The Songbird's Seduction

by Connie Brockway

  He closed his eyes, the sight of her anguish acutely painful even though the scientist in him affirmed what he said as true, firmly grounded in good sound reasoning.

  “I see,” he heard her murmur.

  And when he opened his eyes again, she was gone.

  The nine o’clock a.m. train from Châtellerault climbed into the Pyrenees foothills rocking gently, the rhythmic sound of the steel wheels against the rails singing a lullaby. Most of the passengers had disembarked earlier, leaving only a handful bound for the route’s end point, Saint-Girons. Lucy was among them. But while the thin-haired old man in the cheap new suit across from her snored gently, sleep eluded Lucy.

  She had telegrammed the Bergerac hotel, which Margery named in the note the fat innkeeper in Châtellerault had held for Lucy, and received a reassuring message in return. Having grown fond of her great-aunts but also because he simply had to satisfy his curiosity about how this particular chapter of their story would end, he’d arranged for the Misses Litton and himself to travel on to Saint-Girons. They would meet Lucy there. And where in the name of mercy had she been?

  She had stayed an additional day in Châtellerault to buy a decent set of ready-mades, using the money left over from the boxing purse Archie had refused. She left her raggedy skirt and jumper in the fire grate of the hotel. The next day she had returned to the town jail, only to be informed that Archie refused to see her. She did not try to bribe the guard again. She could not see any good in forcing herself on Archie. So, with no other recourse, she had done as he’d bid her and bought a ticket to Saint-Girons.

  Now, she stared hollow-eyed at the passing scenery. Once Lucy would have delighted in the sight of shepherds whistling up their sleek-coated dogs to herd fat, fluffy sheep along the mountainside; or the snow-covered shoulders of the great peaks looming ahead; or the charming chatter of the Basque ladies who for a short while shared her compartment and plied her with cheese sandwiches they pulled from the baskets at their feet.

  But those pleasures belonged to another Lucy, a Lucy who had not ruined the life of the man she loved and did not carry that incontrovertible knowledge with her every waking moment, along with the devastating recognition that nothing she could do or say could set it right. She had robbed Archie of the one thing that he’d kept for himself, the one passion he had allowed himself. That knowledge plagued her even more than having lost any hope of a future together.

  Because she loved him. She loved him and yet she had hurt him in a way that would echo throughout his life and she could not forgive herself that, for not foreseeing the ramifications of her actions.

  She couldn’t even console herself with the age-old excuse that she was in love and she wasn’t thinking. Because wasn’t loving someone, really loving someone, actually thinking more? Wasn’t it putting another’s best interests ahead of your own, making their happiness your priority? She hadn’t. And now, when it was too late, she realized she should have. If she only had the chance to go back and make different decisions, she would. She would make better choices.

  A sad smile flickered across her face. She had been so arrogantly certain Lavinia had erred in not pursuing her English lord, that emotional cowardice had robbed her of a happily-ever-after. But perhaps Lavinia had been right. Perhaps blind pursuit of one’s heart desire only left collateral damage behind. At least Lavinia had not ruined Lord Barton’s life.

  Her spine straightened with a burgeoning sense of resolve. As soon as she returned to London she would go to St. Phillip’s and explain to the trustees—no. She would only make it worse. Her shoulders slumped. There was nothing she could do to make amends or atone. She would simply have to bear her guilt. All she could do by way of reparation was to stay out of Archie’s life.

  “Mademoiselle?” The conductor appeared in the doorway. “We will be arriving soon.”

  She nodded. When he slid the door closed again, she wearily rummaged through her purse for her small, mirrored compact and opened it, studying her face. She sighed and tried on a smile. She would have to do better than that.

  It was time to don another mask for another role, rehearse the lines for a new act in a new show, this one about a happy-go-lucky niece who finished an amusing but grueling set of misadventures just in time to find her great-aunts before the triumphant climax of their story.

  How odd, she realized, that Bernice and Lavinia did not even know Archie had been with her. There was no reason they ever should. A few fabrications, a little evasion, and perhaps a small head cold to explain the red-trimmed eyes and the dark circles beneath them, and they would be satisfied. She was good at manufacturing a role for a discriminating audience. The only person she had never fooled, who had known what she contrived and what was truth, had been Archie.

  Except for once.

  The train whistle blew, signaling the approach to the tiny mountain station. The old man across from her woke with a start and smacked his lips loudly. He leaned forward eagerly to peer out the window.

  Smoke billowed up from beneath the carriage as the engineer applied the brakes. When it cleared she saw a small, neat building separated from the tracks by a broad platform. The door to the station opened and a passel of children streamed out, faces bright with excitement and welcome.

  The old man stood up and yanked down the carriage window, hanging his upper torso outside and waving his hat gaily as the children gathered beneath shouting, “Grand-pere! Bienvenue chez vous!”

  Their mutual joy in the reunion was palpable. Lucy could not help but smile, then her gaze moved beyond the family scene to the station doorway and the two elderly ladies anxiously scanning the train’s compartments. They saw her and their faces bloomed with relief.

  They must never know what had transpired. It would only worry and sadden them. She must keep it close, her own personal siege of Patnimba, but one never to be shared.

  The train stopped and Lucy stood up.

  It was showtime.

  “I did not worry for an instant!” exclaimed Bernice. “Not a second. I knew you would prove up to any challenge.” She said this last a shade too heartily, which led Lucy to conclude that she had in actuality worried a great deal. Poor Bernice, she lied so poorly. Perhaps Lucy should offer her lessons?

  She rejected the bitter thought. She would not be bitter. Bitterness was the dubious preserve of those who had been wronged, not those who had wronged others.

  “Nor I,” Lavinia said, coming forward and clasping Lucy’s hands tightly in hers, then pulling her in and pressing her cheek to hers, surprising Lucy. Lavinia was not generally given to shows of emotion. “My main concern was about our taking your luggage with us and leaving you without any clothing.”

  “I’m afraid it was a matter of make-do,” Lucy said brightly. She could do this. Act Three, Scene One: Juvenile girl engages in small talk with elderly aunt prefatory to arrival of principal performers. “Not at all your situation, I can see,” she said admiringly. Lavinia looked lovely in a beautiful suit of gray and navy-blue striped wool. “I don’t recall ever seeing this. Is it a recent purchase?”

  Lavinia’s thin cheeks pinked up becomingly. “No. It is on loan from Mrs. Martin. She has been advising me.”

  “You could not have a better guide,” Lucy said sincerely. There was something different about Lavinia, even aside from the new clothes and the soft chignon tucked beneath an elaborate hat. She exuded an air of newly found confidence. Feminine confidence.

  “She has been delightful company, Lucy,” Bernice put in. “We have had a marvelous time. Not as marvelous as if you had been with us, of course,” she hastily added.

  Nope. No talent for lying at all.

  And now that she looked at Bernice, she noted small changes about her, too, and not only the saucy red toque. Lucy tended to think of Bernice as the mouse that roared: timid in public, but perhaps a wee bit strong-willed behind closed doors. But today she seemed both more relaxed and more animated, with a lively and appealing energy.

&
nbsp; “Really?” she said. “Tell me about it.”

  Bernice beamed. “Oh, the adventures I’ve had! Why, I actually bought a little trinket from a Gypsy.” She leaned forward. “She told my fortune.”

  “Bernice!” Lavinia exclaimed, scandalized. It was a good thing Lavinia would never know about her sojourn; if the thought of a little ball-gazing scandalized her she’d probably die of mortification if she learned her great-niece had spent two days as the chief attraction in some Gypsies’ nightly performance.

  Amazingly, rather than looking chastised, Bernice simply lifted her shoulders dismissively.

  “And what did the Gypsy say?” Lucy asked.

  “That I would take a long trip,” Bernice said softly, her face aglow with pleasure, her gaze already fixed on some distant horizon.

  “Aunt Bernice,” Lucy exclaimed. “I never knew you wanted to travel.”

  “Oh, always. Though I must admit that Lavinia’s single experience with overseas travel rather put me off the mark for quite a few years. But after our trip here I am feeling quite intrepid.”

  “You mean all those the National Geographic magazines were wish lists of a sort? And here I just thought you liked to read.”

  “Me, too,” Lavinia piped in. “You always seemed so content to stay at Robin’s Hall.”

  Bernice tipped her head. “Well, I don’t see as I had any choice, did I?” she said without rancor. “I mean, we hadn’t the wherewithal for anyone to go anywhere, so why bring it up?”

  “To share your dreams?” Lucy offered gently.

  Bernice smiled. “Sharing dreams is for young people and lovers, and rightfully so. You share dreams to validate them with those whose opinions you respect, or to compare and examine them though another’s eyes, to see if others’ dreams might be more enticing and worth adopting. Or, in the case of potential lovers, to discover if you are compatible and whether your future hopes and goals align.

  “But once you reach a certain age, you don’t need to examine the validity of a dream. You know it to the very core of you.”

  Lucy’s heart leapt in recognition. “Or who,” she said softly.

  Bernice eyed her curiously. “Yes, well, we were talking about dreams. A person is not a dream. A person is an exquisitely complicated assembly of fears and hopes, strengths and weaknesses. Why, even a beloved sister can never fully understand what a sibling has endured or”—she glanced fondly at Lavinia—“wants. Romantic relationships are a little too much work for me, I’m afraid.” She spoke with no visible regret.

  When had Bernice become so astute? Or perhaps she had always been so and Lucy had simply not been listening carefully enough. Perhaps she, too, had changed, at least enough to know wisdom when she heard it.

  “Darling girl!” A voice hailed her.

  She turned and her eyes went wide as she spied Margery striding across the platform. Except this was Margery dressed as a man, in a smart cashmere coat, leather driving gloves, and bowler hat.

  “Oh, the look on your face! Priceless!” he said. “I am sorry,” he said, then immediately recanted, “No, I’m not. You know I have never been able to resist making an entrance.”

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her toward him to whisper in her ear. “Sweetie, where the hell have you been? And who is this man you’ve been gallivanting about with? Now, don’t worry. The great-aunties know nothing about him. I covered for you. But darling, I must say, I am so impressed! I didn’t think you had it in you!”

  He pushed her away to his arm’s length, looking her up and down and beaming benevolently. Lucy didn’t know whether to be more surprised that Margery knew about Archie, or that her great-aunts knew about him.

  “But, how . . . I mean . . . when . . .”

  He turned toward Lavinia and Bernice, wagging a finger at them. “They are too cunning by half. I don’t doubt they suspected right from the start.”

  “But we didn’t!” denied Lavinia. “The verisimilitude of your impression is in every manner convincing. I would never have known but for the innkeeper in Châtellerault.” She turned to Lucy. “The fellow was fortunate enough to have seen Mr. Martin’s show the previous evening and congratulated him on his performance in the morning. But he used the masculine pronoun in reference to Mr. Martin.

  “Now, I may not have spoken French in fifty years but I was always rather good at it. An aptitude we were always sad you did not inherit. All that money to Madame de Barge.” She shook her head. Bernice clucked her tongue sympathetically. Lucy felt heat rise in her face.

  “But that’s of no matter now. After I heard the innkeeper’s comments, well, certain things became, if not apparent, at least noticeable, to one who had cause to look.”

  “The damned Adam’s apple,” Margery said sadly. “I should have never removed my scarf.”

  “But,” Lucy said, her gaze moving between her great-aunts, “you weren’t . . . offended? Distressed? Affronted?”

  “By Mr. Martin’s willingness to remain in female character despite undoubted personal discomfort and only in order to make himself a more acceptable companion to two maiden ladies? I should hope we could never be so ungrateful. I think I might be rather offended you even think it possible.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lucy said, feeling disoriented. If she had a propensity for the unexpected, she apparently came by it naturally.

  “Really. It was no problem,” Margery said modestly. “Besides, it was an excellent opportunity to hone my craft.”

  “And now that we know his gender, there’s no reason we shouldn’t attend his show in Toulouse,” Bernice proclaimed.

  “Toulouse?”

  “Yes, we thought that after our business here was finished we might go with Mr. Martin to Toulouse where his next performance is scheduled. You did suggest we make a holiday of our excursion, didn’t you? I mean, if that’s all right with you?”

  Why not? It wasn’t as if there was anything, or anyone, waiting for her England.

  “It sounds delightful,” she said.

  The only other occupants of Saint-Girons Inn’s public taproom sat at the bar, well away from the table where Margery and Lucy sat, allowing as private a conversation as possible.

  “And the old man with the suspiciously black hair sitting at the bar alongside a handsome middle-aged woman is Bento Oliveria and his wife. I suspect that particular marriage was predicated on his eventually taking possession of his share of the rubies.”

  “Why would you say such a thing?” Lucy asked, taking a sip of the aperitif Margery had ordered for her.

  “She has the look of one whose ship has finally come in after a long, long, long voyage. And see what an eagle eye she keeps on how much he is drinking? She won’t have him dropping dead hours before that ship makes port, so to speak.”

  “You’re awful.”

  “I’m a pragmatist. And the old gasser bending his ear and plying Bento with drinks? That is Luis Silva, the other surviving member.” He nodded at a small, energetic-looking man in a flamboyant cape and slouch hat. “Everyone is here for the big reveal tomorrow afternoon.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “I can hardly wait to clamp eyes on those rubies. Lavinia is not given to exaggeration and from what she described I daresay she will be swimming in gravy by this time tomorrow.”

  “Lavinia?” she echoed, startled.

  “Oh, yes. We are all quite chummy.” He nodded, correctly reading her expression. “I know. Rather amazing. But then, people are always surprising, aren’t they? You imagine the worst and then they surprise you with unexpected generosity.

  “I admit that if I had been told the old girls would tumble to my being a man I would have guessed they’d be appalled. But they were quite accepting of it, even sanguine. Especially Bernie, who is filled with questions—though, as you would expect, none of a personal or indelicate nature.” He smiled. “But enough about me. Who is this man, Lucy? I insist you tell me.”

  She could say, “What man?” but Margery
would not believe her and she didn’t have any faith at all in his ability, or interest, in taking a hint that she’d rather not discuss it. Not only was he a confirmed gossip, he sincerely believed that anything having to do with anyone of whom he was fond was categorically and indisputably his business. It was a trait that either charmed or irritated depending on one’s mood and what secret he was intent on prizing out. Why fight it?

  “Arch—Ptolemy Grant. Professor Ptolemy Grant.”

  “Grant.” He frowned. “Where do I know that name?”

  “He’s the grandson of one of the original members of the tontine, Lord Barton.”

  “Not Lavinia’s Lord Barton?”

  “Lavinia told you about Lord Barton?” Lavinia hadn’t revealed his name to Lucy until she’d been sixteen and now she was divulging her lifelong secrets to a relative stranger? As soon as the thought was completed, she realized its error. Of course, Lavinia and Margery could form a deep and abiding friendship in a matter of days.

  Hadn’t she fallen in love?

  “Oh, yes. Livie and I had quite a few girlish confabs before she realized I wasn’t a girl. She’s quite an interesting woman, your great-aunt. And quite a stunner. Not in the accepted mode, of course, but it’s been scads of fun teasing out her long-ignored vanity.

  “She’s something of a clotheshorse, you know, and is finding it all sorts of fun to know she is the object of men’s admiring glances—though would die before she would admit such.”

  “Lavinia?”

  Margery nodded. “But she’s not half as interesting as Bernice who, while not as elegant, is twice as naughty and you know how I love the naughty ones. She’s got the heart of an adventurer. As a matter of fact, I do think she means to go to Egypt this winter. She wants me to go with her and damned if I mightn’t just.” He looked pleasantly surprised by the notion until he caught her smile. “Oh, no you don’t. You shan’t sidetrack me. Back to your young man. What does he look like?”