The Counterfeit Heiress (16 page)

Neither my husband nor my friends had left word as to where they had gone, and I decided a change of scene would clear my mind and better allow me to consider the facts of the case. I left the house and made the (extremely) short walk to Café de Flore, taking a table in the glassed-in front section to the right of the door. I had found, over many previous visits, this spot, located just before the curve in the banquette that ran the length of the wall, to be the preeminent one in all of Paris to sit without purpose and be endlessly entertained by the parade of passersby on the pavement outside. Today, I may have had a purpose, but I saw no harm in allowing myself a bit of fun as well. I ordered a
chocolat chaud
and alternated between studying the pages of my notebook and evaluating the current Parisian fashions on display beyond the window.

Not long after I had arrived, a gentleman sat at a table quite near mine, taking a seat that faced away from the window. This odd choice did not escape my notice. His hair, auburn but streaked with silver at the temples, was pomaded, as was his rather splendid handlebar mustache—I call it splendid as an example of its kind; as a rule I do not approve of mustaches—and his suit, though old-fashioned, had been cut from a wool of decent quality. A simple walking stick with a curved handle hung awkwardly over the back of his chair. His boots, which I could see better once he crossed his legs, were sturdy, their soles bearing evidence of having recently been in close proximity to a great deal of mud. Most important was that it quickly became evident that he was taking rather too much interest in my person.

A waiter brought my
chocolat,
and I poured it from its silver-plated pot into a china cup, stirring with a little spoon while avoiding my neighbor’s stare. The irony was that he seemed to be making a very great effort at subtlety. He would look down at his table—whatever he had ordered had not yet appeared—as if studying the surface with the seriousness of the most dedicated man of science. Darwin and his finches would have flung themselves off the side of the
Beagle
had they known of the existence of such a man! After approximately thirty seconds of this, he would slowly raise his eyes until they met mine, at which point he would cough and abruptly turn away. Subterfuge could not be listed among his talents.

When at last a pot of tea arrived for him, he applied himself to it with keen attention. I abandoned my
chocolat,
left some coins on the table, and removed myself from the premises before he looked again in my direction. Ever so slightly unnerved, I made my way back toward Cécile’s, but before long felt the uncanny prickling on the base of my skull that, without fail, signals that I am being watched. Crossing the narrow street that ran along Les Deux Magots and the wider one that came next—the one in which Cécile’s house stood—I turned left toward the church of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. This was the oldest church in Paris, burial place of the Merovingian kings, and, most important to me now, conveniently situated almost directly across from my friend’s house. A crowd of tourists covered much of the pavement, so I had no trouble diving into their midst so that I might succeed both in hiding and turning around to confirm my suspicions of having been tailed. There, standing on the opposite corner, was the auburn-haired man. I could no longer in good conscience refer to him as a gentleman.

His presence caused me a dilemma. I did not want to continue on to Cécile’s, as I had no desire to alert him to that location as one at which he should expect to find me, but neither did I want to wander the streets of Paris in an attempt to lose him. I considered entering the church, but rejected the idea, deciding it would be simple enough for him to follow me inside and perhaps corner me. There had been a time when I might have stomped over and confronted him, but the days of my impetuous youth were behind me. My husband would never forgive me if I put myself in danger, and in the midst of a murder investigation one could never take for granted one’s safety. The square tower of the church loomed over me. Looking up at it had been a mistake. My boot slipped on the cobblestones and I wrenched my ankle. The man had crossed the street and was now standing only thirty feet away from me. I ducked behind a portly German who was lecturing his equally portly offspring about the differences between Gothic and Romanesque architecture, putting them squarely between my adversary and myself. Then, as there were no better options readily at hand, I slipped into the church.

Inside, Saint-Germain-des-Prés could have been mistaken for the slightly shabby sister of Sainte-Chapelle. Its painted columns were not so bright, its stained glass not quite so spectacular, but the hint of gloominess seemed to bathe Saint-Germain in an air of medieval authenticity. I pressed myself against the side of a column away from the door, and considered my next course of action. It came to me in a flash.

A meandering queue of devout elderly Parisian ladies, many with rosaries in their hands, led to the odd-shaped box that I recognized as a confessional, the means of that strange Roman sacrament long since banished from the Church of England.
“Pardonnez-moi.”
I shoved my way to the front of the queue.
“Mon âme mortelle est en jeu.”
I considered myself more or less fluent in French, but had never included the sacred in my studies of the language, so did the best I could in the circumstances, and hoped that the ready-to-be-forgiven queuing up could recognize my mortal soul was in dire straits. A few of the ladies raised their eyebrows, but for the most part, they hardly took notice of my intrusion. Never before had I reaped the benefit of the French inability to queue in an orderly fashion. My actions never would have been tolerated in London.

Now at the head of the queue, I had only to wait my turn to enter the box. My heart was racing. I turned around in time to see the auburn-haired man step into the church. I had to act. I pulled open the door to the confessional and stuck my head inside.
“Allez vite, s’il vous plaît. Je suis désespérée!”

I will not soon forget the shocked expression on the face of the woman whom I had interrupted. Flabbergasted, she sputtered for a moment, then, as if she recognized the true state of my emergency—although mistaking it for one spiritual rather than physical—she crossed herself and vacated the space. I shut the door. A moment passed, and I heard rustling on the other side of the grille that separated me from the priest who was to hear my sins and absolve me.

“Bonjour, Père,”
I began.
“Mon français n’est pas bien…”

“That is no impediment, my child,” came the voice from beyond. “We can speak in your language. How long has it been since your last confession?”

“Oh, you speak English? How very lovely. I … I have never made a confession before. I’m afraid I’m Anglican.”

“Yet you have come to Saint-Germain-des-Prés in search of solace. What does that tell you?”

My stomach tied itself in knots. How could I lie to a priest? “The truth is, Father, I am in need of saving, but not in the way you think. A man was following me, and I was terrified—” A slight exaggeration, perhaps, but one that I think could be forgiven in the circumstances. “I knew I would be safe here.”

“Did he follow you into the church?”

“He did.”

“And this is why you disregarded the line?”

I squirmed on the hard, narrow bench, taking slim comfort in the fact that he could not see me. “Yes, Father.”

“I will help you, madame, but only if you first promise to make a good confession.”

“I—I—” I sighed. “All right.” I described for him the auburn-haired man, and he assured me he would personally see to his departure from the building. The priest’s door scraped as he opened it and again when he pushed it closed.

“Alors!”
His voice echoed against the stone walls.
“Faîtes attention! L’église est fermée. Partez!”

A low grumble filled the space, but the persistent sound of shuffling feet told me the faithful and the tourists were following the priest’s directions. Any moment now he would return. What on earth was I supposed to say then?

Estella

x

Once again, Estella was asleep when her captor made his descent down the ladder. This time, the sound of the trapdoor hardly disturbed her; instead, it was the light from his lantern that roused her. “You’re becoming something of a sloth.” He held the light out in front of him, illuminating her huddled form.

She shielded her eyes from the brightness. “What else is there for me to do?”

“Plenty now.” When he smiled, his face split in a manner reminiscent of a toad. He was broad, but tall enough to prevent the overall impression of him from veering entirely to the amphibian. “I have two books, a travel clock, and brioche, as well as another bottle of wine, plenty of water, two croissants, some ham and cheese, and, of course, the new cheque.”

“Of course. You will want me to sign posthaste.”

“If you would be so kind.”

She saw no use in delay.

While she bent over her pen, he removed the varied detritus from her cell—including dealing with the chamber pot—and then spread a worn tablecloth over the stone slab. “I thought this would brighten things a bit for you.”

“Flowers brighten things. Table linens that might be mistaken for rags … oh … it doesn’t matter.” She flung the cheque at him. He picked it up off the floor and placed the clock in the center of the tablecloth.

“I shall leave the rest to you. Do please try to forgive me, Mademoiselle Lamar. I promise this terrible situation is almost over.”

“Morning or evening?” Estella picked up the clock, which read six forty-five.

“Evening.” He looked around. “That should do until tomorrow, I think.”

“Please come as quickly as you can. It is difficult being here.” Her voice was strained and small and cut to the core of her captor’s soul. If only there had been some other way out of this mess! He bade her good night and made his way up the ladder.

Estella set the food out on the tablecloth, begrudgingly admitting to herself that the linen, shabby though it was, was preferable to bare stone. She took a swig of water and looked at the books he had left with her. The first,
A Tale of Two Cities,
by someone called Charles Dickens, put her off even before she had finished the first sentence:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
In her current predicament, she abhorred the implication that the worst might also be the best. She found the second book, a thick volume, much more appealing:
Narrative of the Operations and Recent Discoveries within the Pyramids, Temples, Tombs, and Excavations in Egypt and Nubia,
written by Giovanni Battista Belzoni.
As I made my discoveries alone, I have been anxious to write my book by myself, though in so doing, the reader will consider me, and with great propriety, guilty of temerity
 …

This struck just the right chord with Estella. She had read about Egypt before—accounts from the Napoleonic explorations in a beautifully illustrated volume given to her by Cécile—but this man, this Giovanni Battista Belzoni, had explored Egypt’s mysteries alone, just as she now was alone. He would provide her the perfect solace. Temerity indeed! This was a man she could admire. She broke a brioche in two, placed between the halves a slice of ham and a chunk of cheese and nibbled at it as she started to read. By the time she became aware of a nagging sensation of thirst, she looked at the clock to discover that it was already past nine. Morning would descend upon her in no time if she kept reading.

Estella rejected the apples, not wanting to eat them whole—only a savage would eat fruit not cut up—but made another little sandwich out of brioche, ham, and cheese. She tugged the cork out of the wine and set the bottle next to her, so that she could reach it with ease, not having to remove her eyes from her book. The next time she checked, it was after midnight. She kept reading, and soon it was nearly three in the morning. Her lids heavy, her eyes so tired she could hardly decipher the words on the page, she wrapped up her food, turned off the lantern, and curled up on the slab, clutching the book close to her.

She woke with a start, but not because her captor had returned. The trapdoor remained closed, and darkness bathed her. She lit the lantern; it was nearly eleven o’clock. Surely he would not be much longer. Anxiety returned, unsettling her stomach and her nerves, tension taking stiff hold in her neck and her shoulders. She rubbed them aimlessly, and considered her remaining food, regretting that she had not eaten the croissants while they were fresh. She tore the end off one and was pleased to find it still good. She placed them both, along with a flask of water, on the slab, then hopped up next to them and opened her book.

The trapdoor still remained in place at five o’clock and Estella’s soul was becoming as frayed as her sad tablecloth. She could no longer read and had taken to pacing the length of her cell. He must not be coming for her. He would have the money by now—the banks were already closed. She clutched at her chest, fear pounding through her veins. He had left her here to die. The stone walls seemed to close in around her. Her hands flew to her throat. She could hardly breathe. Sobbing, she sank to the floor and remained there until she slipped into a stupor. She stared at the lantern’s flickering flame. When she moved again, it was nearly seven o’clock in the evening.

Now it was time to accept her fate. Death had started its inevitable march. She cleared away her food and drink, smoothed the tablecloth, and pulled her cloak around her shoulders. Taking with her the copy of Belzoni’s magnificent book, she climbed onto the slab, arranged her skirts and the cloak carefully, and held the book on her chest. Confident that arrangement of her limbs, at least, was as serene as the most beautiful medieval effigy, she closed her eyes. The lamp, still on the floor, continued to burn. She thought she might as well have light for a while longer.

When she heard the heaving of the trapdoor’s hinges, her heart nearly stopped. She had been prepared for a prolonged death, but could his plans be more gruesome than that? She remained as still as possible, holding the book tight against her, and squeezed her eyes shut. She could hear him struggling with something and then the sound of something hitting the floor with a dull thud.