Enough of that. I need to get into Number Seventeen. I need to hear what the servants are saying and learn just what that silly Meg Smiles is up to. If I saw what I thought I saw, and she went off with Count Etranger—alone—I shall have to start all over again. Her reputation is ruined and the Count will most certainly not bother with a publicly ruined woman unless he happens to be infatuated with her, which he can’t be. I knew I should have sent the other one, that colorless Sibyl. Young men find her appealing because she arouses their need to protect. Ah, I’m glad I’m not young anymore.
I didn’t think Sibyl would do it, you see. She’s afraid of everything.
It is past time for me to rest, you know. I am fatigued in the extreme and long to return to my perfect place at Number Seven where I may observe all who come and go. Despite the hard nature of that haven—actually in one of the newel posts—it is mine and only mine and I enjoy it so.
There are some members of the company I must now keep who consider me inept at being what I am. Inept at being a ghost, mind you! That’s poppycock. More practice is all I need. I must concentrate. Think, Spivey, think. What is the pattern here—the pattern of your inability to do what any self-respecting ghost is supposed to do?
I can come and go from Number Seven without being noticed.
I can move about the streets with ease—again, without notice. Oh, there have been one or two occasions when someone has seen me, but they always look pleased with themselves and give a secretive greeting. One wonders about those people.
I can leave any building or place at will, but…I can’t go into any building but Number Seven Mayfair Square unless there is an open door, or I am borrowing a body. I don’t mean what you think I mean by that. What I do mean is that if I choose to lend my mind to a person of very little brain, in an act of partial charity, and only if they are alone in the world and need company, then I manage quite nicely. I look around for some vacant sort of person who isn’t likely to be missed, and, well—I move in. Only for brief periods, of course. And I always return what I borrow in perfect condition. In fact, I believe the subjects are invigorated by my attention.
“Approach with authority,” that’s what Mary told me. She appeared to be obsessed with authority. She thought herself of the greatest importance and could not stop talking about having been robbed of her right to the British Throne.
“Approach your point of entrance with authority and sweep inside to your destination. Assume you will accomplish this and you will. See yourself there and you will be there.”
So said haughty Mary.
Very well. Into Number Seventeen and immediately down to the servants’ domain in the basement. All the chatter about their employer will be in full swing.
A warm kitchen—not that I feel warmth anymore—and reddened faces. A fire leaping at the great hearth and fowl turning on a spit, dripping fat into fire and sizzling. The aroma would be marvelous—if I could smell. Yes, that’s where I will be in a moment. Agitated cook, overbearing housekeeper, hovering butler, chattering servants. Probably all taking a cup of tea since the master is away.
To see is to believe and make real.
I am where I want to be….
Hell and damnation! Ah, stop, stop. Dizziness overwhelms me. How can I bang into a door when I am not…when I simply am not?
That settles it. I know what must be done and how it shall be accomplished, and the precise assistant who will make everything possible. Thank goodness flying presents no problem—I will perfect the other necessities in time, you know.
Off I go. What a bore. No gentleman should have to exert himself so. I’m on my way to a school for young ladies, not exactly to the school but to a retired employee who lives nearby—alone. One of my own relatives—from the impoverished side of the Spivey family—opened the establishment itself many years ago. She passed away fairly soon afterward. But those she employed shared her beliefs and those beliefs fit well with mine. Any sign of high spirits in a young lady should be immediately suppressed. Exactly my view.
All will be well now. All will go smoothly. Oh, really, how offensive some of these slums are. Even looking down on them repels me.
Dash it, someone’s flying this way. He’s shouting at me.
“Hold hard, there. Lookest whither thou goest.”
Do you hear him? Damn, it’s that arrogant loudmouth, Shakespeare. “I do beg your pardon, Sir. After you, of course.” Really, one could hardly fail to recognize a man with such eyelashes.
How the man does posture. Look at him swooping and rolling. Now there’s another one who is forever lauding himself. Why can’t people stop living in the past?
6
Rather than feeling his mood lift when Riverside Place came into view, Jean-Marc suffered a deeper slide into gloom. The sensation had begun the instant they were in sight of Windsor Castle, that great, gray, castellated bastion on its green hill. This land was so familiar. With every turn of the coach’s wheels, they passed over ground he’d loved since boyhood, when Riverside had belonged to his mother and her husband. On Jean-Marc’s eighteenth birthday, the rambling Tudor mansion had been a gift from his mother and stepfather—together with the reminder that there was an agreement with Crown Prince Georges and his son, Jean-Marc, that the identity of his mother and her husband would never be revealed.
There had never been such a revelation, Jean-Marc thought, and there never would be. Why should he grovel for recognition from a mother who denied him and who issued a bill of sale for his wonderful gift so all could assume the property had been purchased by the young Count. Mother and son had never crossed paths since, and had no plans to do so in the future.
“How beautiful,” Meg said. She couldn’t help herself. Riverside Place reminded her of Puckly Hinton, of their own dear house there. Oh, The Ramblers was a tiny place in comparison to this. But it, too, dated back to the reign of Elizabeth I and was set in once lovely grounds, the skeleton of which could still be made out amid the overgrown disaster second cousin William Godly-Smythe had allowed to grow there.
The Count had been silent for some time. Silent, and sunk into morose contemplation of the landscape. His sister hadn’t spoken since they left Mayfair Square. Meg decided she was grateful there would not be much time here before they must return or encounter unwelcome darkness.
The carriage bowled along a curving driveway edged with sentinel elms. Bluebells nodded in soft grass beneath the trees. Bluebells and daffodils, and here and there, patches of small, white daisies.
“I shall speak with Mrs. Floris,” the Count announced. “You will show Miss Smiles to your wing, Désirée. There you will be kind, and eager to please your new companion and friend. She is to be your right hand and your left in the weeks ahead. You will need her as your champion as much as you need me—perhaps more. Do not hesitate to ask her any questions. I have asked her to work with your hair today. That seems an important step to making you look like the grown-up young woman you are. You are to be launched in Society and will find a husband very soon. The days for plaits have passed. And you will never again pretend you don’t speak English. Is that understood?”
Meg’s gaze shifted to Princess Désirée’s face. The poor thing’s mutinous expression had turned to one of despair, and she nodded like a creature whose spirit had been broken. Meg sat straighter. Her job would become making Princess Désirée confident and teaching her how to look her best.
“Do you understand, Désirée?” the Count repeated in a voice that chilled Meg. When he spoke like that he sounded more French, and much as the accent delighted her, it did not bring her comfort under such circumstances.
Princess Désirée nodded several times and even managed a small smile at Meg.
“Very well, then,” her brother said. “Miss Smiles, if you need me, please ring for a servant at once and have someone dispatched to find me. My sister’s affairs are my primary concern.”
The carriage swept to a halt before a front door protected from
the weather by a gabled vestibule enclosed with richly stained glass. Roses climbed and bloomed either side of the vestibule, and mingled with the deep green ivy that grew over much of the building’s redbrick facade.
The Count didn’t wait for the coachman to open the door. He leaped to the ground and put down steps before helping first Meg, then Princess Désirée to the gravel driveway.
“Mrs. Floris,” he called to a rotund woman who emerged to greet them. “Good to see you. I’m sorry we couldn’t be here earlier. We’ll talk inside. Désirée, please look after Miss Smiles.” With that, and without another glance at Meg, he strode into the house behind Mrs. Floris.
She shouldn’t regret his departure, Meg knew, but nevertheless she suffered a sudden lonely longing for him to take her with him. The sooner she found some other gentleman, a gentleman not quite so removed from her own station, but interesting enough to capture her attention, the better.
Désirée stood where she was and showed no inclination to move.
The River Thames was both visible and audible. At some distance and between the budding wands of weeping willows, Meg could see the water shining glassy smooth and drifting on its way. Riverside Place had several stories and a number of wings. There were even dormer windows under the eaves and in several places in the slate-covered roof. Tall chimneys rose in clusters, and smoke curled against the blue sky.
Meg noted how Princess Désirée looked repeatedly over her shoulder at the coach, which, strangely, had not been driven to the stables as one would expect. The coachman busied himself among the horses for reasons Meg failed to understand.
“We should go inside,” she said to the Princess at last. “Your brother was most insistent.”
Divested of her blankets, Princess Désirée shivered in her ugly gray dress. “When you go into the ’all, you’ll see a staircase that rises from the center. Go up there and turn to the, er, left. A gallery runs along each side of the second floor. Rooms on the left are for receiving, but there is a corridor before you turn to the gallery on that side and it leads to my wing. Go to the end of the corridor. Open the door there. Go into another corridor and my rooms are on either side. Per’aps my boudoir would be most comfortable. It is the third room on the right. Please rest there. I will come soon.”
Meg listened to this remarkable speech in near perfect English and was ready to insist the Princess must come with her at once—until she saw the plea in the girl’s eyes. In a low voice, Meg said, “Are you all right? Are you sure I should leave you here? The Count would probably be angry.”
The girl nodded. “I promise I will be there almost before you know it. Allow me this small trust, if you please.”
Not at all sure she wasn’t making a terrible mistake, Meg turned away and entered the house. Her fear that she would instantly encounter Jean-Marc proved unfounded. She hurried to the foot of the stairs and was startled to hear the ring of feminine laughter from somewhere nearby. Deep, male merriment joined in, and Meg didn’t have to see the owner of the voice to know it was Count Etranger. No wonder he’d been in such a hurry. A lady guest had awaited him.
Breathing deeply and swallowing against a stricture in her throat, Meg went hastily up the long flight of stairs. The house was magnificent. Paintings of hunting scenes, of haughty ladies and gentlemen, of stiffly posed children and dogs hung on every wall. The hall rose three stories, past twin galleries to a ceiling painted deep blue and dotted with clouds. A huge crystal chandelier hung on a massive chain from the center.
She had no right even to have an opinion about, much less feelings for Count Etranger. He would laugh harder if he knew she was affected by him.
The Princess had given perfect directions. The way to a small jewel of a boudoir, complete with gilt daybed inlaid with jet and mother-of-pearl, was short. Meg closed herself inside and sat in a comfortable chair upholstered in rose-colored velvet.
A fire burned in the grate of a fireplace faced with dark pink rose-strewn tiles. More roses adorned oval plaster panels on the walls and glass shades that covered candles on the chandelier. The ceiling was also rose-colored with heavy gold molding where it joined the walls. A single embroidered rose embellished the center of the counterpane, and gold ropes held deep pink velvet draperies away from the pretty leaded windows.
A beautiful, feminine room and totally unsuited to the Princess for whom it had been appointed.
The door flew open. Princess Désirée rushed in, popped her head into the corridor to look in both directions, then shut the door behind her very carefully. She took shallow breaths, and her gray eyes were huge. Meg noted that some sort of excitement had brought color to the girl’s cheeks, and it suited her.
Meg also noted—could hardly fail to note—a very large and squirming bundle covered with one of the blankets Princess Désirée had used in the coach.
“You may go to your own rooms now, if you please,” the Princess said.
Already standing, Meg was bemused about what she should do next. “I don’t have any rooms,” she pointed out. “I am to remain with you.”
“Of course you ’ave rooms,” Princess Désirée snapped. “If I ’ave rooms, you ’ave been given rooms nearby. That’s ’ow it always works when one is forced to suffer a companion.”
“You are very rude,” Meg said, before she could harness her words. Well, she was supposed to wield authority, wasn’t she? “At the Count’s request—on his orders—I am here to assist you, not to suffer your insults. It is my job to help you learn to deal with others in a pleasing manner. To charm them. At the moment your tartness would likely horrify most people. No, I shall not be leaving. We should start on your toilette. Obviously a great deal of practice will be needed.”
“I am Princess Désirée of—”
“I know who you are, Your Royal Highness. You are also an undisciplined and spoiled girl. You told me you have no friends. Little wonder. But there is no one who cannot change—including you. Where shall we work on your hair?”
The bundle the Princess held hunched and stretched, grew rounded, then pointed. What looked suspiciously like the end of a tail protruded from one side. “You have an animal there. Why are you hiding an animal?”
“It’s not an animal,” Princess Désirée said, and to Meg’s horror, tears filled Her Royal Highness’s eyes.
“Oh, dear. It is an animal. And you’re not supposed to have it, are you? Is it dangerous?”
“It—it’s ’Alibut.” Princess Désirée’s mouth quivered, and the first tears spilled over. “’E ’as no one to love ’im. ’E is alone and sad—like me. So I will care for ’im. I will. If you try to take ’im from me, I shall run away.”
The deterioration in Princess Désirée’s diction was peculiarly affecting. Her tears brought matching ones to Meg’s eyes. This sad creature was struggling to cope and doing very poorly.
With a wild wriggle, the interloper shot free of the blanket and the Princess’s arms.
Meg gaped. The largest cat she’d ever seen landed on the rose-patterned carpet and shot instantly to the rich counterpane on the daybed. “My goodness. How…Where have you been hiding him? In some outbuilding in the gardens here? Who feeds him?”
“I feed ’im,” the Princess said quietly. “And I brought ’im with me today. The coachman is always kind and keeps ’im in the stables at Mayfair Square if I cannot get ’im to my rooms. Today ’e was inside the coachman’s box. ’E has traveled there often and does not mind it at all. I found ’im the day I arrived in London from Mont Nuages. ’E was in the little garden behind Number Seventeen and ’e was not well, but as soon as I got ’im dry and fed ’im, ’e became ’appy and beautiful. Just as you see. And ’e wanted to be with me so ’e ’ad to stay. But you will tell Jean-Marc, won’t you?”
Meg looked at Alibut. His fur was soft and full and—naturally —gray, with faint white stripes and a circle of white on each of his sides. His eyes were the gold of amber, and he held his pink nose high.
“Wh
y is he called Alibut?”
“Not Alibut. ’Alibut. The fish. ’E loves fish.”
Thoughtful for an instant, Meg approached the daybed and reached out tentatively. “You mean Halibut?”
“Yes, Halibut.”
The dropped h’s must be attended to. A pale, rough tongue went to work on Meg’s fingers. “How do you intend to keep such a large cat hidden?”
“I must.” Again the girl’s voice was so small Meg could scarcely hear it. “I said I ’ave no friends. I lied. ’Alibut is my only friend. I love ’im and ’e loves me. I want to be with ’im. I don’t—”
“Your Highness.” Meg interrupted. “Pronounce your h’s, if you please.”
“I don’t want to do all these things they say I must do. Fuss with myself. Have many new clothes to make me pretty. I am ugly. ’Ow—how can I be pretty? And wear my hair just so, because it will change me. People cannot be changed by the way they do their hair. What they are is in here—” she pressed a fist to her chest “—where it cannot be seen. I wish only to have my ’Alibut, but I know he will not allow it once he finds out.”
Meg spoke with difficulty, “You mean your brother will not allow it?”
“Half brother. Our father was not married to his mother, but he is married to mine.”
Meg absorbed that astonishing announcement and said, “Yes, well, Count Etranger. I hardly know him, but I have seen his concern for you. He wants you to find someone special who will look after you.”
“An ’usband.” Princess Désirée cast her eyes toward the ceiling. “What would I do with an ’usband?”
All Smiles Page 6