‘Oh, it’s not the booze that’s making me look bad. It’s you. You underestimate your own skills, Élise.’
Maybe. Maybe not.
I also spent time writing to Father, reassuring him that my studies were continuing, and that I had ‘knuckled down’. When it came to writing to Arno, I paused.
And then I wrote that I loved him.
Never before had I written a letter of such affection to him, and when I signed off by telling him I hoped to see him soon – in the next couple of months or so – I had never written words more true in my life.
So what if my reasons for wanting to see him were selfish? That I see him as an escape from my everyday responsibilities, a ray of sunlight in the dark of my destiny? Does it matter when my only desire is to bring him happiness?
I have been called. Hélène informs me that a letter has arrived, which means it’s time for me to squeeze into a dress, go downstairs and find out what lies in store.
2 April 1788
i.
The day began with a panic.
‘We don’t think you should have a lady’s maid,’ said Mr Carroll.
The terrible trio stood in the reception hall of their house in Mayfair, regarding Hélène and me as we prepared to leave for our secret mission.
‘That’s quite all right with me,’ I said, and though I did of course feel a flutter of nerves at the thought of going alone I would at least have the advantage of not needing to worry about her.
‘No,’ said Mr Weatherall, coming forward. He shook his head emphatically. ‘She can invent a story about the family finding fortune. I don’t want her to go in there alone. It’s bad enough I can’t go with her.’
Mrs Carroll looked doubtful. ‘It’s one more thing she needs to remember. One more thing she needs to deal with.’
‘Mrs Carroll,’ growled Mr Weatherall, ‘with the greatest respect, that’s a right lot of poppycock. The role of a noble lady is one young Élise has been playing her entire life. She’ll be fine.’
Hélène and I stood patiently as our future was decided for us. Different in almost every other way, what she and I had in common was that other people decided our destinies for us. We were used to it.
And when they had finished our belongings were strapped to the roof of a carriage, and a coachman, an associate of the Carrolls we were assured could be trusted, took us across town to Bloomsbury, and an address at Queen Square.
ii.
‘It used to be called Queen Anne’s Square,’ the coachman had told us. ‘It’s just Queen Square now.’
He’d accompanied Hélène and me to the top of the steps and pulled the bell. As we waited I glanced around at the square, seeing two neat rows of white mansions side by side, very English. There were fields to the north and nearby a church. Children played in the highway, darting in front of carts and carriages, the street alive with life.
We heard footsteps then a great scraping of bolts. I tried to look confident. I tried to look like the person I was supposed to be.
Which was?
‘Miss Yvonne Albertine and her lady’s maid, Hélène,’ announced the coachman to the butler who opened the door, ‘to see Miss Jennifer Scott.’
In contrast to the life and noise behind us, the house felt dark and foreboding, and I fought a strong sense of not wanting to go in there.
‘Mademoiselle Scott is expecting you, mademoiselle,’ said the expressionless butler.
We walked into a large entrance hall, which was dark with wood panelling and closed doors leading off. The only light came from windows on a landing above and the house was quiet, almost deathly quiet. For a second or so I struggled to think what the atmosphere reminded me of, and then I remembered: it was like our chateau in Versailles in the days after Mother had died. That same sense of time standing still, of life carried out in whispers and silent footsteps.
I had been warned it would be like this: that Mademoiselle Jennifer Scott, a spinster in her mid-seventies, was somewhat … odd. That she had an aversion to people, and not just strangers or any specific type of person, but people. She maintained a skeleton staff at her house on Queen Square and for some reason – some reason the Carrolls had yet to reveal to me – she was very important to the English Templars.
Our coachman was excused, and then Hélène was whisked away, perhaps to go and stand awkwardly in a corner of the kitchen and be gawped at by the staff, the poor thing, and then, when it was just the butler and me left, I was led to the drawing room.
We entered a large room with drawn curtains; tall potted plants had been placed in front of the windows, deliberately, I presumed, to limit people looking in or out. Again, it was dingy and dark in the room. Sitting in front of a bimbling fire was the lady of the house, Mademoiselle Jennifer Scott.
‘Miss Albertine to see you, my lady,’ the butler said and then left without getting a reply, closing the door softly behind him, and leaving me alone with this strange lady who doesn’t like people.
What else did I know about her? That her father was the pirate Assassin Edward Kenway and her brother the renowned Templar Grand Master Haytham Kenway. I assumed it was their portraits on one wall: two similar-looking gentlemen, one wearing the robes of an Assassin and another in a military uniform that I took to be Haytham. Jennifer Scott herself had spent years on the Continent, a victim of the strife between Assassin and Templar. Though no one seemed to know exactly what had happened to her, there was no doubt she had been scarred by her experiences.
I was alone in the room with her. I stood there for some moments, watching her as she sat staring into the flames with her chin in her hand, preoccupied. I was just wondering whether I should clear my throat to get her attention or if perhaps I should simply approach and introduce myself, when the fire came to my rescue. It crackled and popped, startling her so that she appeared to realize where she was, lifting her chin slowly from her hand and looking at me over the rims of her spectacles.
I was told that she had once been a beauty, and truly the ghost of that beauty lingered around her, in features that remained exquisite and dark hair that was slightly unkempt and streaked with thick grey, like a witch. Her eyes were flinty, intelligent and appraising. I stood obediently and let her study me.
‘Come forward, child,’ she said at last, and indicated the chair opposite.
I took a seat and again was subject to a long stare.
‘Your name is Yvonne Albertine?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle Scott.’
‘You may call me Jennifer.’
‘Thank you, Mademoiselle Jennifer.’
She pursed her lips. ‘No, just Jennifer.’
‘As you wish.’
‘I knew your grandmother and your father,’ she said, and then waved her hand. ‘Well, I didn’t really “know” them as such, but I met them once in a chateau near Troyes in your home country.’
I nodded. The Carrolls had warned me that Jennifer Scott was likely to be suspicious and might try to test me. Here it came, no doubt.
‘Your father’s name?’ prompted Mademoiselle Scott, as though having trouble recalling it.
‘Lucio,’ I told her.
She raised a finger. ‘That’s right. That’s right. And your grandmother?’
‘Monica.’
‘Of course, of course. Good people. And how are they now?’
‘Passed, I am sad to say. Grandmother some years ago; father in the middle of last year. This visit – the reason I’m here – was one of his final wishes, that I should come to see you.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘I fear that things ended badly between my father and Mr Kenway, my lady.’
Her face remained impassive. ‘Remind me, child.’
‘My father wounded your brother.
‘Of course, of course.’ She nodded. ‘He stuck a sword in Haytham, didn’t he? How could I ever forget?’
You didn’t forget.
I smiled sadly. ‘It was perhaps his biggest regret. He said t
hat shortly before your brother lost consciousness he insisted on leniency for himself for him and grandmother.’
She nodded into her chest, hands grasped. ‘I remember, I remember. Terrible business.’
‘My father regretted it, even at the moment of death.’
She smiled. ‘What a shame he was not able to make the journey to tell me this himself. I would have reassured him that he had nothing to worry about. Many’s the time I wanted to stab Haytham myself.’
She stared into the jumping flames, her voice drifting as she was claimed by her memories. ‘Little squirt. I should have killed him when we were kids.’
‘You can’t mean that …’
She chuckled wryly. ‘No, I don’t suppose I can. And I don’t suppose what happened was Haytham’s fault. Not all of it anyway. She took a deep breath, fumbled for a walking cane that rested by the arm of her chair and stood.
‘Come, you must be tired after your journey from Dover. I shall show you to your room. I’m afraid to say that I am not one for socializing, and especially not when it comes to my evening meal, so you shall have to dine alone, but perhaps tomorrow we can walk the grounds, make each other’s acquaintance?’
I stood and curtsied. ‘I would like that very much,’ I said.
She gave me another look as we left for the bedchambers on the floor above. ‘You look very much like your father, you know,’ she said.
She meant Lucio, of course. I wondered about him, and whether I really did look like him, because one thing I’d realized about Jennifer Scott right away was that she was nobody’s fool.
‘Thank you, my lady.’
iii.
Later, when I had eaten, a meal that I took alone, waited upon by Hélène, I retired to my bedchamber in order to prepare for bed.
The truth was that I hated being fussed over by Hélène. I had long ago drawn the line at allowing her to dress and undress me, but she said she had to do something, just to make all those hours she spent listening to boring gossip below-stairs worthwhile, so I allowed her to lay out my clothes and fetch me a bowl of warm water for washing. In the evening I let her brush my hair, something I’d come to quite enjoy.
‘How’s everything going, my lady?’ she asked, doing it now, speaking in French but still in a lowered voice.
‘Everything is going well, I think. Did you happen to speak to Mademoiselle Scott at all?’
‘No, my lady, I saw her in passing and that was all.’
‘Well, you didn’t miss much. She’s certainly an odd character.’
‘A strange kettle of fish?’
That was one of Mr Weatherall’s expressions. We grinned at each other in the mirror.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘she certainly is a strange kettle of fish.’
‘Am I allowed to know what it is that Mr and Mrs Carroll want with her?’
I sighed. ‘Even if I knew, it would be best that you don’t.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘Not yet. Which reminds me, what is the time?’
‘Just coming up for ten, Mademoiselle Élise.’
I shot her a look, hissing, ‘It’s Mademoiselle Yvonne.’
She blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Mademoiselle Yvonne.’
‘Just don’t do that again.’
‘Sorry, Mademoiselle Yvonne.’
‘And now I must ask you to leave me.’
iv.
When she had gone, I went to my trunk stored beneath the bed, pulled it out, knelt and flicked the locks. Hélène had emptied it but she wasn’t aware of the false bottom. Beneath a fabric tab was a hidden catch and when I clicked it the panel came away to reveal the contents beneath.
Among them was a spyglass and a small signalling device. I fitted the candle to the signal, took the spyglass and went to the window where I opened the curtains just wide enough to look out into Queen Square.
He was across the road. Looking for all the world like a cab driver awaiting a fare, Mr Weatherall sat atop a two-wheeled carriage, the lower half of his face covered with a scarf. I gave the predetermined signal. He used his hand to mask the carriage light, giving his reply and then, with a glance left and right, unwound the headscarf. I brought the spyglass to my eye, so that I was able to see him clearly and lip-read as he said, ‘Hello, Élise,’ then brought a spyglass to his own eye.
‘Hello,’ I mouthed in return.
Thus we had our silent conversation.
‘How is it going?’
‘I am in.’
‘Good.’
‘Please be careful, Élise,’ he said, and if it was possible to inject real concern and emotion into a lip-reading conversation held in the dead of night then Mr Weatherall managed it.
‘I will be,’ I said. Then I withdrew to sleep and to puzzle over my purpose in this strange place.
6 April 1788
i.
Much time has passed and there is much to tell you about the events of the last few days. My sword has tasted blood for the second time, only this time it was wielded by me. And I have discovered something – something which, reading my journal back, I really should have known all along.
But let’s begin at the beginning.
‘I wonder if I might be seeing Miss Scott this morning for breakfast?’ I’d asked a footman on the morning of our first full day. His eyes darted, then he exited wordlessly, leaving me with alone with the fusty smell of the dining room and a stomach that churned, as it seemed to every morning. The long, empty breakfast table stretched out before me.
Mr Smith the butler materialized in the footman’s place, closing the door behind him, then gliding to where I sat with my breakfast.
‘I am sorry, mademoiselle,’ he said with a short bow, ‘but Miss Scott is taking breakfast in her room this morning as is occasionally her custom, especially when she is feeling a little under the weather.’
‘Under the weather?’
He smiled thinly. ‘An expression meaning not altogether fit and well. She asks that you make yourself at home and hopes that she will join you at some point later today in order to continue making your acquaintance.’
‘I should like that very much,’ I said.
We waited, Hélène and I. We spent the morning wandering around the mansion, like two people conducting an unusually detailed viewing. There was no sign of Mademoiselle Scott. In the second half of the morning we retired to the drawing room where the years of sewing at the Maison Royale were at last put into practice. There was no still no sign of our host.
And, further, there was not a peep during the afternoon when Hélène and I took a walk around the grounds. She failed to make an appearance at dinner, too, and once again I dined alone.
My annoyance began to grow. When I thought of the risks I had taken getting here – the ugly scenes with Madame Levene, the deception of my father and Arno. My purpose in being here was to find Ruddock, not to spend days struggling to look competent at sewing and being a virtual prisoner of my host – and still no nearer knowing exactly what I was supposed to be doing here.
I retired and then later, at eleven o’clock, signalled Mr Weatherall again.
This time I mouthed to him, ‘I’m coming out,’ and watched his face register panic as he frantically mouthed back, ‘No, no,’ but I had already disappeared from the casement, and of course he knew me too well. If I said I was coming out, then I was coming out.
I pulled an overcoat over my nightdress, slipped my feet into slippers, then crept down to the front door. Very, very quietly, I drew back the bolts, then let myself out and darted across the road to his carriage.
‘You’re taking a big risk, child,’ he said crossly, but still, I was pleased to see, unable to hide his pleasure at seeing me.
‘I haven’t seen her all day,’ I told him quickly.
‘Really?’
‘No, and I’ve had to spend the entire day wandering around, like a particularly disinterested peacock. Perhaps if I knew what I was supposed to be doing here, then I might have
been able to get on with it, complete my mission and leave this awful place.’ I looked at him. ‘It’s bloody torture in there, Mr Weatherall.’
He nodded, suppressing a grin at my use of his English curse word. ‘All right, Élise. Well, as it happens, they told me today. You’re to recover letters.’
‘What sort of letters?’
‘The writing sort. Letters written by Haytham Kenway to Jennifer Scott before his death.’
I looked at him. ‘Is that it?’
‘Isn’t that enough? Jennifer Scott is the daughter of an Assassin. The letters were written to her by a high-ranking Templar. The Carrolls want to know what they say.’
‘Seems like a fairly long-winded way of finding out.’
‘A previous agent placed on to the house staff failed to come up with the goods. All they managed to establish was that wherever the letters were stored it wasn’t in some obvious and easy-to-reach place. Miss Scott isn’t keeping them in a pretty bow in a writing bureau somewhere. She’s hidden them.’
‘And in the meantime?’
‘Ruddock, you mean? The Carrolls tell me that their people are making enquiries.’
‘They assured us they were making enquiries weeks ago.’
‘These things don’t happen quickly.’
‘They’re happening too slowly for my liking.’
‘Élise …’ he warned.
‘It’s all right, I won’t do anything stupid.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘You’re in a dangerous enough position as it is. Don’t do anything else to make it worse.’
I gave him a peck on the cheek, stepped out of the carriage and dashed back across the road. Letting myself quietly in, I stood for a second, getting my breath – then realized I was not alone.
He stepped out of the gloom, his face in the shadows. Mr Smith the butler. ‘Miss Albertine?’ he said quizzically, head on one side, eyes flashing in the dark, and for a disquieted second I forgot that I was Yvonne Albertine of Troyes.
‘Oh, Mr Smith,’ I spluttered, gathering my overcoat round me. ‘You startled me. I was just –’
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