Monstrous Design

by Kat Dunn

  They’d been kept apart on the journey over, Guil bound and under guard, Ada free but always watched. The duc had more allies than they had ever suspected. Allies at the ports and in coaching inns, smoothing their journey at every stage. For the most part, Ada kept quiet, watching the duc and Clémentine to read any clue in their demeanour, but it was no use. She had lost their trust, for now.

  With the moon hanging low in the blue-black sky, the duc summoned her from her cabin, and ordered her down a ladder on the side of the ship to a waiting dinghy below. Ada and Clémentine sat side by side, backs to the coast as they slipped silently through the waves. Salt speckled Ada’s lips, spray splashing the edge of her cloak and drying in a crust along the hem. After a day at sea, her hair was already suffering, dry and frizzy as her curls lost definition. She’d plaited them in a rough French braid that matched the plainness of the only dress she had with her.

  She wondered if Camille had arrived in England in the same way: alone under the cover of night, cold and clinging to threadbare hope. It was strange to feel hope when everything had gone so wrong, but, sure enough, it was there; her plan was falling apart but at least she would get to see Camille again.

  Whether Camille would still want her was another matter.

  ‘You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone,’ hissed Ada. It was the first time she had been alone with Clémentine. ‘You lied.’

  It wasn’t much of a surprise to learn that Clémentine had betrayed her to the duc; they’d always known it was a risk. But her own failure stung and she wasn’t going to let Clémentine feel comfortable about it.

  Clémentine tucked her cloak tightly around her. ‘You asked me to make an impossible promise. How could I vow to tell no one when I didn’t know what secret I would be keeping?’ Another dinghy pulled alongside theirs and their bags were lowered into it. ‘Oh, my dear, don’t sulk. It was a valiant effort, but I was never going to bank on you, was I?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to help Olympe.’ It felt churlish to argue, but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘I do, and I believe my brother is better positioned to do so. Look around, Ada. The Revolution is failing, the tide is turning. Men like my brother will soon be in power again. The only way through life for women like us is to hitch our wagon to power and use it to get what we want. And I’m sorry, my dear, but you are not a force worth allying with.’

  ‘Do you know what they did to her? Sewed her into her own clothes, locked her in an iron mask like a muzzled dog. The duc and the Revolutionaries fought over her like an object. If he gets hold of her now, he’ll put the people he wants in power and use them like puppets. Who could cross him with such a deadly weapon by his side?’

  The moon hung behind Clémentine’s head, shrouding her face. When she spoke, there was danger in her voice, an anger that Ada wasn’t sure was directed at her, or at her brother for what he’d done to Olympe. ‘Perhaps he will try, but do you think she’ll be any safer out there in the wild? People will always come for her. I’ve known that since she was born, and I have done whatever I had to in order to protect her. One must be smart and make a place for oneself that is unassailable. At my brother’s side she may be a weapon but, I ask you, who would cross her? Ada, stop worrying about what is good and do what is necessary.’

  The boat bumped against the gravel beach and the sailor helped Ada and Clémentine ashore. The duc arrived with Guil soon after, and their bags were carried to a waiting coach. Ada stood back, thoughts overflowing. But the more Ada thought about what Clémentine had said, the more she couldn’t fault her logic. Ada and the battalion were a poor bet compared with the duc’s power and resources. And perhaps she was right; better for Olympe to navigate a known position than forever be on the run. Who was Ada to say she knew better?

  As they climbed into the carriage and set off along the coast road, Ada felt as alien to herself as the unfamiliar landscape around her.

  For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure what she was fighting for.

  6

  6 Bedford Square

  11 Thermidor

  29 July

  There was one more day before the Harfords departed for Henley House, and Camille and James’s wedding. James had never seen Bedford Square in such chaos: servants loaded trunks of linen and hampers of food onto a series of carts, which would set off earlier; Camille was consumed by a small army of seamstresses come to fit her trousseau; and even James found himself ushered into another room for his own breeches and coat to be tweaked, his hair clipped. In the centre, his mother conducted her orchestra of staff and family, pulling together a symphony from discordant noise.

  Al, excused from most preparations, was keeping an eye on Olympe and through a hastily concocted ruse would escort her to Henley separately, having told Lord and Lady Harford he’d had word of distant family in London and must take a day to hunt them down – but of course he wouldn’t dream of missing the wedding itself.

  James moved through it all like a man in shock. He was in shock, he supposed. Their renewed engagement seemed from another life – it was from another lifetime, for Edward. James had been so distracted by Wickham, he had forgotten this awful bloody mess; now he could see no way out.

  His mother was so happy. A simple, uncomplicated happiness he hadn’t been able to give her for years. And it was all a lie. Directing the arrangements, Lady Harford had been more animated than James had seen her in a long while, decisive and beaming with pleasure, as though the sheer joy of the wedding had seeped into her bones, rolling back the slow march of her illness.

  Now, at the end of the day, with Camille returned from the seamstress’s grasp and James relinquished from the tailors, his mother was finally flagging, words slurring and movements slow and jerky.

  ‘I’ll get Maman to bed,’ said Hennie, steering the Bath chair out of the drawing room after dinner.

  James caught Camille’s eye.

  ‘Escort me upstairs?’ she asked. ‘I’m feeling a little light-headed and I wouldn’t want to faint again…’

  ‘Of course.’ He took her arm and they went up to her room, where she paused.

  ‘Well, come in, then. We need to talk about this bloody wedding.’

  James entered, with Camille on his heels, closing the door behind them.

  The room was already occupied.

  Standing by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, was Lord Harford. ‘It seems you both enjoyed yourselves this evening.’

  ‘Can I help you?’ Camille was perfectly still beside him, tension rolling off her.

  ‘I rather hope you can.’ Lord Harford was too calm. James knew this look. The disarmingly pleasant smile, undercut by the ice in his eyes. ‘You see, in preparation for several days out of town with my family, I had a great deal of work to attend to and planned to spend today in my study. Imagine my shock when I found important papers missing. I enquired about the footman who delivers my dispatch boxes to my study, suspecting at first an error at that stage in the journey. But I remembered something. My soon-to-be daughter-in-law, outside my study, rifling through them, having conveniently disposed of the footman delivering them.’

  James’s eyes flicked to Camille. He was almost impressed. Stealing his father’s dispatch box was more brazen than he’d thought was her style. But Camille was not so easily cowed. She clasped her hands in front of her and cocked her head in a show of concern.

  ‘Yes, I do remember the incident you mention. I can only apologise for being so clumsy. I left the papers at your request and instead looked at wedding menus with Lady Harford. Do you not recall? Perhaps if papers are missing, they have fallen between things? Or something was damaged by my spill and a servant laid it somewhere to dry? I know I often mislay things when I am busy.’

  Lord Harford watched her hawkishly. ‘I have had my rooms thoroughly searched, and no servant reports doing any such thing.’

  ‘Ah. How unfortunate. I hope it wasn’t anything important.’

&n
bsp; Then, there – his father’s expression began to shift. In the downward tilt of his chin, the dark line of his brow, James read danger. But he was not a boy now. He didn’t have to be meek and deferential.

  ‘Now look here,’ he said, ‘I don’t like what you’re suggesting.’

  ‘This requires no input from you, boy,’ snapped his father. ‘I don’t blame you for not seeing what is in front of your eyes; you would be fooled by a man dressed in a sack calling himself king.’

  James’s cheeks burned.

  ‘I didn’t take anything,’ said Camille.

  ‘I think you did.’ Lord Harford advanced on her, like thunder rolling in across a plain. ‘You are a dutiful girl, but I suspect your loyalty lies with your country, not mine.’

  Camille held her chin up. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Oh, I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.’ His eyes glittered. ‘I put it to you that you were recruited as a spy before your parents’ untimely deaths, and you have been looking to prove your loyalty since they were called traitors. I further put it to you that when my foolish son appeared in Paris, you saw your opportunity. Your mark. In following him home you knew you would be coming to the house of a war minister and it was the perfect opportunity to steal state secrets and feed them back to the baying dogs of the Jacobin Club.’

  Camille laughed, cold and harsh. ‘If you are seeing spies everywhere, I suggest it is because you are the one putting them there,’ she said. ‘You live in a world of subterfuge, and you assume the rest of us behave the same. I am not a spy, whatever you choose to believe. The Revolution murdered my parents. How could I ever be loyal to it?’

  Lord Harford pulled a sheet of paper from inside his coat. ‘Then why did I find this in your room?’ Brandishing the paper, he crossed the room in two strides. ‘A top secret report on the state of the Revolution that contains the identities and whereabouts of English agents in Paris. What possible other reason could you have for stealing and hiding this?’

  Camille blanched. For a moment, James thought the gig was up.

  Then she shifted, anxious tension changing into something darker and more raw. ‘Fine, I’ll admit it. You are correct, I was trying to steal your papers. And I’ll tell you why.’ James reached for her arm in warning, but she shook him off. ‘I know about your affair with my mother. Molyneux told me. Do you know what else he told me? That when my father found out about the two of you he felt so humiliated he decided my mother had to pay for it. With her life. Did you know that? He made up some lies that she’d betrayed the Revolution and had her executed.’

  In the flickering candlelight, James watched his father recoil. Shock, anger, sadness passing across his face in quick succession. Though James already knew about the affair, it hit him again how awful the truth was. His father had always been his beacon, the figure carving the way ahead, showing him what a man was, how life should be lived. He had worked and failed, struggled and fought to live up to his legacy. To be someone his father could acknowledge as an equal. Now, he could see it plainly: his father wasn’t a man to live up to. Because his father wasn’t above him. They were both human – fallible, messy, confused, lying to themselves that they were good people and they did things for the right reasons.

  Nothing James did would ever be enough, because he was chasing the shadow of a man who didn’t exist.

  With Camille’s revelation, the fight went out of Lord Harford. He reached blindly for a chair, sinking into it heavily.

  ‘I did not know that. I would not have thought Philippe capable of such … vindictiveness. I swear to you, I did not know, or I would have made some attempt to intervene.’

  ‘I suppose that makes you blameless?’ Camille was still ablaze.

  ‘No. No, nothing could make me blameless in what we did.’

  ‘If you want a reason for my actions, then you have it. I was looking for any sign that you loved her. That what you both did meant something. That my mother didn’t die because of petty men and their whims and jealousies.’ Camille surged forwards, eyes shining with tears. James caught her, wrapping his arms around her as she shouted. ‘Tell me. Did you love her? Did she love you?’

  ‘I … of course I did. I’d known her so long.’ Lord Harford looked small, like a child being scolded.

  ‘But did you love her? Was your affair worth it?’

  ‘Was it worth her life? No.’

  ‘And will my life be worth it if you throw me to the wolves, chalk me up as a traitor because I dared to think the people I called family would take me in when I had nowhere left to go?’ Camille’s voice was hoarse, the hitch in her breath warning of an oncoming coughing fit.

  But Lord Harford wasn’t so easily distracted. ‘That still does not explain why I found these political reports in your room. What do these have to do with your mother? Why would you take and hide them?’

  Back-footed, Camille floundered.

  And James knew it was time. Time for him to make his choice. To decide who he was, and what he wanted to leave behind him.

  ‘I took them.’

  Lord Harford’s head jerked up.

  ‘You … you did what?’

  ‘I took them. Read them. Hid them.’

  He’d thought it would hurt to see the ease with which his father believed him – but it didn’t. He’d been here too many times.

  ‘Why on earth would you do that? You have grown up in this household, you know never to touch my documents—’

  ‘I wanted to find out what was going on in Paris. I wanted to be able to tell Camille something comforting – she has friends still trapped there.’

  Camille looked at James in cautious wonder. ‘You … would do that for me?’

  James knew what she was really asking. What sacrifice he was making.

  He met her gaze and smiled, the first real thing he’d done so far. ‘Yes. I would. I have a lot to apologise for.’

  ‘Lord help me.’ Lord Harford got to his feet, tucking the paper back into his coat. ‘I would say I’m disappointed in you, James, but at this point it’s barely worth saying.’

  ‘And yet, you always say it.’ James hadn’t realised he was going to speak until the words were out of his mouth. ‘You have no idea the lengths I’ve gone to, to try and make you proud of me. But I never will, will I? I’m never going to be good enough for you. Did you ever think that maybe you disappoint me?’

  His father spluttered, an ember of rage about to catch – then he caught it, snuffed it out. ‘There will be consequences for this. Give me time to decide what.’

  He strode out and Camille sat on the bed, breathing hard.

  ‘Bloody hell. That was tense.’

  James shut the door, trying to hide the tremor in his hands. ‘Do you think he bought it?’

  ‘Just about.’

  Now it was over, he felt strangely light. Untethered. The future had gone from something solid and assured to a wide open plain, where the only certainty was that there was none.

  James stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned back to her. ‘Jesus, Camille. Why did you need his papers?’

  She watched him coldly. ‘When you betrayed me, it was abundantly clear I would need every card I could get my hands on to stand a chance against the duc. I didn’t come to the home of the war minister to spy, but I’m not stupid enough to let a chance like that escape.’

  ‘And did you find your card?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  For a beat, she thought he would reply, but instead he made to leave. Camille rose and stopped him with a hand on his. ‘What you just did … that was—’ She broke off, scowling. ‘God, don’t make me say it.’

  He grinned. ‘Oh, no, I want to hear it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, between gritted teeth.

  ‘Anything for my fiancée.’

  Her expression changed at once and it felt like a blow. He knew what she would be thinking about. Or who. The shadow of Ada hung between them.


  But he meant it. He’d do anything for her. He’d realised it as he’d given her the news of her illness. He’d been hurt by her choosing someone else, and maybe even enjoyed hurting her back, but it seemed so petty now, such small squabbling when the truth was simple: he loved her. He had always loved her. Ada didn’t change that. Maybe Camille didn’t love him in the same way any more, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t stand by her. Do whatever he could to keep her safe.

  James drew away. ‘Get some sleep. It’s going to be a long few days.’

  Back in his own room he splashed cold water on his face and took a long look at himself in the mirror above his washstand.

  For the first time in a long while, he could meet his own eye.

  Then he thought of Ada. The way Camille looked at her, the way her hand lingered on her waist.

  How miserable Camille seemed without her.

  The future might be unknown, but some things seemed certain. He had found himself, and lost Camille.

  7

  A Coaching Inn Not Too Far from Henley-upon-Thames

  12 Thermidor

  30 July

  England smelled strange. It smelled like cowpats and rain-damp grass and sour ale. Maybe it was just that Ada was used to the scent of Paris, the rot and sweat and sewage, but she couldn’t adjust. The scenery didn’t look too different, and the people were the same, more or less, yet as they hurtled along the post roads leading from market town after market town, Ada felt utterly at sea.

  They had driven up from the coast as dawn broke, through the day until the light failed, only stopping to change horses, use a chamber pot and buy food for the next leg of the journey. The duc seemed unwilling to take any risk that Ada’s information would grow cold.

  The roads were a little better than the French ones, but the ride was still so bumpy Ada could feel her brain rattling around inside her skull. Tucked in her shawl, she stewed, thinking of all the ways things had yet to go wrong. They could arrive at the address Camille had given her to find them long gone. Or perhaps Camille hadn’t found Olympe, perhaps James had hidden her away – what would the duc do then?