“You see now why marriage between us would be impossible.” She did not look at him as she spoke, but kept her gaze fixed on the path ahead.
The carriage jolted as the horse jerked suddenly. Ned must have pulled up on the reins. She closed her eyes. He should not have been surprised.
But he obviously was. He gave an exasperated sigh. “Really, Marguerite, you say the most idiotic things.”
“It is necessary to be realistic.”
He laughed, that low, amused laugh of his. “I think you must spend too much time at the theater. You do see melodrama everywhere.”
“And you close your eyes to problems.” It was not fair of him to make light of this.
He pulled the horse to a halt and turned to face her. “Listen to me.” When she kept looking straight ahead, he reached out and turned her to face him. “Listen,” he repeated. “We do not know for sure that there is anything wrong with the tonic.”
“Even if there is not, you cannot deny that there is something wrong with Delphine.”
“Something wrong?” He gave that laugh again. “Is that the polite way to say she’s off her head? Mad as a hatter?”
“Yes!” She spat it out angrily. “Yes. She is mad. Does it satisfy you to hear me say it?”
His hand reached out and covered hers. When she looked down, she realized that her hands were clenched so tightly that her nails were digging right through her gloves. She carefully unclenched them and let him wrap his own around them.
“Marguerite.” He said her name softly, and when she looked into his face she saw only gentleness there. “This is nothing new, is it?”
Lowering her eyes, she shook her head.
“That school her mother took her from, the one her uncle wanted to return her to—it wasn’t really a school, was it? It was a lunatic asylum.”
A small sigh escaped her, and she nodded. “But I heard my aunt telling my mother about it. It was a terrible place. The way they treated her. My mother promised that Delphine would not have to go back there. And now I have inherited that promise.”
He tilted his head, considering. “You know, it is possible that an asylum could be the best place for her.”
“No. Absolutely no. You have no idea—they put her in a bath of ice water, and they tied her up so she could not move her arms. And—you will think this is silly, but it is not. They would not let her wear her own clothes. They made her wear ugly smocks.” She looked at him beseechingly. “You know Delphine. For her, this would be the worst punishment of all.”
She could see that he did understand, but he was not convinced. “If she is dangerous…” he said.
“But most of the time we manage, Tante Héloise and I. You have seen how she calms down when we insist.”
Her hand was on his arm, and he covered it with his own. His mouth tilted into a half smile. “There is no need for us to make any decision right now. We still don’t know if there is anything wrong with the medicine. But I must warn you, if she is dangerous, I do not want her to share a house with our children.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Lord Edward, you do not seem to understand. There can be no children, there can be no marriage, if it is as I fear. You cannot introduce a dangerous madwoman into your family.”
“Oh, I don’t know. My sister Emily married a fellow with some decidedly odd birds perched on his family tree. And there are some cousins we do our best to avoid.” He grinned at her. “You have to learn to stop worrying. If she’s a serious problem, we can always set her up in a house of her own with a caretaker or two, and let her play queen of the realm to her heart’s content.”
“But…but the expense of such an arrangement would be enormous.”
“Another thing you don’t seem to understand is that my family is rich. There’s not much we can’t afford. And we can certainly afford to take care of our relatives.”
He reached over and lifted her chin to close her mouth before giving the reins a shake to start the horse on its plodding way.
He did not understand. But sooner or later he must. She had to make him see the impossibility of it all. How could he think that money would solve this problem?
Ned hadn’t been to the village since the day he had followed Marguerite. It was odd—that day had been bright and sunny and today a storm was threatening, but even so, the village seemed to have lost some of its oppressive grayness.
He looked around. No, it was still gray—gray stone for the walls, gray slate for the roofs. There were even gray clouds overhead. The village had not changed. He had changed, and the reason for that change was sitting beside him.
Sitting tensely beside him.
Her hands in their black gloves were clenched on her lap. She was enveloped in her black cloak and another ugly black hat was perched on her head. The only touch of color was the brooch at her throat, fastening her cloak. Her dark eyes, her beautiful eyes, were shadowed again.
If he did nothing else in this life, he would drive those shadows away.
He stopped the carriage in front of the church. It was the only place where the village street was wide enough to leave the carriage without completely blocking the way. It was also the only place with a fence to which he could tie the horse. Morvan was a place where people traveled on foot.
By the time he had looped the reins around the fence, Marguerite had descended from the cabriolet. He shook his head. Couldn’t she even allow him to hand her out of a carriage? Did she have to be so independent all the time?
At least she was willing to take his arm as they entered the pharmacie. It was a surprisingly modern shop, with porcelain apothecary jars in rows upon the shelves behind a polished counter. Everything was immaculate, and an antique brass scale, which seemed to be more for atmosphere than for use, gleamed brightly.
The chemist, who appeared from the rear of the shop, was also a surprise, and not a welcome one. Ned had expected a dusty, grimy shop, overseen by an ancient, trembling apothecary. A part of him had clung to a hope that if there was something wrong with the tonic, it had been a simple mistake made here, not a deliberate poisoning.
Unfortunately, the chemist was a young man, not more than thirty or so, neatly, almost elegantly, dressed—as well turned out as his shop. He did not look the sort to make a careless mistake. This might be tricky.
Formal introductions were a desirable first step. “I am Lord Edward Tremaine, and this is Mlle. Benda. We are staying at the Chateau Morvan.”
A faint smile appeared on the chemist’s face, as if he had been well aware of who they were, even if he had not known their names. He inclined his head in courteous acknowledgment of the introduction. “François Seznec, at your service. How may I help you?”
“We have a rather odd request to make of you,” Ned said.
Marguerite held out the bottle. “There is this tonic that Dr. Fernac gave to my cousin…”
Seznec took the bottle and sniffed it. “Ah yes. Dr. Fernac’s special tonic.” He smiled. “Do you require more of it?”
“No,” said Ned. “We were wondering if there might be something wrong with it.”
“With this?” The young man laughed. “It is utterly harmless. A bit of calcium, and bit of magnesium, and some peppermint for flavor.”
Marguerite licked her lips nervously. “I need to know if something might have been added to it.”
At that Seznec reared back, his expression cold. “I assure you, mademoiselle, that all medicines that leave this shop are prepared with the greatest care and caution.”
“No, no!” She raised a hand in protest. “I did not mean that. Not at all. It is just that—I wondered if something might have been added to it later.”
“Accidentally, of course,” Ned put in. He kept his face expressionless, as if defying the chemist to question him.
“Accidentally,” Seznec repeated, looking at them with icy eyes. “Of course.” He looked down at the bottle, and then looked back at them. “Tell me, what sort of
symptoms do you think this accidental contamination might have caused?”
After a deep breath, Marguerite spoke carefully. “Digestive pains and increasing distress. Vomiting. Dizziness. Then difficulty breathing.”
The chemist looked at her steadily. “And then?”
“Death.”
He looked at her and then at Ned. “You realize that these symptoms could have any number of explanations. I am not a doctor, and even if I were, I could not give a diagnosis.”
“We realize that,” Ned said. “We were hoping that you might be able to tell us if our fears that the tonic might have been…contaminated…are groundless.”
“Accidentally contaminated.” Sarcasm dripped from Seznec’s tone. He stared at them with stony eyes. Then he shrugged. “I do not have a real laboratory here, you must understand. I do not have a great deal of equipment. But I will see what I can do.”
Marguerite sagged in relief, and managed a smile of gratitude. “Thank you. That is all I could hope for.”
Seznec’s expression softened as he looked at her, and he inclined his head with what was almost a smile.
Only after they were in the carriage and on the way back to the chateau did Marguerite ask, “Do you think he realized I was asking about poison?”
“Of course,” Ned said. “He is not a fool, more’s the pity. But his name, Seznec. I’ve heard it somewhere recently, but I can’t think where.”
“Seznec?” Marguerite frowned in thought for a few moments. “Ah, yes. That was the name of the priest the vicomte was talking about. The one who was killed.”
Chapter Thirty
By the time they reached the causeway, the wind was driving the waves against the rocks, sending the spume flying. The ancient carriage shook so violently that Ned was afraid it would fall to pieces before they made it across. Even the phlegmatic horse seemed to notice the turbulence, though not enough to bolt or even increase his speed. Instead he seemed to hesitate with each step before he put a hoof down.
Ned would have gotten down and dragged the beast along but he didn’t dare leave Marguerite. Not that he could do anything to keep the carriage from being blown into the sea if the tempest decided to brush them away. Why hadn’t he taken a good look at the weather before they set out? Or before they’d left the village, at least.
No, he’d been so damned proud of himself, telling Marguerite what they should do, making her see how she needed him. Ha! What an arrogant fool he was. He’d be lucky if he could get her back to the safety of the chateau in one piece.
How could he have been such an idiot?
He glanced over at her. One hand was gripping the edge of the carriage and she was staring out at the sea, but she didn’t look frightened. She didn’t even flinch when a wave crested the rocks and sent water rushing across the road, twisting the carriage wheels into a skid.
That forced him to concentrate on his driving, and he leaned to the side in an effort to keep the carriage upright. The mangy excuse for a horse needed to realize that if it picked up the pace, it would get out of this weather and into a dry stable a lot sooner. It was hard to tell if the creature could even hear the crack of the whip over the roar of the sea, but Ned’s urging finally produced some movement. It wasn’t a canter, or even a trot, but the blasted nag did manage something approaching a walk instead of a stroll.
He stole another look a Marguerite. She had not changed her position, nor had she said a word. Not that he would have been able to hear her over the wind and waves if she did speak. He could not tell if the drops running down her cheek were tears or sea spray. If he did not get her to safety soon, he would—he did not know what he would do.
At last they were across. No sooner had they reached the shelter of the trees than the horse resumed its accustomed plod. Marguerite seemed to relax as well. At least her hand let loose of the carriage and fell down into her lap.
He took one of her hands and lifted it to his mouth. “Forgive me. I should never have dragged you to the village when the weather looked so risky.”
“Dragged me?” She squeezed his hand. “No, you were right. We must know, and the sooner the better. Besides…” She looked back where glimpses of the raging waves could be seen through the trees and breathed a sigh. “Besides, I like the storm. I welcome it. Can you understand that? I only wish it could blow me—everything—away. Far, far away.”
“Marguerite!” He could barely manage that protest. An icy fear had seized him.
She looked startled by his voice, and then smiled gently. “No, no. There is no need for you to worry. I am not longing for death. Just for—I don’t know. Escape? Peace?”
“If it is in my power, you shall have it—peace, safety, whatever you want.”
She squeezed his hand again. “Yes, I know that. But…” She waved a hand at the horse, which had come to a complete halt now that it was out of the wind.
With a silent laugh at himself, he gave the reins a shake. The horse responded with a snort, but resigned itself to movement and eventually they did reach the stable. Inside, out of the wind, the quiet was almost a shock. There was, mercifully, a groom to take charge of the horse. Ned wanted to get Marguerite in out of the rain as quickly as possible, and get her warm and dry. And this time she allowed him to help her down.
By now the rain was coming down in torrents. He started to apologize again, but she placed her hand over his mouth. “There are things that are out of our control. The weather is one of them, and what is or is not in the tonic is another. If M. Seznec finds nothing wrong with it, then I was just making mountains out of molehills. And if he finds there was something wrong—” She shrugged. “We will see what must be done then. In the meantime, I think we both need dry clothes.”
The door under the porte-cochère was the closest, and they ran for it, splashing in the mud even as they realized that running was really pointless. They could hardly get any wetter. They ran anyway.
Once inside, they leaned against the door when they finally got it closed against the wind, catching their breath and dripping on the stone floor. “This is where I came in the day I arrived,” said Ned, looking around. “It must be the most unwelcoming entrance hall I have ever encountered.”
“I don’t think it is normally used,” said Marguerite. She went over to the table in the middle of the room and lit the oil lamp that stood there. With a bit of adjustment to the wick, some of the shadows were dispelled. “But now, see? It is not nearly so gloomy. It was only the darkness that made it seem so.”
“It’s not just the darkness. It’s these paintings.” He gestured at the enormous canvases hanging on the walls and went over to examine one more closely. “Look at this. It’s positively gruesome. All these people are marching along carrying a head on a platter. And it looks as if they have gilded it.”
Marguerite came over for a better look, carrying the lamp. Then she laughed. “That is not a head, at least not a real one. It is a reliquary. You know. For holding the relics of a saint. They are made in all sorts of shapes. And on the saint’s feast day, the people carry it in procession. They still do this in many country villages. This is not a custom in England?”
“Not since Henry the Eighth, anyway.” Ned looked at the painting again. “I should have realized. They don’t really look as if they are celebrating an execution.”
“Well then, come along. We still need to get dry.” She started toward the staircase.
“Just a minute.” Ned spoke abruptly. “Bring the lamp back for a minute.”
Marguerite did so, a slight frown on her face.
He took the lamp from her and held it up near the center of the painting. “The reliquary, look at it.”
“It seems to be a gilded bust, studded with jewels.” She shrugged. “That is not unusual. They are often very richly decorated.”
“Look at the collar around the neck. The jewels in the center.”
She looked again, more closely, and sucked in a startled breath. Her hand went to he
r throat, where her cloak was fastened. “It looks like my brooch,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“But how can that be?”
He waited while she thought about it.
“Is that what the treasure is, do you think?” She turned to look at Ned. “The reliquary?”
“That would make sense,” he said. “That would explain why the priest was hiding it—the Republicans would have simply destroyed it once they pulled off the jewels. And it would explain why he gave that to your great-great-grandmother to show to her father, who would doubtless have recognized it.”
“So we know what we are looking for. A reliquary.”
“Possibly.” Ned felt a bit hesitant about asking for the next piece of information, but it might be relevant. “Tell me, when the old man talks of the treasure, does he say le trésor des Morvans, the treasure of the Morvans, the family, or does he say le trésor de Morvan, which could mean the treasure of the chateau or of the village?”
After a moment’s thought, Marguerite said. “Le trésor de Morvan. A reliquary would belong to the church and to the village.” Marguerite stared at the painting. Her lips curved up slowly into a smile, which eventually parted to let out a burst of laughter. “Oh goodness me. Delphine will be furious.”
“Well, I might be wrong,” Ned said, “so there’s no point in setting her off just yet. Besides, I have another idea.”
Marguerite looked at him expectantly. He felt a trifle self-conscious, but continued. “When I first looked at your brooch, I noticed the stones, but when we were waiting outside the vicomte’s room, I noticed the carving over the door. It’s the same design. And I’m reasonably sure I have seen rosettes in that design somewhere in the other part of the chateau.”
“Hmm.” Marguerite narrowed her eyes to slits and looked at the painting. Then she opened them wide and said, “Yes! There is a room—we have not searched there yet, but it is paneled and there are rosettes like that in the borders.” She paused. “On some of the furniture as well, I think.”
Lord Edward's Mysterious Treasure Page 17