A Poisoned Season

by Tasha Alexander

  The queen’s fears about S did not abate, but by the end of August 1793, she had accepted that there was no one else in a position to smuggle Louis Charles from his prison. Her concern now focused on the details of where he would go. One thing was abundantly clear: Marie Antoinette stated over and over that he was not to go to America. She did not want him to face such a long journey when his health was already compromised from being jailed. Léonard reassured her again and again that there was no plan to send the boy there; a safe house was already being set up for him in England.

  The last two letters from the series were the ones that had been stolen, and I could only assume that they offered more details. Regardless, the information now before me conflicted entirely with the story of the dauphin presented by Charles Berry, who claimed that the plan all along had been to send the boy to the United States. Somehow, I found it much easier to accept these letters as factually correct than the word of a man who stood to gain a kingdom if he could only convince the world that his version of history was the truth.

  The next morning, I went back to the letters but found myself distracted by the recollection of an exchange Mr. Berry had with Mr. Francis before the murder. I sifted through the papers in my desk until I came to the letter I’d found in Richmond: I thank you for alerting me to the situation you mentioned, and assure you that I have the matter well in hand. Had Mr. Francis known about Léonard’s letters? And if so, was he sympathetic to Mr. Berry’s position?

  I wondered if I had missed anything in Mr. Francis’s letters or possessions that pertained to either Marie Antoinette or to Charles Berry, and decided to return to Richmond. But first I scrawled a quick note to Colin to inform him that the code had indeed provided crucial information and left it on the mail tray in the hall, asking Davis to have one of the footmen deliver it to Park Lane before Colin left for France.

  Much had changed in the Francis house since my last visit. The curtains in the drawing room were no longer closed, and bright sunlight streamed through the windows. Beatrice was playing the piano, and Mr. Barber sat cozily next to her on the bench, turning pages for her.

  “Emily! I had no idea you were coming today.” She leapt off the bench as a maid led me into the room. “Betsy, do try to remember to announce visitors before they come in.” The maid curtseyed halfheartedly and closed the door rather loudly as she left.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I said.

  “Michael had just persuaded me to play.”

  “There’s no need to explain,” I said. “I’ve never believed that one’s own life should stop after the death of a loved one.”

  “I should leave,” Mr. Barber said.

  “No.” Beatrice did not look at him as she spoke.

  “I came only to see if it would be possible for me to take another look at your husband’s study. I’m hoping to find more of a connection with Charles Berry.”

  “Could you possibly come back later? Tomorrow perhaps? It’s not a good time.”

  “Of course,” I answered automatically, stunned by her response.

  “Anything there now will still be there then,” she said, her lips pulled thin in a forced smile.

  There was nothing I could do but leave. I did not begrudge Beatrice any happiness she might find in Mr. Barber, and I certainly did not believe that the rituals of mourning did much to help a person manage her grief. But in denying me access to the study, she was not behaving in a manner I would expect of a woman desperate to find her husband’s killer.

  Rather than leaving Richmond, I decided to pay another call on Mrs. Sinclair. Happily, I found her at home, and she welcomed me with all the warmth absent from Beatrice.

  “What a lovely surprise, Lady Ashton. I’m so glad you’ve come. My hall looks so much better without that horrid statue you persuaded Mr. Sinclair to give to the museum. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

  “I’m glad to know that you’re not suffering from the loss.”

  “I’ve heard that you’re fond of such things, and please don’t think I’m criticizing your taste, but I’d much rather have something more modern in my house.”

  “No offense taken, Mrs. Sinclair,” I said, smiling.

  “I’ve half a mind to bring you through the rest of the house to see if there’s anything else the museum would take. Mr. Sinclair’s grandfather traveled rather too extensively and collected all sorts of sordid things as he went. I’d love nothing more than to get rid of most of them.”

  Judging by the quality of art I’d seen in the few places I’d been in the house, this was an exciting prospect indeed. But for the moment, it would have to wait. “I wish I had more time today. Perhaps I could come back next week? At the moment I’ve more questions for you about Jeanne Dunston. Do you know if she left any personal effects for her son?”

  “The housekeeper put aside what was in her room, but I doubt that Joseph will ever return to collect the box.”

  “Is there any chance you would let me take a look at it?”

  “I don’t see why not, though I can’t imagine you’ll find anything of interest. I imagine this has to do with the snuffbox again?” I nodded and smiled but decided not to say anything further. The fewer people who knew what I was doing, the better. Mrs. Sinclair rang the bell, and while we munched on lovely watercress sandwiches, the housekeeper was dispatched to the attic. She appeared a quarter of an hour later, carrying a wooden box that must have been covered with the dust now clinging to her dress.

  I opened the container at once. Inside were the humble souvenirs of a life spent in service: two nicely embroidered handkerchiefs, a carefully mended pair of gloves, a photograph of a small boy, a postcard from the queen’s Jubilee, an ivory rosary, and an extremely old Bible. The postcard was from a woman called Sarah and offered insight into neither sender nor recipient. The Bible was my only hope. The endpaper in the front cover was inscribed: To Bernadette Capet, on the occasion of her first Christmas in England, 1794.

  26

  MY HANDS TREMBLED AS I HELD THE BOOK. “DO YOU KNOW WHO Bernadette Capet was?” I asked.

  “Let’s see…Bernadette…she would have been Jeanne’s grandmother.”

  “And was it she who left France during the revolution? I remember you mentioned something about that during my previous visit.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she come to England alone?”

  “Her son was with her, but I’ve no idea how old he was.”

  “Did he work here, too?”

  “Yes. I don’t know much about him, only that he had quite an affinity for horses and worked in the stables all his life. It’s such a lovely thing to have the same family in service for multiple generations in the same household, don’t you think?”

  “Quite. Did Jeanne have any family other than her son?”

  “She had two brothers, but they both died long before she did.”

  “Did Joseph have close ties to anyone in the household? Any friends?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Lady Ashton. You’re welcome to ask the butler, but I’m certain no one knows how to reach him. As I told you, my husband tried.”

  “Could I borrow this, Mrs. Sinclair?” I asked, holding up the Bible. “I think I might be able to contact Joseph. I’ll bring it back, of course.”

  “I’d be thrilled if you could find him and get the entire box out of the house,” Mrs. Sinclair said. “It’s very awkward storing legacies for other people, don’t you think?”

  I could hardly contain my excitement when I was back in my carriage. Sebastian Capet must be Jeanne’s wayward son, and if, as I suspected, he was the true heir to the House of Bourbon, his motivation for the thefts was perfectly clear. I could well believe that Mr. Francis knew this. It might even explain his hesitation to report the theft of the pink diamond. Jeanne had confided in him, and he was loath to send her son, a man who in other circumstances might have been a king, to prison. But I still wondered at his letter to Charles Berry. Had he warned Berry of
possible exposure? And if so, why?

  The road must have been bad, because I was being jostled with such ferocity that it was nearly impossible to keep straight the thoughts in my head. I looked out the window and saw that my driver had moved to the side to let a rider approaching from behind pass us, which it did with most impressive speed. Once it was gone, our ride became smoother but only for a short while. All of a sudden, I heard Waters shouting at the horses. One of them shrieked, and the carriage lurched violently, throwing me against the door. The latch gave way, and I fell out onto the ground.

  Waters managed to stop the horses and leapt from his seat. The footmen, who rode standing on the back of the carriage, had jumped clear as we headed off the road and reached me first, helping me up.

  “Are you all right, madam?” Waters asked, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

  “I think so,” I said. “What happened?”

  “There was a man on the side of the road. When we got close to him, he drew out a horse whip and struck Aziza across the face. She reared up and startled Hadia. I could hardly control them.”

  “Where did the man go?” I asked, my heart pounding so violently that I could hardly breathe.

  “He had a horse with him, madam. Must’ve been the gent who passed us just a minute ago. There’s no sign of him now. I’d wager that he rode away through the woods.”

  “You drove magnificently, Waters. I’m amazed that we didn’t flip.”

  While the three men inspected our carriage, I took stock of my injuries. Although I was bruised and dirty, nothing seemed broken, but I could not stop shaking. Waters concluded that everything was in fine working order, and we headed back to London, where, once home, I walked stiffly past Davis as he held the door open for me.

  “I can see you want to scold me, Davis,” I said. “I assure you that Mr. Hargreaves would find no fault with what I’ve done.” I made my way upstairs and called Meg to help me undress. She was horrified at the condition of my gown and terrified when she heard what had happened, but did not let this get in the way of her efficiency. She sent for tea and prepared a hot bath. I soaked for more than half an hour, knowing that I was likely to feel worse the following day as my bruises developed.

  The word of my adventure spread quickly through the household. When the tray arrived from the kitchen, it held not only tea but chicken broth, Cook’s panacea for all things dreadful, fresh cut flowers from the garden, a glass of port, and a copy of Great Expectations, which I imagine had been randomly selected from the library by some well-intentioned member of my staff. I applied myself at once to the chicken broth, not because I was particularly hungry but because I had no wish to hurt Cook’s feelings by sending it back untouched. Meg tapped on the door.

  “Mrs. Brandon is here, madam. Would you like her sent up?”

  “Please.” I had finished the broth and moved from the table to my bed, where I sat on top of the covers, leaning against the pillows. It was obvious from Ivy’s expression that someone had told her about the accident. She rushed to me, sitting on the edge of the bed, biting her lip so hard I thought it would bleed.

  “What on earth is going on? You must stop, Emily. You must make sure that you are no longer putting yourself in danger.”

  “It’s not so simple, Ivy,” I said. “There’s too much at stake.”

  “Well, that needn’t be your concern. Tell the police what you’ve learned, and remove yourself from the investigation.”

  “I don’t yet know enough to set them on the proper course.”

  “You’re going to get yourself killed. And for what?”

  “To keep an innocent woman from being hanged. To prevent a liar from causing the overthrow of a peaceful government.”

  “Leave it to Colin, then. Why must you insist on doing it yourself?”

  I looked at her face, which was filled with a tortured confusion. “Because it’s important, Ivy, because I like it, and because I think I’m good at it. I’ll be perfectly all right.”

  “It’s selfish, Emily. Selfish. Here I am half-crazed with worry over you, and you dismiss my concern. I know you’re clever, I know you’re good at what you do. But why can’t you leave these things to the people who are supposed to take care of them? You’ll hate me for saying it, but it…it…it doesn’t become a lady.”

  “I’m sure my reputation as a lady will come as a great comfort to Jane Stilleman in the hours before her execution.”

  “You’re not the only person capable of solving this, Emily. Haven’t enough bad things happened to convince you that you’re placing yourself in too much danger?”

  “I promised Colin that I would take no unnecessary risks. He made no attempt to stop me.”

  “I suppose I’m just not as smart as the two of you because I don’t see why your involvement is so crucial. I understand that you like the adventure of it, but this is no longer a fun sort of game. Someone is trying to kill you.”

  “I think you’re rather exaggerating things, Ivy.”

  “Maybe I am, but maybe, Emily, I’m right. Not that you’d listen even if I was. I wonder how you would respond if Margaret said the same things.”

  Now it was I who bit a lip. I wanted to say that Margaret would make no attempt to stop me, that Margaret would buckle down and help me solve the puzzle, even if there was danger involved. But I had no desire to hurt Ivy, especially now, when she hardly even sounded like herself. I could only assume that things between her and Robert were getting no better.

  “I’m sorry, Ivy. I don’t mean to dismiss your concerns.”

  “I know that you and Margaret don’t take me seriously. I suppose I ought to try to be the sort of friend to you that she is, but I don’t want to. I only wish that things would return to how they used to be, before either of us was married, when you were satisfied with being happy. I think that you now prefer challenge to contentedness.”

  “Is that so wrong?”

  “It is when you ask your friends to sit back and watch you throw yourself in harm’s way.”

  “I’m not asking you to sit back.”

  “You know full well that there’s nothing else I can do.” She clasped her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on them. “I apologize for arguing with you after you’ve had such a frightening experience. It was wrong of me.”

  “Ivy—”

  “I must go. Robert’s at Westminster and will expect me to be home when he returns.”

  “Are things well between you?” I asked.

  “Robert’s such a considerate husband. I’m fortunate to have him.” And with that response, so impersonal, so perfectly appropriate, I knew that Ivy was releasing me as a confidante. She smiled stonily, her lips hardly moving, and wished me well. I couldn’t bear to watch her walk away from me, but when I heard the heavy bedroom door close behind her, I started to cry. Our lives may have taken contrary directions, but I had no desire to be adrift in a sea of my own without the comfort of her friendship.

  It was dark when I next opened my eyes, so I knew that I must have fallen asleep, and was disappointed to have let so many hours slip away from me. My head was throbbing, but I lit a lamp and rang for tea, asking to have it sent to me in the library. I made my way slowly downstairs, feeling notably stiffer than I had a few hours ago. With effort, I lowered myself into my desk chair and pulled open a drawer in which my husband had kept the blank leather notebooks he used for his journals. There had been five there when Philip died. One I used for my study of Greek. Another, which contained both Greek and notes from my investigation, Sebastian had stolen in the park along with the Odyssey. Now I would use a third. I hesitated for an instant, wondering if I should save these remaining volumes for something else, perhaps reserve them only for Greek or to start a journal of my own. When they were gone, I would be left with one fewer remaining tie to Philip, and for some reason this struck me as unreasonably poignant. I liked the idea of the notebooks, sitting where he’d left them, waiting to be used.

  �
��Cook sent tea and a hot toddy, madam,” Davis said, placing the tray on my desk.

  “She takes good care of me.”

  “Are you quite certain that you’re not in need of medical attention?”

  “Quite.” I smiled. “The footmen assured me that they suffered no injuries, as did Waters. Is that true?”

  “They’re all perfectly fine, madam.”

  “Good.” I sipped the toddy. “And the horses?”

  “They suffered no lasting injuries. If I may, madam?” Davis was standing at rigid attention.

  “Please, go ahead.”

  “I took the liberty of informing Inspector Manning about the events of the afternoon. Mr. Hargreaves asked me to”—he cleared his throat—“that is—”

  “He asked you to make sure the inspector was aware of my activities.”

  “Yes, madam. I have no doubt that you would have told him yourself were you not recovering from the accident.”

  “Of course.” I couldn’t help but smile. “I found the reticule I had with me in the carriage in my room, but I didn’t see the Bible that I was holding. Do you know where it was put?”

  “A Bible? I don’t remember seeing it. I’ll check with Baines.” He returned a few minutes later with the footman.

  “I gave your bag and the Bible to a maid, madam,” Baines said. “But I don’t know what she did with them.”

  “Which maid, Baines?” I asked.

  “I can’t remember her name. She’s one of the new girls.”

  Davis sprang into action at once. A quick search of the servants’ quarters revealed that Molly and her few humble possessions had disappeared.

  27

  YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE TRUSTED HER,” MARGARET SAID THE NEXT afternoon. She was pacing but kept well away from the windows in the library.

  “I suppose you’re right, but I still cannot believe that she would have any ties to Berry after what he did to her.”

  “I don’t like to be cynical, but it’s possible that he didn’t force himself on her. She might have welcomed the attention and then been upset when she realized she would never be anything to him.”