Lady Emily's Exotic Journey (23 page)

He blinked in surprise and thought for a moment. “There is a convent of French nuns,” he said slowly, “the Sisters of the Good Shepherd. They take in girls, I think.”

“Perfect. A convent school would be just the thing. Then, if she behaves herself and does well, in a couple of years we can think about a school in France. But I will make it clear to her that this depends entirely on her behavior. Are we all agreed?” Lady Penworth looked around at the others.

They looked at her in stunned silence, but no one offered any objections.

Faced with Lord and Lady Penworth, in full aristocratic arrogance, Carnac offered no objections to his daughter's departure either. Indeed, he accepted the news that Lady Penworth was about to appropriate his daughter with indifference. He did, however, continue to voice strenuous objections to Lord Penworth's refusal to make any effort to rescue the drowned artifacts, but no one paid him any heed.

Mélisande came before the Penworths in trepidation. Accustomed as she was to being berated for things beyond her control, like a poorly cooked dinner or an out-of-season sandstorm, she had been envisioning far more extreme punishments than a scolding this time. Would she spend decades in a Turkish dungeon? Did the Turks still torture prisoners? Would they cut off her head and stick it up on the wall? She might not have intended the disasters that befell, but she was honest enough to admit to herself that she was the one who set them in train.

When Lady Penworth announced sternly, as if pronouncing sentence, that she was to be sent to a convent school in Cairo, Mélisande just stared at her. She could not quite believe what she heard. “A convent school?” she whispered at length.

“Yes,” said Lady Penworth, “in Cairo. What happens after that will depend entirely upon you. If we have good reports of you from the sisters, if you are diligent in your studies and obedient in your behavior, it may be possible for you to continue your schooling in France. We shall see.”

“I will be able to leave here? To leave Mosul? I do not have to stay here forever?” Hope began to blossom.

“You do need an education,” said Lady Penworth. Her face was still stern, though her voice had softened.

“You will take me away from here? Oh, thank you!” Mélisande threw herself to her knees and clutched Lady Penworth's gown. “You will save me!”

“Good heavens, child, get up,” said Lady Penworth, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “One of the things you will need to learn is to eschew these dramatics.”

And so, with no further ado, Mélisande was packed up with the rest of the Penworths' baggage for the trip to Cairo. She was very quiet on the journey, keeping out of sight as much as possible, but until the convent doors closed behind her, she observed Lady Penworth carefully and imitated, as best she could, that lady's bearing and gestures. For Lady Penworth was, after all, a woman to whose orders men paid attention.

Their arrival in Baghdad felt like the end of the journey. It wasn't, of course. They were still a thousand miles from home, and Baghdad looked very much like Mosul—narrow streets with dun-colored buildings and tiny windows, throngs of people in exotic costumes speaking mysterious languages. At least they were still exotic and mysterious to Emily. It was all doubtless perfectly ordinary to the people who lived here.

If it wasn't the end of the journey, it was the first step back into the familiar world. They had arrived here traveling on keleks, with Irmak and his troopers bristling with arms to discourage any river pirates. The next stage of their travels would be on a steam ship, first down the remainder of the river to Basra, then across to the Red Sea and up to Suez. They were leaving the ancient world for the modern.

They were also bidding farewell to Irmak, who was now free to return with his troopers to Constantinople. Nuran and Safiye went with him, and that leave-taking was surprisingly difficult. The women all shed a few tears, or more than a few, and embraced before the two maids departed, bearing with them thanks and good wishes as well as more tangible gifts.

“This is a part of traveling that I never considered—saying good-bye to people you have liked and will never see again,” said Emily, staring at the door that closed behind them.

“Yes, but the only way to avoid that is to never meet new people, or if you meet them, to never like them. And that would be dreadful,” said her mother.

Changes.

She had been so eager for change when they arrived in Constantinople, and there had been changes aplenty once they left the embassy house. For almost two months now she had been living in a world that was very different from her own, and she had grown accustomed to it. When she returned, would everything that had once been familiar seem strange?

In Baghdad they stayed at the consulate, a newish edifice, built like a European house with corridors and at least some plumbing, though the business offices still opened onto a central courtyard. The consul-general was Colonel Kemball, a British officer whose unaffected manner put everyone at ease. The members of his staff were also soldiers, and just the presence of so many Englishmen seemed to put a distance between her family and the surrounding world.

There was one serious problem with the consul's residence in Baghdad. As far as she had been able to discover, there was no access to the roof. And even if there had been, Lucien was not staying with them.

* * *

For Lucien, the trouble began when he left them to settle in and presented himself at the French consulate, explaining his need to stay for a few days before continuing on to Cairo. Instead of offering him the usual welcome, the underling sent to greet the visitor stared at him as if he were some dangerous intruder, muttered a half-incomprehensible excuse, and vanished into an inner room.

Moments later a small man wearing a black frock coat and a furious expression burst out of the inner office. Accompanying him were a pair of soldiers who hurried to seize Lucien by the arms.

“Such impudence!” The little man was stuttering with anger. “How dare you seek to impose yourself upon me using a dead man's name? We will give you a place to stay—in prison!”

For a moment Lucien was too startled to react. Then one of the soldiers tightened his grip, and Lucien threw him off in fury.

“Take your hands off me, you
canaill
e
!” He pulled himself free and turned on the sputtering creature before him. “And how dare you speak to me in such a tone? Who do you think you are?”

The little man drew himself up. “I am Jean-Marie Beauclerc, the French consul at Baghdad and, as such, the representative of the government of France and of the emperor, Napoleon III. And I am not to be imposed upon by some charlatan who claims to be the grandson of the Comte de la Boulaye, when the comte himself tells us that said grandson is dead.”

“What?” Lucien was stunned for a moment. “But…but that is preposterous. As you can see for yourself, I am most certainly not dead.”

“I see someone before me who is not dead.” Beauclerc gave a sniff. “But the identity of this not-dead man I do not know.”

Lucien had been keeping a tight rein on himself for what seemed like ages. He had behaved himself in Mosul. He had behaved himself on the journey to Baghdad. He had done nothing with Emily that could not have been seen by her parents—well, almost nothing. At least, he had done none of the things he wanted to do. But this was insupportable.

He exploded.

He shouted. He raged. He demanded. He threatened. Indeed, when he finally calmed down and saw Beauclerc and the soldiers standing ashen and trembling before him, he realized that he had behaved exactly as his grandfather would have behaved. The realization sobered him. Not completely, but enough to enable him to take part in a rational discussion.

Lucien produced his identity papers. Beauclerc agreed that they were in order, but pointed out that they could have been stolen from a dead man. Lucien wanted to know what made the consul think Lucien de Chambertin was dead. The consul produced a letter from the comte's man of business saying that the comte's grandson was dead and wishing to know if he had any effects, any possessions in Baghdad.

That produced another explosion. Was that vicious old man trying to impoverish him? How could he marry Emily if he had no way to support her? He raged until Beauclerc assured him that nothing had been sent to the comte—indeed, nothing had been found. That calmed Lucien momentarily until the consul asked if he had any way to actually prove his identity.

Lucien felt as if he had tumbled into a nightmare.

“Of course there are people who know me,” he said. “I have just come from Mosul in the company of Lord Penworth and his family. And David Oliphant of the English foreign service.”

Beauclerc pounced. “But how long have they known you? The comte's man writes that your grandfather has not had any word from you for five years.” He leaned back with an air of triumph.

“They have most certainly had…” Lucien stopped abruptly. All those letters to which he had never replied. Could they honestly believe him to be dead? He had written only to… “Of course,” he said triumphantly. “I have written frequently to the notaire
.
M. Bouchard knows I am alive and well.”

And that meant that his grandfather and other relatives also knew he was alive and well. Bouchard would have told them so. This had to be some ploy to force his return, unless it was simply theft.

Mention of a notaire gave the consul pause, but he remained uncertain. The notaire was in France. They were in Baghdad. Letters took weeks to cover the distance.

“The telegraph,” said Lucien, smiling in satisfaction. The sultan's passion for modernizing had brought this into existence only recently, and while the telegraph wires did not cover the entire empire, the line from Baghdad to Istanbul was reliable, and from there France was easily reached.

Faced with the young man's assurance, and considering that his behavior accorded only too well with what might be expected from the Comte de la Boulaye's grandson, the consul was no longer inclined to toss his visitor into the nearest prison. Neither was he happy to welcome Lucien. His offer of hospitality—a room at the consulate—was a trifle begrudging. He consoled himself with the thought that if his visitor proved to be an impostor, he would be easily apprehended.

It was late the following afternoon when Lucien arrived at the British consulate, to call not on Lady Emily but on her father, Lord Penworth. To speak with the marquess in private, he said.

The young man was pacing in agitation when Lord Penworth arrived at the small room Colonel Kemball had offered. “Is something amiss, Chambertin?”

Lucien ran a hand through his hair, opened his mouth, then closed it and turned aside to take a deep breath. Facing Lord Penworth again, he spoke rapidly, his accent more marked than usual. “It is my grandfather. He decides that I am dead. In any case, he persuades the bankers at Autun—that is the town near us—he persuades them that I am dead, and takes the money I have on deposit there.”

“What!” Lord Penworth stepped back, shocked. “But…but that's impossible. He cannot do such a thing.”

Lucien's mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “No? But it seems that he has done precisely that.”

“This cannot be allowed. We must write—no, we must telegraph to the authorities.”

The marquess's outrage had a calming effect on Lucien. “We have done so, the consul and I. Many telegrams, back and forth. M. Bouchard—he is, you know, the notaire who handles my affairs—he has kept Varennes out of the comte's hands. And the bank, they now know, but it seems that the money has disappeared.”

“What are you going to do?” Penworth sounded curious as well as concerned.

“What can I do? I cannot demand that my own grandfather be sent to prison. It is as well I am thousands of miles away or I might try to throttle him, but prison? No. The shame, the scandal…” He shook his head.

Penworth nodded. “How bad is it?”

Lucien endeavored to outline the situation. “It is bad, but it is not total devastation. I have money elsewhere, other investments. There is some here in Baghdad, some in Cairo, and more in Avignon. It is just—this was the money I had set aside for Varennes, for improvements on the estate, for the house. It will require a few years before it will be what I want for Emily.”

“Other investments?”

Lucien flushed slightly. “As I travel, I sometimes make small arrangements, send things back to France to be sold. Rugs, a few antiquities. I partner with a few men here in Baghdad, in Constantinople.”

“So you are something of a businessman.”

Although it was not said in a condemnatory tone, Lucien stiffened. “A man would be a fool not to be,” he said, “especially when I desired to be independent of my grandfather.”

“I tend to agree.” Penworth was staring at him, assessing him. Lucien had to make a deliberate effort not to squirm under the scrutiny.

“Are you asking my daughter to live in poverty?”

“No, it is not that bad. It is only that, for a few years, we may need to be careful. And the bankers—they are frightened now. Some of the money may be recovered.”

“Careful,” repeated Penworth slowly. “Do you expect me to allow my daughter to marry into a situation where she will have to pinch pennies?”

“I think the decision must be Emily's,” Lucien said stiffly. “I will not disguise the situation from her, but neither will I give her up. I do not think she will send me away.” She would not turn away from him. He was certain of that. He
was.
Why this sudden terror? Why did he feel as if iron bands were tightening around his chest?

* * *

He need not have feared. Emily greeted the news with distress, but not over the prospect of pinching pennies. She was reasonably sure she could manage that, though her mother expressed some uncertainty. What upset her was the behavior of Lucien's grandfather. Unable to sit calmly, she paced back and forth in the sitting room where she and her mother had retired. “I cannot believe such
perfid
y
!” she exclaimed.

Lady Penworth blinked at her daughter. “Perfidy?”

Emily blushed slightly. “I like the word, and I do not often have an opportunity to use it.” She collapsed into a chair next to her mother. “Am I being foolish? It is just so infuriating for his own grandfather to treat Lucien so.”

“I know,” said Lady Penworth with a smile. She reached over to pat Emily's hand. “We may be able to shrug off injuries done to ourselves, but not injuries done to those we love.”

Emily heaved a sigh. “I want to do something to help. I want to fix it, and I don't know how.”

Her mother shook her head. “Even if there were something you could do, you should not do it. Lucien would not thank you. It is humiliating enough for him to have to admit his grandfather's…” She tilted her head, considering. “Actually, perfidy is a good word for it.”

“Thank you.”

“But nonetheless, you must not try to interfere,” Lady Penworth continued. “This is one of those things men must work out for themselves. You will have enough to do dealing with the social problems that will be present when you get to Burgundy.”

At that, Emily sat up and frowned. “Social problems?”

“Of course. I doubt Lucien will wish to actually prosecute his grandfather—that would create an appalling scandal. So those relatives who are dependent on the old comte may try to make life uncomfortable for you and Lucien. It will be your task to remind them, ever so tactfully, that it is in Lucien's power to create that scandal and humiliate them all. There will be others in the neighborhood as well. You can use your charm on them, but you may need to point out, again tactfully, that the comte is old and in the not-too-distant future, Lucien will replace him.”

“Oh dear.” Worry replaced Emily's anger. “You are much better at that sort of thing than I am. And so is Elinor.”

* * *

Lucien spent little time with them over the next few days. He explained that he had business to attend to, and that was true enough. There were various enterprises that he needed to settle before he returned to France, investments that he was forced to liquidate, thanks to grandpère
.
More importantly, there was a purchase he needed to make.

It took longer than he had expected. By the time he arrived at the dock, the baggage had all been loaded on the steamer, all the other passengers were aboard, and the sailors had begun clearing away the ropes.

Lucien sprinted up the gangway, to the relief of the officer on deck. By the time he reached the cabins, the rhythm of the engine had changed, and he was vaguely aware of the shouts of the sailors as the ship cast off. He skidded to a halt when he realized that the package he was holding was wrapped in a piece of cloth that was more rag than anything else and tied with a grimy string. Not a romantic appearance. He tried to untie it, but in frustration resorted to the knife in his boot. Tossing the wrappings aside, he opened the small box within. Yes, it was exactly what he had wanted. Would it also be something Emily wanted? Sudden doubt assailed him, but it was too late. He stepped forward, trying to remember which of the doors was hers. The captain had told him, but…yes, it was the third one on the right. He knocked rapidly, three times.