Chapter 5 #2
He took the chair opposite Isobel’s and leaned forward in it, elbows on his knees and hands clasped.
He waited until she looked at him to quietly say, “You will not only be safe with Amélie, she has knowledge and resources I don’t.
You can trust her. You can be completely honest with her. And you need not fear her.”
“You trust her this much, yourself?”
“I have put my life in her hands.” While war still raged on the Continent and his work in France was decidedly more precarious, Amélie had ensured his survival more than once.
“Then I will place my trust in her, too. Not, you comprehend”—Isobel’s dimple showed briefly—“that I find myself with any great alternative in the matter.”
“Soon we will have food and drink.” Amélie rejoined them.
“Something light for us ladies but for you, Nathaniel, an English breakfast on a vast plate if my cook can manage such a feat.” She turned to Isobel.
“And you, ma chère, you will tell me now why it is you have not been eating and what makes under your eyes such dark shadows. Nathaniel will tell me more of matters as well, and I will see what I may do that is of service to you.”
He laid out the bare framework of encountering Isobel in Dover and again outside Les Moineaux.
Amélie, knowing the operation’s details, would infer subtext.
At some point a few private words would be needed, but the most immediate priority was getting Isobel settled safely.
Once she was more comfortable with Amélie, he had inquiries of his own to make elsewhere.
“And so you have pursued your sister to Paris,” Amélie said once the tale was told. “That is most courageous of you.” She arranged a roll and some fruit on a plate for Isobel.
Isobel began tearing the roll into smaller pieces. “I’m not brave.” She looked up. “Desperate, perhaps, because if I do not look for Lucy, there is no one else left who will. And if I do not find her, I will be very much alone in the world myself.”
“Sometimes courage and desperation, they are twins of one another, oui? Here, ma chère, the food will sit inside you much better if you dip your roll into your coffee—like so, oui? It is good to break our fast in this way. You have no living relatives?”
“It is only me now. The loss of our parents was quite recent. Lucy does not—” Isobel’s hand trembled, replacing the bowl on its saucer. A few droplets sloshed out. “Lucy does not know.”
“I am very sorry to hear this,” Amélie said. “The deaths of my own parents were many years ago, but that loss grieves me still.”
Amélie had told him once in passing of her parents, guillotined during the Terror when she was only fourteen.
Many years removed from La Terreur by the time he met her, she’d made herself a useful player in Continental interests more effectively than any dozen of Castlereagh’s chosen men could ever hope to be.
But no part of her history was his to tell, and certainly not the extent of her involvement in British affairs.
Isobel’s posture was marginally more relaxed.
Naturally—and reasonably so—she was apprehensive at finding herself inside a brothel.
Not that L’Orchidée compared in any way to Les Moineaux, save the basic similarity of money exchanged for sexual favors.
Certainly L’Orchidée did not compare to Le Repaire des Satyres.
But a conversation about brothels was better had without him present.
With her characteristic discernment, Amélie cut her eyes towards him.
“Now that you have consumed all of this great breakfast—truly, on your frame I do not know where it goes, the food—you will make yourself scarce so that Isobel and I may speak more freely of matters concerning women.”
He took the cue, swallowing the last of his coffee. “I have several missives to write.” He stood, buttoning his coat.
“Oui, most certainly. You know here your way to pen and paper. We will see you later? Très bien. I will take most excellent care of Isobel in the meantime.”
Isobel covertly studied Amélie Laval. She guessed Amélie was older than herself by a decade or more, but she possessed the sort of beautifully ageless face that made it impossible to guess her age with any reasonable accuracy. It was a kind face; she had warmed quickly to Amélie despite her doubts.
Amélie poured more coffee into their bowls and settled herself in the chair just vacated by Nathaniel.
“Now that Nathaniel has left us, we will speak more openly. You know what is the nature of Les Moineaux, and you have fears for your sister. And Nathaniel will have told you what L’Orchidée is.
You have for me many questions, I am certain. ”
Amélie’s mixture of frankness and warmth was altogether disarming. Isobel was grateful for it. “I do not know how to ask some of them without giving offense.”
“I have retired most any offended bones many years ago.” Amélie opened her hand palm up. “And it may help you to know that most maisons closes in France are unlike the sad English whorehouses about which you have perhaps heard difficult tales, oui?”
Was Lucy yet in England, at a sad English whorehouse, as Amélie phrased it? Or was she here, being made to work in a place like Les Moineaux?
Something of her wordless despair communicated itself to Amélie.
“We cannot know yet what has become of your sister,” the older woman said gently, “but I will tell you of things because that is perhaps a worst fear among several that you have for her. Even if it is so, most women who work in Parisian maisons are safer than those who must try to survive on the street. Women in some maisons are treated extremely well. My own establishment is very select in its clientele, and I am particular to take excellent care of my girls and their health. No woman works here who is even a little unwilling. Each is free to leave if and when she chooses. And if she finds herself enceinte despite precautions, she is not cast without resources onto the streets.”
Amélie’s eyes were of a shade that nearly matched the pale blue of her soft muslin morning gown. They were fixed now on Isobel: shrewd but with great kindness in them as well.
Amélie was someone safe, so Nathaniel said. Someone to seek out in times of trouble. Lucy was in trouble. In truth, she was herself not much better off, having embroiled herself in complicated affairs. And merciful God above, am I worn out from solitude.
The bones in her shoulders unknitted themselves, looking into Amélie’s kind eyes.
“I will help you any way I can, ma chère,” Amélie said, just as though she had spoken aloud.
“Before we discuss the particulars of this situation of your sister or the possibilities you fear, it may for you be instructive if I explain to you our laws. Prostitution is in France, how shall I call it . . .” Amélie thought for a moment, lips pursed.
“A necessary evil, one may say, and so allowed by law. Necessary so that men may function in their prime, with these sanctioned outlets for their masculine energies.” Amélie’s eyes were merry; the wry tilt to her lips invited Isobel to share her amusement.
“In this way, a woman like myself might provide a service most fundamentally useful to her society.”
Isobel smiled despite herself. Men established the rules in such matters, as ever it was.
“They for this reason call establishments such as mine maisons de tolérance. So long as those who have such a business follow the mandates of the police des m?urs, they have for us this allowance, this tolerance.”
“Mandates?” There was something to be said if in France an effort was being made to regulate the sale of women’s bodies to men, as Amélie seemed to mean, but she felt worse than ignorant, even apart from worrying about Lucy.