02 The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

"Nevertheless, I'd welcome a chance to talk with him," the Duke said. "Unfortunately, that wouldn't be possible, even if he were still in Paris." He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned unhappily. "There are still Bonapartists in Europe, you know, and not just in France. Also, some of our allies are not happy with the current state of affairs. They don't want France back on her feet—though it will take years to accomplish that—and they would welcome an excuse to arrange matters more to their liking. If I open any sort of official investigation, it will only encourage the lot of them."

  "Are you perhaps hinting at the possibility of an unofficial investigation?" Lady Sylvia asked. "The sort of thing Thomas used to do?"

  "Exactly." He looked from me to James.

  James sat back with a look of resignation. "You want us to hunt up Harry Strangle and ask him your questions."

  "And to keep an eye open for anything else that might have to do with the stolen regalia," His Grace said, nodding. "You're on your wedding tour; you've the perfect excuse to travel wherever you like on a whim. And you've already stumbled across one part of the scheme—if it is a scheme."

  "My wife has a knack for that sort of stumble," James murmured.

  "The chrism was delivered to Lady Sylvia," I pointed out. "And if you hadn't made me stay behind, merely because I was indisposed during our passage to Calais—"

  "Yes, I know," James said. "But if you'd come out with me, something else would have happened."

  "Very likely," Lady Sylvia said. "But that only makes you a better choice for this." She looked back at the Duke of Wellington. "I assume you mean to include Thomas and his bride as well? They really should have been here, but unfortunately the numbers would not allow it."

  "Yes, of course," the Duke said with only the barest hesitation. "Thomas has amply demonstrated his flair for finding things out."

  "As has my daughter-at-law," Lady Sylvia said gently. "Is there any more you can tell us? There are rather a lot of ancient royal objects in Europe, one way and another. It would take months just to cross France, if one were to stop to look into all of them."

  "Like Papa's antiquities," I said without thinking.

  "Your father is interested in antiquities?" the Duke said, frowning once more. "Of what sort?"

  "Illegible, mostly," James said. "But it might not be a bad idea to consult him. There may be some less obvious connection between these missing items that he could explain for us."

  The Duke's frown deepened. "I can't have more rumors starting. If you are willing to begin this venture, you must manage it as you see fit—but there can be no mention of my name or anything remotely official."

  "That does make it more difficult," James said.

  I could not help myself. I sniffed. "That is because you do not know how Papa gets when something interests him," I said. "It is the simplest task imaginable. I will write him a letter, complaining that we could not visit Sainte Chapelle because of the break-in, and I will mention the other thefts in connection with that, as events that are public knowledge—they are public knowledge?" I said, looking at the Duke.

  "All except the chrism," he said.

  "So I will mention the thefts, and ask him what he makes of it," I went on. "And if I do not get a five-page response detailing the history of every item and its uses, with references going back to Ancient Greece—well, then I do not know Papa. I shall have to think of a tactful way to tell him not to cross his lines," I added thoughtfully. "His handwriting is hard enough to read as it is."

  "I shall leave it to you, my dear," James said.

  "I see the matter is in capable hands," His Grace said gallantly. "I'll send you a packet of information tomorrow. I need not tell you to take care with it."

  "No," James agreed.

  Our talk became more general, and Lady Sylvia let her muffling spell fade. Though James and I took the second hand, the Duke and Lady Sylvia won the third, and the game. I should have liked to go in search of Kate and Thomas directly, but upon reflection I thought it might attract just the sort of attention the Duke of Wellington wished to avoid, so I spent the remainder of the evening filling in wherever I was needed to make up the numbers.

  The day after the card party, we all slept very late. I spent the early part of the afternoon writing my letter to Papa. Lady Sylvia explained the Duke of Wellington's request to Kate and Thomas, who agreed at once, and Thomas and James set about making preparations to leave Paris.

  Later, Thomas took Lady Sylvia's spell over to the Duke of Wellington, and stayed only a little longer than might be expected of an old military acquaintance. I sent my letter off to Papa, with instructions to reply to the consulate in Milan. Reardon and Walker packed, while James made sure that the carriages we had hired would indeed be ready next day.

  And so, on the second morning after Lady Sylvia's card party, we bade Lady Sylvia a fond farewell. Amid many promises to write—and to send any confidential information via the system of knitting she had shown us—we left Paris, heading toward the Alps.

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  18 September 1817

  Paris

  At Lady Sylvia's house

  We leave Paris in two hours. Thomas and I said our farewells to Lady Sylvia last night, for we could not do them justice in this whirlwind of packing and hauling. I shall miss Lady Sylvia dreadfully, not least because she has a genius for comfortable travel. Thomas assures me that he has inherited her genius. I only hope it may be true.

  Given the importance of our mission and the urgency of our journey, it is shameful for me to be so reluctant to leave Paris. I dare confess it only here in these pages, but my chief regret is The Barber of Seville. Thomas was to take me next Saturday and now I may never see it. I may never see true opera again. This is not the sort of thing I am willing to be seen to sulk over, so I will pretend I have forgotten about it as thoroughly as Thomas has. Indeed, I hope this will prove one of those occasions in which pretending to forget will lead to forgetfulness in truth. It was only Rossini, after all. We have had our Mozart, and that is what matters.

  The Alps

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  25 September 1817

  Martigny

  At the Angel

  Our journey has been blessedly uneventful so far. Lady Sylvia took council with her friends, and it was determined that our safest route will be south and east and through the pass of Great Saint Bernard, then on to Milan via Aosta. Many of the purchases we made in Paris were unnecessary for the expedition (I do not mean the clothes, obviously. Those are essential.) so they remained safely with Lady Sylvia at her house. We have a great deal of baggage just the same, but, fortunately, a great deal of baggage is necessary to keep up the fiction that we are merely on our wedding journey. This means that when we arrive anywhere, we do so with great fuss and complete lack of speed, factors that apply even more forcibly when we depart. I have grown hardened to the staring and pointing that goes on, and try to take comfort from the fact that to those who point and stare, our progress may be the only entertainment provided in a twelvemonth.

  Tonight Thomas and James spent the entire evening telling us stories about their experiences with mules. If mules are truly as cunning and difficult as they say, I may never see the other side of the Alps at all.

  29 September 1817

  Aosta

  At the Grapevine

  When it comes to marveling at wonderful scenery, I am well able to do my part. I always knew home was flat, in the geographic sense of the word, not just socially. But I truly had no idea how flat until I'd seen the alternative. I have a fondness for rolling hills. They seem quite scenic enough for me, pretty to look at and no trouble to stroll about upon. But I had no notion how high a hill could get without becoming a mountain. By the time we came in view of true mountains, my respect for them was evenly divided between awe at their stark beauty and horror that we would be obliged to march through them.

  These emotions were
already sharp when the Alps were a dreamlike scrap of white in the extreme distance. At first it was possible to convince myself I was imagining that whiteness, misconstruing a cloud into a mountain. As our journey continued, it became impossible to miss the slopes and summits we neared. Then it became impossible to think of anything else. As the mountains grew ever nearer through the dogged haste we made, my trepidation only deepened.

  The afflictions of travel are many, and vary by the season. So far, my least favorite affliction is mud. Cold feet are a given. Wet feet are almost inevitable. Cold, wet, muddy feet cause not only discomfort, but the spread of dirt and disorder as well. Worst of all, to deal with muddy boots requires someone get his hands dirty. I detest getting my hands dirty. So I am usually detestably cross in the coach, for I have mud on my cold, wet boots, mud on the hem of my skirt, mud on the hem of my petticoat, and mud on my hands. Yes, I do have gloves when I set out each morning, but one is soon soaked and by midafternoon the other has a tendency to vanish as completely as if it had melted. I do not know what becomes of my gloves. One would think there must be a mountain of them by now, wherever it is they go when they disappear.

  At the end of each day's journey, our routine is the same. We descend upon the night's lodgings in force. Thomas and Piers deal with the host first, demanding adequate accommodation be provided, and then James and his man take over, all reason and toleration, to smooth the demands into requests and make sure all is bestowed securely. Only the necessary luggage is unloaded. Our rooms, such as they are, are rendered as comfortable as hasty application of firewood and hot water can make them. We sleep too many to a bed, but that just helps us endure the cold. With Reardon's help, I have been able to stay fairly clean and fairly presentable. I make no claim beyond that.

  Cecy is in high spirits, now that James is back to full strength. If anything, the two of them spend even more time in one another's company than before. Some days she rides in the carriage, but most days she is on horseback. When inclement weather drives her to choose travel with me, she has with her a book Lady Sylvia gave her. When the carriage is stopped, she ignores the delay and reads attentively. From time to time, she shares a paragraph with us, from which I gathered that Napoleon's feat in crossing the Alps paled in comparison with the Romans', who had been up and down these mountain passes more often than I have been up and down the back stairs at home. At first I found that a comforting thought, but as we ascended into the heights, my respect for the Romans increased. Imagine marching through such terrain wearing sandals. It doesn't bear thinking of.

  There is one advantage to traveling in the mountains. When one shares the carriage with others, what seems unacceptably crowded in more clement conditions becomes comfortingly cozy. On those rare days when even Thomas chooses the carriage, I grow quite fond of the way he warms me, even through his heaviest coat. Fortunately for me, done up to my eyebrows as I am in my own heavy wraps, the press in the coach not only keeps me warm, it keeps me from all but the worst of the jostling when the going grows rough. Reardon has a deft way with a hot brick, so my feet are often nearly warm, at least early in the day.

  Given that Thomas is in charge of our party, I see less of him than I am used to, and when he comes up to what passes for my room, it is only to be sure I have everything I need, and to see for himself that the place is dry, if not warm.

  One night he drew me aside as we were all waiting for dinner to be served. "Your hands are cold."

  My feet were much worse, but I merely said, "I know. Yours, too."

  For some time we stood in silence while he held my hands in his. "Two rooms for the lot of us." He looked disgusted. "I shall be glad when this is behind us. It isn't what I planned, lurching across bad roads all day and huddling en masse in a rabbit hutch all night."

  "I'm grateful for two rooms. Isn't Piers sleeping in the stable?"

  Thomas scowled. "He'd better not sleep. I put him there to keep an eye on the horses."

  "Poor man."

  My hands were warm by then, but Thomas still held them. He looked at me in a particular way.

  "You're too tired, and so am I," I said reluctantly, "even if we had any privacy."

  Thomas looked deeply affronted, but his weariness was proven when he didn't say anything at all.

  On 26 September we reached a village called Bourg-Saint-Pierre, where Thomas and James engaged mules for us. The next morning, it was still dark when, all arrangements made, we sallied forth from the inn as the procession of mules arrived. Harness bells are used most liberally in this part of the world, and even if was too dark for us to see it very well, the mules' arrival sounded as festive as Morris dancers.

  "You haven't said much," Thomas observed, as we watched James give Cecy a leg up. Once she was in the saddle, James checked every detail of mule and tack for the second time. It was a dauntingly thorough performance. "You aren't worried, are you?"

  "Me? No." Yes. I couldn't admit it, but I found the idea of riding along precipice after precipice, to the point of exhaustion and beyond, an alarming one. I kept quiet while Thomas helped me up on my allotted mule. Once my feet were safe in the stirrups, riding a mule is exactly like riding a horse. Except for the precipices.

  "I'll lead your mule, if you like."

  I accepted Thomas's offer gratefully. Not only would it make me feel more secure, it might keep him from doing something daft, should the mood strike.

  Thomas called Piers over and explained the situation. At once, suitable equipment was found, and my mule was safely moored to Thomas's. There is something about mules. They look much less kindly than horses do, more critical, and something about the way they look down their noses reminds me of Aunt Charlotte.

  "Don't laugh, Kate. This is a serious business," Thomas warned me.

  "Yes, I know." When I am frightened, on occasion a silly streak comes over me, a useless impulse to laugh. Not only is this impulse utterly unhelpful, it is most unbecoming. I do try to fight it. But between my apprehension and the thought of Aunt Charlotte, I had to fight to keep a straight face. It wasn't just the mules that made me want to laugh. We all looked utterly absurd. By the time we were all mounted, the quantity of fabric in our coats and skirts made the mules look as if they'd been badly upholstered. Every move the mules made rang their festive harness bells. We might have been a band of tinkers, we had such a holiday air, waiting for the signal to begin our procession.

  Before the hairy, glum-looking man in charge of our mules gave the signal to depart, he and his helpers busied themselves stuffing rags into the bells and tying the bits of cloth in place. The sound of bells dwindled and died.

  "What are they doing that for?" I asked.

  "We travel snow-covered mountains. The slopes are steep, and even at this season the snow is deep and treacherous up there," Thomas murmured. "Any sharp noise could trigger an avalanche. They are muffling the bells to make sure that we don't bring anything unpleasant down upon our heads."

  "Oh, dear." Any desire to laugh was utterly quenched by the thought of such a disaster. Bad enough to be cold and wet. To be buried beneath a mountain's worth of snow would be horrid. Such a fate could only be made even more unpleasant by the reflection that one's own foolish noise had brought the catastrophe down upon oneself.

  "Quite so." Thomas seemed pleased by the sobering effect this had on me.

  I resolved to be as quiet as possible, no matter how alarming the journey ahead.

  Once we left the village, I made it a point never to look down at the trail we followed. Just looking out and up made me quite dizzy enough. At times our path was so ridiculously narrow, I could not envision how my mule could proceed in safety. I must have looked quite terrified, for once when Thomas looked back to see how I did, he drew rein to come near enough to speak softly to me.

  "If you lean outward, the mule leans in. It makes him less likely to slip over the edge."

  I gasped at the audacity of this advice. "Truly?"

  Incorrigibly honest, T
homas shrugged. "I don't know. It's what they told me in Spain. I never saw any of those mules go over, or even come close. Of course, the terrain is a bit steeper here."

  No ice or snow in Spain, either. I thought it over. "I'll just carry on as I am."

  "Good idea. You're doing wonderfully."

  We were in the icy grip of the Pass of Great Saint Bernard by midday. Stone and shadows are what I remember of it. Even at the height of summer, I think the sun must never truly warm the depths of that pass. I never knew there were so many shades of blue and gray as those I found in the shadows on the snow, yet I found no beauty whatsoever in the sight. To me, it was a terrible place, bleak and ugly, where man was never meant to go. I was too frightened to perceive even a trace of that sublime beauty that finer souls drink in. Such heights are mere desolation to my eyes, and the only way I knew I had a soul was that I found myself praying for our delivery from danger, for a quiet spot by a decent fireside, and for a nice cup of tea.

  By the end of the long day, we had gained the relative safety of the Hospice of the Great Saint Bernard. This sanctuary provided us with the simplest of food and drink, but it was a vital respite from the dangers of our journey. We were shown by one of the resident monks into one large chamber, heated by a fire that smoked persistently. I cared nothing for a bit of smoke. We were out of the wind and off the mules. I was so tired, I remember only the play of flickering light and shadow on the vaulted ceiling before I fell asleep.

  From the deposition of Mrs. James Tarleton, &c.

  Thanks to Lady Sylvia's generosity with her horses, the journey from Paris was extremely pleasant, for me, at least. Kate has never shared my love of riding, and chose to keep to the carriage, but so long as the weather remained fine, I much preferred traveling on horseback alongside the carriages with James to sitting mewed up inside studying the books on magic and history that Lady Sylvia had pressed upon me before we left. I did my best to make up for my neglect of my magical training in the evenings and on the occasional rainy day, but I did not make as much progress as I could have wished. Our accommodations were too cramped and too public.