The Garden Intrigue pc-9

by Лорен Уиллиг

  “It’s too late now,” said Augustus. “The adverbs are out of the bag. Unless you’d like to pretend we never had this little conversation?”

  He was offering her the chance to eradicate all of it, including her careless confidences about the Bonaparte clan. That was the sort of thing that could be accounted treason these days. It took so little—a thoughtless word, an uncomplimentary comment about Bonaparte’s receding hairline—to bring one to the attention of the Ministry of Police. Was she really that naïve? Or was it simply that she considered herself protected?

  “No,” said Mme. Delagardie decidedly. “If we are to work together, we ought to deal plainly with each other. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

  “Yes?” The falsely casual tone of her words sent all of Augustus’s instincts humming. He had learned to be wary of one more things.

  Mme. Delagardie held up both hands. “Don’t look like that! It’s nothing dreadful.” She took a deep breath and then blurted it out. “Hadn’t you best call me Emma?”

  Chapter 13

  From the mixed-up files of Augustus B. Whittlesby: a correspondence tentatively dated between May and June of 1804. From the absence of any address on the back of the paper, it seems likely that these notes would have been delivered by hand, on Mr. Whittlesby’s side by a variety of convenient urchins (see dirt smudges), and on Mme. Delagardie’s by a footman with a taste for some sort of pastry involving powdered sugar.

  A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie

  Will I see you at Mme. Salpietre’s tonight? We can continue our discussion there.

  Cordially,

  A. Whittlesby

  E. Delagardie to A. Whittlesby

  You will call on me tomorrow afternoon, won’t you? I promise to supply the cakes if you bring a clean version of the first act. Mine is entirely scribbled over and interlined, and if even I can’t read it, how will our actors? I do like your idea of having our pirate king be a pirate queen instead. It will be just the role for Miss Meadows. She does like slashing about at people.

  On a note only somewhat related, if you won’t wear a jacket, at least fling on a cloak. I could see the goose pimples beneath your shirt last night at Mme. Salpietre’s salon. Admittedly, she stints on the coal, but even so. I should hate to lose my collaborator to something so pedestrian as a chill. Footpads, perhaps, or highwayman, or even a jealous husband, but a mere breeze? Decidedly passé.

  With warmest expressions of esteem,

  E. Delagardie

  A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie

  Am I to deduce from this that you care? Your solicitude warms my frozen flesh.

  If Mme. Salpietre weren’t too cheap to light proper fires, there would have been no such problem.

  I shall be there tomorrow without fail. Bring out your cakes.

  Warmly yours,

  Augustus

  E. Delagardie to A. Whittlesby

  For a man who makes his living by words, you are remarkably stingy with them in correspondence. I would feel quite neglected if I didn’t know you had used up all your ink composing a soliloquy for Americanus.

  I am, however, quite obdurate on this matter of external garments. If the temperature would deign to rise…if the wind would cease to blow…if the sun would shine past midnight. You can come up with all the excuses you like. I understand that poets are particularly prone to consumption. I am convinced it is entirely on account of the wardrobe.

  I don’t want you dying on me, you absurd man. Who else would supply me with adverbs? In case you’ve forgotten, we still have two-thirds of a masque to write.

  If you appear without a cloak, I shall be forced to take you shopping for one.

  Unconvinced,

  Emma

  A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie

  Have you never heard the adage of the pot and the kettle, my dear Mme. Preachiness? Having seen you last night in what can amount to no more than a whisper of gossamer and thistledown, I can only assume that you are deliberately courting consumption in order to establish your bona fides as a member of the poetic fraternity.

  By shopping…Is this an attempt to get me to carry your parcels again? I thought you had footmen for that.

  Augustus

  p.s. If it makes you feel better, I do own a perfectly serviceable cloak. If you require proof, I will even deign to wear it.

  E. Delagardie to A. Whittlesby

  Yes, it did make me feel better, even though you did look rather silly stalking through Saint-Germain on a sunny day all wrapped about in wool with only the top of your head showing. My footman thought you were there to rob the house and had to be soothed with a stiff brandy, even though we all faithfully assured him that highwaymen stalk highways, not private residences.

  Why do I suspect that on the next chilly night, you’ll be back to your shirtsleeves?

  I’ve had an idea about our masque. What do you think about having Americanus run off with the Pirate Queen instead? Cytherea, while lovely, seems a bit insipid. It would be a twist that no one would ever expect!

  Emma

  p.s. The package contains some of those currant cakes you like so much. Please eat them so I don’t.

  A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie

  Not if the Pirate Queen is played by Miss Meadows. This is meant to be a comedy, not a tragedy.

  A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie

  Please forgive the terse tone of my earlier missive. I wrote in haste and some horror. You were jesting, were you not? Let’s just say you were, for our mutual peace of mind and the good of mankind.

  Many thanks for the currant cakes. May I entice you to take some supper with me before the opera tonight? You need the feeding more than I do. Champagne, Mme. Delagardie, is not an adequate meal.

  Augustus

  E. Delagardie to A. Whittlesby

  Scold, scold, scold. I’ll mend my ways, my dear Mr. Whittlesby, when you mend yours. You’re quite wrong, you know. Champagne is a perfectly lovely supper and it doesn’t catch in your teeth when you’re trying to talk to people.

  Adele would be perfectly willing to play the Pirate Queen should you change your mind. She isn’t so keen on the poetry, but she’s quite eager to try her effect on the gentlemen in breeches. Her effect in breeches, that is. Not that the gentlemen wouldn’t be in breeches too. You know what I mean.

  All the arrangements have been made for Malmaison. We are to go up Wednesday along with the principles in the cast. Hortense has arranged for costumes, so all that will be left for us will be to make time for the final fittings in between rehearsals. The rest of the party arrive on Friday and the performance is to take place on Saturday night.

  Mr. Fulton faithfully promises to send us our wave maker by Wednesday afternoon so that Americanus might be beset by waves upon the treach’rous seas, or however it is we phrased it.My coach will call for you at eight on Wednesday.

  Yes, I do mean eight in the morning. There is one. I had no idea.

  In anticipation,

  Emma

  A. Whittlesby to E. Delagardie

  There is, I have heard, a little thing called sunrise, in which the sun reverses the process we all viewed the night before. You might assume such a thing as mythical as those beasts that guard the corners of the earth, but I have it on the finest authority, and have, indeed, from time to time, regarded it with my own eyes.

  While I am sure your Mme. de Treville would look very well in breeches, the entire premise behind the piece is the union of Americanus and France, in the person of Cytherea. What message does it send if Americanus runs off with a pirate queen instead? France’s feelings might be hurt. Hell hath no fury like a country scorned.

  Are you pleased with the script as it stands? (Or sits or lies?). Given the restraints, I’d say we’ve made quite a creditable job of it. I’ll say no more for fear of enraging the muses. We can gloat comfortably together in the privacy of your carriage tomorrow morning at that most uncomfortable hour.

  Eagerly,

 
Augustus

  p.s. I’ll bring my cloak if you bring more currant cakes.

  Chapter 14

  Sussex, England

  May 2004

  “Are you sure it’s okay?”

  “Huh?” I was still staring after Nigel Dempster. The stripes on his suit were too close together. A little like his eyes. Not like I was prejudiced or anything. It didn’t count as prejudice when it was true. “What?”

  Colin was not going to be happy when he heard that his sister’s snake of an ex was on the premises. Admittedly, Colin was already unhappy, but this was going to add a whole new level of awful to a week that was already shaping up to rival one of Dante’s inner circles of inferno. All we needed was a frozen lake and a few upside-down popes. And maybe some little demons with pitchforks.

  “About the computer,” said Cate. “That would be really great, if you’re sure it’s okay. There’s only one for the whole crew, and this sound guy keeps hogging it.”

  “Oh, right.” It had been only about five minutes since I had contrived my cunning plan to win over a member of the film crew with extra Internet access, but it felt much longer. Back then—before Dempster—I’d only been worried about people walking in on my shower and Colin going after Jeremy with a fish knife. This was just getting more fun by the moment.

  But none of it was Cate’s fault.

  “Of course, it’s fine,” I said, baring way too many teeth in an attempt to make amends for my abstraction. “Just don’t tell anyone else or we’ll have half the cast knocking down the door. Do you want to come with me now? I can show you where it is.”

  Cate fell into step beside me. “Thank you so much. I have a boyfriend at home, and this whole text thing—” Cate waved her phone in the air in illustration. “Well, it’s kind of limiting.”

  Listening to someone else’s relationship woes was preferable to trying to figure out how in the hell I was going to gently break to Colin that we had another crisis on our hands.

  Or telling him that I had only one month left to live—I mean, date.

  I made a sympathetic face at Cate. “How long have you been doing the transcontinental thing?”

  “Two weeks.” Cate regarded her mobile with disfavor. “It feels like longer.”

  “The whole time zone thing sucks, doesn’t it?” Colin and I had played that game when I was home in New York over Christmas.

  It’s funny I had no problem doing math when it involved historical dating, but apply it to time zones or the calculation of a tip and I was completely lost. Hence that two a.m. call that time. His two a.m., not mine. Unfortunately, Colin isn’t really a night owl. It was one of his few drawbacks as a boyfriend.

  Cate’s brown curls bobbed in affirmation. “I wouldn’t recommend it,” she said, and I couldn’t tell whether she was joking or not.

  My gut said not.

  My gut wasn’t a happy place. In one month, that would be me. Three months if I pushed it and stayed around for the summer. Our relationship would shrink to an hour at dinnertime—my dinnertime, his bedtime—and an amusing assortment of e-mail forwards, sent less for themselves and more as a placeholder, a shorthand for “Hi! I have nothing to say, but I’m thinking about you!”

  We would have less and less to say. Whatever they say about absence making the heart grow fonder, a relationship lies in the daily details, not the grand reunions. Right now, Colin and I were in the process of building up a foundation of shared memories.

  I don’t mean the major memories, the groundbreaking moments, but the little, everyday ones that, in their own weird way, last longer and mean more. When I thought about Colin, it wasn’t of our more dramatic encounters. I didn’t dwell on our almost kiss in a ruined monastery or his magnificent fury (okay, fine, so it was more like mid-level pissiness, but the other sounds better for posterity) at finding me going through his aunt’s papers. Instead, what I remembered was the solidness of his arm around me when I tripped on loose gravel in the pub parking lot, or the play of shadow on his face as he stood by the kitchen window, rinsing the dishes before loading them into the antiquated dishwasher.

  I liked that Colin, the domestic Colin. Our conversation was less and less about the big issues—politics, religion, the inherent inferiority of the Napoleonic regime—and more and more about whether it was a pub night or a home night, or the recurring debate about who left the lid off the toothpaste tube. (Hint: It wasn’t me.) I’d traded in my daydreams for domesticity. Maybe it sounds unromantic, but it had a solid feel to it. It was real.

  At least for now.

  “So what’s the deal with Dempster?” I asked my new best friend. “What does a historical consultant actually do?”

  “You mean other than demand more mineral water?” I got the feeling Dempster hadn’t exactly made himself popular with Cate. “And not that brand of mineral water, the other kind.”

  Her English accent was even worse than mine, but I got the point.

  “It’s not like he really even needs to be here,” she said, warming to her theme. “They mostly hired him to go over the script and make sure the historical—whatever—was right.”

  As someone who was a professional whatever-er, I decided to just nod rather than to take offense.

  “But he insisted that he had to be here, on set, from day one. Forget day one. Day zero. The bigwigs aren’t getting here until tonight. But, no, Mr. Mineral Water had to be here early.”

  “So that’s not normal practice, then,” I said. “Having the historical consultant on set.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” said Cate hastily. She flashed me a guilty grin. “And it’s not like I’d really know. I’m not really a movie person. I just got this job because—”

  “Right,” I filled in for her. “I remember. The cousin who knew someone.”

  “I’m starting at Columbia journalism school in the fall,” she said proudly. “I’m doing their broadcast program. They’re the only Ivy to have one.”

  “Congrats!” I channeled extra enthusiasm into it to hide the fact that my mind was decidedly elsewhere. “So your sense, though, is that the historical consultant wouldn’t usually need to be around at this point.”

  “That’s what I heard one of the guys on the crew saying.” She shook back her brown curls. “I wasn’t the only one he was trying to treat like his personal minion.”

  “He does do that,” I murmured.

  Dempster was the head archivist at a choice art collection in central London. Snooty, but not exactly lucrative. Dempster, as Cate had so aptly noted, did like the finer things in life. His cunning plan? To make his fortune by writing a muckraking, best-selling work of nonfiction about England’s greatest, undiscovered spy, the Pink Carnation. His efforts in that direction had been less than scrupulous, including dating Colin’s sister, Serena, in an attempt to worm his way into the family archives via Serena’s affections.

  Needless to say, that plan hadn’t gone very well.

  The last time I’d had the misfortune to meet Nigel Dempster was back in November. I had hoped—if I thought of him at all—that the intervening six months would have produced new get-rich-quick schemes. Ones without a Selwick component. His presence at Selwick Hall did not bode well.

  With a sick feeling, I remembered my disordered papers. Dempster had tried to steal my notes before. He had a very all’s-fair approach to scholarship, at least when it worked to his advantage.

  “Oh.” Cate drew back, looking alarmed. “Do you know him? I didn’t mean— That is, if you’re friends— I’d heard he knew someone connected to the family, but I didn’t realize…”

  “No!” I said quickly. “I mean, I do know him, but we’re not friends. I had to do some research in his archive a few months ago, that’s all.”

  Plus, he had screwed over my boyfriend’s sister, but it didn’t seem politic to mention that bit.

  “Phew.” Cate visibly relaxed. “I was afraid I’d really put my foot in it. Someone said he had a thing going with someone
connected to the family, and when you said…But you’re dating the cute, grumpy guy, so that wouldn’t make sense. Sorry.”

  The cute, grumpy guy. I liked that. I’d have to tell Colin later. And my friend Pammy, who had been watching the progress of the Colin affair from day one. We could call Colin CGG for short. Pammy was very big on the code names. Yes, we were secretly still fifth graders when it came to dealing with boys. I mean, men.

  Colin’s study was empty, the computer monitor tilted to the side. I held open the study door for Cate and waved her to precede me. “Someone connected to the family?”

  Cate lifted her hands in a gesture indicative of the mysterious ways of the office gossip chain. “The crew guys said that was how he got the job, through his girlfriend.”

  What was the screen doing tilted? Colin liked it facing dead ahead. It was one of the small things that drove him batty. He was also very picky about his paper-clip collection.

  I moved to draw the monitor back into place and saw something that made me pause.

  “Weird,” I said.

  “What is it?” Cate’s bouncy brown curls brushed my cheek as she leaned over my shoulder. “Is the Internet down?”

  “No. No worries.” I pushed abruptly away from the screen, nearly slamming into Cate. “I thought I’d closed out of my e-mail, but I guess I didn’t.”

  There was my webmail, open on the screen, maximized to its largest size. There was a smattering of new e-mails, distinguished by their darker font, including two with the heading “Re: 10B?”

  To anyone else, that wouldn’t mean anything at all. It might be an apartment number or a Chinese food entrée or a new address for Sherlock Holmes. Only Harvard history department cognoscenti would automatically translate that to Western Civ, Part II. Besides, Colin and I had an honor system. I didn’t go through his files—well, not after that last time—and he didn’t read my e-mail. It was all about trust.