Mr. Babcock’s mouth rounded in a silent “ahhh,” as if Mr. Wickersham had spoken something he’d been waiting for, and the little fingers changed to a staccato rhythm.
“Do you mean to say,” I asked, “that you have been trying to make one of Uncle Tully’s fish as well, Mr. Wickersham?”
He smiled amiably. “France may be ahead of us in the race to an ironclad ship, Miss Tulman, but both countries shall certainly have them. It is the side that has the weapon to destroy an ironclad that will own the seas, and that is a prize that both Her Majesty Victoria and the Emperor Napoléon would very much like to reserve for themselves. England and France may march together in the Crimea, but do not forget that the first Napoléon Bonaparte ruled Europe and came close to defeating us. And now his nephew Napoléon the Third has dissolved the French parliament and crowned himself emperor. He is out to recapture the reign and glory of his family, Miss Tulman, make no mistake about that. And I, for one, would not like to see that much power fall back into the hands of a Bonaparte.”
A small silence fell. Mr. Wickersham slapped his knees, and the limp man beside him seemed to wake up, immediately resuming the scratching of his pen. “So I am sure you will understand when I say that we expect your uncle in London as soon as is possible.”
His words hit my mind like a physical slap. “I’m afraid I must have misunderstood you,” I replied. Mr. Wickersham shook his head.
“You are no simpleton, Miss Tulman, and have better sense than to make an enemy of your own government. We will be prepared to collect Mr. Tulman by half past three on the day after tomorrow.”
“But you cannot do that.”
Mr. Wickersham smiled. “And why can we not?”
“Mr. Wickersham,” I began as if speaking to a particularly slow child, “you do not understand. My uncle will not work or create on your command, no matter how much you might wish him to. If you forcibly remove him to unfamiliar surroundings, he may not even function. I have grave doubts that he would even survive the journey.”
“And yet we cannot risk having him here, where the emperor can so easily snatch him. It would take half a legion of soldiers to secure this estate. We might as well telegraph our intentions to Paris. England is in need of this weapon, Miss Tulman, if only to hold the balance of power, no matter what the consequences. So to London he goes.”
I balled up a piece of skirt in my hand. “So what you are saying, Mr. Wickersham, is that you consider this weapon to be worth more than the life of my uncle. Do I understand you correctly?”
“Katharine, my child,” said Mr. Babcock softly, though there was steel in the little man’s voice. I closed my mouth as he turned to Mr. Wickersham. “Miss Tulman is understandably distressed. I think a time of quiet in her own chamber, for refreshment and reflection, would be necessary for any young lady in her position. Do you not agree, Mr. Wickersham?”
Mr. Wickersham looked hard at the little lawyer and then at me. “You are quite right, I am sure,” he said. He got to his feet, adjusting the position of his jacket sleeves. “But there is one more subject for Miss Tulman’s necessary ‘reflections.’ Her Majesty’s government is well aware that Mr. Tulman has … eccentricities, shall we say, and understands how necessary Miss Tulman’s person is to his health and well-being. Therefore it is not only Mr. Tulman’s presence that is required in London, but that of his niece as well.”
The bushy mustache turned to face me directly. “We shall return at half past three on the day after tomorrow. Please have your affairs in order, Miss Tulman, and do be prepared for an extended stay.” He gave us both a slight bow before he smiled. “And we will be setting a watch on both the road and the river. For Mr. Tulman’s continued safety, of course. A good morning to you both.”
The scribbling man hastily gathered up his things and followed Mr. Wickersham out through my morning-room door while Mr. Babcock sat quietly, lost in silent thought. I was too stunned for words. When their footsteps had faded, a voice spoke out from behind me.
“That man can’t be having Mr. Tully. Or you neither, Miss!”
I turned to see Mary’s head sticking in from around the opposite doorjamb, where she’d been eavesdropping.
“Of course he can’t,” Mr. Babcock and I said together. Mary stood upright and crossed her arms.
“And Lane Moreau is not dead,” I added, just as stoutly.
To this, neither one of them answered.
It was after midnight when Mary and I finally saw Mr. Babcock to his carriage and came creeping back to our corridor, exhausted and with our throats hoarse from talking. It had been a day of whispered conversation — many whispered conversations — conducted around the strictures of my uncle’s routine. After Uncle Tully was settled for the night, we’d followed Mr. Babcock to one of the deserted rooms in the lower wing, locked the door, and put the finishing touches to our plan amid the dirt and half-torn-out walls, the leftover casualties of the previous flood. Matthew was at the foot of my stairs when Mary and I arrived, a pistol thrust through his belt. He nodded to me once in affirmation that all was well, keeping any curiosity about where I’d been and what I’d been doing well away from his eyes.
I locked my door, but not before giving a quick glance to the portrait of Marianna, my grandmother, standing guard from her wall across the hallway. For the first time, I wondered how she could have failed me. I wondered how I could have failed them all. I removed the key to the bedside table this time, threw off my petticoats, put on a dressing gown, and dropped into my chair before a nonexistent fire, sliding the pins one by one from my hair. I felt so heavy, weighted in mind and body by all that had been decided and all that was now to come.
I pulled my stockinged feet up onto the edge of the cushion, closer to the warmth of my body, and settled my chin onto my knees. The chimney clock ticked. I remembered another night I had sat heavy before this hearth, two years earlier, Uncle Tully lying catatonic in my bed and my wretched aunt Alice lurking the lower floors, ready to rip all I’d so newly come to love away from me at the rising of the sun. Lane had come and sat vigil beside me, on the floor beside this chair, dark and silent, the two of us listening to the tick, tick, tick as the clock hands moved inexorably toward the morning. He reached out and took one of my hands, lifting it until his rough cheek lay against my wrist, and we’d sat that way, waiting, my pulse beating against his cheek, his breath warming my skin. …
Mary’s voice beside my chair gave me a start. I opened my eyes to find my wrist pressed tight against my own cheek, and an unasked-for cup of tea in Mary’s hand. I straightened up in the chair.
“Thank you, Mary,” I said gratefully. I hoped she’d poured one for herself. She probably needed it just as much as I did. I took the first cautious sip, breathing in the fragrant steam. “Thank you, Mary,” I said again. “For everything.”
One side of her mouth quirked down, and I knew what thought was in her mind: a black linen mask, and the way a body folds when the life is out of it. Mary reached out, adjusting the vertical angle of a candle on the chimneypiece.
“Do you think we really can be doing it, Miss? Can we really be doing as Mr. Babcock says?”
“Of course we can,” I replied, though my every fiber longed to deny it. “Or, at least, I must, Mary. You don’t have to. I … I can hardly ask it of you.” I noted the number of intervening heartbeats, watching Mary think, aching at the thought of being one step closer to alone. Mary lifted her chin, a gesture I recognized as my own.