by Kat Dunn
Having drained his glass, James risked another glance at Camille.
She was staring straight at him.
He flushed, then she smiled and he smiled back. Her eyes were too glossy and her collarbones too gaunt, but he couldn’t help feeling some measure of contentment. He was home, with the girl he loved. If he squinted, it almost looked something like the life he’d hoped for. How odd that they had still ended up here, where they had been aiming for long before the world fell apart, before the Revolution had rotted and Camille’s parents had been executed. Before Ada.
Perhaps he had drunk too much, but his mood turned like a coin flipping and he felt sour and disappointed. He knew it was fantasy he was indulging in.
Supper carried on, and an array of trifles, sweetmeats, and strawberry soufflé rounded out the meal. The women retired to the drawing room and the men stayed to drink port and smoke. James excused himself from both. In truth, he couldn’t stand being around people any longer.
Out on the terrace, he watched the stars spin across the sky, a bank of clouds rolling in from the west. He filled a pipe but didn’t light it.
It was almost over now. One way or another.
‘James. I was looking for you.’
He turned to find his father had followed him out.
They had hardly spoken since their confrontation in Camille’s room, and all his conviction of that evening had fled.
He put the pipe away. ‘You found me.’
His father shifted his weight. ‘There’s – ah – something I wanted to say.’
‘Yes?’
It took his father another moment to find the words and James realised with a flash of surprise that his father was uncomfortable. It was a first.
‘I know things haven’t been easy between us.’ Lord Harford left a pause that James politely declined to fill. Whatever this was, he wasn’t going to make it easy for his father. ‘I have been hard on you because you are my son, and I know much will fall on your shoulders when I am gone. I want to know you’re able to carry it.’
James almost laughed. If only his father knew just how much he carried already.
Lord Harford cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps we don’t understand each other too well; we wouldn’t be the first father and son to have that problem. But this is your wedding, my boy, and I am willing to take a step towards conciliation if you are.’
‘I am.’
‘Excellent. I have decided I will escort Camille to the altar; it’s the least I owe her parents. We can start your new life off on the right foot.’
His father seemed to think he’d done enough; with an incline of his head he left, and James stood alone.
10
The Vestry Outside the Chapel
13 Thermidor
31 July
The Henley House chapel was a medieval relic nestled inside the sprawling house. A small space for the family’s private use, it had remained while the rest of the building had risen and fallen with its owners’ fortunes, finally forming the nexus around which the contemporary house had been built, accessed through an unassuming door off the entrance hall. Only one door opened to the outside, long fallen into disuse.
Camille remembered how terrified she’d been of this place as a child, convinced its Gothic arches and vaulted ceiling were haunted by legions of Harford dead. How she and James would sneak in, in the dead of night, and dare each other to lie on the stone caskets and pretend to be a corpse.
Lady Harford delivered Camille to the vestibule at the front of the chapel, Hennie pushing her Bath chair. Camille was wearing the gown Hennie had suggested, her hair piled on top of her head and woven with purple flowers and silver ribbon. The dress was pale lavender, embroidered in silver thread along the hem and waistband, a shimmering forest of leaves and curling vines and blooming flowers. Camille hated to admit it, but she almost liked how she looked. She wished Ada was here to see her – then remembered why she was dressed up and the very thought of Ada made her feel dizzy with shame.
The double doors to the chapel stood open, and inside the pews were decked with flowers, guests already taking their seats. Lady Harford raised a hand to signal Hennie to stop the chair. With a jerky, fumbling movement, she reached for Camille’s hand. Camille helped her take it, coming closer to save her the effort. She didn’t know if it would ever stop hurting to see Lady Harford like this. She had been powerless to save her own mother, but for a moment she wondered how much worse it might be for James, to be forced to watch his mother’s slow undoing, the helplessness stretched out over weeks and months and years.
Lady Harford was looking at her with tears limning her eyes. ‘My dear. How glad I am to see this day, and how sorry I am we didn’t do more to make it come sooner.’
Camille only smiled, silenced by guilt. She was repaying Lady Harford’s love with deception. She didn’t deserve her kindness.
More guests were arriving and Hennie wheeled Lady Harford into the chapel with them. Only Al hung back. He was dressed smartly in black and cream, an emerald pin in his neckerchief the only show of ostentation. But his face was washed out, his usual insouciance gone.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ he asked. ‘There’s still time to run.’
A punch of nerves hit her. It was as if her insides had been turned to churning liquid. ‘Stop making it worse,’ she snapped. ‘You know how much I hate this, but we can’t let anything endanger the plan now.’
‘It’s okay to admit you’ve backed yourself into a corner—’
‘Just shut up. Please.’
Whatever note of honest pain had been in that word seemed to work. Al said nothing. And then he did something even more shocking: he hugged her, squeezing tightly. ‘You’re brave, Camille,’ he whispered against her hair. ‘You got us all this far. You won’t stop being brave now, I know it.’
Her face pricked hot with tears and she turned away, blinking furiously.
With a final squeeze of her arm, Al went into the chapel and closed the doors behind him.
She was on her own, a bouquet of meadow flowers clutched in her hands, until her cue came to walk down the aisle.
She thought she might be sick.
The door from the entrance hall opened and Camille brushed away her tears. Lord Harford came in, hesitant. He was too tall for the cramped medieval space, ducking to fit under the frame.
She bobbed a curtsey, lowering her eyes.
‘Ah. Camille. I’m glad to find you here. I came to apologise.’
At that, her head snapped up and she looked at him in disbelief. Lord Harford coloured. Clearly this was as awkward for him as it was for her.
‘I’ve – er – made a few unfair assumptions about you. My job, I’m afraid, has a tendency to make one rather paranoid.’
She blinked. Gathered her wits. ‘Perfectly understandable, my lord. These are unusual times.’
‘Quite. But I can see that you make my son happy, and there are worse matches he could make, so I suppose what I’m here to say is that I would like to give you away. It’s the least I can do in memory of your father’s friendship. And your mother’s…’ He broke off. ‘Well, will you have me?’
‘I…’
She knew she should accept, but she was having trouble getting the words out. She had never spoken much with her father about her planned match with James. Now she knew the truth about her mother’s affair, she wondered if he would have allowed it.
Then again, after what her father had done in retaliation, she wasn’t sure she cared too much what he would have wanted.
‘Yes, of course.’
Lord Harford smiled, an unexpectedly genuine thing, and offered her his arm.
As she went to take it, there was a knock at the door.
Not the door to the chapel itself, or the door to the entrance hall.
A knock on the outside door.
A cold flash of warning passed through her. Lord Harford frowned and went to lift the latch.
‘How
odd. A late guest of my wife’s, perhaps?’
Camille backed away, hand reaching for the pistol strapped to her thigh beneath her dress as the door opened.
Flanked by Edward, Wickham stood on the threshold.
‘Wickham!’ exclaimed Lord Harford. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’
The other man smiled, his mouth a grim, determined line.
‘I’m protecting what’s mine.’
He made a signal, and Edward stepped inside. In the milky early morning light, he looked at once more monstrous and more human. His flesh had discoloured further, new stitches along his forehead. And yet the handsome lines of his face were undiminished, the gloss of his black curls, the angle of his cheekbone. The smell of death hung in the air, but his eyes were more alert than before, his movements more supple and dexterous.
Lord Harford stared in breathless horror. ‘Wickham – my god, man – what have you done to the boy?’
Camille yanked him back by the elbow, placing herself between him and Edward, pistol raised.
‘Back. Off. Olympe might not have been willing to hurt you, but I am.’
The muzzle of her gun landed on Wickham, who snarled. ‘Don’t think I won’t kill you if you stand in my way, girl.’
Edward didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on Camille and she had the sickening sense she was being studied.
Lord Harford took one look at Camille wielding a weapon and lost his composure. ‘Good god,’ he yelled. ‘Where did you get that pistol? You are a spy after all!’
‘Will you shut up?’ snapped Camille, struggling to keep her focus.
‘You’re working for France! I knew it!’
Her pistol wavered, and Wickham made his move.
He and Edward lunged forward together. Camille leaped back, in too close quarters to fire the gun. Edward overshot and barrelled into Lord Harford, who was slammed against a wall, head making contact against stone with a sickening crack. In the near-collision, Camille dropped her pistol.
But she had no time to retrieve it. Wickham got there first.
She glanced between Wickham and Edward, calculating her chances.
Then she turned on her heel and ran.
The guests were restless.
They had been seated on the uncomfortable pews, with everyone frozen in position for too long. Hennie was pulling petals off her bridesmaid’s bouquet, and Lady Harford looked to have nodded off in her Bath chair. Behind James, the vicar shuffled nervously, flipping the pages of the Bible back and forth.
James sneaked a glance at his pocket watch. What on earth was going on?
When his father had told him his plan to walk Camille down the aisle, James had blanched – god knew how Camille would react to that – but let him go about his business.
A fight, he’d expected. Camille storming off. Their cover being blown.
Any of it would make more sense than this.
Beside him, Al leaned in. ‘Looks rather like you’ve been stood up, old chap,’ he said, smiling blandly at the assembled guests.
James clasped his hands behind his back and nodded at his Great Aunt Tabitha, who gave him an encouraging look from a middle row. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He knew this wedding plan had always been a pretence, but to be left at the altar still stung something fierce. Camille had been the one who insisted they go ahead, who said it wasn’t worth the risk that his father would act on his suspicion that she was a spy. The least she could have done was warn James she was going to bolt.
‘Honestly, though, don’t you think we should perhaps check on her?’ said Al. ‘Camille isn’t known for being sensible and staying out of trouble…’
He wasn’t wrong. James checked his pocket watch again. Maybe in another five minutes he could send Hennie out to see what was going on.
James had spent enough Sundays of his life in this very room to know every sound it made, and the sounds of everyone who spent their Sundays in there with him. Almost every Sunday, bar sickness or travel, he had been here, wedged into a pew, cold, bored and paying attention to anything other than the sermon.
So when the handle of the chapel door rattled, he knew it was not his father on the other side.
Unthinking, he took a step forward, blindly reaching for Al in warning.
Then the double doors burst open.
And Ada and the duc stormed in.
PART SIX
Begin with Trust
1
Henley House
Camille ran so fast she had no idea where she was going. Pelting out of the chapel and into the entrance hall, she took the first door that was open and ran and ran and ran, the sound of footsteps behind her. At any moment she expected Edward’s cold hand to close around her arm, for their fight in the pleasure gardens to repeat with a deadlier end.
Corridors and rooms rushed past, her silk slippers sliding on the polished floors. In a lesser hall, she skidded into a locked door and crumpled, landing hard on her backside. Her chest was spasming, like a fist squeezing her too tight, and for a moment the world was nothing but the struggle to breathe. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. She hacked up something bloody and raw onto the pale skirts of her dress, a fine red spray peppering her stockings.
And still, no hand reached for her throat. The footsteps had died away.
Camille looked up and found herself alone.
She was on the floor at the bottom of a set of stairs far less grand than the main entrance hall. The bones of the old Jacobean house could be seen here, in the dark wood panelling, the squat doors and heavy furniture crammed together. It was a part of the house Camille knew less well. The dull, dingy rooms full of dust and ugly old art had bored her as a child, preferring far more to explore the attics and basements and ice houses and stables with James – but it wasn’t far from the ballroom.
Her heart rate slowed, the initial panic that had sent her fleeing seeped away and she was left with a stark choice: go back to the chapel to warn James and Al, or find Olympe and protect her.
It was a snap decision, and one she could not regret making.
Knotting her skirts around her waist, Camille padded up the stairs towards the closed-off wing, and Olympe. Honed with new purpose, she stole through the corridors as silent as a breath of wind. The guests were in the chapel, the servants in the kitchens or setting the dining room for the wedding breakfast, leaving her a brief window to act unseen. And oddly, she felt almost calm. They had been waiting in the wings for too long, riddled with nerves. Finally, the storm had broken. Maybe there was something wrong with her, but she had missed this. The thrill of the hunt, her life on the line. Everything immediate, vital, urgent.
Alive.
She didn’t know how much longer she would be. Better to die in action than live in obscurity.
In the abandoned ballroom, she found Olympe sitting cross-legged by a window, five individual flares of blue current crackling from her fingertips like claws. When she spotted Camille, they died down immediately.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, slithering from her perch.
Camille explained as best she could. That Wickham and Edward were here, the time to spring their trap was now.
‘We should have known it would come at the worst time,’ said Olympe, eyes wide in alarm. ‘Where are James and Al?’
‘Still in the chapel, they don’t know yet. But Lord Harford saw Wickham and Edward, he knows the threat is real – that’s something.’
‘What good is it if we all end up dead anyway?’
‘We’re not going to end up dead.’
‘You have a plan?’
Camille chewed the side of her tongue. Calling it a plan was generous.
‘There are more of us than them. If we find somewhere we can physically trap them – maybe we can hold them long enough for Lord Harford to send for help, and have Wickham arrested.’
‘What about Edward?’
Camille shrugged. ‘If he sides with Wickham, he faces the s
ame consequences.’
Olympe looked grim. ‘They won’t arrest him, will they? They won’t believe he’s human any more. They’ll kill him.’
‘Maybe so. I won’t promise different.’
‘I think I can get through to him.’
‘Olympe—’
‘No, listen. You weren’t with us at the operating theatre until the end, you didn’t see him. He spared us at St Paul’s.’ Olympe fixed Camille with her starry gaze, her mouth a thin, determined line. ‘Will you at least let me try?’
Camille stood, and pulled Olympe up with her. The blood had dried stiff on her skirt, and her silk slippers had torn. She pulled them off. Barefoot, skirts around her hips and hair falling out of its elaborate series of pins, she felt nothing like herself. And everything like herself.
‘I won’t stop you. But it’s harder to change your loyalties than you think. If you get in trouble, I’ll pull you out.’
Olympe’s eyes flashed. ‘Deal.’
A floorboard creaked outside, and both girls froze. From nowhere, a fly buzzed across the room. The floorboards creaked again.
Silently, Camille raised a finger to her lips, then led Olympe to a door on the other side of the ballroom. They eased it open and slipped out.
They found themselves in the long gallery that stretched the width of the house, lined with windows on one side, and a wall of art on the other.
Footsteps came from the ballroom – and then the doorknob twisted.
Camille and Olympe hunkered down behind a couch, holding their breath. The door opened and Camille watched a pair of boots cross the floor through the gap under the couch. Wickham walked slowly, almost casually. As he passed them, he began to whistle. He held something in his hand – Camille couldn’t see what – but she could hear the sound of leather twisting.