A Poisoned Season (28 page)

“Will you show it to me?”

“Absolutely not. When at last you agree to marry me, I want to know that it’s because you can’t resist me any longer, not that you want my ring.”

“You’re a beast,” I said. “I’m going to finish the letters this afternoon. I’ll send you a message if there’s anything of significance in them.”

“Take care, Emily. I shall be thoroughly aggravated if I find that you’ve taken any unnecessary risks.”

“But you’ll forgive me the necessary ones?”

“How could I do otherwise?” He kissed both of my hands and left without once looking back. With him went all the warmth from the books and the ancient statues in the library, leaving me to a room filled with a conspicuous emptiness.

Continuing my work on the letters proved an excellent distraction from melancholy, and the further I delved into Marie Antoinette’s correspondence, the more fascinating it became. Léonard fed her bits of information regarding the plans for the dauphin’s escape, and the queen did not hesitate to criticize them. She had deep concerns about the loyalty of S, whom I identified initially as Antoine Simon, a cobbler who took charge of Louis Charles after the boy was taken from his mother’s cell in the Temple.

According to the histories I had read, Simon had been notoriously cruel to the child, but some accounts claimed that his wife grew fond of their charge. This led me to suspect that she, not her husband, was S. The identity of B, however, completely eluded me. If B were the person who traveled with the dauphin, he was probably not someone who would have been mentioned in a history. It was unlikely that a recognizable figure could have pulled off the escape.

The queen’s fears about S did not abate, but by the end of August 1793, she had accepted that there was no one else in a position to smuggle Louis Charles from his prison. Her concern now focused on the details of where he would go. One thing was abundantly clear: Marie Antoinette stated over and over that he was not to go to America. She did not want him to face such a long journey when his health was already compromised from being jailed. Léonard reassured her again and again that there was no plan to send the boy there; a safe house was already being set up for him in England.

The last two letters from the series were the ones that had been stolen, and I could only assume that they offered more details. Regardless, the information now before me conflicted entirely with the
story of the dauphin presented by Charles Berry, who claimed that the plan all along had been to send the boy to the United States. Somehow, I found it much easier to accept these letters as factually correct than the word of a man who stood to gain a kingdom if he could only convince the world that his version of history was the truth.

T
he next morning, I went back to the letters but found myself distracted by the recollection of an exchange Mr. Berry had with Mr. Francis before the murder. I sifted through the papers in my desk until I came to the letter I’d found in Richmond:
I thank you for alerting me to the situation you mentioned, and assure you that I have the matter well in hand.
Had Mr. Francis known about Léonard’s letters? And if so, was he sympathetic to Mr. Berry’s position?

I wondered if I had missed anything in Mr. Francis’s letters or possessions that pertained to either Marie Antoinette or to Charles Berry, and decided to return to Richmond. But first I scrawled a quick note to Colin to inform him that the code had indeed provided crucial information and left it on the mail tray in the hall, asking Davis to have one of the footmen deliver it to Park Lane before Colin left for France.

Much had changed in the Francis house since my last visit. The curtains in the drawing room were no longer closed, and bright sunlight streamed through the windows. Beatrice was playing the piano, and Mr. Barber sat cozily next to her on the bench, turning pages for her.

“Emily! I had no idea you were coming today.” She leapt off the bench as a maid led me into the room. “Betsy, do try to remember to announce visitors
before
they come in.” The maid curtseyed halfheartedly and closed the door rather loudly as she left.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said.

“Michael had just persuaded me to play.”

“There’s no need to explain,” I said. “I’ve never believed that one’s own life should stop after the death of a loved one.”

“I should leave,” Mr. Barber said.

“No.” Beatrice did not look at him as she spoke.

“I came only to see if it would be possible for me to take another look at your husband’s study. I’m hoping to find more of a connection with Charles Berry.”

“Could you possibly come back later? Tomorrow perhaps? It’s not a good time.”

“Of course,” I answered automatically, stunned by her response.

“Anything there now will still be there then,” she said, her lips pulled thin in a forced smile.

There was nothing I could do but leave. I did not begrudge Beatrice any happiness she might find in Mr. Barber, and I certainly did not believe that the rituals of mourning did much to help a person manage her grief. But in denying me access to the study, she was not behaving in a manner I would expect of a woman desperate to find her husband’s killer.

Rather than leaving Richmond, I decided to pay another call on Mrs. Sinclair. Happily, I found her at home, and she welcomed me with all the warmth absent from Beatrice.

“What a lovely surprise, Lady Ashton. I’m so glad you’ve come. My hall looks so much better without that horrid statue you persuaded Mr. Sinclair to give to the museum. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

“I’m glad to know that you’re not suffering from the loss.”

“I’ve heard that you’re fond of such things, and please don’t think I’m criticizing your taste, but I’d much rather have something more modern in my house.”

“No offense taken, Mrs. Sinclair,” I said, smiling.

“I’ve half a mind to bring you through the rest of the house to see if there’s anything else the museum would take. Mr. Sinclair’s grand
father traveled rather too extensively and collected all sorts of sordid things as he went. I’d love nothing more than to get rid of most of them.”

Judging by the quality of art I’d seen in the few places I’d been in the house, this was an exciting prospect indeed. But for the moment, it would have to wait. “I wish I had more time today. Perhaps I could come back next week? At the moment I’ve more questions for you about Jeanne Dunston. Do you know if she left any personal effects for her son?”

“The housekeeper put aside what was in her room, but I doubt that Joseph will ever return to collect the box.”

“Is there any chance you would let me take a look at it?”

“I don’t see why not, though I can’t imagine you’ll find anything of interest. I imagine this has to do with the snuffbox again?” I nodded and smiled but decided not to say anything further. The fewer people who knew what I was doing, the better. Mrs. Sinclair rang the bell, and while we munched on lovely watercress sandwiches, the housekeeper was dispatched to the attic. She appeared a quarter of an hour later, carrying a wooden box that must have been covered with the dust now clinging to her dress.

I opened the container at once. Inside were the humble souvenirs of a life spent in service: two nicely embroidered handkerchiefs, a carefully mended pair of gloves, a photograph of a small boy, a postcard from the queen’s Jubilee, an ivory rosary, and an extremely old Bible. The postcard was from a woman called Sarah and offered insight into neither sender nor recipient. The Bible was my only hope. The endpaper in the front cover was inscribed:
To Bernadette Capet, on the occasion of her first Christmas in England, 1794
.

26

M
Y HANDS TREMBLED AS
I
HELD THE BOOK.
“D
O YOU KNOW WHO
Bernadette Capet was?” I asked.

“Let’s see…Bernadette…she would have been Jeanne’s grandmother.”

“And was it she who left France during the revolution? I remember you mentioned something about that during my previous visit.”

“Yes.”

“Did she come to England alone?”

“Her son was with her, but I’ve no idea how old he was.”

“Did he work here, too?”

“Yes. I don’t know much about him, only that he had quite an affinity for horses and worked in the stables all his life. It’s such a lovely thing to have the same family in service for multiple generations in the same household, don’t you think?”

“Quite. Did Jeanne have any family other than her son?”

“She had two brothers, but they both died long before she did.”

“Did Joseph have close ties to anyone in the household? Any friends?”

“I wouldn’t know, Lady Ashton. You’re welcome to ask the butler,
but I’m certain no one knows how to reach him. As I told you, my husband tried.”

“Could I borrow this, Mrs. Sinclair?” I asked, holding up the Bible. “I think I might be able to contact Joseph. I’ll bring it back, of course.”

“I’d be thrilled if you could find him and get the entire box out of the house,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “It’s very awkward storing legacies for other people, don’t you think?”

I could hardly contain my excitement when I was back in my carriage. Sebastian Capet must be Jeanne’s wayward son, and if, as I suspected, he was the true heir to the House of Bourbon, his motivation for the thefts was perfectly clear. I could well believe that Mr. Francis knew this. It might even explain his hesitation to report the theft of the pink diamond. Jeanne had confided in him, and he was loath to send her son, a man who in other circumstances might have been a king, to prison. But I still wondered at his letter to Charles Berry. Had he warned Berry of possible exposure? And if so, why?

The road must have been bad, because I was being jostled with such ferocity that it was nearly impossible to keep straight the thoughts in my head. I looked out the window and saw that my driver had moved to the side to let a rider approaching from behind pass us, which it did with most impressive speed. Once it was gone, our ride became smoother but only for a short while. All of a sudden, I heard Waters shouting at the horses. One of them shrieked, and the carriage lurched violently, throwing me against the door. The latch gave way, and I fell out onto the ground.

Waters managed to stop the horses and leapt from his seat. The footmen, who rode standing on the back of the carriage, had jumped clear as we headed off the road and reached me first, helping me up.

“Are you all right, madam?” Waters asked, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

“I think so,” I said. “What happened?”

“There was a man on the side of the road. When we got close to him, he drew out a horse whip and struck Aziza across the face. She reared up and startled Hadia. I could hardly control them.”

“Where did the man go?” I asked, my heart pounding so violently that I could hardly breathe.

“He had a horse with him, madam. Must’ve been the gent who passed us just a minute ago. There’s no sign of him now. I’d wager that he rode away through the woods.”

“You drove magnificently, Waters. I’m amazed that we didn’t flip.”

While the three men inspected our carriage, I took stock of my injuries. Although I was bruised and dirty, nothing seemed broken, but I could not stop shaking. Waters concluded that everything was in fine working order, and we headed back to London, where, once home, I walked stiffly past Davis as he held the door open for me.

“I can see you want to scold me, Davis,” I said. “I assure you that Mr. Hargreaves would find no fault with what I’ve done.” I made my way upstairs and called Meg to help me undress. She was horrified at the condition of my gown and terrified when she heard what had happened, but did not let this get in the way of her efficiency. She sent for tea and prepared a hot bath. I soaked for more than half an hour, knowing that I was likely to feel worse the following day as my bruises developed.

The word of my adventure spread quickly through the household. When the tray arrived from the kitchen, it held not only tea but chicken broth, Cook’s panacea for all things dreadful, fresh cut flowers from the garden, a glass of port, and a copy of
Great Expectations,
which I imagine had been randomly selected from the library by some well-intentioned member of my staff. I applied myself at once to the chicken broth, not because I was particularly hungry but because I had no wish to hurt Cook’s feelings by sending it back untouched. Meg tapped on the door.

“Mrs. Brandon is here, madam. Would you like her sent up?”

“Please.” I had finished the broth and moved from the table to my bed, where I sat on top of the covers, leaning against the pillows. It was obvious from Ivy’s expression that someone had told her about the accident. She rushed to me, sitting on the edge of the bed, biting her lip so hard I thought it would bleed.

“What on earth is going on? You must stop, Emily. You must make sure that you are no longer putting yourself in danger.”

“It’s not so simple, Ivy,” I said. “There’s too much at stake.”

“Well, that needn’t be your concern. Tell the police what you’ve learned, and remove yourself from the investigation.”

“I don’t yet know enough to set them on the proper course.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed. And for what?”

“To keep an innocent woman from being hanged. To prevent a liar from causing the overthrow of a peaceful government.”

“Leave it to Colin, then. Why must you insist on doing it yourself?”

I looked at her face, which was filled with a tortured confusion. “Because it’s important, Ivy, because I like it, and because I think I’m good at it. I’ll be perfectly all right.”

“It’s selfish, Emily. Selfish. Here I am half-crazed with worry over you, and you dismiss my concern. I know you’re clever, I know you’re good at what you do. But why can’t you leave these things to the people who are supposed to take care of them? You’ll hate me for saying it, but it…it…it doesn’t become a lady.”

“I’m sure my reputation as a lady will come as a great comfort to Jane Stilleman in the hours before her execution.”