“You would do the same for me.” A slight lift of Iris’s tone on me made her statement into a hint of a question.
“I would. I have. In Rome. That morning when I woke, the first thing I noticed was that I couldn’t hear you breathing. I thought something horrible had happened to you.”
Marie turned from the distress on Iris’s face.
I shouldn’t have brought up that morning. But she asked.
She walked to the other window, the one with the window seat, and looked outside. Yes, there was a layer of sparkling white over everything, and she drank in the beauty. Even the gargoyles on the theatre wore little white berets and appeared less fierce.
“Are you hungry?” Iris asked. “It’s almost lunchtime.”
Dread pierced Marie’s gut. “And then this afternoon, a read-through.”
“Lucille may not make you.”
Marie shook her head. “No, she will. She’ll know I’m feeling better. I can’t hide anything from her.”
“Then I’ll help you dress. Pick out something warm. We’re conserving coal.”
Marie looked out of the window again. Less smoke from chimneys than she would have expected streaked the sky. That was the downside of the snow—the cold weather would stretch the city’s coal reserves. The beauty of winter might hasten the inevitable rioting in the streets, and then what?
We might all be Prussian by Christmas.
Chapter Thirteen
Théâtre Bohème Townhouse, 3 December 1870
Lucille had taken the news of her broken window with surprising calm, but Johann surmised the presence of Maestro Fouré might have something to do with it. Or the fact that Fouré said he would cover the cost of replacing it while posturing like it had been his theatre damaged. Johann wondered at his own sudden possessiveness—it was not like he planned to stick around long-term—but he also didn’t like what the vandalism meant about the tenor of the neighborhood toward Lucille and Marie.
On his way back to the townhouse at lunch, Johann caught sight of Lucille talking to a street urchin, and he suspected that through her network of informants, she would know the perpetrators by teatime. At least he hoped she would. Now he had to decide on his own course of action. Woken by fevered dreams of the enticingly bare shoulders of Marie St. Jean—and strangely, his dreams wouldn’t show him more than that—Johann had grabbed a quick breakfast off the sideboard that morning and headed out to walk in the lightening dawn and cool his… Well, something needed to be cooled.
He slipped out with Radcliffe, who headed to his clinic early, and they agreed to meet that afternoon to start their investigation by speaking with the widow of the previous day’s attack.
Now as he mounted the steps of the townhouse, Johann wondered whether he should let Radcliffe speak with the widow alone so he could tail Frederic and determine who his contact was. But the Clockwork Guild was canny enough they wouldn’t be obvious and likely communicated with the other violinist through more covert means. Notes dropped from the auditorium balcony, perhaps? But hadn’t Marie gotten one? Surely the theatre spirit, or whoever was trying to make everyone believe in one, wasn’t part of the Guild.
He put his cloak on a hook in the small cloakroom just beside the front door and mounted the stairs to the living space. His head spinning with trying to sort out the possibilities—really, Edward’s scientific mind was better with complex problems than Johann’s musician one—Johann barely registered the cheer that occurred when he walked into the dining room. He blinked the problems of the day away to see Patrick O’Connell clap Edward on the back and almost knock him over, Iris’s happy expression, and—was she here?—Marie looking pale but pleased.
“What’s going on?” Johann asked.
“Patrick finished converting the theatre lighting system, at least the main part, for the aether,” Edward said. “We’ll be ready to start testing tomorrow. And I owe it all to you. Well, most of it.”
“Why?” Johann flinched away from the gazes of the others. Formerly he would have lapped up the attention, but after the months of hard looks subsequent to the revelation in Rome that his gambling had put the others’ lives in danger, he steeled himself for the inevitable turn of the tide from approval to distrust. He pushed the image of his father shaking his head in disappointment out of his mind.
“Something you said on Thursday. It made me see what I needed to do to make it all work. I’d been spinning my wheels on a different sort of problem and got stuck.”
Edward admitting a mistake—that was something Johann thought he’d never see. Well, if his friend could grow beyond his misfit foibles, Johann could too, starting with not taking more credit than he deserved. He couldn’t help but sneak a look at Marie to see if she paid attention.
“I can’t take credit for your genius, mon ami.” He shook Edward’s hand. “And congratulations. I hope this brings you the sort of knowledge you seek.”
“It’s progress. The more I learn about it, the closer I get to finding out how to turn it into energy.”
“I have an idea of somewhere I can search for clues,” Iris said. “The Louvre has some ancient texts and carvings from the Ottoman Empire. Some of the illustrations resemble the style of the stuccoes in the Porta Maggiore temple. It’s worth a further look.”
Johann didn’t miss the shadow that passed over Edward’s face or the trembling hand he put in his pocket.
“That would be grand,” Edward told Iris with a forced smile.
She put a hand on his cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe I spoke so thoughtlessly.”
Radcliffe stepped forward from where he’d been talking to O’Connell but apparently had an eye and ears on the conversation. “There are some schools of thought that you should avoid what might distress you,” he said. “I, for one, believe you should face it until it doesn’t.”
Edward took Iris’s hand and kissed it. “I know you want what’s best for me. Now if you will excuse me, I’m tired again. Those weeks in the lab exhausted me.”
He went up the stairs, to his room, Johann presumed, but the suspicious and sad look on Iris’s face told Johann she thought the same he did—Edward was avoiding any further conversation.
“I could tell he didn’t want to ask me to look, but he did, and so I did,” she said to Marie. Then she turned to Johann. “Is this what happened last time with his breakdown?”
Johann tried to remember, but the paleness in Marie’s cheeks made him pause. “Should you be up? You look exhausted.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Still recovering from whatever happened yesterday. And I have a read-through this afternoon.”
“I’m sure Madame would allow you to rest if you needed.” He wanted to ask what had happened and if the ghost had done something to her. It was maddening—how could he be expected to stay away from her if she was going to be harmed?
“No.” Marie finally met his gaze with a spark in her own. “I’m not backing down from this.”
“It’s not worth it if you make yourself ill.” Or someone else does.
“I won’t fail her again. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She left in a swirl of skirts, and Johann turned to Iris.
“I don’t suppose I can scare you off as well?”
She pursed her lips into a small smile. “No, I’m more determined. But please, you’ll tell me if you remember anything useful, won’t you? How did he come out of it before?”
“He threw himself into his work. That’s the one constant with Edward—when he’s working he’s happy.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her hands. “I was hoping…”
He would have lifted her chin to look at him again, but he wouldn’t make such an improper gesture with witnesses, no matter how close they’d all become. He had to settle with addressing the wisps of white-blonde hair at her temple.
“Remember what I told you.”
&nb
sp; “I’ll remember. But it’s tough.” Something sparkled on her cheek, and Johann looked at Radcliffe and O’Connell, half-hoping for rescue and half-fearing they would think he’d made her cry.
“He has more friends this time. That will help.”
Now she looked up at him, and the fierce Iris he remembered from their previous trip to Paris appeared. “But I can’t see if I’m on the right track with my research if he won’t talk about it.”
Marie reappeared, wearing her cloak and pulling on her gloves. Johann picked up evidence of cosmetics, but at least some of the color in her face seemed to be her own.
“Then you’ll have to act more independently,” Marie said. “Think of what your father would have done. From what you’ve said, he didn’t allow others to interfere with his work, intentionally or not.”
“Right.” Iris sighed, but she held her shoulders straighter. “Then it’s off to the Louvre for me. Perhaps Monsieur Firmin will be in since we’re between terms, and he can give me direction.”
“Just be careful,” Johann said. “You don’t want to let him know what you’re looking for, exactly.”
The look Iris and Marie gave him told Johann his admonishment was unnecessary, but he’d spent enough time with academic types to know that sometimes their enthusiasm got away with their tongues.
“I have all too clear a memory of what can happen to someone who knows too much,” Iris said. “Remember poor Monsieur Anctil.”
“I do. All too well. As does Inspector Davidson, and he remembers you too. He was at the murder scene yesterday and may want to speak with you.”
“Why?” Iris held out her hands. “I don’t have anything to add to his investigation. I didn’t even witness what happened.”
“He sees some sort of pattern, apparently. Guilt by association.” Johann didn’t miss how Marie drew back into herself when he’d mentioned the inspector. He wanted to protect her from…
Well, he didn’t know what. But if she felt threatened, he needed to make her secure, particularly so they could finish what the kiss in the theatre had started. But if it would put her in harm’s way… He shoved that problem to the back of his mind and returned his attention to Iris.
“I’ll be careful what I say to him, don’t worry.” She looked at Marie, who held out Iris’s cloak while avoiding meeting Johann’s gaze. “If he can find me.”
She took her cloak, and the two women walked out into the bright sunlight.
“Are you ready?” Radcliffe asked.
Johann fixed himself a quick sandwich of the same variety of meats and cheeses they’d had the day before and the day before that and… “Any word on the situation outside the city?”
“More of the same,” Patrick told him. “Any progress made by the French is erased by the next day, but the Prussians aren’t advancing, either. They’re focused on strangling the city.”
“At least it happened after the growing season when cellars were full,” Radcliffe added, “but I’m seeing more and more nutrition-related problems, so something isn’t coming in that needs to.”
Whereas before he’d been glad that Lucille St. Jean had stocked her pantry and the townhouse’s cellar with foods that would last the winter, he now wondered if it would make her even more of a target. At least her maid Claudette seemed loyal.
Indeed, the girl gave him a shy smile when she entered to clean up the remainders of lunch, of which there weren’t much. He grinned back at her and gave his smile that extra push that seemed to attract the ladies, although he couldn’t explain how. Claudette glanced away, but her neck under her chignon was pink, so he knew she’d noticed.
Radcliffe cleared his throat. Johann finished his sandwich, and they left. When he glanced behind him to say something to Patrick, Johann saw Claudette watched him.
* * * * *
Marie said goodbye to Iris and walked into the theatre lobby. The musicians had finished their rehearsals, but a few of them still lingered, including—merde—Frederic.
“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he said and held both hands out to her. “I was hoping you would appear. I hear you are to do the read-through this afternoon?”
“Yes.” Marie clutched her script with both hands and edged away from him. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He stepped in her way, and she had to draw up short lest she appear to fall into his waiting arms. That was a nasty trick.
“I just wanted to invite you to join me for dinner this evening,” he murmured so close his steamy breath stirred the curls that had escaped from her chignon.
She stepped back and wiped a hand across her temple to rid herself of his residue. “I’m afraid I’m unavailable.”
“Are you seeing Maestro Bledsoe?” he asked.
Marie drew back from his bluntness. “That is none of your business. But I’ve not been feeling well, if you must know. I plan to return to bed once I’m done here.”
Now Frederic was all attentiveness. “Oh, then let me help you to the stage.”
“I can make it, thank you.”
Marie dodged his hand, which seemed determined to take her elbow. I should at least be polite to him. No need to make an enemy. But after the dreams brought on by the ghost—or her own nervousness about the role she was going to have to play, she wasn’t sure which—she couldn’t stand the thought of a man touching her. Aside from Maestro Bledsoe, whom she knew only wanted what she was willing to give him. Frederic had always wanted more, and she didn’t trust him.
“Ah, Marie!” The booming voice caught her attention and made Frederic draw back. She looked up to see her mother’s friend and suspected paramour Hamish Fouré. He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “You look as lovely as ever. How are you, my dear? Come, let us catch up as I escort you to the stage. We best not keep your mother waiting.”
“Until later, Mademoiselle,” Frederic said. “I’m sure I will see you again soon.”
Once out of earshot, Fouré asked, “Was that little man bothering you?”
Marie couldn’t explain it, but she felt strangely at ease with Fouré. He was like Zokar, an older gentleman who never looked at her inappropriately and whom she felt she could trust. To a point. All men could be trusted to a certain extent, but each had a limit to his dependability.
“He has wanted to marry me since I was sixteen,” she said with a sigh. She almost added that he was the last person she wanted to see her as Henriette—the idealized woman—but she’d never spoken of her talent with Fouré, although she’d often wanted to.
“Well, you are a beautiful girl, but I can see you do not feel a mutual attraction.”
“Not at all.” She smoothed her face before the wrinkles around her nose from her disgusted expression stuck, as her mother had often threatened.
Panic shot through Marie’s gut when she laid eyes on the stage. But then another thrill, this time of exhilaration. She remembered how it had felt, especially at the beginning, when the world had been limited to the boards and the curtains. It had been an escape from the messiness of life because everyone had their place and their role, and all was predictable. They moved back and forth and interacted with mechanical precision, but with passion and the magic of looking through someone else’s eyes and speaking with their tongue, at least for a few hours.
She hadn’t always hated it, not until the emptiness overtook her after her first play, and she felt like a slice had been carved from her soul to compensate for the total immersion she had experienced. It seemed unfair. She liked being the best at something, finally having Lucille’s approval.
A thought occurred to her, then—would she want to act if she could use her talent but didn’t have to pay the price?
Is that possible?
She brought her attention back to the stage and the actors sitting in a circle. There were eight, two of them women. Marie recognized Janelle, who had been i
n a different theatre’s production when Marie and the others had arrived back in Paris.
She’s all grown up now.
The other woman didn’t interact with the others, but rather looked around and gave smiles in response to comments but didn’t say much herself. Her straight hair, of a nondescript color between blonde and mousy brown, slid from its pins. She had to keep tucking stray strands into place, and her nose was too long for beauty but shy of exotic.
She looks like she belongs at the front of a schoolroom, not on stage. But Marie stopped that uncharitable train of thought. She hadn’t thought much of Iris’s delicate beauty at first, dismissing her as a frail English miss until she’d gotten to know her.
That was one of the few advantages working for Cobb had afforded her—the experience to know that there were all kinds of people in the world, and one could never make assumptions because appearances were often cultivated. Still…
“Do you know that actress?” she asked Fouré. “The blonde?”
His brows drew together as he squinted to see who she was talking about. “That’s Leigh Sellers. She’s English, I recognize her from home. I wonder what she’s doing here—she was quite the hit in London.”
I wonder if she’d be willing to take over the role. Marie knew Janelle didn’t quite have the presence for Henriette, but perhaps Leigh would prove her initial impressions wrong, particularly as she already had some notoriety.
Henri, who was to play Hector Berlioz’s character, stood when he caught sight of her. “Ah, and there is our Henriette.”
Marie stopped just shy of the stage stairs and waited for the familiar feeling of something welling up from her center and covering her over to start, but nothing happened.
“Are you all right?” Fouré asked.
“I don’t know.” Marie was glad for his supportive hand on her elbow because she was so surprised she would have collapsed otherwise.
“Lucille mentioned you weren’t feeling well. Perhaps you shouldn’t do this today.”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
But am I? I don’t know whether to be glad or unhappy.
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