A sound suspiciously like a snort emerged from the chair to my right.
“As much as any two persons of strong temperament could,” Mrs. Selwick-Alderly continued. “There is still a stain on the upholstery of one of the dining room chairs from a decanter of claret that Amy emptied over Richard’s head one night.”
“He complained that she hadn’t used a better vintage,” Colin put in through a mouthful of chocolate-covered biscuit.
“He should have thought of that before he provoked her,” I suggested.
“Maybe that was why he did it,” riposted Colin. “Get the bad wine out of the way.”
Something in that struck me as logically flawed, but I was too headachy to isolate it. “He could have just drunk it.”
“Like last night?” Colin murmured, with a smile that invited me to share in his amusement.
I pointedly turned my attention to my tea.
Resting both elbows on the armrest of his chair, Colin tilted towards me and asked, “Now that you’ve found what you’re looking for, will you be returning to the States?”
“Certainly not!” He could be a little less obvious about wanting to be rid of me, I thought indignantly. “I have hundreds of questions that still need to be answered—Jane Wooliston, for example. Did she remain the Pink Carnation?”
I fixed Colin with a sharp look; I hadn’t forgotten his aborted “You think the Pink Carnation is Amy?” He could have just told me that it was Jane who eventually became the Pink Carnation instead of letting me find out for myself this morning, as I slogged through the last of the manuscripts. But, no, that would have been too helpful.
I wasn’t taking any chances this time. “Is Jane the one who stops the Irish rebellion and helps Wellington in Portugal, or is it someone else using the same name?”
“Oh, it’s Jane all right,” Colin acknowledged affably.
“What else did you want to know, my dear?” asked Mrs. Selwick-Alderly.
There had been an intriguing tidbit in the last letter I had read, a letter from Amy to Jane (Jane was back in Paris by then) dated just after Amy’s wedding. Rather than letting their spying skills go to waste, Amy proposed opening a school for secret agents, based at Lord Richard’s estate in Sussex. But it had only been mentioned in passing, and might, like so many of Amy’s plans, never have come to fruition. Still, it didn’t hurt to inquire. . . .
“The spy school,” I asked eagerly, “did it actually happen?”
“Look,” Colin broke in, sitting up straight, “this is all very interesting, but—”
“The best description of the spy school was written by Henrietta,” contributed Mrs. Selwick-Alderly placidly.
“Lord Richard’s little sister?”
“The very same. Richard was furious with her, and insisted she leave it at Selwick Hall. They were doing their best to keep word of the spy school from getting around, you see.”
“Is it here?” After all, there were all those other papers in the trunk. The manuscripts that I had been given were a mere fraction of the folios and manuscript boxes I had glimpsed inside the trunk two days ago. They could just be nineteenth-century laundry lists, but . . .
“All of the papers relating to the spy school”—Mrs. Selwick-Alderly tilted her head towards Colin—“are still at Selwick Hall.”
“They’re in very poor condition,” Colin countered.
“I’ll follow proper library procedure,” I promised. “I’ll wear gloves and use weights and keep them away from sunlight.”
If he wanted, I would wear a full-body hazard suit, disinfect my eyelashes, and dance counterclockwise around a bonfire under the full moon. Anything to be allowed access to those manuscripts. I could deal with talking him into letting me publish the information later.
“Our archives”—Colin dropped his teaspoon onto his saucer with a definitive clatter—“have never been open to the public.”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “Haven’t we had this conversation before?”
Colin’s lips reluctantly quirked into a faint echo of a smile. “I believe it was a letter, actually. At any rate,” he added in a far more human tone, “you’ll find Selwick Hall an inconvenient trip from London. We’re miles from the nearest station, and cabs aren’t easy to come by.”
“You’ll just have to stay the night, then,” said Mrs. Selwick-Alderly as though it were a foregone conclusion.
Colin gave his aunt a hard look.
Mrs. Selwick-Alderly gazed innocently back.
I very carefully lowered my teacup into my saucer. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“In that case—”
“But if it wouldn’t be too much of a bother,” I rushed on, “I’d be very grateful for the opportunity to see those papers. You wouldn’t have to entertain me. You can just point me to the archives and you won’t even know I’m there.”
“Hmm,” expressed what Colin thought about that.
I couldn’t blame him. As someone who likes her own space, I wouldn’t much like to be saddled with a weekend houseguest either.
“I’ll even do my own dishes. Yours, too,” I threw in as an additional incentive.
“That won’t be necessary,” Colin replied dryly. “I’ll be there this weekend,” he continued, “but you must already have plans. Why don’t we meet for drinks sometime next week, and I can summarize—”
Trying to fob me off with drinks, was he? I put an end to that.
“No plans at all,” I countered cheerfully. Pammy would understand why I was ditching our Saturday shopping spree—at least, she would if I mentioned Serena’s surprisingly hot brother rather than nineteenth-century manuscript material. “Thank you so much for the invitation.”
It hadn’t really been an invitation. He knew it. I knew it. Undoubtedly, Mrs. Selwick-Alderly and the portrait miniatures in my lap knew it, too. But once the words were out of my mouth, there was little he could do to deny them without seeming rude. Thank heavens for social conventions.
Colin tried another tack. “I was planning to drive down this afternoon, but I imagine you’ll need—”
“I can be packed in an hour.”
“Right.” Colin’s lips tightened as he levered himself out of his chair. “I’ll just go and make the arrangements, then, shall I? Can you be ready to leave at four?”
The answer he was clearly hoping for was “no.”
“Absolutely,” I chirped.
I recited my address for him. Twice. Just so he couldn’t claim he had been waiting outside the wrong building, or something like that.
“Right,” he repeated. “I’ll be outside at four.”
“Till then!” I called after his retreating back. Amazing the way the prospect of a treasure trove of historical documents can cure a hangover. My head still hurt, but I no longer cared.
In the hallway, a door slammed.
That did not bode well for our weekend.
Rising, Mrs. Selwick-Alderly began to gather up the tea things. I leaped up to help her, but she waved me away.
“You”—she wagged a teaspoon at me—“should be packing.”
Over my protests, she herded me towards the door.
“I look forward to hearing the results of your researches when you return,” she said firmly.
I murmured the appropriate responses, and started towards the stairs.
“And Eloise?” I paused on the top step to look back. “Don’t mind Colin.”
“I won’t,” I assured her breezily, waved, and continued on my way.
Manuscripts, manuscripts, manuscripts, I sang to myself. But despite my cavalier words to Mrs. Selwick-Alderly, I couldn’t help but wonder. A two-hour drive to Sussex—could we make polite conversation for that long? And then two nights under the same roof, two days in the same house.
It was going to be an interesting weekend.
Historical Note
At the end of any historical novel, I’m always plagued with wondering which bits really happened. Richar
d and Amy’s exploits, along with the whole host of flower-named spies, are, alas, purely fictional. Napoleon’s plans for an invasion of England were not. As early as 1797, he had his eye on the neighboring coastline. “Our government must destroy the British monarchy . . . That done, Europe is at our feet,” Napoleon schemed. Even during the short-lived Peace of Amiens (the truce that enabled Amy to join her brother in France), Napoleon continued to amass flat-bottomed boats to convey his troops to England. In April 1803, on the eve of the collapse of the peace, Napoleon sold Louisiana to the United States to raise money for the invasion—a more reliable method of fund-raising than bullying Swiss bankers.
As for the Bonapartes and their hangers-on, while caricatured a bit (something of which Amy’s beloved news sheets would no doubt approve), they have been drawn largely from life; Napoleon’s court boasts a rich collection of contemporary memoirs and a mind-boggling assortment of modern biographies. Josephine’s extravagances, Napoleon’s abrupt entrances to his wife’s salons, Pauline’s incessant affairs—all were commonplaces of Napoleonic Paris. Georges Marston’s drinking buddy, Joachim Murat, suffered a tumultuous marriage to Napoleon’s sister Caroline; Josephine’s daughter Hortense took English lessons at the Tuilleries until her tutor was dismissed on suspicion of being an English spy; and Beau Brummel really was that interested in fashion.
In the interest of the story, some rather large liberties were taken with the historical record. Napoleon inconsiderately sacked Joseph Fouché and abolished the Ministry of Police in 1802. Both were reinstated in 1804—a year too late for the purposes of this novel. But no novel about espionage in Napoleonic Paris could possibly be complete without Fouché, the man who created Napoleon’s spy network and cast terror into the hearts of a whole generation of Frenchmen and English spies. In addition to rehiring Fouché a year too early, I also made him the gift of an impressive new Ministry of Police on the Ile de la Cité. No existing building possessed an extra-special interrogation chamber ghastly enough for Gaston Delaroche.
I also rearranged England’s secret service a bit. During the Napoleonic Wars, espionage was coordinated through a subdepartment of the Home Office called the Alien Office—not the War Office. Given the strong fictional tradition of ascribing dashing spies to the War Office, I just couldn’t bring myself to have Richard and Miles reporting to the Alien Office. I could picture the wrinkled brows, the raised eyebrows, and the confused “Shouldn’t he be going to the War Office? Where do aliens come into it? I didn’t know this was that kind of book!” As a compromise solution, while I call it the War Office, any actual personnel, buildings, or practices described in conjunction with Richard’s and Miles’s work really belong to the Alien Office. For the little-known story of the Alien Office and much more, I am deeply in debt to Elizabeth Sparrow’s wonderful book, Secret Service: British Agents in France 1792–1815, which is, essentially, Eloise’s dissertation. Eloise, however, is not jealous, since she a) has that fabulous scoop about the Pink Carnation, and b) is fictional.
Readers Guide
A conversation with Lauren Willig
Q. Where did you get the idea for The Secret History of the Pink Carnation?
A. Baroness Orczy used to say that the Scarlet Pimpernel strolled up to her one day at a Tube stop. My introduction to the Purple Gentian was far less dramatic. After years of exposure to the Scarlet Pimpernel and his swashbuckling brethren, it occurred to me that the Pimpernel and Zorro and all those other masked men really had it way too easy. Their plans were seldom foiled; they always landed on their feet when swinging through windows; and, for the most part, their heroines stayed out of the way, cheering from the sidelines. Clearly, this state of affairs couldn’t be allowed to continue. I set about plotting mayhem, and quickly decided that an enemy would be an insufficient obstacle to fling into my suave spy’s path. Enemies were too simple, too easy. I would bedevil my hero, not with an enemy, but with an unwanted ally. A strong-minded heroine set on unmasking him—so she can help him. It was every spy’s worst nightmare. Once that crucial question was resolved, the plot rapidly fell into place. Napoleon’s interest in antiquities and the archaeological aspect of the Egyptian expedition provided a cover for my hero, and the guillotine a motive for my heroine. After that, however, the characters pushed me aside and took over. Richard flatly refused to swing into rooms on a rope, and the smuggling subplot, which was originally accorded a much larger role, all but disappeared. As for Jane . . . let’s just say that Jane was originally supposed to be meek and mild.
Q. Why did you pick this particular time period?
A. When I was ten, one of the inevitable Napoleon and Josephine miniseries aired on television. Enthralled, I badgered my father, a former historian, for books on the topic. He replied with a pile of heavy tomes. They might be dusty on the outside, but on the inside, they teemed with color and intrigue. I laughed over Josephine’s pug dog biting Napoleon on their wedding night and cried over the unhappy marriage of Josephine’s daughter to Napoleon’s brother. I even named all of the guppies from my fifth grade science project after Napoleon’s numerous relations. Although the guppies long ago departed for that great fishbowl in the sky, my interest in the Napoleonic Wars has remained, from the English side as well as the French. With Waterloo so firmly fixed in our imaginations, sometimes it’s hard to remember that the threat of French domination seemed a very real thing to contemporaries, as gallant little England held out alone against the growing forces of France (England’s Continental allies showed a distressing habit of surrendering every time Napoleon defeated them in battle). It was a time of flux and turmoil, as England reacted to the shocking news and ideas pouring across the Channel, fearing rebellion within as well as invasion without. Uncertainty and upheaval may not make for comfortable living, but they provide great fodder for both historians and novelists.
Q. You’re in graduate school and law school, and yet still find time to write novels. How do you juggle?
A. It helps that I have very poor television reception. Aside from the lack of distractions, it all comes down to what I think of as the Theory of Productive Procrastination. It’s a sad fact of human nature—or, at least, my nature—that one never wants to do what one is actually supposed to do. The minute I undertake a task, I would instantly rather be doing something else. Laundry, for example, or cleaning out the bottom of the closet. Writing The Secret History of the Pink Carnation gave me something to do while avoiding working on my dissertation. Of course, the dissertation still needed to get done, so I had to add on law school. In comparison with doing my torts homework, the dashing Royalists who form the subject of my dissertation suddenly took on a renewed allure. And to get myself to do my law school homework . . . well, there’s always the new book to procrastinate from now, even if it does mean that my closet is still messy and likely to remain so. I find the same rule applies within the Pink Carnation books; whenever the historical characters begin to weary me, there’s always Eloise to play with, and vice versa.
Apart from the procrastinatory imperative, juggling multiple careers has proved unexpectedly productive in other ways. I wrote the Pink Carnation over summers, on either side of my third year of graduate school. That nine-month hiatus in between, while frustrating at the time, gave the plot and characters time to simmer on the back burner and mature in ways I had never anticipated. Recently, I took a break from the third book in the Pink Carnation series to work at a law firm for several months. The interactions and intrigues of the office provided all sorts of insights into human nature and ideas for future plot twists. One of the glorious aspects about writing is that nothing is a wasted experience; one never knows when a scrap of dialogue, a historical fact, a bit of legal jargon might suddenly come in handy, popping to the surface from the subterranean reaches of one’s brain. While the writer as introvert in a garret is a well-established trope, venturing out into the workaday world keeps dialogue and characters grounded in some semblance of reality.
Q. Like Elo
ise, you have spent the past six years working on a graduate degree in English history. Did your historical training aid in researching The Secret History of the Pink Carnation?
A. Yes and no. I had done a field on Modern Britain (which is defined as anything post 1714), which left me with a bookcase full of monographs on Georgian England, and I was a past master at wandering through the stacks of Widener Library with my head at a forty-five-degree angle, just in case there might be something on the shelves the library catalog had missed. I knew how to work the microfilm reader, and where to look for the more obscure historical journals. At first, it all seemed to be going well. I even had all sorts of choice historical tidbits gleaned from contemporary memoirs (Napoleon’s relatives always make for colorful reading)—and then I hit a snag. Amy was about to fling herself into a chair, and I had no idea what the chair looked like. I turned to my bookshelves, but none of the scholarly works that weighed down my shelves contained anything remotely useful. Fifty-odd books on Georgian England, and not one description of a chair. All of this is a rather long way of saying that training as a historian goes only so far in writing a historical novel. Bit by bit, I learned to look farther afield for those pesky period details one couldn’t find in the traditional histories, developing a collection of books on antiques, architecture, costume, and even cookbooks. Historical maps suddenly became items of desire. I haunted the period rooms in the Metropolitan Museum, squinted at little plaques in folk museums in England, and discovered a wealth of resources on the Internet, especially writers groups devoted to the time period.
Q. Why a book within a book?
A. Too much caffeine? Aside from the effects of overcaffeination, the Eloise chapters arose out of a combination of factors. During my year in England, I’d gotten hooked on chick lit, and was eager to try my hand at it. As a writer, I enjoyed the challenge of working with different voices and styles within the same book. The Delaroche chapters, deliberately penned in a style that I think of as “High Melodrama 101,” arose out of that same impulse. Writing in the first person provided a whole new set of challenges to work through. How do you adequately describe a character from within her own head? Since everything is filtered through that character’s viewpoint, how do you allow her to cherish her misconceptions while putting the reader in the know?
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