by Kat Dunn
‘Molly – have you seen my sister?’
The maid startled so badly she dropped the sugar tongs. ‘Oh, Mr Harford! I didn’t know you were home.’
‘Ah – no, I slipped in on the sly, I’m afraid. Just needed a word with the old man.’
‘Shall I have your bedroom made up for you?’
‘I won’t be staying – but I should check in on the rest of the family or I’ll never hear the end of it.’
‘Miss Harford and Miss Davenport have set up their watercolours on the front lawn with that young gentleman friend of yours who stopped by. I believe Lady Harford has joined them.’
‘My mother is up?’
‘Yes, sir. Doing quite well today, I think.’
‘Thank you, Molly.’
He was out of the room and through the front doors of Henley House before Molly could reply. It was a glorious day, the sky a cornflower blue and the lush green of the trees and grass shimmering in the gentle breeze. A wide, rolling lawn spread all the way down to the distant estate wall. The gardens behind the house were a carefully designed maze of formal beds, fountains and walkways, but at the front, the landscaper had left the natural beauty of the Chilterns on display. A gravel driveway led from the gatehouse to the carriage circle, paths snaking off to woodland in one direction and a lake in the other. A copse of trees shielded the house from public view, and above them, soft, rolling hills reached north towards Fawley and Stonor. It was his sister’s favourite view.
To the left of the driveway several folding chairs had been set up under the roof of an ornamental pavilion, with a cluster of hothouse fruit on a silver tray, blankets and cushions spread out, and two large easels facing the lake.
His mother sat in her Bath chair, wheels braced by rocks and a travelling rug mounded over her. Her ashy-blonde hair was pinned up, nearly as pale as her skin, papery thin from illness. James’s sister Hennie and another girl were surrounded by an explosion of paints, chalks, brushes, oils, palettes, knives and pencils. Hennie kneeled before her canvas, linen dress speckled with droplets, brushing great clouds of green. Her friend – a Miss Philomena Davenport, who had been a regular fixture at the house since they had met at school – had got as far as painting the sky before retreating to a chair and fanning herself.
And with them, lounging on the blanket in plain olive-green breeches and coat, inky-black hair ruffled by the breeze, was Edward.
Edward noticed James before the others, though he said nothing, only watching him with a carefully studied nonchalance. It wasn’t unusual for Edward to join the Harfords in a social capacity, but James couldn’t help wondering if Wickham had left him here to keep an eye on him. Perhaps he was being paranoid.
He thought of his tutor’s calculating gaze assessing him.
Perhaps not.
If lying to Wickham had been hard, lying to Edward would be excruciating. For months, the two of them had been side by side at the dissecting table, staying up all night studying, sharing a single oil lamp and one pot of coffee, writing up Wickham’s notes, preserving his specimens, dissolving bodies in vats of acid to extract bones, and a hundred other fascinating, hideous things done in the name of science.
Edward had always been the one to wrinkle his nose at the smell of rot and turpentine, to give James a side-eye when Wickham was at his most extreme. Though he was loath to admit it, James had always been the blind follower, happy to do as he was told. Edward might question Wickham’s fanaticism, or try to pull James away from another night hunched over a corpse, but he stayed all the same; he had nowhere else to go. James did. And now he had chosen to trade their friendship for the chance of his father’s approval.
Philomena squinted at her canvas. ‘Really, Hennie, I don’t know why you keep insisting I do this painting lark with you. You know I’ve got the artistic talent of a toad. I’m not even that fond of looking at art – unless it’s a nice picture of a horse. Your father has a great portrait of Eclipse, fabulous racer. Such a shame he never was any good at stud.’
‘Phil, I beg you, stop being such an utter Philistine, or I shall have to believe you’re only lying about being christened Philomena when the truth is your parents sniffed out your boorish ways at birth and named you for it.’
Phil threw a grape at Hennie. It bounced off her forehead and plopped into the jar of murky water used for washing their paintbrushes. Hennie turned on her friend with a look of petulant outrage and reached for the nearest projectile.
‘Henrietta Harford, put down that pencil at once.’ Their mother emerged from the depths of her chair, fixing her alert gaze on her only daughter. ‘You have been brought up as a lady, and ladies do not resort to violence.’
James ducked under the shade of the pavilion. ‘To be fair, Phil resorted to violence first.’
All four turned to James at once, his mother’s pale face, his sister’s ruddy cheeks and blonde waves a mirror of his own, Phil’s square face framed by dark hair curled into ringlets at her temple. Edward was the palest of the lot, all smudge-dark eyes under a strong brow and cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood.
‘James!’ Hennie flung herself from her easel and into his arms. ‘There you are! You neglect us, it’s a terrible thing.’
He gave her a squeeze then unpeeled himself from her.
‘I do not neglect you.’
‘Father neglects us too. I believe you are attempting to copy him.’
‘I’m doing no such thing.’
‘You’ve been gone a month and no one knew where you were,’ Phil piped up.
‘I am extremely busy with my studies, and I’m afraid that can’t be helped.’ He had vanished on them when he’d gone to Paris, but they didn’t need to know the truth about that.
Edward caught his eye and arched a brow. For a tense moment, he thought Edward might give him away, but then he spoke. ‘Our tutors are all taskmasters. Hardly get a chance to come up for air all term.’
James flashed him a grateful look but it wasn’t returned. At least with Camille, the betrayal had been over in a moment. This was torture.
Hennie threw herself into a chair with a flounce. ‘Oh, yes, such a terribly important man with vital man business. Don’t let your blood relatives who love you get in the way of being busy.’
‘Hennie—’
‘James.’ His mother reached out a hand. ‘Come. Sit with us a while. Your sister is not entirely without justification. It has been a long time since we’ve seen you.’
He hesitated. The sun was almost directly overhead; if he meant to get back to London before nightfall he would have to leave soon and ride hard. He’d already been away one night, breaking his journey at a coaching inn in Windsor before riding on that morning. He didn’t like to stay away longer.
Wickham would be expecting him.
And Olympe.
He had secured her as best he could and left food and water, but it was a constant worry at the back of his mind that meant he couldn’t fully concentrate on anything. He had brought her this far, he couldn’t lose her now.
But his mother’s hand reached for him. Delicate, with slim fingers beginning to curl in on themselves like a claw as her illness progressed.
He took it, pulled a chair up beside her and sat.
‘Was that so hard?’ Hennie grumbled to herself, turning back to her painting. The grape had splashed dirty water across the trees, and now the green of their leaves was dripping down their trunks. ‘Edward comes to visit us willingly but we practically have to tie you down to see you.’
She turned a little pink as she spoke and James had the horrible thought that Hennie might be developing a crush. Edward only smirked and helped himself to a grape.
‘She says mean things, but really they’re just worried about you.’ Phil had picked up her paintbrush again too and was idly daubing clouds onto the sky. ‘You are looking quite peaky.’
‘I’m fine.’ James squeezed his mother’s hand gently. ‘I promise.’
His mother smi
led faintly, the slightest upward tug of her lips. To James, that was the worst thing about her illness. The shaking palsy froze not only her limbs but also her expressions, turning her brilliant, shining face, with its crow’s feet and lip that quirked when hiding a laugh, into a placid mask. As though his mother had been spirited away and one of Hennie’s porcelain dolls had been left in her place.
‘I’ll stay tonight,’ he conceded. ‘But I’ll have to go early tomorrow.’
Olympe would be safe for that long.
‘Won’t make much of a change,’ said Hennie. ‘I never see you at breakfast anyway — good lord!’
Hennie and Phil had both frozen mid-brushstroke and were staring at a post-chaise driving towards them at some lick.
Edward sat up, shading his eyes. ‘Are you expecting visitors?’
James watched the carriage approach in confusion. It couldn’t be Wickham – he’d left already and would have been travelling on horseback.
‘Clearly not!’ said Hennie. Abandoning her painting, she left the pavilion to get a better look.
Now the carriage was almost upon them, James could see it was splattered with mud and dust as though it had taken a long journey to get there – but there was no luggage strapped to the top. He squinted at the windows. It was impossible to make out who was inside. The carriage looped round the circle and drew level with them, then the driver hopped down to let out a dishevelled blond man in a travelling coat, who in turn gave his hand to help the woman behind him.
James went cold.
The woman emerged and pushed back her hood. He knew that face.
Oh, how he knew that face.
Camille Laroche had arrived in England.
5
The Grounds of Henley House
Camille shook as Al helped her out of the carriage. It had been weeks since she’d last laid eyes on James; too many long weeks crawling her way from Paris, first to the Harfords’ London house, and when they found that shut up and empty, on to Henley. Weeks of hiding, avoiding the authorities or anyone who might give away their whereabouts, running whatever dirty jobs she could for money, sleeping in fields and eating scraps, driven by the memory of James turning her own gun on her before kidnapping her friend.
She would make him pay.
Henley House – once her other home – was laid out before her like a painting, and perfectly arranged in the foreground were the characters of her childhood: Lady Harford, Henrietta, James – though the picture had changed; Hennie was older, a few inches taller; an unfamiliar girl sat nearby and with them, a dark-haired man with intense eyes.
But it was Lady Harford who stopped Camille’s breath in her throat. The last time Camille had seen her, she was walking with a stick and struggled to use a pen – but otherwise unchanged from the cheery socialite she’d always been. Now…
If only Ada was here. She was always better at this part.
Camille took a hold of herself and looked away. There wasn’t time to have feelings about this. She had a plan to execute.
The curtain had risen, it was time to take the stage.
She took a hesitant step, blinking in the sun as she allowed the party to take her in. Then she rolled her eyes back and slumped sideways into Al’s arms. He was ready, catching her and exclaiming in shock, ‘Mon dieu! ’Elp! ’Elp! The pauvre child is overcome!’
‘Camille!’ Hennie came racing over first, her hot hands unfastening the cloak around Camille’s throat. ‘Oh, Maman, pass your smelling salts.’
Camille kept her eyes shut until the ammonia reek of the salts reached her, then fluttered them open to see Al, Hennie and the other girl leaning over her, and James wheeling Lady Harford towards them.
‘Gosh!’ Hennie peered directly into her face. ‘It’s really you! You didn’t get your head chopped off!’
‘Henrietta!’ chided Lady Harford.
‘What? That’s what we all thought had happened. The newspapers are full of people getting their heads lopped off by that frightful Robespierre. I think it’s awfully smart of you to have made it all the way to England.’
Lady Harford smacked her fan against Hennie’s shoulder.
‘Oh, my darling Camille. Can it really be you?’
Lady Harford’s eyes were glistening with tears.
‘Help her up, get her into the shade.’
From her Bath chair, she ordered their relocation to the pavilion, Al and the dark-eyed man carrying Camille between them to be daintily rested on a wicker couch and propped up with enough pillows to wedge her in place. Al stayed by her side, playing his role of dutiful guardian and babbling in an affected mixture of French and English. The two strangers were introduced as Phil, a friend of Hennie’s, and Edward, a friend of James’s, and the party settled down, passing her water, grapes and smelling salts in turn.
Only James kept his distance. Camille assessed the tightness of his jaw, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side. When she caught his eye, a look of fear flashed across his face. Excellent.
‘Forgive me for bursting in upon you in this manner,’ she said, after taking a sip. ‘I realise our appearance must be quite alarming.’
‘You must think nothing of the sort. You are here, and that’s what matters.’ Lady Harford squeezed her hand. ‘When I heard what had happened to your dear parents, I was devastated. I would have done anything to get you out of there – I would have sailed to France myself, if it weren’t for my health. What can you have been through, my poor, poor girl?’ With difficulty, she reached to touch Camille’s face with one hand. Tears were flowing down her cheeks and Camille found herself blinking away tears of her own.
It was stupid, but in all the gruelling days and sleepless nights it had taken them to work their way to the French coast, onto a ship that was willing to take them to England, she hadn’t once thought about what it would be like to see Lady Harford again. Oh, she had thought long and hard about seeing James, letting her anger and hurt fester into something unpleasant. But his mother? The woman who had been a fixture of her family until the Revolution cut them off. The woman who was one of the few people still living who remembered her parents. Who meant that her past hadn’t died with them.
No, she hadn’t factored this into her plan at all.
Lady Harford passed her an embroidered lace handkerchief and they both dabbed at their tears. ‘You and your friend are most welcome.’
‘Ah! I must introduce my companion.’ Camille turned to Al. ‘This is Aloysius de Landrieu, he is also wanted by the Revolutionaries. We made it out by the skin of our teeth, and I wouldn’t have got here without him.’
‘Then he is our friend too. Do you have people here?’ Lady Harford asked Al.
He gave a pained look. ‘I fear I am the only member of my family who escaped that … that monstrous hell.’
He looked away, as though emotion had overwhelmed him. Camille winced; Al had taken one too many acting lessons from Léon. It had taken him a week to pick an outfit for the occasion, before realising the outfit he had fled in, with its fine silk fraying and travel-worn wrinkles, was the perfect disguise.
‘Then you must stay with us.’
‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
‘Er, terribly sorry.’ Hennie’s friend cut in, cheeks pink with embarrassment. ‘My French isn’t up to much, could someone tell me what exactly is going on?’
‘Oh, Phil, you are boring.’ Hennie sighed, switching to English. ‘This is Camille du Bugue, a very old family friend from Paris who we thought really ought to be dead. But it turns out she’s not! Which is quite splendid. Also, she’s James’s fiancée.’
‘Leave the juiciest bit to last, why don’t you!’ Phil looked at Camille with renewed interest, sizing her up.
Camille looked at James again, but his attention was elsewhere. He was casting a nervous eye over his friend Edward, who had set himself as helper, bringing Lady Harford drinks, plumping cushions and adjusting parasols for shade. He seemed at ease with the Harfords,
so presumably he was a close friend of James’s. Camille didn’t know him – so he was close, but also recent. Handsome, in an intense, brooding way, long, slim fingers and narrow frame. Curious. She had thought James was nervous because of her arrival – but perhaps she wasn’t the only problem he was facing.
Several maids came carrying a teapot, cups, a cold jugged hare, and half a loaf of bread to add to the fruit already in the pavilion.
‘I know we French make – ’ow you say – fun of your English food, but now I salute it!’ said Al. ‘Roast beef is the dish of liberté.’
Camille kicked Al’s ankles under the cover of her voluminous skirts – at some point even the thickest person would twig they were being laughed at – but he smiled sadly at her. ‘Lady ’Arford here has set the example, n’est pas, ma chère Camille? We must adopt England as our new ’ome. If such a beautiful Frenchwoman can become an English lady, then so must we.’
Lady Harford squeezed her hand again. ‘You will find it not that strange, after a while.’
Hennie leaned over to pour Camille a cup of tea. ‘Does that mean you’re staying for good?’
Camille closed her eyes, letting the image of the traumatised émigrée rest in their minds for a moment. ‘I have matters to attend to – I will stay until I see them done.’
Edward cornered James as the women went to find Camille fresh clothes and Al disappeared in another direction with Lord Harford’s valet. They shut themselves in the morning room.
‘You’re back,’ said Edward.
‘I am.’
‘Don’t look glum. You made it out of revolutionary France, you can dine out on the story for years.’
‘You know I can’t tell anyone about it.’
Edward leaned back on the settle. Everything about him projected an air of casualness, but there was a shadowy cast to his face, the shape of his eye sockets and cheekbones too prominent.
The week before James had left for France, he and Edward had dissected a human head. They had peeled back tissue, thin layers of skin, to expose the glistening muscles and arteries, each sliced out with precision, eyelids and tongue and lips, and cartilage of the nose, and soft jelly of the eyes, until the hollows and curves of the skull showed through. When James had thrown up, Edward had hidden the evidence from Wickham.