Beauty, Beast, and Belladonna

by Maia Chance

  They stood like that, wrapped together in silence, for such a long moment that a few doves fluttered back to the rafters.

  Penrose pulled away a little to see her. “Miss Flax, when I saw—when I thought he might . . . I have been prideful and stubborn and blind. The third thing I meant to tell you today . . .” He took a deep breath. His arms didn’t loosen. “I wished to tell you that I am your friend, and I will help you no matter what occurs. I wished to tell you that you are not alone. Do you understand? You are not alone, and you won’t ever be alone. No matter what happens next, or where we find ourselves on our separate paths through life.”

  Ophelia’s belly twisted itself into knots, and she clung fast to his arms—Ophelia Flax, clinging.

  Penrose went on. “What I mean to say is . . . last month, at the château in the Loire, I offered you a love speech, but I did not offer you what is more important still: a speech of friendship. Although, as you well know, I do love you.”

  “How can you make love speeches to me when you are otherwise engaged? Miss Banks—”

  “I was numb when I returned to England last month. I felt as though a part of me had perished. No sooner had I expressed—or, perhaps, merely attempted to express—my sentiments to you, Miss Flax, than you became engaged to Griffe. Miss Banks . . . well, I have done her a grievous disservice to propose marriage to her. I am ashamed of that. I must apologize to her, and I must . . .” Penrose smoothed a breeze-blown strand of hair from Ophelia’s eyes. “I must break it off with her. Immediately. Then, perhaps, I will be able to ask you an important question with a clear conscience.”

  An important question? The professor meant to ask her to be his wife? Ophelia’s thoughts clamored. She couldn’t have her own dairy farm in Vermont or New Hampshire if she married an English earl, could she? Fear twisted up inside her, too: Her father had abandoned Mother. And, shouldn’t a fellow ask a lady if it was all right to ask her to marry him? Or. No. Was that right?

  She pulled away, smoothed her cuffs, tidied her hair.

  “I do apologize,” Penrose said. “This is too much. You have had a great shock. Let us leave this place.”

  * * *

  By the time Ophelia and Penrose were in the market square again, she had patched up her composure and knotted her hair. If the professor meant to propose marriage—and she still wasn’t entirely sure that’s what he’d meant—well, she had her answer ready. Right now, she had other fish to fry.

  “Marcel could be the murderer,” she said, scanning the crowd.

  “Because of the jawbone?”

  “He seemed ready enough to kill me for it.”

  “God, do not remind me of that.”

  “Maybe Marcel killed Mr. Knight’s impostor over the jawbone. The impostor did have it in his trunk—remember the tooth?”

  “All right, then: Marcel killed Mr. Knight’s impostor for the jawbone. But what about Madame Dieudonné?”

  “Why do murderers kill for the second time? Isn’t it because it turns out that someone knows too much?”

  “But how could Marcel have known of Madame Dieudonné’s plans to divulge the murderer’s identity to you? He wasn’t at the ruined castle that day.”

  “No, but the village woman Lucile was.”

  “Good Lord. I hadn’t thought of her. It was her idea to take us all up to that castle in the first place, you know. I wonder if she pushed me down the stairs.”

  “She pushed you down the stairs?”

  “I survived. I’ve been so fixated upon Tolbert.” Penrose paused. “But then, what of your theory about the wealthy murderer luring their victim to Château Vézère at great expense?”

  “I don’t know. Could we return to the telegraph office and see if the Marseille police have responded?”

  “All right.”

  The Marseille police had not responded, but still, a telegram was waiting for them.

  The telegram read,

  LORD HARRINGTON: MY NAME IS MR. CECIL KNIGHT. HAVE JUST BEEN RELEASED MOMENTS AGO FROM MARSEILLE JAIL, WHERE I WAS HELD FOR FALSE CHARGES RELATED TO PUBLIC BRAWL ON TENTH DECEMBER. THE MAN WHO CONVINCED POLICE TO ARREST ME BECAME KNOWN TO ME DURING PAST DAYS THROUGH SPEAKING WITH OTHER PRISONERS. JACK POTTER. ENGLISH SHIPPING AGENT WITH LOW REPUTATION FOR SWINDLES. READ IN NEWSPAPER OF DEATH OF POTTER POSING AS ME IN PÉRIGORD. ASSUME HE STOLE MY TRUNK FROM LODGINGS IN MARSEILLE AND MET MASTER CHRISTY’S SHIP ON ELEVEN DECEMBER. WILL TRAVEL TO SARLAT AS SOON AS FRAGILE HEALTH ALLOWS. PLEASE ADVISE REGARDING SAFETY OF MASTER CHRISTY.

  “A shipping agent,” Ophelia said. “Maybe that’s why he had those bobbins of silk thread in his trunk. They must have been commercial samples.”

  “Indeed. And who at Château Vézère is rich as Midas and works in shipping?”

  “Mr. Larsen, of course. Oh gracious—what about Mr. Banks, ill abed? Mr. Larsen and Mr. Banks might have known each other before—Forthwith told me as much earlier today, and it slipped my mind. Suppose Mr. Banks turning up there fuddled Mr. Larsen’s plan—

  “What plan, exactly?”

  “Why, to lure Mr. Knight—Jack Potter—to the château and murder him. I’m frightened for Master Christy. He might speak like a college lecturer, but he’s only a little boy, and now he’s got no one looking after him, and if Mr. Larsen is a killer—”

  “Are you suggesting that this is all some mad plot that will end in Master Christy being harmed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It strikes me as odd that the murderer in the château seems to have pulled strings to lure this impostor, Jack Potter, yet this telegram indicates that Jack Potter himself had a hand in things.”

  “In getting the real vicar jailed, you mean.”

  “Yes. And what of Marcel and his jawbone?”

  Ophelia held up one palm. “There is the matter of the vicar and the trains and Marseille and the whippletree—that is one thing.” She held up her other palm. “But there is also the matter of Marcel and the jawbone and that cave. And the beast. Are the two matters connected? Maybe. Maybe not. But I can’t help thinking that they are. Let’s telegraph the vicar and tell him Master Christy is safe—so far—and then we ought to go straight to the château.”

  “We’ll hire a carriage, and I’ll leave the horse I rode here at the inn.”

  28

  Château Vézère had a deserted air when their hired carriage rolled to a stop in the front drive.

  “Look!” Miss Flax pointed. “Every last window on the first story is shattered.”

  “The village boys returned, then.” Gabriel jumped down from the carriage and handed Miss Flax out. He instructed the driver to wait, and they went inside.

  The foyer’s marble floor sparkled with shattered glass. Cold wind swayed the chandeliers.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Professor.”

  “Let us check the salon.”

  They walked so close their shoulders touched, and Gabriel had the oddest sense of walking towards his fate. Or his doom. Somehow, though, walking to his fate or his doom alongside Miss Flax felt, well, it felt right.

  They found Bernadette and Griffe speaking in low tones before a meager fire in the salon. Both looked up, wide-eyed, haggard.

  Griffe stood, flushed. “What is she doing here,” he asked, eyes locked on Miss Flax.

  Miss Flax lifted her chin. “Where is Mr. Larsen?”

  “Larsen?” Griffe scoffed. “What do you want of him? Another of your filthy little scams, eh?”

  “He is hunting,” Bernadette said, glancing to the windows.

  “He must be found,” Gabriel said. “I’ll ride out and find him myself.”

  “Why? He has done nothing!” Bernadette cried.

  What a peculiar thing to say.

  “Get that wench out of here,” Griffe said to Gabriel.

  “Watch your to
ngue, man. Miss Flax will stay by my side until all of this mess blows over. You were wrong to send her away, Griffe. Have you no heart? A young lady, defenseless and penniless, cast out with nothing but a charlatan conjurer for company? For shame.”

  “I will not be reprimanded in my own home!” Griffe shouted. “I will not have my wishes ignored!”

  “Garon,” Bernadette murmured. She tossed Miss Flax a curdling look.

  How wrong Gabriel had been about Bernadette. He had taken her for a meek domestic creature. Yet now she really did seem capable of murder.

  “Where is Master Christy?” Miss Flax asked.

  “What do you care of the child?” Bernadette said.

  “He’s a young boy without a protector.”

  Gabriel strode to Griffe and passed him the curate Appleberry’s telegram. “Your telegram, Count, and here is another of mine, from a gentleman by the name of Mr. Cecil Knight.”

  Griffe stared at the envelopes. “They have both been opened already. What is the meaning of this?”

  “Go on, read them.”

  Gabriel saw Miss Flax slip away. She’d be searching for the boy.

  When Griffe at last looked up from the telegrams, he said hoarsely, “That man in the orangerie was an impostor? Mon Dieu.” He tossed the telegrams to the carpet. “I have been deceived again and again. There is no dignity, no vérité, left in the world.” He sagged back in his chair. For the first time, Gabriel noted the wine bottle beside Griffe, the empty glass. Griffe shaded his eyes with a hand. “Leave me. For God’s sake, everyone leave!”

  Bernadette, aflutter, began to gather up her embroidery.

  “Where is Miss Banks?” Gabriel asked. He’d check on Miss Banks and then ride out to the woods in search of Larsen.

  “At her father’s side,” Bernadette whispered.

  * * *

  But Ivy was not at her father’s bedside; the weary sick nurse was reading her Bible in the chair beside Banks, who did not move beneath the coverlet. His eyes were closed, his breathing thick, his face like mud.

  “Has he improved?” Gabriel asked the nurse in French.

  She made the sign of the cross. “No, monsieur. He has worsened. He has not taken food or water for near twelve hours now. He does not move or speak. We must summon a priest.”

  “And you, madame? Have you had food or water or sleep these twelve hours past?”

  “Water and food. No sleep.”

  “I should send for someone to relieve you, a village woman perhaps—”

  “Sacredieu!” The nurse made another sign of the cross. “From the village Vézère? I would rather keep my eyes open for a month than leave this poor man to one of those heathens.”

  Gabriel’s eyes fell on the vase of fresh roses beside the bed. “Who has brought those roses?”

  “The beautiful daughter. She is in despair. She comes to him again and again, new roses every six hours. As though roses could make him live.”

  Gabriel went to the hired carriage waiting in the drive. He instructed the driver to go to Sarlat and return with the finest doctor in town. What a fool he’d been not to do it earlier.

  “Tell the doctor to bring medicines of all kinds. For the lungs, in particular, and the stomach. And the heart. Oh, and also . . . summon the police.”

  The driver nodded, already flicking his horses with his whip.

  Gabriel started for the orangerie.

  * * *

  Penrose had said something about Abel making a mess of the library books, so Ophelia checked there first. No Abel, although an avalanche of open books threatened to spill off one table.

  The kitchen. Of course. Ophelia hurried for the kitchen stairs, refusing to allow her thoughts to flit to the bad things that might’ve befallen Abel.

  She turned a corner and crashed head-on into someone. Clémence, arms piled high with some glossy white garment, fear in her eyes. Without a peep, Clémence hugged the garment to her bosom and continued on her way.

  Ophelia stared after her. Had that been the countess’s wedding dress? She continued to the kitchen.

  “Abel! Oh, thank goodness you’re all right!” she cried when she saw him at the table. The parakeet sat in its cage on the table next to him.

  “Well, of course I’m all right.” Abel didn’t look up.

  Ophelia went closer. Abel wasn’t looking at a hunk of cake or a pot of jam; he was looking at an enormous insect. Ugh. He was sketching a picture of it with pencil and paper. “What is that, Abel? Is it . . . alive?”

  “Heavens, no. It went to the killing jar as soon as I’d transported it from under that fallen log in the forest to the château. Don’t look at me like that—it was dying, anyway. Goodness knows how it survived so long into the winter. Beetles like this usually die off in the autumn. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Ophelia looked at the cream-colored beetle, the size of a field mouse, with crablike pincers and iridescent golden antennae, and lied, “Splendiferous.” Her skin crawled.

  “It is an unknown species, I am certain of it. I checked every book I could find in the library. I’ve discovered a new species!”

  “Excellent. Listen, I wish you would come with me to Sarlat. It isn’t safe for you here.”

  “Why ever not? If you refer to those village lads, well, they won’t do anything to me. It’s the count they despise.”

  Ophelia took a big breath and began the tale of the telegrams, the wrong body, and the true, still-living Reverend Cecil Knight.

  * * *

  Ivy bent over a rose plant in the orangerie, snipping with hooked brass clippers. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair becomingly arranged. Never had she appeared so lovely.

  “Lord Harrington,” she said. “I did not hear you come in. Is everything all right—is Papa—?”

  “I have just been to see your father. He is . . . he is alive.” Gabriel’s voice cracked. Was he truly going to jilt a lady who was about to lose her father? “I have sent for a doctor. We’ll soon set things to right.” He mustered a lukewarm smile. “Miss Banks, there is something I must tell you.”

  “Oh?” Ivy’s brow was a placid lake, yet she beheaded a perfect rose. It dropped silently to the floor.

  “I must put an end to our engagement to be married. I am terribly sorry.”

  “Is it that coarse little American actress?” Ivy asked with a brittle smile and unblinking eyes. Snip went another perfect bloom onto the floor.

  “If you refer to Miss Flax, then yes.”

  “Where is she? Eavesdropping again? She’s a terrible eavesdropper. You’ll never be able to keep on help with a creature like that under your roof. And your mother—have you thought of your mother? She shall drop dead when you bring a variety hall actress home.” Snip—another headless stem.

  “I cannot allow you to speak of Miss Flax in that way.”

  “My, my. You have a heart after all, Lord Harrington. I did not think it possible. What a coup for Miss Flax. Isn’t it every actress’s dream to snare a wealthy aristocrat? I daresay I’ve read at least ten rubbishy novels to that effect.” Snip, snip, snip.

  Gabriel placed a gentle hand on Ivy’s shoulder. She went on snipping, now at spiny bare stalks. “Ivy—”

  “Miss Banks.” She flashed pearly teeth. “Now that our understanding has been terminated, you must refer to me as Miss Banks, and you mustn’t touch me—although I believe, Lord Harrington, this is the first time you have ever touched me, is it not?”

  He removed his hand.

  Ivy hacked at the tough central stalk of the butchered rose bush. She grabbed the stalk with one hand to steady it. “Oh!” She held out her hand. They both stared at the blood seeping through her cotton glove. “Papa would be so very angry if he saw me wearing these gloves.”

  “Please, Miss Banks, put the clippers away.”

  “Very well!�
�� She dropped the clippers and they clanged on the stone floor. She ground one of the roses beneath her heel—was it an accident?—before swishing silently past Gabriel.

  “Where are you going?” he called after her. His guts churned with guilt.

  “For a ride, I think. Perhaps along the river. It will be sublime under the full moon tonight.”

  “A ride? That would be madness, Miss Banks, riding in the dark—and it will be dark before too long. There are hunters abroad, rough woodsmen, the villagers—”

  “And the beast?” Ivy stopped, hand on doorknob. “What an imagination you have, Lord Harrington. No, I do not believe I could have lived with that. I am a lady who keeps to the facts but you, well, I was most disappointed to discover that you still believe in fairy stories.” She slipped out.

  Gabriel dashed outside but could not see where she’d gone; the side court was empty. How had she disappeared so quickly? Did she really mean to ride out into the falling dusk?

  From the front of the château came jeering voices, shattering glass, and the hollow boom of something heavy colliding with a door.

  * * *

  Gabriel ran to the front corner of the château and peered around it. A clump of men—a dozen or more—flowed up the front steps. Torches blazed. Dirty sap smoke puffed into the ever-deepening sky. One man wielded a pitchfork, another some sort of crude bludgeon, and others, hunting rifles. They all hooted as two burly forms battered their shoulders again and again against the front door. The door bowed and splintered; it would not hold for long.

  Gabriel dashed back the way he’d come and tried a side door. Locked. He stripped off his coat, wrapped it around his fist, and smashed a window, again and again until all the shards had been cleared. He shook out his coat, shrugged it back on, and climbed through.

  He found himself in the artillery gallery. He raced through dim corridors to the grand salon.