by Lisa Berne
Wrapped in a cozy flannel robe, Gwendolyn sat at her dressing-table, drowsily watching Lizzie in the mirror’s reflection as she brushed out her hair with long strokes. After the Duchess had left this morning, she had gone back to bed but couldn’t sleep, so she’d read for an hour or so, then finally had resigned herself to sentience and gone downstairs for breakfast. Helen had come in not long after and announced her intention to shortly go riding—with a groom in attendance, she had pointedly added.
Gwendolyn had been uneasy about the plan, but what could she do? Lock Helen in her bedchamber? Hardly. Hopefully the presence of a groom would allay any potential objections the Duchess might have had. So she had only nodded, and Helen had sat down and proceeded to eat a hearty breakfast, and nothing further had been said between them.
Afterwards, she had gone upstairs and peeked in on Lady Almira, who was awake, still rather weak and feverish, but glad of the company, and so Gwendolyn had sat with her for a while, chatting about inconsequential things, and then left her with the day-nurse and gone back to her room where she’d asked Lizzie to have a bath prepared. It had felt very nice to soak for a while and to wash her hair, then sit before the fire, doodling in her sketchbook, while it had dried. And then to go to her dressing-table and have Lizzie brush out her hair. Soothing . . . soporific. Fatigue from lack of sleep drifted over Gwendolyn like a ponderous fog and her eyelids felt heavy, so heavy . . .
Lizzie once again drew the brush from the crown of Gwendolyn’s head all the way to the ends of her hair, which lay below her shoulder blades. “There now—all nice and smooth. Are you going out tonight, miss, or in a hurry to go somewhere?”
“No, not at all, Lizzie, I’ve nothing planned. Why?”
“I did think, miss, that we might try the curling-tongs at last,” said Lizzie coaxingly. “There’s a new style I’ve seen, with long curls brought together at the back of the head. Very pretty, miss, and you’ve just the hair for it.”
Ordinarily Gwendolyn would have refused, but in fact she had nothing to do, really, and she was so tired and sleepy . . . “Why not, Lizzie? Have at it.”
“Wonderful, miss!” said Lizzie, and went off to heat the tongs. Gwendolyn closed her eyes, murmuring once or twice, “Bless you,” when she heard Lizzie sneezing, and felt herself slip into a passive, dreamy state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness.
When Lizzie returned with the heated tongs, she looked at her again in the mirror. “Lizzie, you’re very flushed. Are you all right?”
“Oh yes, miss, it’s just the heat of the fire, that’s all. Now—let’s set this first curl.” Carefully Lizzie wrapped a length of Gwendolyn’s hair around the tong, then looked critically at her work. “Your hair’s so fine and smooth, miss, I can add more of it, it’ll make it go faster.” She wrapped another chunk of hair around the tong.
Drowsily Gwendolyn watched in the reflection as after a little while Lizzie pulled free the length of her hair, revealing a single long curl which she brought forward alongside Gwendolyn’s neck. “There, miss, isn’t that nice?”
“Yes, very,” said Gwendolyn, though in all honesty she doubted the curl would hold for very long.
“I told you, miss, didn’t I? I’ll go heat the tongs again.”
Gwendolyn closed her eyes and just barely registered Lizzie’s return sometime later; in that sudden way that one occasionally fell asleep, it felt like she’d stepped off a cliff and dropped into instant oblivion—and then, a heartbeat later, as if pushed by invisible hands, she was dreaming, somewhere in a maze, surrounded by tall green hedges stretching up to the sky. Oh, she was lost, lost, never to be found again. She heard, from somewhere far across the hedges, Lady Almira saying anxiously:
“Mazes do make me nervous. They make me feel that I’m trapped, and I don’t know where I am, and I can’t find my way free.”
And then the Duchess’s voice in the distance, very firm and sure:
“You shan’t be lost. Do stop dropping coins in the fountain, m’dear, and standing about wishing for happiness. You must make your own luck.”
In the dream Gwendolyn saw a bluebird, with a beautiful sheen to its sleek feathers, flying overhead. She stretched out her left hand and the bluebird swooped down and landed on her fourth finger. It cackled and said, sounding exactly like Señor Rodrigo:
“Kiss me, you saucy wench.”
And then it flew away.
In the sudden silence Gwendolyn thought to herself, I’m tired of being lost. I’ll make my own luck, I shall find my way free.
She hurried along the gravel path, which lay in deep, dark shadow. The hedges were high, so high, blocking out the sun. Which way to go?
Ahead, she spotted a little sign dangling from a twig in the hedge.
fruit for sale.
And then, suddenly, there was Julian, tall and handsome, enveloped in a big white apron, holding out a pear, smiling. His teeth were so white and perfect they nearly blinded her. “Kiss me, my darling Gwendolyn,” he said.
But she only hurried past him, turned a corner, and saw another little sign:
vegetables for sale.
Then it was the Countess standing there, dazzling in white from head to toe, smiling, smiling. “Come and give me a kiss, my dear child.”
Gwendolyn ran past her, turned another corner, and came to yet another sign:
nosce te ipsum.
She stood before it, puzzled. It was important—more important than anything in the world—that she figure out what it meant.
Understanding it would set her free.
She stared and stared.
She had to hurry.
Danger was all around.
There was an acrid smell in the air, unpleasant in her nostrils, and rather frightening.
Hurry, hurry, there’s no time to lose—
Wait. She had the understanding, it was deep within her, had been there all along—
Hurry, the maze is on fire!
Not only that, the sign in front of her burst into flames.
But it didn’t matter, because she knew. It meant—
Know thyself.
Yes, yes! She knew, and she was free! Gwendolyn began to run. There was light ahead, the exit to the maze—glorious freedom lay ahead, and happiness!
Suddenly she was jerked to a stop.
Someone behind her was yanking at her hair with vicious force. And then she clapped a hand to her cheek. Oh, it was on fire, too! Then there was a tremendous thump—
Gwendolyn jerked awake.
A nasty burning smell filled the air, and her cheek stung. She spun around on her chair. Lizzie had fallen—passed out?—and the tongs were on the carpet, smoldering. And—clamped around them was a great bunch of her own hair. Burnt to a crisp.
Gwendolyn leaped up, grabbed the tongs, stamped on the carpet to put out any little flames there, hastily set the tongs on the hearth, and hurried back to Lizzie, whose eyes were open now although she looked dazed. Her round, pleasant face was very flushed, and she was shivering so badly she was shaking.
“Miss,” she murmured, “oh, miss, what happened? I’d just finished with your second curl, and then . . .”
Gwendolyn knelt beside her. “You fainted, Lizzie. I think you may have the influenza.”
“Do you think so, miss? Oh, I’m so cold . . .” Lizzie’s eyes widened and she gaped up at Gwendolyn. “Miss! Your hair! And your cheek! The tongs must’ve gone against your face just before I fell. Oh, miss! I’m so sorry, so sorry!” She began to cry.
Gwendolyn patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Lizzie. It doesn’t matter. Truly it doesn’t. Now, please just stay there—I’m going to ring for help.”
“Yes, miss,” said Lizzie in a weak, trembling voice, and closed her eyes.
Gwendolyn got up and went to go tug vigorously at the bell-pull, then pulled a blanket from her bed to lay atop the shivering Lizzie, and scrambled out of her robe and into a day-dress, taking a brief moment to glance at herself in her mirror. Her
cheek was rather red and raw, and a giant clump of her hair—a full third of it from the nape down, she guessed—was gone. Quickly she dabbed some salve on her face and then, resolutely, she took a pair of scissors and cut off the rest of her hair till it was moderately even all round. It fell just to her jaw now.
It was a shock to see how different she looked.
She ran a hand along the short, blunted ends.
Actually, she rather liked it.
In fact, she looked quite jaunty, really.
After that there was no time to think about her hair, in the flurry of servants arriving, getting Lizzie conveyed to her room and a doctor summoned, and seeing that Lizzie was made comfortable, and then, as she came down the flight of stairs onto the landing which led to the family’s bedchambers, she saw someone coming out of Helen’s room—her maid, Belinda, who looked around the hallway in a panicked way and then hurried toward Gwendolyn.
“Oh, miss! Miss! Please can you come?”
“What’s wrong? Has Lady Helen come home ill, or injured?”
“It’s not that, miss. Come and see for yourself, please!”
Helen’s room was very clean and tidy. But there was no Helen. Belinda gestured toward the dresser, and Gwendolyn went over to it. On top of the dresser was a letter, and with a sudden feeling of unreality, Gwendolyn picked it up, a memory flashing into her mind. Herself, years ago, saying fancifully to Christopher after suggesting they run away together:
I’d have to leave a note, of course. The heroine usually does. She leaves it on her dresser, and sometimes it’s all splotched with her tears. Although you’d think the ink would run and make the note difficult to read, wouldn’t you?
And sure enough, Helen’s childish, looping handwriting was blurry and hard to make out in places, as if she had been crying while she wrote it.
I am going away, with Monsiuer de Montmorecy, to someplace far away which will be Better than here which is all a lot of rubbish. I don’t care that I don’t speak the langwidge over there and that I don’t like all the sauces they put on their Food and also that Percy Thinks that as a Nation they are not to be trusted, I will be gone and finished with this stupid Season which has been so foul and stuppid. I Have to Go—I MUST go—and I will never, ever see any of you ever again. Good bye.
Helen FitzClarence
PS. Dont let them give my horse too much oats, it gives him Colick.
It took a little effort to decode it all, but having read the letter twice, it seemed fairly clear to Gwendolyn that Helen had fled under the aegis of Étienne de Montmorency, whether willingly or not.
I Have to Go—I MUST go.
Was he forcing Helen into this? Had he threatened her? Compromised her? Manipulated her into this rash act? Recalling de Montmorency’s demeanor last night at Carlton House, and the deadly cold way he’d pulled a knife on Rupert, it would not be hard to believe.
So what about their destination? Gwendolyn’s mind moved rapidly across the possibilities. It had to be France, de Montmorency’s homeland. And how would they get there? Suddenly she remembered the Earl telling her about de Montmorency’s racing yacht—the new mainsail he had commissioned—docked in Bournemouth—the trips to Le Havre and thence to his family’s country estate—
What if, even now, Helen was being held captive in a carriage, barreling toward Bournemouth? Was desperately vulnerable, helpless, terrified?
Well, there was nothing for it.
She was going after them.
Furthermore, she’d need some help. It was entirely impracticable to go on her own, especially if a cornered de Montmorency were to lash out. She might be able to smash a vase over somebody prone on the floor, but she certainly couldn’t defend herself against a knife attack. She needed someone smart and strong and capable. Someone she could count on. Oh, if only Christopher were here!
But he wasn’t, and Percy was away, and so was Francis, and so that left only Julian. Which made sense, because he was de Montmorency’s friend—surely he’d want to stop him from doing something so dreadful.
Swiftly Gwendolyn went to her own bedchamber, shrugged herself into a pelisse, and jammed a hat onto her head. She snatched up her reticule and a pair of gloves which she tugged on as she rushed downstairs to the entry-hall. Tyndale was there, sorting through the morning’s mail, and Gwendolyn took him aside to quietly share the news about Helen’s disappearance.
Tyndale looked grave, but remained as calm as ever. He sent a footman to the stables who returned with the further news that Helen had taken along a groom, but when she had met Monsieur de Montmorency in Hyde Park, she had gotten into his curricle and sent him home with her horse.
“Well, that’s confirmation, at least,” said Gwendolyn. “Tyndale, I’ll try and find them, but first I need to see the Earl of Westenbury. Can you have a hack summoned, please? In the meantime, here’s something else we’ll need the staff to keep quiet about—Lady Almira mustn’t know anything for now, nor should anyone outside this house. Can you talk with everyone while I’m gone?”
“Yes, Miss Gwendolyn. Do you think we should inform Her Grace?”
Gwendolyn thought. “No. Not yet. She’s got enough on her hands.”
“Very well. What else can I do to be of assistance?”
“I’ll let you know when I get back from the Earl’s.”
He gave a slight bow. “I’ll be waiting, Miss Gwendolyn.”
They conferred in low, urgent tones for a few more minutes, and when a footman came to escort her to the hack that was waiting out front, Tyndale said:
“I nearly forgot, Miss Gwendolyn. A note came for you.”
He held it out to her and hastily she crammed it into her reticule. “Thank you, Tyndale, I’ll read it later.” She hurried into the hack, and a few minutes later she was at the doorstep of the Westenbury townhouse, being ushered inside by their visibly disapproving butler and into a saloon to await the Earl’s arrival.
Restlessly she paced back and forth. It seemed like years—decades—eons, but was in all likelihood only a few minutes till the Earl came in, shutting the door behind him.
“My dear Gwendolyn!” he said, smiling. “What an unexpected pleasure! But—no footman or maid to accompany you?”
“No.”
“Let’s hope there won’t be any talk.” As he came closer his smile disappeared. “Your cheek—good God—”
“It’s nothing. Julian, I—”
“Have you seen a doctor? You may well be permanently disfigured.”
“I won’t be.”
“But what if you are? It would be a tragedy.”
“Truly, it’s only a small wound. Julian—”
And then his jaw dropped. “My darling, what’s happened to your hair?”
“Oh, it’s shorter. Julian, listen—”
“Shorter all the way round?”
“Yes, but—”
“But why, my dear Gwendolyn? What did you do to it?”
“There was a little accident. At any rate—”
“It was so beautiful before,” he said, sounding so mournful, even devastated, that Gwendolyn, with a rush of impatience, ripped her bonnet off her head and spun around in a full circle.
“There,” she said. “That’s what it looks like now.”
“So short. My God, so very short.”
“It’s just hair. I’m still me.”
“But it’s hardly a flattering style, my love. I wonder—perhaps a hairpiece, until your own grows longer again?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A hairpiece, you know. Or a wig. That way no one would know.”
Gwendolyn stared at him, aware that within her was a sudden desire to violently bat him about his head and face with her bonnet. Then she gathered herself. “Believe it or not, Julian, I didn’t come here to talk about hair. I have reason to think that Lady Helen’s been taken away by Monsieur de Montmorency.”
His tawny eyebrows went up. “Taken away?”
“Yes, I bel
ieve they’ve run away together, and very likely are on their way to Bournemouth and from there to France.”
“Oh, you mean they’re eloping.”
He said it so casually that Gwendolyn felt her jaw dropping. “I’m not sure that Helen’s gone willingly.”
“You think Étienne’s kidnapped her?”
“Maybe.”
The Earl shook his head. “No, I doubt it. Hardly seems his style. Well, this will certainly be a blow to Rupert. Poor fellow, he’d quite set his heart on Lady Helen.”
Gwendolyn brought her jaw up so hard that her teeth clicked together. “Julian, I’m going after them. And I need your help. Will you come with me?”
“What Étienne does is his own business.”
“He’s your friend.”
“Not after what he did to Rupert last night at Carlton House. Threatening him with a knife—and for nothing, really, simply a small misunderstanding. I hadn’t thought Étienne could be so common.”
“Is that what Rupert told you?”
“Yes. Shall I ring for tea?”
“I don’t want any tea. You believed Rupert?”
“Of course. He’s family, after all.”
“Did he tell you I was there, and that I saw everything?”
“No, but—”
“Will you come with me, Julian? If not to prevent a friend—a former friend—from doing something reprehensible, at least for Helen’s sake?”
“I’m very sorry, my dear Gwendolyn, but I won’t. And I think you’d be making a great mistake by flying after them in this hey-go-mad way. I shouldn’t like you to be involved in a scandal, especially one that’s really none of your business.”
Gwendolyn stood very still, her hands gripping the ribbons of her hat with unnecessary force. She looked at Julian, so tall and handsome, so calm and unconcerned. Into her mind came swirling bits and pieces from the dream she’d had earlier:
Julian. His mother, the beautiful snow queen with the golden fringe and smiling blue eyes. Kiss me. Kiss me, my dear child. nosce te ipsum. Know thyself. “You shan’t be lost. Do stop dropping coins in the fountain, m’dear, and standing about wishing for happiness. You must make your own luck.” A bluebird, flying free—