by Bryan Davis
“So little you know.” Marc plucked away my pen. “I keep singing the praises of my brilliant roommate.”
“Brilliant enough to stay home on a night like this.” I nodded at the droplets pecking at the window panes. “You don’t need my gloomy face spoiling the fun.”
“You’re an actor. You can put on any face you choose.” Marc patted me on the back. “Close that stuffy old book and get ready. I won’t take no for an answer.”
I rose, pushed my hands into my empty pockets, and pulled the insides out, palming the carriage fare to keep it out of view. “Your mother would never approve of me courting Francine.”
He waved a hand. “Now, don’t go speaking ill of my mother again. Ever since Papa died she’s trusted my judgment in these matters. Potential trumps poverty, and she knows I wouldn’t guide my own sister toward a scoundrel. And you are no scoundrel.”
Marc was right. I was hopelessly virtuous, but mostly because women scared me to death, especially Francine. Every time I looked at her, those bright blue eyes made my legs shake. “Is Francine going in costume?”
“Of course. She’s been looking forward to this for weeks.”
“Let me guess. Joan of Arc.”
Marc nodded. “In full military battledress, a copy she made of the museum piece. We are descendants from the family line. She is quite enamored with her heroine.”
“So Francine is a seamstress extraordinaire and a war general. A study in contrasts.”
“It will take a strong man to tame her.” Marc thrust at me with a pretend sword. “Just stay at the safe end of her blade, if you know what I mean.”
“All too well.” I let my gaze drift back to the window, though a curtain of darkness had fallen. Marc knew of a past spat between Francine and me, a minor dispute about politics that ended in laughter. He seemed not to know, however, about a more recent, harsher skirmish that left me fearful of reentering her presence.
That topic, dear Mother, I will address at the proper time when I hope to dispel any thought that Francine is a hot-headed shrew. It was my own foolish tongue that invited the lashing I received.
“I’ll go on one condition. If Francine spurns me, you’ll help me invent an excuse to leave on socially acceptable terms.”
“Of course, of course. I’ll simply say that you took a stroll in the library on the second floor. I’ll explain how bookish you are.”
“A fair plan, but I hope you’ll invent a better word. Bookish is not what I would call a masculine trait.”
“Adventurous, then.” Marc withdrew a tailcoat from a trunk next to his bed. “Have you seen the library? It is fabulous, filled with ancient books and maps, perfect for your escape should you need one.” He held the coat up to my chest. “You’ll be a navy captain. I have a hat to go with it and a mask.”
I touched one of the coat’s brass buttons. “So if Francine turns against me, I can embark on a voyage to the island of books.”
“Exactly.” Marc laid the coat and a pair of white breeches in my arms. “Get dressed. We have to catch our ride at the carriage house in half an hour.”
The getting dressed part proved to be easy. The coat and breeches fit perfectly. In fact, if our mirror reflected truth, I looked rather dashing … relatively speaking, of course. I knew better than to swallow the forbidden fruit of self-admiration.
Marc, now wearing a priest’s cassock, set a simple black mask around my eyes and began tying it behind my head. “I know this mask won’t hide your identity. The idea is to be recognizable while playing along with the masquerade.”
“You want Francine to know who I am.”
“Correct, and my mother wants us all to be easy to identify while still playing the game.” He tightened the knot, set a cocked Napoleon hat on my head, and stood in front of me, scanning me as if I were a painting. “Perfect. Cuffed, creased, and pressed. Not to mention handsome. You’re sure to catch her eye.”
“Not her tongue, I hope.”
“That will be up to you.” He tied on a mask of his own. “Let’s go.”
After donning our boots and hooded cloaks, we sloshed through rainwater trenches and muddy streets while intermittent gas lamps illuminated a winding path that led us past squalid habitations. The rain kept the prostitutes inside, and the street children had run for cover, allowing for unaccosted travel, though the usual stench worsened. Urine, feces, and an occasional rat carcass saw to that.
Perhaps someday Monsieur Haussmann’s renovations would reach our section of the arrondissement, but until then, we had to endure the sad estate of crippling poverty as well as winding narrow roads, missing cobblestones, and dilapidated buildings.
Throughout the journey, I kept watching for the pitiful little girl who had taken a spill at the alley, though surely she wouldn’t be wandering alone at this hour. She was safe somewhere, warm and dry. Yet, her haunting ways continued. At the moment I could have helped her, I was more worried about soiling my cloak than rushing to her aid. Guilt rode my shoulders without mercy.
We arrived at the carriage house and caught a covered fiacre that took us to the outskirts of the city. Along the way Marc chattered about his mother’s obsession with his decision to live in humble circumstances and pursue acting instead of banking. Her latest diatribe included a threat to remove him from her will, but he shook it off with a laugh. She had many years left to live, plenty of time for him to prove that he had made the right decision.
A rattle interrupted Marc’s monologue. Horse hooves and carriage wheels clattered across a wooden bridge that spanned a brook, now swollen by the frequent rains. If the current storm failed to break soon, the brook might transform into a raging river.
As the fiacre drew within a stone’s throw of the Seine, the schoolhouse came into view. Long abandoned, the school could easily pass for a museum—stone construction without, arched entries leading to a covered breezeway on the ground floor, tall windows lining the walls on the second, and tiny peek-through windows on the third.
Candlelight shone through one of the first-floor windows, providing a view of minglers inside who were about the business of evaluating each other’s upper-crust costumes while sipping blood-red wine from Bordeaux glasses. I had pretended to be rich in a recent theater production, so being in costume felt natural. I could play this role.
After leaving the fiacre, we entered the main door, strolled into a parlor-like anteroom, and took off our wet raingear. Potted chrysanthemums of yellow, white, and purple lined the floor along a path toward an assembly room to the right, a friendly gesture to most people, though to me it felt like the path of a death march. My social ineptitude saw to that.
From somewhere inside, a violin played Mozart in the midst of ambiguous conversation. Warm air flowed, carrying the aroma of perfume, tea, and wine. “I know everyone here,” Marc said as he passed our cloaks to an attendant. “Stay close to me for introductions. Then you’ll be on your own.”
The moment we entered the assembly room, dozens of eyes turned toward us. The display of costumes was dizzying—kings and queens, knights, clowns, animals, and even a wrapped gift box.
Yet, one little girl wore only a simple white dress with a black sash tied in a bow at the back. Her dark curls and piercing eyes were unmistakable. She was the very girl who had fallen at the alley. Now that I had a moment, I studied her features more closely, allowing me to solve the haunting familiarity. She looked like my sister when she was that age. The resemblance was striking.
My conscience relieved, I breathed a sigh and smiled at her, but she just stared without smiling in return. Maybe she was angry at me or simply curious. No matter. She was safe and warm. I could be at peace.
I broke eye contact and looked around. The room itself spanned sixty feet in length and width. Portraits and landscape paintings hung on the walls, separated by lanterns mounted on brackets that provided plenty of light. A violinist dressed in medieval garb stood on the left side, blissfully stroking his bow across the string
s. Near the back, a spiral staircase wound through a gap in the ceiling, perhaps the path to the library Marc had mentioned earlier.
Francine separated from a clutch of ladies and approached in full Joan-of-Arc array—boot-leather trousers and an armor-plated vest. A thin mask surrounded her eyes, and makeup hid her telltale freckles, a shade that made her look sun baked, a natural tone for a hard-working peasant girl who had transitioned to a soldier.
The makeup also covered a distinctive birthmark on her neck, an oval spot that she usually didn’t mind showing. She also wore a dark wig that resembled the style of an English pageboy, concealing her long, ginger hair. Yet, no one could mistake her for anyone but Francine Noël.
She smiled at Marc. “Bishop Cauchon, so good of you to come in peace, especially considering your animosity toward me at other venues.”
Marc bowed. “Joan, it is a time for song and dance. Far be it from me to spoil this occasion by burning you at the stake.”
“That would be unpleasant.” Francine shifted her gaze to me and tilted her head in a comely fashion. “And who is this young captain of the seas?”
“Joan, Maid of Orléans,” Marc said with a formal air, “allow me to introduce to you Captain William Ashford … Captain, Joan.”
I kissed her hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Ah. An Englishman. And polite as well.” Francine touched an insignia on my coat. “How did such a young man become a captain?”
I smiled, though I felt the urge to retreat. “How did such a young woman become a general?”
Her own smile brightened. “Well struck, Captain. Well struck.” She turned to Marc. “Bishop, if it is all the same to you, I would like to take this officer around to meet the other guests. We want to make sure he feels at home among our countrymen.”
Marc gave her another bow. “He’s all yours.”
“Come along, then.” She curled her arm around mine and led me deeper into the room. Her touch sent tingles up my arm, but I stayed calm. She seemed to be at ease with me. I needed to be the same. Maybe she and I could be a couple after all, at least for the evening.
Although the violin continued playing, no one danced. Perhaps they would change their minds later when the wine had taken effect and numbed the participants into thinking dancing was actually fun.
“Tell me, Captain,” Francine said, “how long have you been in France?”
“I immigrated here with my adoptive parents fifteen years ago.”
She halted and turned to me. “Justin ...” Her tone was gentle but firm. “My mother requested that we stay in character the first hour. It’s a parlor game, of sorts, and she wishes to play it to the hilt. I assume Marc failed to inform you.”
Warmth flooded my face and spread to my ears. “He alluded to it, but I didn’t catch on.”
“I see.” She cast a glance Marc’s way. He was chatting with two young ladies dressed as cats, apparently twin sisters vying for his attention.
I had a brief desire to learn how the cats would stay in character, but I brushed it aside. “If we play this game, aren’t introductions rather counterproductive?”
“You are the only stranger here. After I introduce you to someone, I will whisper that person’s real name to you. The last thing I want to do is get a tongue lashing from my mother.”
I nodded. “I want to avoid sharp tongues as well.”
“Then stay on my good side tonight.” Again guiding me by the arm, she took me to a female court jester dressed in full motley, including a multi-colored hat with dangling bells. “Captain William Ashford, this is the court’s designated fool, Astaude du Puy.” She then turned to me and lowered her voice. “Jacqueline Noël, my mother.”
I gave Madame Noël a head bow. “Pleased to meet you.”
She laughed. “An English captain has come to dock his ship in a foreign harbor.”
“Well, not exactly. I have been—”
“How many harbors have you visited, Captain?” She scanned me from head to toe. “A man with your decorations has certainly been around the world.”
“Decorations?”
She set her fingertips on my cheek. “Dark, curly hair, stunning brown eyes, a firm jaw. Surely you have dropped your anchor in many a port.”
Francine hissed, “Mother, you’re going a little too far.”
“Nonsense.” Drawing back, Madame Noël shook her head, making the bells jingle. “It is impossible for a fool to go too far.” She looked me over and winked. “Then again, maybe I would like to try.”
“Mother!” Francine balled a fist. “How much wine have you had?”
“Not a drop, Joan. And why are you calling me Mother?” She waved a hand. “Be off with you now. Show the captain a good time. That is, if a woman wearing trousers and armor is able to do so.”
Francine’s cheeks turned crimson. Maybe this was my chance to take a permanent place on her good side. I offered Madame Noël another bow. “A woman wearing trousers is much to be preferred over a fool who flaunts her loose skirts.”
Madame Noël slapped my face. “Get out.”
The bluntness of her words overwhelmed the sting of her slap. “Get out?”
“You heard me.” Her lips tight, she pointed toward the door. “Leave. Now.”
“Very well.” I tugged at my coat to straighten it. “It seems the game playing is quite one-sided.”
Francine grabbed my arm and ushered me toward the door. “Justin Trotter, you said you wanted to avoid sharp tongues, so I will keep mine sheathed.” When we arrived, she took a deep breath and looked me in the eye. “Did you really think insulting my mother was the best way to endear yourself?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks, inflaming them, but I managed to keep my voice low. “She was playing the fool, so I went along. You said she wanted to play the game to the hilt.”
“I know. I know.” She blew out a sigh. “Like you said, it’s one-sided.”
I spread my hands. “So what do I do now? She wants me to leave. It’s her party.”
Francine looked out the window. Windswept rain continued falling in sheets. Lightning flashed, followed by a thunderclap that shook the building and rattled glass. “It would be inhumane to send you out in this weather.”
“May I offer assistance?” Marc asked as he approached, hands pressed together in a priestly fashion. “No need to tell me what happened. The story is already a gossip windstorm, and it’s growing into a capital crime.”
I nodded. “Yes. Help. What can I do to salvage this disaster?”
Marc patted me on the back. “Go upstairs to the library while I smooth things over with my mother. Take a candelabrum. Read a book. One of us will come to see about you when the time is right.”
“Yes, yes,” Francine said. “That will do fine.”
Although Marc and I had envisioned such an escape, now it felt like a coward’s retreat. Still, it couldn’t be helped. “Very well. I will go.”
After Francine fetched a candelabrum with five tapers—four surrounding a higher one at the center—she escorted me to the spiral staircase while Marc distracted their mother. When I set a foot on the first step, I turned back and gave Francine a thankful nod. “I hope to see you soon.”
“You will.” She shooed me away. “Now, go.”
With one hand on the stairway’s central pole and the other clutching the candelabrum, I climbed the stone steps. As I ascended into darkness, the flickering flames created an undulating aura around me that prompted an even darker memory.
Mother, I refer to our last hour together, the fateful night we walked single file up our own spiral staircase, the night we heard the crash and Father’s shout. You limped, as usual, and I slowed my pace so you could keep up, though I wanted to rush ahead and learn the reason for the noise. My sense of dread then was the same as I felt now, though not because of the darkness above but because of the darkness below. I had caused pain, and I left others to suffer in its shadow.
Chapter Two
When I reached the top of the stairs, I extended my light and pivoted slowly. Bookshelves towered into the darkness. Arranged in rows and columns, the shelves zigzagged here and about, creating a veritable maze of dusty wood, steep ladders, and tattered book spines. Perhaps the keeper of this assemblage understood the logic of the shelf placements, but with no labels to indicate order, the reasons escaped my perception.
I walked between two rows and slid a finger along an array of books. The candles combined with lightning flashes at the windows to provide enough light. A stroke of luck had put me in English literature—Shakespeare, to be precise. When I came upon Hamlet, I drew the book and tucked it under my arm. On a stormy night like this, trapped for time unknown in an abandoned library, a ghost story seemed appropriate.
After finding a bench near a window and removing the mask, I set it, the candelabrum, and the captain’s hat at my side and sat with my back to the storm. The moment I opened the book to page one, lightning flashed, sending a burst of light across the text—ACT I SCENE I: Elsinore. A platform before the castle.
Of course I was intimately familiar with the content, having played the role of Polonius in a production that lasted a fortnight. In this environment, however, maybe familiarity would drown in a sea of mystery. Imagination could come to life in the shifting shadows and rumbling thunder. Yes, let the ghosts come forth and speak their minds. I was ready to be entertained by their gloomy fantasies.
As I read, the frequent thunder and pelting of raindrops on glass, along with the ongoing violin from below, played a hypnotizing concerto. Whether or not I dozed, I cannot say, but a particularly loud thunderclap snapped me to full wakefulness. From that moment onward, anxiety about the possibility of flooded roads kept me from slumber.
Soon after reading that something was rotten in the state of Denmark, a dull thump shook my attention toward a place unseen beyond the boundaries of the candlelight. A draft ensued and extinguished all but the central taper. Perhaps a window blew open, which could usher in rain, or wet air at the least. Books in that section would not fare well.