The Grand Tour

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Oh.” Kate squeezed her eyebrows together, the way she does when she is worried about something but is not quite sure how to put it for fear of annoying someone else.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It just seems a little… Aren’t there an awful lot of things that could go wrong? Even without Lord Mountjoy and the Conte and whatever they’re up to.”

  “You’re thinking of Thomas’s first try,” I said. “But I won’t be in a hurry, and I won’t have Sir Hilary interfering. Everything went well for him this time, didn’t it?”

  Kate reddened and looked confused. “I, um—”

  “It must have gone well, or Lady Sylvia would have noticed and made him mend matters before we left Paris,” I said. “It’s not really a complicated spell, after all; it hardly takes more ingredients than those charm-bags I made for you and Oliver last spring.”

  “Then those charm-bags were far more complicated than they looked,” Kate said severely. “I, um, saw Thomas set things up this time.”

  “Well, it’s not much more complicated,” I said. “And I’ve had James coaching me on the Latin, and reams of advice from Lady Sylvia.”

  Kate had been about to say something, but she stopped short. “That’s right,” she said reluctantly after a minute. “Lady Sylvia did say that you ought to create a focus soon. I remember.”

  “The difficult part is deciding what it should be,” I said. “Not something that’s easy to lose or mislay, but not something that’s difficult to keep nearby; not something too fragile, but probably not something too permanent, either—”

  “Not permanent?” Kate looked alarmed. “Why not?”

  “If the focus is something hard to destroy, then it is more difficult to change it to something else if one decides to do so,” I explained. “If I were to, oh, use an emerald brooch as a focus, and then later discovered that it was inconvenient, it would take some complicated magic to transfer the focus to something else. But if I used something fragile, like one of those little glass ornaments we saw at the market yesterday, all I would have to do would be to smash it and start over with something else. Only, if one uses something too fragile, then one is very likely to drop it or sit on it or destroy it accidentally in some other way. Which would almost certainly happen at precisely the wrong moment. Things like that always do.”

  “Not always,” Kate said. “It didn’t with Thomas’s chocolate pot.”

  “Well, it wasn’t an accident that I smashed it,” I said, “but you have to admit, it definitely broke at the wrong moment from Sir Hilary’s point of view.”

  “Yes,” Kate said. “Oh, Cecy, I know it is very wrong of me, especially with Thomas and James so worried about it, but try as I may, I cannot be sorry that Sir Hilary is dead.”

  “If he were alive, Thomas and James would be even more worried,” I pointed out. “And they would probably have whisked us both back to England as soon as they realized.”

  “I expect so,” Kate said, but she still looked unhappy.

  “What is the matter with you today?” I said. “Except for when you and the Contessa were talking about opera, you’ve been cross as crabs all day—ever since Piers brought in the post. Were you expecting something?”

  “No, but there was a letter from Aunt Charlotte,” Kate admitted. “She wrote a good deal about my responsibilities and—”

  “Stuff!” I interrupted. “The only one who has anything to say about your responsibilities now is Thomas. Go and talk to him about it.”

  Kate brightened up at once and went in search of her husband. I do not know how it is that Aunt Charlotte so often has such a dreadful effect on Kate’s spirits, but it has been so for as long as I can remember. Fortunately, Thomas has proved a most effective antidote. I rang for Walker and told her that she and Reardon had best begin packing, and sat down to give a few minutes more thought to the question of my focus, magic in general, and what the Conte and Lord Mountjoy could possibly be up to.

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  14 October 1817

  Milan

  At our lodgings in the Via Santa Sofia

  Today I answered Aunt Charlotte’s letter. I wrote in a kind and diplomatic style for which I think I deserve any amount of congratulation and reward. She and Georgy are back at home, ready for a few months of peace and quiet. In Georgy’s most recent letter, while mourning the utter flatness of Rushton, she alluded to an arrears in her allowance. I take this (together with a remark of Aunt Charlotte’s) to mean that Georgy’s gambling debts have been settled and she is paying Aunt Charlotte back out of her pin money. The matter will be straightened out eventually, but I’m sure Aunt Charlotte won’t be paid in full until sometime in the next century.

  Meanwhile, the only punishment that really means anything to Georgy is that Oliver has made it clear he is no longer enamored of her. Under that foppish streak of his, it seems there dwells a genuine prig. He has given Georgy to understand that, hardened gamester as she is, he cannot possibly return her affections. This enraged Georgy, as she has spent a good deal of time displaying her indifference to Oliver and demonstrating her social success. In her view, she had withdrawn her affections first. I think it is true, yet Oliver, quite typically, failed to notice.

  The best thing to come out of the gaming imbroglio is that Georgy and Oliver have at last lost interest in seeing themselves as Romeo and Juliet. It was long past time for that bit of silliness to come to an end. Aunt Charlotte feels precisely as I do on this point. This should make me feel better. In fact, it fills me with chagrin.

  Thomas says Georgy is sure to make a grand match next Season. To tease me, he lists the prospects, each of higher station than the last. I know Georgy too well to think she would choose a suitor for his title and fortune alone. At least, I hope I know her too well to think that. But Thomas says—

  Venice

  From the commonplace book of Lady Schofield

  20 October 1817

  Padua

  At the Sign of the Dovecote

  THIS IS THE FIRST opportunity I’ve had in days to sit down and write properly. Now I can’t remember what I was going to say. Something about Thomas and his absurd list of dukes, eligible and ineligible. Piers came in just then. Thomas and I were alone in the private parlor. Thomas was mending the fire and I was at the writing desk with this commonplace book. Piers murmured something to Thomas, and Thomas put the poker back among the fireplace tools with such force that the rack fell over.

  To Piers, Thomas said, “Find Mr. and Mrs. Tarleton and let them know.” Piers took himself off at once. To me, Thomas said, “Lord Mountjoy’s staff is under orders to prepare his carriage to depart at dawn.”

  “Lord Mountjoy is leaving Milan?” I hesitated. “Will he take Theodore with him?”

  “I don’t see why not. No matter who goes with it, his carriage is leaving.” Thomas looked pleased with himself as he added, “Piers said the staff were told to prepare for the road to Venice.”

  I was surprised. “Venice—not Vienna?”

  “It’s on the way, isn’t it?” Thomas capped my inkwell for me. “No time for your scandalous memoirs now, my ink-stained darling. If Mountjoy leaves Milan, we leave Milan, too.”

  I let the remark about scandalous memoirs go for the moment as I regarded Thomas narrowly. “At dawn, no doubt.”

  “No doubt whatsoever.” Sometimes Thomas’s good cheer is very nearly too much to bear.

  “For Venice, no doubt?”

  “Unless we change our minds,” said Thomas. “You know how unpredictable we can be, careering about the countryside on our wedding journey.”

  “I do. There’s always the chance we may need to break our journey and indulge in a ritual of some kind.”

  “I understand that’s all the rage this season,” Thomas assured me. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Mountjoy stopped for a ritual or two himself.”

  “I’ll have a look at Uncle Arthur’s list, shall I?” I su
ggested.

  “Excellent notion,” said Thomas. “But first tell Reardon to pack.”

  I blush to confess it, but at first I found foreign travel exciting. Every detail fascinated me. I have grown weary of fascinating details. My feet are cold. I am tired of foreign food and foreign languages. To see a famous antiquity, be it renowned throughout the world, I would not trouble myself to do any more than rise from my chair, cross the room, and look out of a window.

  I am not homesick. I do not long for the family I left behind. I’m just tired of traveling. I am heartily sick of Padua and I haven’t been here above six hours.

  The hour before dinner I spent knitting a letter to Lady Sylvia beside the parlor fire, listening to the industry of others. Even when we travel with maximum haste, our party requires attention. The brunt of the work is done by our servants. Despite that, the innkeepers invariably shout at their own unfortunate servants. I use the word shout to be polite. Shriek is more accurate. I take some comfort in my own ignorance. At least here the shrieking is incomprehensible to me. All foreign hostelries run according to the same scheme. Shrieking is indispensable, as is some kitchen mishap to spoil the meal we have ordered. Many doors must be slammed, before and after one shrieks. At all costs, one must mend the fire just as it is starting to do nicely. With luck, entire private parlors can be rendered uninhabitable by smoke, only by a deft application of green wood. These are not the only incidents to provoke the shrieking. There are others, some of which seem to originate from nothing but the pure desire to shriek. I think I begin to understand the impulse.

  James joined me in the parlor before dinner. He knows how to make a fire behave itself, thank goodness. He used the fire tools to good effect and drew up a chair beside mine. “Tired?” was all he said.

  I must have looked pretty bad for James to remark upon it. I admitted to some fatigue and asked after the plans for our journey to Venice.

  “We’re making an early start. Provided Thomas encounters no difficulty with his plan, that is.”

  “Thomas seems full of confidence.” I thought better of the words the moment I’d uttered them. “Of course, he always does.”

  James looked amused. “He does. You must be accustomed to it, since Cecy always does, too.”

  Some of my traveler’s sulk lifted as I remembered the occasion upon which Cecy persuaded the Reverend Fitzwilliam to venture out upon the dance floor with her, because she wanted to see him make good his boast of grace and agility in dancing the allemande. As thoughts of dancing often do, this made me think of Thomas. Dancing with Thomas is one of the finest pleasures in life. “There’s much to be said for confidence, in the right place, at the right time,” I said to James. I am sure I sounded stuffy, but he did not seem to notice.

  “Our meal will be ready in a moment,” James said. “I’ll bring Cecy if you will go and pry Thomas away from his mad schemes.”

  “Our meal.” I sighed. “If only it were going to be a proper meal. Even a bit of toasted cheese would make a nice change.”

  “You are tired,” said James. “The sooner you get a good meal inside you, the brighter things will seem.”

  James went off to find Cecy. I went off to fetch Thomas. I am sure Cecy is very happy with James, and he with her, but I don’t know what I would do if I were married to someone who reminds me that eating a hearty meal will improve my spirits.

  If I had said the same thing to Thomas, he would have agreed with me. What’s more, he would have offered to try his hand at making me toasted cheese over the parlor fire, too. There would have been more ordering of servants, more slamming of doors, and, in all likelihood, more shrieking. But it would have been worth it.

  Later, I asked Reardon if she ever missed toasted cheese. “I don’t care if I never see another bit of it,” she told me. “I think some people are lucky to be so fond of a place they are going back to. But it’s not lucky if they let that blind them to the place they find themselves. I have never had better food than these past few months, and I am never likely to again. I’d hate to miss a morsel.”

  As she put me in my place, she put my hair into its place.

  So I came away from that exchange improved in two ways.

  “How do armies do it?” I asked Thomas last night, and he laughed at me.

  “Fear helps. Not of the enemy. Of the officers in command.” All very well for him to joke. We left Milan five days and many miles ago. Thomas and James have spared no exertion, still less expense, to reach our destination in time to catch up with Lord Mountjoy and Theodore Daventer. We have made remarkably good time, given the inclement weather. I thought the word rain inadequate for the weather we had in Milan. The combination of rain and wind we have encountered since our departure has been worse.

  I would not call our journey uncomfortable. After all, we are not riding mules. What slight hardships there are, we have grown accustomed to. James and Thomas manage the logistics of coaches and innkeepers, Reardon manages the luggage, Cecy follows our progress on the map, and I try not to lose any more gloves than I already have. Our chief enemy is boredom. Mile upon mile, change upon change. The road is not bad, but it is not good enough to permit a passenger to read or nap.

  Piers has shown himself to be surprisingly adroit at questioning the staff at each place we stop. Thanks to his efforts, we had a good description of the carriages ahead of us on the Venice road. One equipage in particular riveted our attention.

  Piers made his latest report before dinner tonight. “The stable boys here told me there is a carriage answering the description of Lord Mountjoy’s not six hours ahead of us. The only passenger in the coach is a lady.”

  James looked at Thomas. Thomas just looked surprised.

  “Not Lord Mountjoy, then,” James said.

  Piers said, “No, Sir. The lady—I should say woman, rather—fits the description of Eve-Marie.”

  “How gratifying,” said Thomas. “Did they happen to hear the fair traveler mention a destination?”

  “They heard only her demands for haste. Haste is her only consideration. The fastest horses at every change, no matter the expense. Also there is one trunk in particular that she is concerned with. Whatever it contains, it must be very important. She doesn’t let it out of her sight.”

  “What does it look like?” asked Cecy.

  “A trunk. An ordinary trunk. But she does not treat it as if it were at all ordinary. She treats it as if it contains something precious. Something delicate, even.”

  I looked from Piers to Thomas, to James, to Cecy, and I could feel the expression on my face was a match for theirs. Sheer curiosity. Wild speculation.

  “Six hours ahead of us, and we’ve been here two hours,” said James thoughtfully. “She could be in Venice by now.”

  “Or she could be on the road beyond, headed for Vienna,” countered Thomas.

  “Or she could be taking ship from Venice to somewhere else,” said Cecy. “How provoking, if she takes to the water. She will give us the slip entirely.”

  “How will we find out which it is?” I asked. “And how will we find out where Lord Mountjoy and Theodore go if we are haring off after Eve-Marie?”

  “Eve-Marie was the only passenger in the coach all along, wasn’t she?” James said. “They’ve given us the slip.”

  Piers grimaced. “Sorry. It was foolish of me to assume that Lord Mountjoy’s coach necessarily contained Lord Mountjoy.”

  “It can’t be helped. You’ve done well,” said Thomas to Piers. “Get something to eat and what rest you can. We’ll be in Venice tomorrow. We can’t make any final decisions until then, so there’s no point in tormenting ourselves over it.”

  Dinner was welcome and bed afterward even more so. Traveling in haste is as uncomfortable as sitting a trot. One bounces along until one’s teeth rattle, with no confidence that the discomfort will ever end. Inefficient and unpleasant, that’s the disadvantage of foreign travel. Damp beds, bad food, and not enough hot water.

  N
o mules, though.

  23 October 1817

  Venice

  Palazzo Flangini

  We arrived in Venice the day before yesterday, muddy and exhausted. If we looked like something the cat dragged in, it must have been a very undiscriminating cat, indeed. My bonnet was destroyed with the wet, the hem of my gown stiff with mud. I looked as if I had walked from Milan at the tail of a cart. I almost felt as if I had. My weariness had one benefit. I did not care how I looked or who I met. I could have been presented to Bonaparte himself and not turned a hair.

  So tired was I—and so travel-soiled—that I did not care in the least how I clambered in and out of the gondola that bore us to our lodging. What harm would a ducking do me, in the event I did fall into the canal? It might help with the mud stains on my clothing.

  As sometimes happens, indifference cured my usual clumsiness. I was almost nimble.

  When we reached our lodging, I did not even bother to remark at the splendor of this place. Magnificent is not too strong a word. But I did not have the spirit to notice. The very floor seemed to rise and fall beneath my feet, I was so weary. Reardon brought me hot water and helped me out of my ruined clothes, I remember that. There was a meal on a tray, Reardon’s doing again, I’m sure. A bite or two was all I could manage. Then I was in bed and asleep.

  I woke in the small hours yesterday morning when Thomas joined me. He was chilled to the bone. By the time I’d done something about that, I was wide awake. Unfortunately, Thomas was too tired to do more than mutter a few answers to my questions.

  Yes, Eve-Marie has been seen at a hostelry on the edge of the city, and has apparently arranged to stay for more than a mere change of horses.

  No, Thomas doesn’t know how long we are going to stay in Venice ourselves, but he had no intention of moving so much as a single muscle for the next twelve hours.

  Yes, Thomas will see to it that we attend the opera at La Fenice at the earliest opportunity. But not for twelve hours or so.