Chapter 19 #2
It took almost no effort to knock into the goblet with every appearance of an accident. The wine drenched her sister’s skirts.
“How terribly clumsy of me!” she exclaimed.
“I am so sorry! Please, let me help you.” She slid off Nathaniel’s lap, discreetly catching the skirt of her dress beneath her slipper as she stood.
Rending silk was loud as it ripped quite satisfactorily along the weakened seam.
She’d stepped more aggressively than necessary, but the trick worked.
“And now I have torn my dress as well. Truly, I am terribly clumsy tonight. I am so very sorry. Is there somewhere I might repair it?” She presented Dubois with the imploring face of a foolish woman, unaware of any undercurrents of tension in the room.
“It is only that I have borrowed it from a friend and do not wish it to worsen. Oh, she will be so vexed at me!” Her voice shook slightly, but perhaps that was only to be expected of a clumsy, silly woman.
Lucy blotted at the wine on her skirt. “And I should like to get the worst of this out before it sets.”
How cool her sister’s voice was.
Was Dubois’s look as calculating as she feared, or was she reading too much into it?
“Your girl who was here before . . .” she said. “Could she help us?”
“I will summon Chrysanthème,” Dubois said after a pause. “She can assist the both of you.”
Waiting for Chrysanthème to answer his summons was impossible, but she must, although she vibrated with suppressed tension. Nathaniel kept a hand on her back; he slid it to her hip with a squeeze when Chrysanthème arrived. Courage, his hand said.
Chrysanthème led her and Lucy down a corridor, deeper into the building, speaking at a conversational volume.
“Some nights there are here women who come to work. I will lead you to the retiring room of those in Le Repaire who may have need to refresh their makeup or repair their clothing in the course of an evening. There we will tend to your gowns.”
She nodded mutely; behind her, Lucy made no sound.
Chrysanthème leaned in close after the three of them had passed through another doorway, pitching her voice very low.
“You are safe with me. étienne and Amélie have set me to help you in whatever ways I can without tipping off Dubois.” More startling than Chrysanthème’s English was that its accent was owed to London rather than France.
Chrysanthème opened another door, ushering them into a sumptuous retiring room.
Pots of cosmetics arranged atop a counter were reflected by the large mirror set along one wall.
“I will ensure you have privacy here to converse,” she said quietly.
“I will remain just outside, if you have need of me. I will also know if anyone else comes down this corridor. It is the only entrance to this room. I will of course report later to Dubois that I remained at all times with you and heard nothing at all of interest to him aside from minutiae pertaining to the oh-so-boring repair of ladies’ gowns. ”
The door closed quietly behind Chrysanthème.
Lucy . . . She and Lucy rushed towards one another, embracing. She could not tell, with Lucy in her arms, which of them shook harder.
“What are you doing here?” Lucy asked urgently. “Are you here by choice?”
She swallowed hard around the lump that threatened to steal speech. “I am. I must ask you the same.”
Lucy looked down at her hands.
What did that mean? There was no time. “I came—” She steadied her voice. “I came to find you. To France. Here, to—”
Lucy’s expression was incredulous. “How?” Then she shook her head. “No. There is no time for such a discussion. Have you any idea how dangerous these men are, Issy? Do you?”
“Yes.” She’d had a comparatively mild taste last night of it in action. “I do.”
“And this man you are with, M. Beaumont. I have not seen him before. Is he—”
“He is not involved. Or rather, he is aiding me. He is not—”
“If he is in league with Compton or Dubois—”
“He is not. He is—” She looked around, furtively.
She couldn’t know for sure that this room was not watched as the room had been last night.
She had been told to trust Chrysanthème, but she hadn’t an abundance of trust to go around.
Then again, if unfriendly ears were listening to this conversation, it was already too late.
She did not know how much time she had with Lucy.
It was critical to convince her of Nathaniel’s trustworthiness.
“He is working against them. Against Compton. It is how we crossed paths, and he has finally infiltrated their circle. I chose to come tonight, hoping against hope I’d see you.
I want to bring you home,” she added softly.
Lucy sighed raggedly.
“If it can be done, if he can devise a way . . . He can,” she said more firmly. “He will, with his resources. Will you come home with me?”
“I want to, but . . .” Lucy’s eyes glinted, but the expression on her sister’s face was far harder than any she could remember. This woman was no longer her gentle little sister. “What is possibly left for me after the mess I’ve made? When I’ve—” She broke off.
Oh, there was no time to say everything there was to say. Most important was this: “I am left. And I need you, Lucy.”
“I am not—” Lucy looked away. “I am not as I was before. Not the sister you knew. I am . . . changed. Choices I’ve made . . .”
“Nor am I the sister you knew, not after this past year. But you are and will forever be my sister. My Lucy. Will you come home, if it can be done?”
After a pause Lucy said, almost inaudibly, “Yes. Yes, I will. Although I do not know if it is possible.”
She smiled tremulously. “We will make it happen. I promise, we will find a way.”
“You trust him?”
“Wholly. With my life.” And yours. “He is not without resources and friends, which means we are not either.”
“I do not know how it might be done,” Lucy reiterated. “I am watched, almost constantly. Compton does not wish to lose his . . . his investment, one might say.”
She would examine her emotions later, away from here. There was no time for it now. “Will you return here soon?”
“Cuvelier does not tell me his plans much in advance, generally. He said only this morning that my presence was requested here tonight.”
“Where are you living? Perhaps—”
Lucy cut her off. “No. It is not possible. I am watched, and there are no servants I would trust to help. Do not even think of trying to deliver a note. But there is one excursion, two evenings from now . . . a performance at the Théatre de la Ga?té on Tuesday. Cuvelier has a private box.”
She was unfamiliar with the Théatre de la Ga?té. “A play?”
“A melodrama in three acts, although I have not yet seen it.”
Surely something could be contrived in two days’ time, even if it was only to deliver a message to Lucy. “If someone waited at the theater, someone trustworthy, can you leave your box long enough to receive a message? Perhaps even leave with someone safe?”
“Perhaps. I could seek my own refreshments without raising suspicion, although my maid will accompany me, and she is firmly in Cuvelier’s employ.
” Lucy bit off a hard laugh. “Probably Compton’s, in truth.
But Cuvelier is often mellowed by drink by the intermission between the second and third acts. Sometimes he is even asleep.”
“Between the second and third acts,” she repeated. “Oh, Lucy, I cannot promise anything, much as I wish I could, because it is not myself who must plan.”
And Nathaniel could not jeopardize his entire operation to remove Lucy from her situation. But surely even if nothing could be managed at the Théatre de la Ga?té, something else would be possible.
The hardest part—surely the hardest part—has been accomplished. I’ve found you. Something could be devised; she must believe it.
“I know you cannot promise anything.” Lucy touched the drying wine stain on her gown.
How much time had passed? She had the sense they were rapidly growing short on time. They must not remain apart from the men too long. And their dresses, the ostensible reason for this, were not yet repaired in any way.
She grasped Lucy’s hands. “I will find a way, however long it takes. I will not give up, Lucy.” She looked her sister in the eyes, willing her to believe the words.
Lucy’s nod was nearly imperceptible, but her hands returned the tight clasp.
“If you are able to seek refreshments or step out for air, whatever excuse you devise, there are agents working together, not only—”
“It cannot be Beaumont. They would suspect him.”
“No. I’m certain it would be someone else.” Who, she did not know. She had met only Baudelaire, but it could not be him either.
Lucy withdrew her hands. “I do not have much cause to trust strange men.” Her voice was dry, a trace of biting sarcasm in it.
She swallowed around another great lump at what else might lurk behind Lucy’s words and twisted the ring on her finger, willfully suppressing the thought.
The ring.
She tilted her wrist, palm inwards, so that Lucy would see it glinting on her finger.
“Maman’s ring!” Lucy exclaimed. “But why is she not—”
Now was most definitely not the time to answer that. “It could be a token of sorts at the theater, in the hands of someone who—”
Lucy nodded. “Yes. Yes, it will—”
A soft knock silenced them both, followed by Chrysanthème’s entrance. “I truly wish I did not need to interrupt, but we must do something with your dresses. Time runs thin, and we must not give Dubois cause for additional suspicion.”
Additional suspicion. Her heart accelerated.
Chrysanthème looked between them. “I think you must also be very careful not to invite comparison between your faces. Keep your faces turned away from Dubois whenever you can. Compton too.”
It was as she’d feared, then.
Chrysanthème carefully pinned the rip in her borrowed gown in lieu of stitching. The wine stain on Lucy’s skirt was speedily dealt with, although the silk would never be the same.
Lucy remained silent. She did not trust Chrysanthème, and why should she?