Chapter 16
Calais functioned.
He went ashore with the tide. Clerks ordered the quay.
The gangplank settled. Officials took names.
A clerk read his papers once, then again.
Fitzwilliam signed. Grooms brought horses forward.
Porters carried the luggage. Cooper raised his arm; drew breath.
Villiers shook his head. Cooper stepped back and stilled.
They rode out before the morning settled. The road south held firm. Fields opened and closed. Atop the carriage, Tanner set an easy pace. A posting-house received them. Servants set bread on the table and drew water. Men glanced and returned to their talk. The road held.
Notices stood where notices always stood. Fitzwilliam did not read them. Boys passed with baskets slung. Their number fell short of expectation. A man watched from the hedge where the road dipped. He did not raise his head when they passed. Fitzwilliam counted him and moved on.
Abbeville appeared without ceremony. The inn sat back from the road, its paint worn. Fitzwilliam dismounted and issued instructions. The yard took the horses. Inside, bodies warmed the room from long sitting.
Three old men occupied a table. Fitzwilliam took the seat at the other table.
A server poured wine. One man laughed. Another shook his head and drank.
Talk moved around them. The man with an eyepatch said ‘L’Anglais’ and did not lower his voice.
The second man replied, ‘Oui, aussi.’ The third, an older man, hunched over his hands, his pipe gone cold.
His eyes followed Fitzwilliam’s hand as it set the glass down.
Fitzwilliam finished his wine and stood.
Outside, a cart rolled past with two women walking behind it. Grooms held the horses ready. He mounted. The cart did not move on at once. One wheel stood fast until the women tugged it free. Fitzwilliam watched the delay and set it aside.
They left Abbeville by the eastern road. The land flattened. Ditches caught the sky. A boy stood with a bundle too large for him and watched them go. Fitzwilliam did not look back.
The afternoon lengthened. Fitzwilliam held the pace even. Villiers approached to his right. “I didn’t fancy the inn crowd.”
Fitzwilliam nodded. Villiers fell back.
Men of a certain age did not appear on the road. White and grey-hared men worked the fields. Riders passed without greeting. Two riders halted at a distance too neat for chance. They spoke briefly. One turned back. Fitzwilliam altered nothing.
They stopped once before dusk. The inn kept quiet. A server brought plain supper. Fitzwilliam ate.
The road toward Paris rose and fell. Milestones marked the distance. A notice stood at a crossing. Fitzwilliam stayed mounted. A patrol passed in the opposite direction. No one spoke. One man in the line looked twice. Fitzwilliam met his eyes and rode on.
Night came. Fitzwilliam slept. Morning cooled the air. He mounted Argus and guided him to the right.
Traffic thickened. Riders kept their distance. Villiers and Maréchal remained on his rear flank. Fitzwilliam counted: carts, riders, walkers.
A signpost listed. The arm pointing north had been struck once and reset poorly. He marked it and rode past.
Paris lay ahead.
* * *
Paris received him without remark.
They entered by a gate already in use. Traffic folded and unfolded around them. Fitzwilliam eased into the pace and followed the line the road gave. The city took its measure.
He drew up at the H?tel de l’Empereur. The door opened as Villiers dismounted.
‘Anglais?’
‘Oui. Chambre,’ Villiers replied.
Keys changed hands.
Luggage followed the stairs and found its place without instruction. The windows faced stone. Sound carried and stopped.
He washed and changed. Villiers opened the door.
The street ran straight for three turns and then did not. Shops opened. Carts paused. A man stepped aside and resumed his path once Fitzwilliam passed. He noted the hour by the bells.
He returned by the same way and met the same turns. The door admitted him. A tray appeared and withdrew. He ate standing and left the plate where it was set.
In the afternoon he walked again. The route repeated itself with small shifts. A corner offered a choice; he took the one he had taken before. The same voices rose again at the same door. The same cart stopped again at the same stone. A woman crossed and did not look back.
He returned once more. The room held. Paper lay where he had left it. He did not touch it.
At the sixth bell, he went out again. He took the route a third time. Traffic remained constant. Men spoke and did not turn. A carriage passed close enough to brush the air and moved on. He counted the steps between two markers and reached them together.
At dusk he stopped at the door and watched the street empty and fill again. He went inside.
Supper arrived and left. He ate. He sat and stood and marked nothing but the hour.
Night came. The street quieted without falling silent. He lay down and woke once to the sound of wheels and again to nothing at all.
In the morning, he dressed and went out early. The route met him where it had before. He took it and kept his hour.
Paris did not ask him why he had come.
* * *
Villiers smoothed the last line of the jacket and stepped back. Richard crossed to the writing slope, tripped the catch with his finger, and drew the hidden drawer free. Three letters lay within. He took them up, glanced once—Vienna, Berlin—returned those two, and kept Paris.
He broke the seal and let his eye move down the names.
“Shall I rouse Tanner and Cooper?”
“Horses only.”
Villiers inclined his head and went.
He read it again and set it back. The drawer closed without sound.
The street lay narrow and pale in the early light. Fitzwilliam drew rein before the house and dismounted. Villiers took the horses.
Fitzwilliam mounted the steps and handed up his card.
The concierge glanced once and withdrew. The door closed.
Fitzwilliam waited. The door opened.
The card lay in two pieces on a silver trivet.
* * *
The mornings passed on foot.
Fitzwilliam crossed bridges and paused where the river widened. He stood before canvases and read the placards twice. He walked galleries in order and then again against the flow. He listened where others spoke and moved on when they gathered.
He ate where he could sit apart. He watched uniforms come and go. He noted which colours appeared more often than they had the week before.
One afternoon he stood before a facade newly cleared of its crest. The stone showed where something had been removed. He did not linger.
He returned to his rooms near dusk. Villiers opened the door and took his coat; Fitzwilliam handed him his gloves.
Villiers held up the torn card pieces. “These, sir?”
“Remember who.”
“The Duc de Rochefort,” Villiers said.
Fitzwilliam inclined his head. “Tomorrow. Baron Delmas.”
* * *
The house stood newer than its neighbours, stone freshly scrubbed, the ironwork unsoftened by age.
Fitzwilliam dismounted and mounted the steps. He handed up his card.
The servant did not withdraw at once. He glanced at the name, then at Fitzwilliam, and went inside.
Fitzwilliam waited.
He was admitted.
The room beyond the threshold lay spare and high-ceilinged. A desk stood near the window. Papers lay squared upon it. No chair had been set forward.
One chair stood back, aligned with the wall.
The baron entered without haste. He inclined his head.
He did not offer the chair.
“Monsieur Fitzwilliam.”
“My lord.”
“You will forgive me. I have little time.”
“Of course.”
Delmas crossed to the desk and lifted one paper from the top of the stack. He glanced at it, then set it aside. Another followed. Then a third.
Each bore the same hand.
“You are travelling,” Delmas said.
“Yes.”
“You have called upon several houses.”
“I have.”
Delmas nodded once. “Paris is much occupied.”
“Indeed.”
Delmas’s mouth moved, stopped. He consulted the papers again, though none had been altered. His finger rested on the margin and did not move.
“You will convey my respects to your father.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head and waited.
Delmas looked up. His gaze sharpened. “Lord Matlock.”
The phrasing admitted no correction.
“I shall.”
Delmas inclined his head a second time. “That will be all.”
Fitzwilliam bowed and withdrew.
The chair remained against the wall when Fitzwilliam turned to leave.
The servant was already waiting. He opened the door.
It closed before Fitzwilliam reached the step below.
* * *
He rode before the streets filled. Stone gave way to packed earth. The city loosened its hold. Fitzwilliam lengthened his seat and let the horse take the bit. The rhythm settled. Breath, stride, release.
A cart crossed the road ahead and cleared before he reached it. A bell sounded once behind a wall and stopped. He turned back only when the light climbed.
At the lodgings, Villiers took the reins. Fitzwilliam went upstairs, washed, changed, and ate half the meal set upon the tray. He left the bread untouched. He drank the water and set the cup down hard enough to ring once.
He crossed to the slope and pulled the letter marked Paris. Two names held. One torn. One whole.
He selected the next card and set it upon the table. The Comte d’Aubigny waited.
He replaced the letter and locked the drawer.
* * *
He rang the bell and was immediately shown inside. The room lay comfortably arranged. A fire burned low. Books stood within reach of the chairs. A tray had been set between them.
“Monsieur Fitzwilliam,” d’Aubigny said, smiling. “Paris is improved by familiar names.”
Fitzwilliam inclined his head. “You are kind.”
“Kindness is safe,” d’Aubigny said lightly. “Especially now.”
The smile held. The words did not.
They spoke of roads and weather, of mutual acquaintances long absent from France. Nothing that pressed. Nothing that required defence.
A servant entered with fresh cups. He set one down and paused, then corrected its place by a finger’s breadth. A folded paper lay beneath the saucer.
He bent and murmured at d’Aubigny’s ear.
The servant straightened, then withdrew.
D’Aubigny lifted his cup. “You will forgive me. I am called elsewhere.”
Fitzwilliam reached for his own, moved the saucer aside, and drank. “Of course.”
He did not touch the paper. They stood, inclined heads.
Fitzwilliam took his leave.
* * *
Villiers entered without knocking. “Tanner and Cooper have set all to rights, sir.”
“No more than a half hour. Ready the horses.” Fitzwilliam replied, turning back to the writing slope.
… finds you in health and ease. I have remained here longer than I intended, and yet I leave with less to report than I expected. Paris is much as it ever was—ordered, handsome, accomplished—but its beauty has waned with familiarity, and repetition has dulled what first struck the eye.
Three calling cards, torn in halves, lay at the corner of the slope. Each bore the same clean tear through the Matlock name.
I have made the calls that propriety required. Others were civil only where civility carried no cost.
He blotted the line and continued without pause.
I shall not remain longer. What was to be done here has been done, and further delay would add nothing. I depart immediately and will write again once I am settled in Vienna.
Give my affection to my sisters. I trust the coming summer will afford them diversion.
Your dutiful son,
R.
He sanded the page and folded it.
He did not look again at the cards.
Villiers returned. He gathered the cards without comment and set them in the tray by the door. He waited.
“Burn them.”