“Do not crack wise with me, Mrs. Devlin.” His eyes flash with anger, but only briefly; in fact he seems reluctant to engage in a dispute. It crosses her mind that Arlington might feel something akin to guilt for what he’s done to her. Then again, he may possess no finer feelings at all. “What is it you really want?” he asks. “More money?”
“You have already paid me generously. I simply want to return to my former life.”
Arlington sighs and looks away.
“I will be arrested, is that it?” Hannah presses him for an answer. “And you’ll do nothing to stop it.”
“There are too many…” Arlington stops, as if remembering he is the secretary of state, she is nobody, and he does not have to explain himself to her. The steeliness she’s accustomed to reasserts itself. “I will not stick my neck out for you.”
So that’s where it stands: once she leaves the court, she’ll be on her own, against the College. How long would it be before they brought her up on charges, made an example of her? Two months, one perhaps? Perhaps not even that.
Arlington sighs again and, as if acting against his better judgment, leans closer to speak confidentially. “I may be able to work a solution,” he says. “You can’t ever be called a court physician, of course, but you could stay on in an unofficial capacity treating courtiers as needed for…” His voice grows fainter. “Indispositions of a private nature—”
“Stay on to treat cases of the clap?”
“You would be kept quite busy, I’m sure. And when you are not so occupied, the court ladies are always happy to have new lotions for their face, or potions to help curl their hair, or whiten their teeth…”
She tries, with great difficulty, to keep the indignation from her voice. “Is that what you imagine I do, make cosmetics?”
He shrugs. “You are a woman, after all.”
A woman, after all. Something inferior to man is his implication—what all men imply when they speak of the “weaker” sex, the “gentler” sex, a woman’s “modesty”: but it is not really modesty women are rewarded for, it is subservience. It makes no difference that she has spent years learning the art of medicine and could best any man her own age in a test of knowledge and experience; as a woman she is relegated to cosmetic maker. Men may find her useful, but they will never grant her respect, and there is little she can do about it. She cannot even throttle Arlington’s throat as a man might, even though it’s something that she does, at this moment, sincerely wish to do. But of course that’s a fruitless undertaking. Her physical strength is no match for a man’s, and Arlington himself is only a symptom of the greater evil that opposes her. She has no choice but to restrain her fury, but all that remains is the numb sensation of despair. “Thank you, Lord Arlington.” Her voice rings hollow. “This has been most instructive.” She curtsies and turns away, pushing past the courtiers who crowd the Great Hall, angrily brushing at the sudden tears that wet her cheeks.
In the gallery, she accepts a tumbler of wine from one of the servers and looks for a quiet place to collect herself. She should check on Lucy and Hester, but she is in no mood to make idle discourse with Mr. Maitland and Mr. Clarke. She finds a spot in an empty corner, not too brightly lit, where she can dab at her wet eyes and sip some wine to steady her nerves. Why, she wonders, does she have such a deep need to prove herself? Why is she not content with the things most women are contented with? Is something fundamentally wrong with her? As she leans back against the wall—the only seats provided at a function like this are near the dance floor, and reserved for the nobility—her head begins to throb. She knows the signs too well: the initial ache, the burning discomfort, the inevitable pain.
She sets the tumbler on a long, narrow table and retrieves a vial of laudanum from her purse. She will be in agony if she allows the headache to continue, and the anodyne effects of opium work best before the pain is at its worst. Only a few drops, she reasons. She turns her back to the room, unscrews the stopper from the bottle, and extracts the tiny glass wand. The bitter liquid on her tongue is an instant comfort, and she allows herself to savor its acrid taste.
“Mrs. Devlin.” The voice behind Hannah startles her, and she hastily attaches the top to the vial and stows it away. She turns to face Madame Severin’s nearly perfect yet eerily flawed visage. Dressed in her customary layers of black, tonight she has dispensed with the hood and has laced her upswept white-blond hair with pearls. Her feline eyes study Hannah with their usual cool detachment. Hannah wonders how much she has just witnessed.
But it’s only a cursory notion, for what strikes Hannah even more forcefully as she faces Madame Severin is the sense that the widow harbors a secret, and the invisible presence of it seems as evident to Hannah as something she might actually see or touch. She thinks back to their every meeting, almost daily now for weeks, and realizes that this particular feeling always accompanies the madame. In the beginning she’d thought that Madame Severin’s air of mystery had its origins in her exalted, almost mocking, attitude of mourning, or the dramatic events surrounding her disfigured face. But these were not secrets; indeed, the widow made certain that everyone knew of her past, which seemed to be a source of pride for her, not shame. It was something else. Something dark, guilty. Something Madame Severin would never willingly admit to. This sudden, certain knowledge unsteadies Hannah, but she quickly regains her composure and curtsies in greeting. Madame Severin dispenses with the niceties altogether.
“Recently a young lady came to you for help.” It’s a statement, not a question, and Madame Severin requires no sign of confirmation to continue. “There is no need to mention any names. You must forget you ever spoke with her—indeed, that you ever met her at all.”
Hannah bristles at being addressed in such an imperious manner, but she won’t pretend she doesn’t know to whom the madame is referring. Ever since Jane Constable first approached her, Hannah has expected the girl to seek her out again, but she never has. Hannah even made up a list of simples and compounds believed to bring on the terms. Not that she felt comfortable recommending any of them. Some were useless, others were poisons. Poisons. A thought nags at her, something she should but can’t quite remember, but at the moment she is most concerned about Jane. Why is Madame Severin taking such an interest in her welfare?
“Is this what the young lady wishes?” Hannah asks.
“Indeed it is. It appears that she was mistaken in her beliefs.”
“She is well, then? With no…worries?”
“I suggest that you put all thoughts of this lady from your mind. You are to relate to no one anything you have heard of her. If I hear even the merest hint of a rumor, I will know that you are the source. My vengeance will be swift and impossible to trace.”
Is Madame Severin truly dangerous or simply mad? Hannah decides to err on the side of caution. “You have my promise that what was told to me in confidence will remain so.” She curtsies again, signaling an end to their conversation, and makes her best effort at a smile. Her dismissive gesture is not lost on Madame Severin, who gives her one last lacerating look before she turns and glides away.
Good Lord, what a night. Hannah takes another sip of the wine, but it tastes bitter. Perhaps the aftertaste of the laudanum in her mouth has soured it. Or perhaps it’s indicative of the way the entire evening is progressing. The ache in her head makes her more aware of the din of hundreds of voices, the smothering, sweet, overheated air. She walks back to the Great Hall, looking for Montagu. If she does not improve, she can always ask him to take her home.
The dancing continues, although the king and Louise have apparently retired for the evening. Montagu too is still absent; she meanders through groups of courtiers on both sides of the dance floor without seeing him. She decides to go check on Lucy and Hester, but as she turns toward the staircase she finds Edward Strathern blocking her path.
“Good evening, Mrs. Devlin.”
He is stylishly attired in a velvet coat the smoky hue of a black pearl, paire
d with a gray silk waistcoat that matches the storm-cloud color of his eyes. He is taller than she remembered, a full head higher than herself, and stands with a dignified bearing. His cheek is smooth, and every groomed hair is in place. His hands are clean and perfectly manicured. She hardly noticed before how handsome he is: those deep gray eyes stare out of an even-featured, strong-jawed face, in which intelligence and good breeding claim equal measure. He’s perfect, almost too perfect, she thinks; but it’s no wonder that the elegant lady in gray would want to marry him.
“I have desired to speak to you all evening, but it seems you are constantly in Mr. Montagu’s company.” His manner is strangely accusatory.
“He is my escort for the evening,” Hannah replies. “What do you have to say that requires such privacy?”
Instead of answering, Strathern looks past her into the crowd. She turns to see Montagu making his way toward them.
“May I have the next dance?” Edward asks.
She hesitates. She would rather wait for Montagu to partner her.
“The music is starting,” he says insistently. “Please, may I have the next dance?”
Hannah is about to turn down his request when Montagu stops to talk to a pretty young lady. Hannah watches the woman flirt with him, tapping him lightly on the cheek with her fan. It’s a wanton gesture, but Montagu smiles in return, then takes her hand and kisses it. Hannah knows she should not let this disturb her, it’s a common sight in a flirtatious court, but all at once everything feels uncomfortable and strange. The music and the constant clamor slow and echo, the sound breaking over her in waves.
“Are you all right?” Strathern asks.
“Of course,” she replies. “Shall we join the dance?”
After the requisite bow and curtsy, Strathern awkwardly takes her hand as they promenade along the dance floor with the other couples. It’s odd, but after his insisting that she dance with him, Hannah has the distinct feeling that he does not want to touch her. They return to their original place on the floor and face each other.
“You are in Mr. Montagu’s company a great deal, I have heard,” Strathern remarks.
So she’s the subject of court gossip after all. But it hardly matters when there’s nothing substantial to gossip about. Not yet, at least. “Why should this be your concern?”
“Mr. Montagu is not all that he seems. Or perhaps I should say he is more than he seems.” He takes her hand again as they step closer together.
“How do you know of Mr. Montagu?”
“He was ambassador while I was studying in Paris. He cut quite a swath through that city. He is known for ruining every woman he is associated with—not only their reputations but their lives.”
“Surely you cannot be speaking of the same man. Mr. Montagu has always treated me with respect and admiration.”
“I do believe he admires you, but he will never have any serious intentions toward you. Everyone knows that his only true interest is money.”
“Odd for you of all people to lay that charge at his feet. You’ve made a profitable match, why shouldn’t he?”
The doctor looks deeply uncomfortable at the mention of his impending nuptials. “Money was not my first consideration. I tell you it will be his only concern when it comes to marriage. Otherwise, he is known to prey on women without friends or protectors, women he can dally with without consequence.”
“Do you mean to imply that is the sort of woman I am?”
“That is not at all what I meant. I simply meant to warn you.”
“You take an eager interest in this role.” Too eager, for a man who’s just told her that he is marrying for love. “I do not think it suits you, under the circumstances.” The circumstances of his engagement, she means; and by his guilty glance she knows he has understood her. “Please let us drop the subject.”
He slips his hand onto her waist for a turn. She feels his hesitation. Perhaps his uncertainty is nothing more than his unfamiliarity with the dance. Although Dr. Strathern appears to know the steps, he does not dance with Montagu’s confident grace.
“Have you thought any more about our conversation of last week?” he asks.
“A little.” More than a little, but she does not want to let on how much.
“I told Lord Arlington about the wounds on Osborne’s body, but I have not told him of my suspicions regarding Sir Henry or your father.”
“Perhaps it’s best to keep those suspicions to yourself.”
“Do you not want to find your father’s killer?”
“I think the past should be left in the past.” Except that there’s something she should tell him, something important. If she could only remember. She feels overwhelmed by the dancing, the heat, the noise. Faint and dizzy. Dr. Strathern’s face appears very far away, then very near.
“Are you all right?” he asks. His voice sounds unnaturally slow. “Mrs. Devlin!”
She attempts to speak, but he is too far away for her words to reach him. The room spins, a sickening blur of light and color, and she hears him faintly calling her name. She cannot answer, for she feels herself falling, falling endlessly, falling soundlessly, falling into darkness.
Chapter Thirty-three
Fourth week of Michaelmas term
IT WAS A walk of only fifteen minutes or so, and a very pleasant one, to Magdalene College and the Pepys Library. They could have gone online to find information about tachygraphy, but why bother when you could go straight to the source? Andrew had queried, and Claire had agreed. It was simply another benefit of living in a library-rich town; Cambridge could boast of more than one hundred.
They decided to take the most scenic route and stroll north along the Backs and through St. John’s College. But as soon as they walked out of Trinity, they caught sight of the yellow crime scene tape cordoning off a section of grass near the stream where Derek Goodman’s body was found. Claire quickly looked away and saw Andrew do the same. The fiction that they were making their way though the cold, blustery afternoon solely to learn about an obscure form of writing was shattered, and the unpleasant reality reasserted itself. It had been a rather flimsy fiction in the first place, Claire supposed.
All summer she’d been envisioning exactly this, walking with Andrew Kent along the picturesque bank of the River Cam or in the cloisters of medieval courtyards and talking about—well, it hadn’t really mattered what they’d have been talking about. She’d imagined watching the changing expressions in his earnest and intelligent eyes, hearing the soothing, low pitch of his voice and the gratifying sound of his laughter.
Her summer daydreams now seemed like a naive fantasy. Her mind wandered back to Venice. On the night they’d deciphered Alessandra Rossetti’s letters, she and Andrew had walked together through the Piazza San Marco to a friend’s palazzo on the Grand Canal. How comfortable they had been with each other, how close, even. Now, even though Andrew was unfailingly polite, Claire knew that their burgeoning intimacy had come to a full stop. He was cautious around her, never standing too close or looking too long into her eyes. The very air between them seemed weighted with the things they couldn’t say.
“The story of Roger Osborne’s murder begins with Princess Henriette-Anne, Charles the Second’s little sister, his junior by fourteen years,” Andrew said. “The English Civil War began while she was still an infant; in fact, when Queen Henrietta-Maria took her children to France to live in exile, Henriette-Anne was considered too young to travel. Two years later she was smuggled out of England by a lady-in-waiting and lived with her mother in Paris while Charles the First waged a losing war against Cromwell and the Parliamentary forces.
“Henriette-Anne lived the rest of her life within the milieu of the French court. At first, while England was ruled by Cromwell, she was considered a poor relation—she and her siblings were first cousins of Louis the Fourteenth. Once Charles the Second regained his throne in 1660, Henriette-Anne came into her own as a proper English princess. In 1661, when she was sixteen, s
he married Louis’ brother, Philippe, Duc d’Orleans, also her cousin. The alliance was political, of course, as noble marriages were, but it was notable for its lack of love or affection, and even cruelty, on the duc’s part. By all accounts Henriette-Anne was a sweet, refined, gentle soul. She was a dutiful sister, who revered her brother Charles and her cousin King Louis and she tried to make the best of an unpleasant situation, but I suspect that she was never happy.
“In the latter part of the 1660s, Charles began to seek a closer alliance with France. Although England and Holland, as two Protestant countries, had more in common than England and France did, the Dutch had been making incursions into English shipping routes that the English had been unable to stop on their own; with France’s help they could declare war. But this goal of a closer alliance with France had to be pursued in secret, as it would mean breaking a treaty that England had recently signed with Holland and Sweden, and it meant going against the wishes of a vociferously anti-French, anti-Catholic Parliament. Charles had to tread very carefully, as he needed Parliament to raise funds for his continually cash-strapped treasury.
“Who better to be the liaison between Charles and Louis than Henriette-Anne? She was delighted to be needed by the two men she loved, and she took to the task of uniting England and France with an almost missionary zeal. It took more than a year of negotiations, but in June of 1670, Charles and Henriette-Anne met at Dover, along with hundreds of English and French courtiers. The king and the duchess had not seen each other in ten years, since Henriette-Anne was sixteen and had traveled to England prior to her marriage. It was a joyous reunion for both. Charles doted on his little sister, whom he adored as much as she adored him. This happy occasion was celebrated with feasts, dances, comedies, and ballets. But the true purpose of the reunion was a new treaty between England and France, negotiated by Charles’s ministers Lord Arlington and Sir Thomas Clifford and the French ambassador to England, Colbert de Croissy. The treaty was in essence a pact to wage war on the Dutch: Charles wanted to reassert England’s maritime supremacy, and Louis laid claim to territories in the Spanish Netherlands.
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