The Death of Me

by M. J. Tjia

  He takes my hands and leads me across the room to the bed where we collapse, laughing, amidst a twist of my petticoats and skirt. It takes a ridiculous amount of time for him to unhook my dress, untie all my stays, so that by the time we fall upon each other, we are quite feverish.

  Later, he drops onto his back, panting. “You’ll finish me off one day, Heloise.”

  “Well, what a nice way to go,” I reply, turning over to snuggle into my pillows. Really, I want to see what time it is on the fancy ormolu clock on the bedside table. Still early. Somerscale said the meeting is scheduled to happen at midnight, when the tavern will be at its liveliest.

  Hatterleigh slaps my bare bottom. “Come along, Hel. We’re to meet Cyril and his lot at the Maison Dorée.”

  I bury my face into my pillow to stifle a groan. Cyril Breeden is Hatterleigh’s dastardly brother-in-law. He’s as sly as a snake, and his tongue darts in and out of his mouth as he talks. On the surface he’s jocular with us, is good company, but there is a certain glint in his serpent eye that he reserves just for me when others are not looking. I’ve tried to explain it to Hatterleigh, but he waves it away, says I’m imagining things.

  “I’m sorry, mon gros gâteau, but I have a prior engagement.” I roll over to look at him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To meet that friend of mine I told you of,” I lie. “Rosina. Remember? We shared a room for the year I lived here.”

  Hatterleigh thinks I’m familiar with Paris and its language from a time I attended an educational salon for young ladies here, when, in fact, I never set foot on French soil until well and truly after my schoolgirl years. Well, at least he pretends to believe my story. Maybe he knows of my time here with Faucher, who was the French finance minister at the time; that stout whirlwind of energy who has now retired to the countryside with his third wife and their brood of young children. He taught this Liverpool scamp much: of the language, Paris fashions, its gossip. Not to mention the niceties – and sensualities – of bedroom etiquette.

  Hatterleigh lies on his side to face me, and twirls a loose curl of my hair around his finger. “Where was this pension again?”

  “Boulevard du Temple.” Isn’t that where I’ve seen rather grand buildings? I’m pretty sure Hatterleigh wouldn’t be familiar with it, in any case.

  I lean into him, find his lips with mine again, try to distract him from his questioning.

  “Ah, ma mie. You are an énigme.” He runs his tongue across the swell of my breasts. “Perhaps I will come along and meet this Rosina.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Giles,” I say, shoving him a little. “You will be bored silly. We’re meeting at that church of the invalids or whatever it is, would you believe? She wants to show me the new stained glass windows. She’s very pious, you know. Nothing like the company you keep.” I grin at him, willing myself to remain nonchalant. He must be dissuaded from accompanying me. “And then we are to have supper at her mother’s house in Rue la Fitte. I will take Violette along with me as escort, if that is what worries you.”

  “That does sound rather dull, Heloise. I don’t know how you will stand it.” He rests his head back onto a pillow and yawns. “Well, when you become bored with that, which you undoubtedly will, come join us at Bal Mabille.”

  While Hatterleigh is in his dressing room with his valet, Chiggins, I lie in bed and ponder what to do about this assignment of mine. I’ve heard stories of this Bocages des Anges, but the area is really so disreputable, even Hatterleigh has never been there for a lark.

  As I run my fingertips across the grooves of the carved bedhead, I imagine what it might be like to wander alone in such a notorious place. At night. Picking my way through throngs of men, who will be drunk and prowling for prey and, suddenly, what feels like a pebble skittles across my innards. I’ve become adept at avoiding becoming game to such fellows. Of course, I have experience of the rough backstreets of London and the tough docks of Liverpool but I feel less sure of this place, less familiar with its haunts and menaces. Really, I should have someone to escort me. If I were still in London, I would take Taff, or Bundle even, along with me, but here I only have access to Hatterleigh and his lot. And to them, I would have to reveal too much.

  My mind lights upon Violette. Of course. I will take her with me, after all. Sabine, her employer – who was mistress herself to a fat Duke something-or-other not that long ago, and now runs a very exclusive bawdy house in the centre of Paris – assured me that Violette was not easily shocked. And, truth be told, the girl was dressed more like a harlot than a handmaid when she first came to me. I would not be surprised if she isn’t a maid at all, but actually one of Sabine’s girls. I think of her pretty face and dark ringlets and wonder what she did so wrong that she was tossed from the inner circle of Sabine’s doxies. Maybe she has the pox? Her pale skin is clear, nice apple-red cheeks, but of course I can’t know what disease might lurk under her skirts. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t have a good way with the gentlemen. Some women just don’t.

  Hopping out of bed, I approach the windows that look out onto the road. Remembering Somerscale’s words about spies, I peer at the scattering of people down on the pavement, and cannot see anyone familiar. Although that thin man… Is he the chap from outside the prison? It’s difficult to tell, because he has a straw hat crammed low over his forehead. I shake my head. I’m imagining things. When climbing into our carriage outside the Clichy debtors’ prison, I was quite sure no one took particular interest in us and, when walking into our hotel, I took note that there weren’t any buggies following us, nor suspicious looking loiterers. Seems that bastard, Somerscale, was correct. Nobody has an interest in a loose woman such as myself. Tutting my tongue against my teeth, I move to the escritoire.

  “What are you frowning over?” asks Hatterleigh, entering the boudoir. He’s attired in an elegant black tailcoat.

  “Oh,” I say, caught off-guard. “Just penning a letter to Amah to see if that trunk of new gowns has arrived in South Street.”

  “You’re mighty friendly with that maid of yours,” he murmurs, concentrating on tying the tidy, white bow tie at his throat. “I’m surprised she can even read.”

  I think of the row of books that are locked away in the bedside cabinet in Amah’s room in Mayfair. Frankenstein, its cover red and velvet-soft like the wings of a moth. The Dickens with its sombre engravings, and Sense and Sensibility, in three parts, its covers as dogeared and rough as bark. Each a gift from my father, so Amah says.

  “She’s not a barbarian, Giles,” I say as I scrawl a message across a leaf of paper, irrationally annoyed that he speaks of my mother in such terms. But how is he to know Amah’s my mother? I glance up at him, and study his features as he takes out his pocket book and withdraws a few notes from it. I try to picture the expression on his face were I to tell him about my heritage, about the Oriental blood that courses through my veins. My lip lifts at the thought of his eyes bulging in absurd outrage. Amusing, yet a tiny corner of my soul curls in upon itself.

  I blow across the damp ink, then fold the paper over as Hatterleigh bends down to kiss me on the cheek. “Are you sure, my dear, you won’t join us?”

  “Quite sure, Giles,” I say, grasping his face between my hands to kiss him. “When Rosina and I are finished up, I will find you. Leave directions with Chiggins.”

  I wait a couple of minutes after he has gone before I ring for the bellboy. I give him my letter with instructions on its delivery. After eating an early supper of côtes de veau en papillotes, followed by the very tiniest slice of tarte tatin, I call for Violette.

  When she enters the suite I say to her, “Violette, please fetch that lovely gown you were wearing when you first arrived here.” Not many moments later, when she returns with it over her arm, I see that it is perfect for our evening in Bocages des Anges. A hideous piece of lustrous yellow satin – that showcases maximum bosom, from memory – over a puce and blue striped skirt. A dress that positively hollers
‘harpy’.

  “Violette, later this evening I have an assignation with someone in Rue de l’me Damnée,” I say to her, in my stilted French.

  “In Bocages des Anges,” she gasps. However, she’s not shocked. “C’est passionant.”

  “Yes,” I say, trying to share some of her excitement. “But I have heard this is a crude part of town. I’m afraid that it is not a good idea for two women to enter the area alone.” I pick up her dress. I had the vague idea that I might squeeze into it for our outing tonight – for my sumptuous clothes would stand out in such an area – but it’s quite worn, and there’s a nasty stain beneath the underarms.

  Luckily, right at that moment, there’s a knock at the door. Chiggins walks across the drawing room to open the door. He’s only a small man, his countenance almost engulfed by his huge beak of a nose. His step is still steady, but it won’t be in an hour or so. As soon as his master disappears for the evening, Chiggins hits his bottle of gin or claret or whatever it is that valets indulge in during their long, boring evenings pressing trousers and polishing boots.

  Swinging the door open, he sweeps in two lads who carry a trunk between them. They’re attired in matching blue uniforms with gold epaulettes that, upon closer scrutiny, are frayed and grubby. They plonk the trunk onto the floor between the sofas, and the taller one hands me a letter, before they both take themselves off again.

  “But, they are ushers from the Theatre Petit Lazare,” Violette says, surprise in her voice. “Why do they bring you this chest?”

  Ripping open the note, I watch for Chiggins to close the doors upon us, before I answer her. “I know the manager there. I asked him to send us some costumes for our jaunt tonight.” I scan Pascale’s scribble, nodding. “Perfect.”

  I open the trunk, and Violette and I peer into a tumble of clothing. I lift out a pair of trousers made of a brown linen, patched in places with red and yellow squares. Shaking my head, I mutter, “What does he think I can do with these?” and drop them on the floor and gather up another pair of trousers, navy blue, with a neat grey pinstripe. I consider them. “Perhaps.”

  “Comtesse, why do you need these costumes?”

  “Because,” I say, turning to her to hold a white cambric shirt up against her chest, “I do not think it is a good idea for two women to go alone into this area.” Also, if anyone did see me at Somerscale’s, they might have their eye out for me, alone, or with my maid again. “I think it will make much more sense if we go as two gentlemen.”

  “Me?” She draws back, swiping the shirt from my hand. “I will not dress up as a man. That is diabolique.”

  I grin. “Quel dommage. But not to worry.” I pick the shirt up from the floor. “We can go as a couple – a man and his lady – out on the town for the evening. Thankfully, I enjoy dressing up as a gentleman.” I point at her yellow dress. “And you can wear that after all.” God knows, I don’t relish having her grimy gown against my skin. “Remember, you have to look like a woman who knows her way around Bocages des Anges. In other words, the opposite of an angel.”

  As she scrambles into her satins, I rummage through the rest of the costumes in the trunk. Luckily Pascale has sent me a variety of men’s clothing that is on the smaller side, because when I conceived this plan, I immediately realised that Hatterleigh’s clothing would be far too large for Violette and me; and, of course, it would be difficult to pry his precious clothing from Chiggins’ protective fingers.

  “What the hell is this?” I say, lifting out a tricorne. Underneath it, I find a shirt with black and white stripes. “Ha. It seems Pascale seeks to send me out as a buccaneer.” Next, I uncover a hat with a pheasant’s feather curled along its length. “Or a Spanish fellow from last century, even. It’s a wonder the silly man hasn’t sent me along a sword.” I pause. Which actually might’ve been helpful in such a situation. I must remember to slip my pistol into my pocket before we leave.

  Finally, I settle upon the white shirt that Violette had eschewed, and a grey overcoat. The navy trousers are still a little too big for me, so I sneak a look into Hatterleigh’s dressing room. Luckily Chiggins has taken himself off somewhere, so I pinch a pair of Hatterleigh’s braces, and one of his many top hats. It’s too big for me, but that’s fine, as it hides my hair, which I’ve piled high on my head. I tuck an artificial blossom, something like a nasturtium, into the satin hatband. Last, I open the drawer in which I know Hatterleigh keeps his firearms. My pretty pistol with its ivory handle lies amongst Hatterleigh’s more sturdy, dark pieces. I hesitate, and choose one of his, a rather sleek piece, black and gold, and I check that it’s armed.

  When I return to the drawing room, I retrieve a lacquer box from the bottom of the trunk.

  There’s a look of disgust on Violette’s face when she sees what’s inside. “What is that? It looks like a furry caterpillar!”

  I pick it up between my fingertips, and hold it to my upper lip. “It’s a moustache.” I grin as I carry the box to the mirror in my dressing room. I sprinkle some of its adhesive on the back, and then press it against my skin. It only takes a moment to hold, but I know if I sweat too much, it will peel off again. With a charcoal pencil I thicken my brows. I add a smudge between my eyebrows, and rub a little of the charcoal into my cheeks to give the appearance of stubble. Cramming the hat lower onto my forehead, I grin as I stare at the dishevelled young man in the mirror. Not bad at all.

  To finish up, I wind a cravat around my throat and shove the pistol low into the coat’s inner pocket. “Ready?” I ask Violette.

  She’s made herself up perfectly for a jaunt to Bocages des Anges. Shiny, cheap bangles clang up and down her arms, and a string of fake pearls, glistening with a silver sheen, nestle between her cleavage. I think I can actually see a peep of pink nipple rise like a sunset from the right side of her bodice. She’s been very liberal with the rouge and powder, too. I let her wear my purple bonnet and velvet cloak.

  While I wait on the side of the road for Violette to find us a cab, I take in the evening crowd. Apart from the usual people one might expect to find on such a busy thoroughfare – porters, a stable-boy, numerous couples ambling along, two or three pretty fancy girls – there doesn’t seem to be anyone taking particular interest in me. Two men deep in conversation brush past me and a coachman knocks into my shoulder as he shoves past and, momentarily, I feel piqued. But then I grin, because I realise my disguise works. I am invisible. Just another chap out on the town.

  CHAPTER 4

  AMAH

  Amah slices the beef into thin portions that she then scrapes into a large bowl. She adds some of Agneau’s black sauce – which isn’t quite right but has a certain piquancy that will do – and with her hands, she rubs the brown bean paste into the meat.

  She’s conscious of Agneau’s dark eyes on her.

  “The meat should have been marinating for much longer than this,” she says. “But what with the burglary and the police…”

  She pumps water into the scullery basin and washes her hands. She’s wiping them on her apron when Agneau takes them in his, pats them dry with a cloth. Amah becomes still. She wants her reaction to be as matter-of-fact as Agneau’s own attitude.

  “The constable was not much help, in the end.”

  “Ah, oui. Le gendarme. What did this man have to say about it all?” Agneau leans his hip against the bench, wiping his own damp hands on the tea-towel.

  She thinks back to the young man who came to take their report. Nice enough boy. Tall, red hair. But unsure of what he could do to help.

  “He didn’t have much to say. What could he say? Nothing was actually taken, I don’t think.”

  “Then what was the scoundrel doing here?” Agneau’s thick brows rise. He lifts his hands and shoulders. “Why make such a mess and not take anything?”

  Amah has wondered the same. “They must have been looking for something specific.”

  The chef nods. “Yes. Yes, they were most probably after Madam Heloise’s diamonds. B
ut why not take other trifles while they are here?”

  “Perhaps they ran out of time.” After listening to Abigail re-tell her story again to the constable, Amah is quite certain the man purportedly checking the chimneys and the woman who lost her dog were working together. What a silly girl Abigail is to have been so easily duped. Amah shakes her head. Taking up a small tin of rice, she scoops three handfuls of the grain into the flour sieve. She picks through the husks, washing the loose starchy bits away. She then pours the rice into a saucepan with three cups of water.

  Amah backs away as Agneau moves to her side. He picks up the bottle of bean paste and sniffs it.

  “Interesting.” He dips the tip of his small finger into the paste and dabs a little on his tongue. Smacks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, tasting it. “Very interesting.”

  He steps in front of the bowl of beef, his sleeve brushing Amah’s. His height, his bulk, is too much for her. She turns to the stove, pushes the saucepan across the flame. She wrenches her thoughts back to the would-be robbery.

  “I just hope they do not revisit us.”

  “But do not worry, Li Leen,” says Agneau, the only one of Heloise’s staff to have the effrontery – the excuse of Continental foreignness – to call Amah by her first name. He crosses to the scullery to fetch another cutting board. He pulls a cabbage head close, chopping it into fine, stiff slivers. “Bundle has secured the house. Do you not hear that banging right now?” He cups his ear theatrically. “That is a workman nailing a new bolt into the back door.”

  He stands next to her again. The saucepan of rice hums with the pressure of simmering water. His voice softens as he says, “And, of course, if you were to be afraid, you can always come to me.”

  “I’m never afraid,” she snaps, perhaps more sharply than she intends.