“Oh, I am so sorry!”
Flustered and embarrassed, she got on her hands and knees and started to pick up the fragments. Without realizing it she had caught her finger on a splinter of porcelain and drops of blood plopped onto her skirt and, worse still, seeped into the cherry pink silk of her chair, which she grabbed in order to pull herself up from the floor.
“My footman will deal with it, Mademoiselle!” exclaimed the Marquise, far more horrified at Kate’s lack of poise and her willingness to undertake manual labor than any minor damage to her property. “Émile!” she called through the open doorway.
Peter tried to catch Kate’s eye to reassure her, but she was too upset to do anything other than look at the floor. He passed her a handkerchief which she took without comment and wound around her finger.
“May I have the honor of presenting Miss Kate Dyer, Madame,” he said.
The Marquise inclined her head vaguely.
“Enchantée,” she said, without actually deigning to look at Kate.
“Pleased to meet you,” mumbled Kate.
The sight of the upturned table irritated the Marquise, but she evidently could countenance neither picking it up herself nor permitting her guests to do so. She stepped into the hall.
“Émile!” she called impatiently, but the footman seemed to have more important things to do. “This is not to be borne!” she exclaimed. “I have noticed that some of the best families in London have Chinese footmen—I think it is time that I hired one! Émile! … Louis-Philippe!”
Kate caught Mr. Schock and Peter exchanging glances, each of them raising the same eyebrow. The Marquise returned, a little sour-faced, into the morning room. Then the clatter of someone tripping on the wooden stairs announced the explosive arrival of an extraordinarily good-looking young man into the room. He was perhaps sixteen or seventeen, and his features so resembled those of the Marquise that there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this must be her son.
“May I present my son, Louis-Philippe de Montfaron,” she said. But before the boy even had time to acknowledge the guests, his mother drew him to her and said in a low voice which everyone could hear: “If you must sleep in your clothes, at least have the goodness to change before appearing in company. And what, pray, is that foul stench?”
The young man bowed vaguely in everyone’s direction. His colorful silk outfit was crumpled and none too clean and he wore a wet towel around his head. There were purple circles under his large blue eyes and he looked as if he would have benefited from the invention of aspirin.
“I wagered I could drink more glasses of wine than Lord Chesterfield’s son could eat pickled herrings. He cheated, I am sure of it….”
The Marquise did not look amused. “And how much did you lose?”
Louis-Philippe tapped the side of his nose. “Not a tenth as much, chère Maman,” he whispered, “as I hear you lost last night….”
Kate had to put her hand over her mouth to hide her amusement and Louis-Philippe flashed her a smile. The Marquise’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “Where is Émile?”
“I said he could read one of the books that Papa asked me to get for him.”
“What possible interest could our footman have in your father’s books? Tell him to come at once….”
“Yes, Mother,” replied her son unconcernedly. The turbaned Louis-Philippe left the room, bowing to the guests on his way out. The Marquise practically stamped her foot in irritation but soon recovered herself.
“Forgive me, as an émigrée in London, and without my husband to support me, my domestic arrangements are not all that I should desire….”
“Émile! Ma mère demande ta présence!” they heard Louis-Philippe bellow from an upstairs window before closing it with a bang. He returned to the morning room, followed by two miniature lapdogs with silky black ears and large, shining eyes, that yapped excitedly at his heels. The Marquise shooed them away and Kate heard their tiny claws clicking on limestone as they scampered down the curved staircase. Louis-Philippe stood side by side with the Marquise and although mother and son radiated charm and allure, their audience suddenly had something else to preoccupy them. Kate, Peter, and Mr. Schock looked at each other in alarm.
“Madame, do I understand correctly that the Marquis de Montfaron did not accompany you to London?” asked Peter.
“Did you not know? Monsieur le Marquis remained in France—he will not abandon our estate. Although, sooner or later, I fear it will be taken from us anyway.”
“And your husband has no plans to return to London?”
“My husband believes that the French people will see sense in the end and order will be restored. He is an optimist, n’est-ce pas, Louis-Philippe?”
“Papa is an optimist on principle and by nature.”
“He is, in any case, perfectly content to be buried in the countryside—society bores him. It suits my husband to live like a hermit and conduct his experiments and correspond endlessly with every scientist and philosopher in Europe. Meanwhile we,” and here the Marquise put her arm around her son’s shoulder and tried to smile bravely, “must manage as best we can….”
“I am sorry to hear of it, Madame,” said Peter, “for to be separated from one’s family is difficult at the best of times, but with the current situation in France …”
“Yes—it is a torment,” said the Marquise.
Ha! She doesn’t look exactly tormented to me, thought Kate, who, unsurprisingly, had taken against her.
“You have not told me, Mr. Seymour, why you requested an audience with my husband.”
Peter took a deep breath and tried to formulate a suitable response.
“We are in possession of a mechanical device … er, the complex nature of which demands an understanding of the laws of natural science … and it is beyond our capacity to …”
“Our machine is broken,” interrupted Kate. “We need your husband’s help.”
Peter raised an eyebrow and looked sideways at his young friend. He smiled at her—that was the Kate he remembered. The Marquise was on the point of replying when the errant footman reappeared and stood to attention at one side of the door. A pair of small, wire-framed spectacles were still perched on the end of his nose.
“Finally!” she hissed and pointed to the upturned table.
Unperturbed, the dapper footman who had opened the front door for them picked up the table and got onto his hands and knees to pick up the broken pieces of porcelain with white-gloved hands. Kate picked up a piece that he had missed and offered it to him, defiantly meeting the Marquise’s stare and noticing the twinkle in Louis-Philippe’s eye. He seems fun, she thought. Unlike his mother.
“I have no doubt,” the Marquise continued, “that my husband would have been delighted to help you. But if you need his help you will have to find a path to him. I can assure you that he will not come to London.”
“Did you say that your estate is in Arras, Madame?” asked Mr. Schock.
“Yes, a little to the north of the city. It is called the Château de l’Humiaire. Although, unless your errand is of the utmost urgency, I cannot recommend that you pay him a visit during these trying times. They call this the century of light but all I can see is darkness….” Suddenly the Marquise’s whole demeanor changed; she clenched her fists and the tendons in her neck stiffened. “You have heard, I am sure, what happened to the royal family in Paris last month? My cousin was there. He saw everything … what the mob did to the Swiss Guard…. They are animals! Animals! My husband still hopes that all will be well, but that is what he can expect—to be torn apart, without mercy, by the very people he has spent his life serving!”
Kate was taken aback by the icy hatred in the aristocrat’s voice and the fear in her eyes, yet an instant later the Marquise had slipped on her habitual mask and had regained all the poise of the professional socialite.
“So, I regret to inform you, Mr….”—the Marquise glanced at Peter’s note—“Seymour, that you have had a
wasted journey….”
The meeting was over and Peter, Kate, and Mr. Schock found themselves once more on the front doorstep overlooking Golden Square.
“Now what?” asked Kate.
“Sir Joseph said that after Benjamin Franklin and Alessandro Volta, the Marquis de Montfaron would be his first choice,” said Mr. Schock.
“Where can we find this Volta person?” asked Kate.
“Italy,” said Peter.
“We can’t possibly go to Italy—it would take weeks! … What about Benjamin Franklin?”
“He died two years ago.”
“Ah.”
“Arras is only about an hour’s drive from Calais—if that,” said Mr. Schock.
“Well, that’s hardly the other side of the planet!” exclaimed Kate.
“France is at war with Prussia,” said Peter. “The country is in the throes of a revolution!”
“And we’d need to cross the Channel,” added Mr. Schock. “And ships don’t have engines yet. They don’t, do they?”
Peter shook his head.
“But if Sir Joseph says that Montfaron is our best bet, perhaps we should risk it,” said Kate. “And anyway, the revolutionaries aren’t our enemies. It’s not as if we’re French aristocrats!”
The two men looked doubtful.
“I’m just imagining what your parents would think of me taking you on a day trip to the French Revolution,” said Mr. Schock.
“A day would not suffice,” said Peter. “Even if the wind blows fair over the Channel it would take the best part of three days to travel from London to Arras.”
“Unfortunately,” said Mr. Schock, “the alternative could mean never getting home….”
Peter suddenly turned away from his father, his attention caught by some high-pitched cries of distress. He looked around and, unable to see their source, made his way toward the center of the square. Kate and Mr. Schock followed close on his heels. They instantly spotted a huddle of boys, perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, who stood in a circle beneath a large plane tree looking down at something, shouting and gesticulating excitedly. It took Kate several moments to grasp what was going on. The youths had captured two small boys—street urchins by the look of the filthy rags they wore—and the poor wretches had been forced to lie on their backs, knees to their chests and feet together. On closer inspection, Kate realized that wooden broom handles had been forced behind the small boys’ knees while cords attached their hands to the broom handle, locking them into this excruciating position. Each boy was being urged to kick out violently at the other’s legs and each cried out pitifully with the pain of it.
Five big boys stooped over them, their fleshy hands resting on their thighs, and they were shouting and jeering at the little ones, egging them on to kick harder and taking bets as to which one would pass out first. One of them, with blond curls and a plump, angelic face, ground his pointed shoe into the ribs of the smaller boy, causing him to howl even louder.
“Lose me my shilling, you sniveling little rat, and I’ll roll you into Brewer Street, and once the wagons have done their work I’ll watch the crows pick off what’s left of you….”
The tormentor found himself hoisted into the air by the collar and then Peter Schock’s boot propelled him at the other boys like a billiard ball, toppling two of them clean over.
“I never was partial to cockfighting, of the winged or of the two-legged variety,” commented Peter. “And I am even less partial to bullies. Away with you before you feel my cane on your backside!”
When two other boys made as if to retaliate, Mr. Schock stepped forward and knocked their heads together, sending them sprawling over the cobblestones. The rest did not fancy their chances against these tall, well-made gentlemen and backed away, not without an oath or two, and sloped off toward Brewer Street with ugly expressions on their faces. Mr. Schock smiled at Peter and raised his hand into the air. Peter instinctively struck it in a perfect high five. Mr. Schock’s smile transformed into a puzzled frown.
“Joshua, how did you … ?”
“Peter used to do it,” said Peter swiftly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll soon get you free,” said Kate as she crouched down next to the poor victims and started to untie their cords. Neither of them said a word but merely stared up at her, a mixture of gratitude and suspicion in their eyes. “Hateful pigs! How could they do such a thing?”
Peter and Mr. Schock knelt down to lend a hand and soon the boys were released from their shackles. They hobbled off without a backward glance.
Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of coins.
“Come back!” he called to the little boys. “I have something for you.”
But neither of them stopped and, if anything, they speeded up.
“Poor wretches,” said Peter. “Their legs are black and blue….”
“Watch out!” screamed Kate all of a sudden. “He’s got a stone!”
She pointed at the angelic-looking boy who now stood taking aim at them from the perimeter of the square. Peter and his father turned to follow her gaze and immediately ducked, only just in time, as a large cobblestone whistled past their ears and landed with a resounding thump somewhere behind them.
Kate was outraged. “He could have killed someone!” she exclaimed.
But the boy had already pulled up another loose cobblestone and was taking aim once more. He was starting his run-up, like a spin bowler in a cricket match, when a figure appeared from nowhere and threw himself at the boy in one long, magnificent dive, flooring him and pinning him to the ground.
“Good grief!” exclaimed Mr. Schock. “It’s the Marquise’s son!”
“It is!” beamed Kate. “It’s Louis-Philippe!”
Louis-Philippe relieved the boy of his cobblestone, rolled him onto his belly and stood, one foot planted on the boy’s shoulder blades, before looking over at them and smiling his charming smile.
“What should I do with him, do you suppose?” called Louis-Philippe. “Shall I feed him to our dogs?” He growled menacingly, revealing strong white teeth.
The party ran to help him, for the youth was struggling frantically to escape his captor and Louis-Philippe’s body weight was not sufficient to keep him down for long. But before they reached him, and despite Louis-Philippe’s best efforts, the bully had wriggled free and was now charging at top speed away from them. Louis-Philippe shouted something undecipherable after him and the boy reciprocated in kind.
“Thank you!” panted Kate.
“Yes, indeed, our grateful thanks, Monsieur,” said Peter.
“It was nothing,” Louis-Philippe replied smugly.
He gave a deep bow and the wet turban fell to the floor revealing a mass of golden hair. He winced and put his hand to his head as he stood up straight again.
“I should eat the herrings next time, if I were you,” said Mr. Schock.
Louis-Philippe shook his head. “Non, non, I can assure you, sir, that the consequences on the stomach of an abundance of herrings are even worse than the consequences on the head of a surfeit of wine. You are all uninjured, I hope?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Peter.
Kate noticed a small parcel lying on the ground nearby and pointed to it.
“Is that yours?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you,” said Louis-Philippe, stooping to pick it up. “I would beg a favor, Mr. Seymour. In fact, two favors.”
“By all means,” replied Peter, his curiosity aroused.
“Do you intend seeking out my father?”
“Perhaps …”
“I think we may have no option,” interrupted Mr. Schock.
“You would not regret it,” said Louis-Philippe. “My father has prodigious talent in the sciences. If anyone could help you, it would be he.”
“What are the favors you wish to ask of me?”
Louis-Philippe indicated his parcel.
“I have not received word from my father since the beginning of August, fo
r the mail has been unreliable at best for many months. Will you give these books to him in person? He will be most gratified, I assure you.”
“And the second favor?”
“Simply to beg my father to abandon our estate and join us in London. We fear greatly for his safety,” said Louis-Philippe a little awkwardly. “He will not listen to me—perhaps he will take notice of a stranger….”
“My dear sir,” replied Peter, “I would, of course, be happy to oblige—if we decide to travel to France.”
With his wide blue eyes and sparkling smile, Louis-Philippe de Montfaron was nothing if not persuasive. Before taking his leave of the party, he managed to get Peter to take the parcel of books with him. If they decided against traveling to Arras, he said, perhaps he would be good enough to have them delivered back to Golden Square and he would send them on to his father by the mail coach.
They walked past the rows of tall, red-brick houses toward Brewer Street, where they were to hail a hackney coach back to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Mr. Schock idly examined the books. There were three of them: The Rights of Man, Part I and The Rights of Man, Part II, both by Thomas Paine and which Mr. Schock had heard of, and a book by Alessandro Volta himself, Memorie sull Elettricita Animale. Mr. Schock and Peter, neither of whom spoke Italian, were speculating as to the meaning of the title when they both noticed that Kate was not with them. On turning around they saw Kate standing in the gutter, a look of pure anguish on her face, flickering and fuzzy one moment, the next opaque. A beggar was jumping on the spot in horrified excitement a few yards away, pointing at her and screeching.
“Behold the ghost, the apparition! A spectre who dares walk in the light of day!”
Mr. Schock and Peter rushed toward Kate and stood around her protectively. Mr. Schock reached out his hand.
“Don’t touch her!” Peter practically screamed at his father, remembering what happened when Kate had done something similar to him many years ago. “She is blurring—you could damage her! Yet something is not right….”
THE TIME THIEF Page 17