Chapter 8 #2
A male patron seated at a table outside Café de Foy hailed Nathaniel in French, half rising to his feet with a broad smile. The fading light gilded his golden-blond head much as it did the chestnut leaves.
Isobel studied him curiously as Nathaniel pulled out a chair for her.
Younger than herself or perhaps close to her own age but not above mid-twenties.
Shorter than Nathaniel but taller than herself.
He was dressed in elegant but casual attire as a student from a good family might be.
She doubted he was that, or certainly not only that.
“Mon ami, you must introduce me to your friend. It is presumptuous for a gentleman to first present himself.” His face, mobile and interested, turned towards her. It was entirely likely he already knew precisely who she was, but one could not be sure, viewing his expression.
Nathaniel made the introductions in French: Mlle Isobel Blanchet, M. étienne Baudelaire.
“Are you an artist, M. Baudelaire?” she asked. A notebook, open to a half-completed picture of the windswept gardens, lay beside a set of pastels. His cuffs were color-stained.
“But yes. I am a humble observer of my fellow man. I attempt to capture on paper that which my eyes perceive.”
“May I?” She tilted the picture. “You are talented, Monsieur.”
“You are too kind, Mademoiselle. Are you yourself an artist?”
She laughed. “Not in the smallest way. I have always wished I could draw, but I must content myself with admiring the works of others.”
“Perhaps you are being modest.”
“I assure you I am not. Although I am accounted a pleasing singer, so perhaps artistry has not entirely passed me by.”
“Then we are well matched, for I cannot sing at all. This does not stop me, you comprehend, when I have had too much wine.”
Nathaniel, close beside her with his arm along the chair’s back, made a strangled noise.
“Beaumont has some small cause to know this,” M. Baudelaire told her with a self-deprecating moue. He shrugged one shoulder, grinning.
This was a man rarely serious, she gauged, or he took great pains to appear so. He and Nathaniel stood in stark relief to one another: one golden-haired and mischievous; the other dark-haired and quietly intense.
M. Baudelaire turned back to her. “If you are here to sample the patisserie, then I must recommend to you especially the apple tart. It is quite divine. But I believe we do also have business to discuss. You have come to my country in search of your sister, oui?”
She wore the miniature of Lucy around her neck; she withdrew the chain and passed it over. M. Baudelaire studied it, his momentary stillness reinforcing her suspicion that his carefree demeanor was largely an act.
“She looks to me familiar, but I cannot be certain,” he said. “And one never knows the accuracy of miniatures without the subject nearby. It is executed decently true to life?”
“Yes. I would say it captures her features better than some I’ve seen.
Her eyes particularly, and the shape of her face.
My father hired a skilled artist, for which I am grateful, as I understand miniatures are difficult to paint.
He wished to have all of us—” She shut her mouth abruptly to stop the flow of words; she was nearly babbling, beset by nerves.
M. Baudelaire’s smile was kind. “I am sorry I have nothing better to tell you. If it comes to me where it is I may have seen her, I will of course alert Beaumont at once.”
She swallowed, disappointed even though she had tried not to hope for anything. It was something, at least, that he thought Lucy was familiar. She must hope he remembered with certainty.
Nathaniel’s arm snugged across her back. Casual touches were part of their act, of course, but this was not an accident of timing. She leaned into him, grateful for the comfort.
M. Baudelaire studied the miniature again and then Isobel’s face, intently. “You say her eyes were rendered well? Her eyes are then quite similar to yours in shape,” he remarked. “Color as well. Bluets, we call the flowers here. Most striking a hue. This word in your language, it is . . .”
“Cornflowers,” Nathaniel supplied.
“Jeremiah Compton may note the similarity.” M.
Baudelaire returned the locket to her. “And if Guillaume Dubois has also seen your sister, he may note it as well, although we do not know if he has. It is also possible they will not. I searched for this similarity, knowing, but they will not, at first.”
She had not considered that. So much, that she had not considered. She knew a moment of fear: new fear for Lucy and now for herself as well.
“Your thoughts, Beaumont?”
Nathaniel’s hand played along her upper arm, both soothing and distracting her. “It is certainly a potential risk. One among several.”
“It is good we are alert to this possibility.” M. Baudelaire angled back towards her. “You understand some small matters of this business with Dubois?”
She willed her voice steady. “That Dubois is in business with Compton in some way? Yes. When I travelled here, I knew only of Les Moineaux, but Mme Laval has informed me about Dubois’s ownership. And M. Beaumont has told me about Le Repaire as well.”
“Then you are not going blind into this,” M. Baudelaire stated with surprising briskness. This was most definitely a man whose carefree demeanor was for show. “So it is made, your decision? You will be with us at Frascati’s tomorrow, oui?”
She nodded.
“Bien. I always feel that I have more good fortune, the greater the number of beautiful women who surround me.” M.
Baudelaire flashed a blinding smile at her, disappearing back behind his role of dashing young man so quickly that the other might never have been.
He looked to where Nathaniel’s hand rested on her shoulder.
“Although you are not, of course, intended for my particular company. Do you also come tonight to the Palais-Royal to try your luck with the games? An enchanting witness to my own successes would complete my enjoyment of the evening.” He winked at her.
She returned his smile and looked inquiringly at Nathaniel.
“Not tonight. We are here for refreshments only, and then I’m returning Mlle Blanchet to my rooms.”
“Alas, I am deprived and must play alone. It shall not be so tomorrow.” M. Baudelaire gathered up his drawing materials and shoved them into a small satchel. “I will meet you in the evening tomorrow, here once more, so that we may enter Frascati’s together?”
Nathaniel inclined his head. His fingers rested just below her nape, stirring the small hairs there.
M. Baudelaire bowed over her hand. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle. I look forward to again seeing you tomorrow.”
“And I, you.” She was only a little surprised to realize she meant it. étienne Baudelaire made it difficult for one to dislike him, and really, he was no odder a character than anyone else she had encountered recently. And he meant to help her if he could.
“The night is chilly,” Nathaniel remarked in French after M. Baudelaire departed.
So they would speak French in public with one another; she hadn’t even thought to ask that detail.
“We may walk, if you wish, or we can return to my rooms.” As he stood, his hand left her neck. She missed its warmth. “The decision is yours.”
“Perhaps we might stroll a bit?” She was still tired in body, but her mind raced, far too restless yet for physical exhaustion to overcome her mental state. Walking might be just the solution for that. “It is still relatively early, and I am meant to be seen publicly with you, after all.”
“Tonight has served its purpose as far as that goes. But certainly we may walk.” He offered his arm, as a gentleman would.
But he wasn’t meant to be a gentleman, at least in terms of conduct towards her. She looped her arm through his but leaned in far closer than propriety would ordinarily allow—because she wasn’t meant to be a proper lady.
Did his breath catch slightly?
“Shall we walk through the arcades?” He drew her closer still. “Shops are closed for the night, but there is still plenty to see.”
“That would be pleasant.” She freed her arm enough to slide it around the small of his back. “May we speak freely here of . . . matters, with so many people around?”
“If we are quiet and alert to our surroundings.” He curved his arm around her shoulders as they started walking. “I’m sorry Baudelaire did not recognize your sister from anywhere specific.”
“As am I.” She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “But I suppose it was too much to hope for.” The disappointment of it weighted her limbs a little, even now.
“Tell me about Lucy.”
“I’ve told you already about her disappearance and my suspicions as to how it happened. What else—”
“That’s not what I meant. A happier memory. Something from before all that. From your childhood, maybe.”
She smiled. “There are so many memories to choose from if all you request is a happy one.”
“You’re close to one another?” he asked.
“Yes, despite our age difference. I remember vividly the day she was born. It was two weeks before my sixth birthday, and I had hoped originally that I’d get my new sister or brother on my birthday.
I remember asking Maman if she couldn’t keep the baby in to make that happen.
Maman laughed, the laugh that truly lit her eyes, and told me that’s not how it works.
Da found me later and comforted me, telling me that even if the baby was born earlier, I’d have my new sibling on my birthday.
And that’s how it happened. She was so small .
. . but perfect. She was like a porcelain doll.
I doted on her from the start. And I promised .
. .” The lump had returned to her throat.
“I promised to be the best big sister and to always protect her. But I suppose I didn’t .
. .” She didn’t trust herself to say anything more.