“What a surprise to see you,” I said warily, and she laughed. She looked as winsome as the first time we met, and there was no sign in her manner that anything as unpleasant as threats and robbery had ever passed between us.
“Fear not, ma chérie, I am not here to steal your bridegroom away! I am content for the two of you to settle down together. I can just picture you ten years from now, plump and gray as two pigeons in your little nest.”
Roderick’s gaze was steely, and there was a red mark on his cheek where she had pinched him. But he courteously held a chair for her and sounded merely reserved, not angry, when he asked her, “What brings you here, Julia?”
“Why, I knew you would feel injured if I left Paris without a word to you.” Settling into the chair, she plucked a sugared grape from a dish of candied fruit on the table and popped it into her mouth. “Even though I am off to a grander life, I do not forget those I leave behind.”
“What grander life?” I inquired, and her expressive dark eyes went as round as sovereigns.
“But have you not heard? I am astonished! All of Paris is full of the news.” She paused for effect, then informed us breathlessly, “I am to be the star of a new opera company!”
“Congratulations,” I said. “That sounds quite impressive. What is the company?”
“L’Opéra Superbe of Switzerland. It is the life’s work of a brilliant impresario, Sébastien Marchand.”
This meant nothing to me, but Roderick was suddenly seized with a fit of coughing and turned his head away. Julia darted an impatient look at him and then evidently decided to be tolerant in her happiness. “He has been raising the capital for years and assembling a most prestigious company of investors,” she continued. “All that was lacking was the perfect leading lady. When he saw me perform in Le Château Fantastique, he knew at once that he had found the muse he needed!”
“Julia,” said Roderick, who had stopped coughing but was still a bit ruddy in the face, “do you think it’s wise to give up your life here to take such a chance?”
She tossed her head, her euphoria instantly giving way to scorn. “I shall thank you not to try to run my life, Roderick. How like you to attempt to control me even now! Sébastien is a visionary and a genius. I would not expect you to understand the bond he and I share.”
“We shan’t interfere, Julia,” I interposed. “We are both delighted at your good fortune. Aren’t we, Roderick?”
He nodded. His face wore the most curious expression, and his voice was strained when he said, “Best of luck to you, Julia.”
With infinite graciousness she replied, “Merci bien, Roderick. I suppose I must wish you felicity as well, since it is unlikely that we shall meet again.”
“Unlikely, yes,” he said. “Don’t dally too long and miss your train.”
She glared at him and turned to me. “You must send me your address when you are settled so that I may send you a wedding gift.”
“But we don’t know your new address,” I said, and she looked at the clock.
“Is that the time? Ma foi, I must make haste! Au revoir.”
She threw a final haughty glance at Roderick, sniffed, and then turned her back and departed with a disdainful flick of her skirts.
When Mrs. Vise had seen her out and shut the door behind her, Roderick burst into laughter.
“Tell me!” I commanded.
He grinned at me. “I know Sébastien Marchand,” he said, his voice brimming with amusement. “He’s notorious in musical circles.”
“Is he a bad lot?” My thoughts flew to newspaper accounts of men who preyed upon women. “He isn’t a poisoner like that Dr. Pritchard, is he?”
That made him laugh all the more, but he shook his head. “Nothing that ominous. The man has been trying to form that blasted opera company for twenty years now! He’ll never get it off the ground.”
“Truly? Whyever not?”
“Who can say why things always go wrong for the wretched man? Lack of initiative, poor business sense, simple bad luck. The one thing I know for certain is that Julia has hitched her wagon to a falling star. I would bet my father’s violin that six months from now, if not sooner, she will be railing at the heavens to hurl lightning bolts at his head.”
I couldn’t help it. I began to giggle. I pictured her confusion, then her rage, as the realization slowly dawned that she had been duped by a dreamer. It was impossible to be worried on her behalf, for during our blessedly brief acquaintance she had impressed me as someone hardy and ruthless enough to weather any storm.
But oh, picturing her consternation was delicious.
“Darling,” I said, seized by a sudden impulse, “I know it is the middle of the day, but what would you think if I had Mrs. Vise ring for a bottle of champagne?”
He leapt to his feet, took me by the waist, and lifted me into the air. “That is the best idea you’ve had since you proposed to me,” he declared, setting me back on my feet. “By all means, let us have champagne... and toast Sébastien Marchand!”
The day before our wedding, I suggested to Roderick that we go on a picnic. Although mornings and evenings were becoming frosty as autumn finally set in, at the height of the day the weather was still like summer.
“Of course,” he said. He was so pleased with the world in those days leading up to our marriage that he probably would have agreed had I proposed we travel to Egypt in a hot-air balloon. “Where would you like to go?”
It pained me to destroy his tranquil mood, but our time in Paris was running short. If we were to carry out this errand—one that I was convinced was important—it must be today.
“Where did you and Armand Leclerc duel?” I asked gently.
For a moment he was silent, and I could feel the change in his mood as the joy drained away. Then he said in a low voice, “The Bois de Boulogne.”
I had suspected as much, having ascertained that this park was the most popular location in Paris for duels. Taking a seat next to him on the divan, I clasped his hand in mine. “I think it might do you good to visit it again. It could help you put the past in the past. Will you go there with me?”
He swallowed hard. It was a huge thing I was asking him to do, but I would never have suggested it had I not been certain it would be beneficial to him. He must have known that, for he said at last, with as much solemnity as though he were facing a firing squad, “Very well.”
I gave his hand a gentle squeeze to reassure him and then went to ask Mrs. Vise to secure a carriage and have a basket packed.
Not surprisingly, he was quiet on the journey. I knew he was steeling himself for what might lie ahead, so I did not fret him with trivial conversation.
Our first sight of the park surprised me with its tranquility. Nothing in its appearance would have led me to believe it to be the site of so much violence. Nursemaids in white aprons wheeled perambulators, while governesses in plain dark dresses walked beside modest young maidens with downcast eyes. Little boys played with hoops and balls near a placid lake, and as a backdrop the trees were burnished shades of red and gold. The roofs of greenhouses were visible among the treetops. It looked idyllic—from here.
I caught Roderick’s eye, and he took a breath before directing the driver to stop the carriage.
We descended, and with Roderick carrying the picnic basket we walked arm in arm into the park.
I think its peaceful appearance helped to ease his apprehension. The farther we moved along the tidy path, the less tension gripped his neck and shoulders. I let him lead the way, trusting that he would take me as far as he felt he could go. And after a quarter of an hour, he led me off the path toward a green expanse set off by a cluster of trees, and I knew this was the place.
At the edge of the clearing he stopped. He did not even set down the basket. I think he had forgotten its existence. Gently I took it from him and placed it on the ground. I could not tell what thoughts were passing behind his eyes, but I could guess at the searing memories.
; It was discordant to me that this pleasant glade had been the scene of bloodletting and death. But then, where else would one duel in a city? What other place would offer seclusion in the early morning, with no onlookers? The trees that stood as sentinels were turning ruddy with autumn now, reminiscent of blood, but even that emblem of decay could not entirely transform this setting from a pleasant bower into a field of battle.
I had not yet begun to observe it with all my senses, however.
When he had had a few minutes to become used to the place I unobtrusively removed my gloves and tucked them into my waistband. I slipped one hand into his, then moved to face him so that I could take his other hand as well. Though he wore no gloves, his skin was still warm to the touch.
Now he dragged his gaze away from whatever bleak prospect he had been contemplating and found me facing him, our hands clasped. Realization dawned in his eyes... and so did dread.
“Sybil—” he began.
“Hush, dear heart,” I said gently. “Let me listen.”
And I closed my eyes.
At first I could not hear beyond the natural, everyday noises. Wind stirring the leaves, birds singing, women chatting, children calling to each other and to their nursemaids. The thud of horses’ hooves on the sand equestrian paths, and the distant rumble of wheels on the streets that bordered the park. I stretched my mind, opening what the psychic had called my inner ear. Reaching.
Faintly at first, the new sounds came. More children, yes, some now grown and gone to raise families of their own. Adult laughter. The swish of skirts through the grass.
Then gunshots. Men’s voices, curt with anxiety. Shouting. The ring of sabers clashing. Dying groans, whispered prayers.
I breathed deeply, trying not to let fear find its way in. These glimpses could not harm me. Now that I was stretching my awareness in all directions, past as well as present, who would I see? What faces could I find?
There were so many, once I opened my inward eye to them. Ghosts of happiness remembered, but also phantoms of pain and regret. Men who had fought each other in anger and pride, some leaving the field whole, some injured, some borne out on makeshift biers by their seconds and doctors. Young and old, civilian and military, all fighting over causes just as ephemeral and fleeting as their flesh. I saw blood soaking through the green grass and spattering the violets.
“Sybil,” came an urgent voice as if from far away. “Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
“I hear you,” I breathed. I was still summoning up faces. I wanted to see them all.
“You’re frightening me.” Distantly I was aware of my hands being squeezed. “Come back.”
The last of the faces receded, and I opened my eyes. “It’s all right,” I said. Roderick was gazing anxiously into my face, and as I spoke he took a deep breath in relief. “He isn’t here,” I said.
“Who isn’t?”
“Armand Leclerc. His spirit isn’t lingering here.” Among the many faces I had seen, none had been the man from Helaine’s photograph.
Roderick looked very young suddenly, as dawning hope overtook the apprehension in his hazel eyes. “He isn’t here,” he repeated.
I shook my head. “If he were in torment, he wouldn’t have been able to pass on, but he has. His ghost is not here, Roderick. You can put your mind at ease about that.”
He swallowed hard. I knew he wanted to believe me, but he asked, “Are you certain?”
“Everything I’ve learned of him tells me that he came to this field wanting to die, intending for it to happen. Without knowing it, you granted his wish.” I touched his face. “You were simply the weapon he chose for his self-destruction.”
He stared at me. Then he took my face in his hands and rested his brow against mine, his eyes closing. “Thank you,” he whispered.
We stood thus for a long moment, not speaking, just hearing the soughing of the breeze through the brittle leaves, hearing each other breathe. I covered his hands with mine, feeling the living warmth of his skin, and let my fingers slip down to the silk bandage on his right wrist.
At the touch he straightened and released me. Staring at the bandage, he asked in a low voice, “Will you untie it for me?”
It was the work of seconds to loosen the knot and unwind the bandage. Freed from the confining fabric, the sunburst mark of his scar showed plainly in the sunlight. I held the long strip of silk by one end, letting the breeze lift it so that it streamed out like the tail of a kite.
I looked a question at him, and he nodded. My finger and thumb parted, and the black silk bandage flew away and out of sight.
Epilogue
Roderick was laughing at me.
There we lay in bed on our wedding night, lovers at last, clasped in each other’s arms amid tangled bedclothes. The windows were open so that a breeze could cool our heated skin, and the moon peeped in to offer just enough light to adore each other by. The very picture of conjugal bliss.
But that rascal, to judge by a twitching of his shoulders that he could not suppress, was laughing. At me. His bride of less than twenty-four hours.
“And just what is amusing you so much?” I inquired.
His dimple flashed out. “I was remembering what you said once. That I would never get my hands on your dignity.”
“Ah. Yes.” In that long-ago instance, dignity had become a euphemism for the particular part of my body that seemed to sustain the most punishment every time I fell from the horse I was learning to ride. “It seems that I was mistaken in that prediction,” I admitted.
“How glad I am that you were,” he said huskily. “And what an adorable, pert, round... dignity... it is.”
Now I was laughing as well. “I’m glad it pleases milord. Do you still find me as pleasant to hold as a Stradivarius, as you once said?”
“More than ever,” he said with satisfaction, “now that your curves are freed from the prison of corsets and clothing.” His fingertips traced my form. “Perhaps I’ll take up dress reform as a cause. I’ll advocate a return to the days when ladies wore nothing but thin low-cut shifts with the skirts dampened to show the shape of their legs.”
“I hope you’ll afford us something warmer for winter, at least.” The thought made me nestle closer to him, glorying in the warmth of his body against mine, and I sighed in contentment.
“Happy, sweetheart?”
“So happy.” I marveled at being here like this, with this man. My husband. I laid my hand on his chest, stroking the silky dark hairs, watching the rise and fall of his breathing.
Just as Julia must have done.
She, too, had lain in bed with him, basking in the warmth of his skin, her hand resting possessively on his chest. They had talked softly together like this. Like lovers.
He sensed the change in my mood. “What is it?” he asked. “Something has made you sad.”
“You can tell so easily?”
Gently he stroked my hair back from my forehead. “Your face shows your feelings so transparently. It’s one of the reasons you’re such a remarkable actress.”
“Or perhaps you just know me that well.”
“Perhaps. I know you well enough to tell when you are evading a question, too.”
It was so embarrassing to admit. But if I did not face it now, it might linger to stain other moments in our life together that ought to be as contented as this.
“I know it isn’t reasonable,” I said, “but it still hurts a little to think of her being with you like this.”
“Not like this,” he said at once.
“But I thought...”
He raised himself on one elbow so that he could look me fully in the eyes. “I’m not denying anything that happened in the past. But this moment is ours, yours and mine, and no one else’s. When I look at you now, it is in a way I have never looked at anyone before.”
The beauty of the idea transfixed me, and I could not speak. He bent his head to kiss me, as tenderly as if we stood at an altar.
“T
hat kiss was for you alone,” he said softly. “It did not exist before today. And when we join together, it is something entirely new to me.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. What we have isn’t anything I’ve ever felt before.” His eyes, luminous in the moonlight, looked deep into mine, and I drew his face down and kissed him for a long, long time.
“Thank you,” I whispered at length. “I needed to hear that.”
“I am always more than happy to tell you how much I love you.” Then he grinned. “Or show you,” he said in a different voice.
The solemnity was past, and he was my wicked rogue again.
“Now would be an opportune time,” I suggested.
He gave me to understand that he concurred.
That phantom presence of a third party had vanished, and I knew it would never trouble me again—nor intrude into my marriage bed. There were some ghosts, after all, that I was not obligated to welcome.
The End
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Author’s Note
Careful readers will note that the timeline of Roderick’s past given here does not quite mesh with the version in Nocturne for a Widow. In particular, we now learn that the professor removed Roderick from Paris before the city was besieged. During the writing of Nocturne I was unaware of how the Franco-Prussian War would intersect with Roderick’s time in France, so I had to make some adjustments in the present book, which I hope readers will excuse.
I also humbly request that readers suspend their natural disbelief that Englishwoman Sybil speaks and comprehends French nearly as well as a native speaker after having spent comparatively little time in France, and that ten years ago. Endowing her with advanced linguistic skills seemed preferable to forcing her to constantly ask various characters to translate their remarks for her, which would have slowed the action and, I suspect, worn on the reader’s nerves. (It certainly would have worn on mine.)
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 29