the police. I was extremely … distressed.”
“Miss Tulman, I …”
We both turned to the noise coming from the foyer, and then Mrs. Hardcastle, Mrs. Reynolds, and the two Miss Mortimers entered the drawing room in such an overabundance of taffeta I wondered if the ladies were having some sort of contest about who could wear the most. As they rustled through their curtsies and bows, Mrs. Hardcastle came immediately across the room and took me by the shoulders.