by Лорен Уиллиг
Laura sorted busily through the box, setting aside those that might be useful in the schoolroom—yes to Racine, no to Blackstone, yes to Plato, no to Ronsard—when something made her pause. She stood with her hands clamped on either side of the box, staring down into it, at a small red book with faded gilt lettering on the cover. The sound of the children’s voices receded into the background, replaced by other, louder voices, dead now for so many years.
Reaching into the box, Laura let her fingers close around the book, lifting it with care. The red morocco cover was worn now, eaten away at the edges by time and use, the pages spotted with brown.
Venus’ Feast by Chiara di Veneti.
Then, under it, in smaller lettering, Chansons d’Amor.
Her mother had never believed in the subtle approach.
Laura could remember it fresh and new, just this same edition. She could picture the book in her mother’s hands, her fingers unnaturally white against the red cover, rings glittering in the candlelight, bracelets jangling on her wrists. Above it all shone the great mass of her golden hair, never powdered, always with long curls tumbling around her shoulders as though the bands of any headdress ever made could never hope to contain the vibrancy of it.
She would stand there, Laura’s mother, in all her shining wonder, the little volume of poetry small and insignificant. Then, just as the laughing, chattering crowd had begun to grow restless, to shift and whisper in their seats, she would let the covers fall open and begin to read.
Everything else would be forgotten—the jewels, the hair, the artful dishabille of her dress. Friends, lovers, former lovers, the lovers of former lovers, no matter how petty or vicious, how inebriated or exhausted, would all fall silent, enchanted into immobility by those words, those wonderful, rolling, searing words. It was better than music, better than dance, thought and form in perfect harmony, painting images in words, addressing all the old, visceral emotions in a powerful combination of lyric and rhyme.
There wasn’t a person who could resist Laura’s mother when she read. She was a force of nature, pure, elemental.
To see those poems confined to printed words on a page was to leach them of half their power. Laura remembered her surprise, at first learning how to read, to find how small the print looked, how meek and faded in comparison to the ringing, rolling tones of her mother’s voice. How could something so large possibly be contained within something so small?
Laura slid a finger between the pages, letting the book fall open at random. But it was all wrong. Instead of black print on paper, bordered in the majesty of broad white margins, the pages were covered with doodles.
Someone had scribbled all over her mother’s book.
It wasn’t her book, Laura reminded herself. It was one of thousands, thousands and thousands. Her mother had scattered volumes across Europe like handkerchiefs, and one wouldn’t feel all sentimental about a used handkerchief, would one? She had no business feeling sentimental at all. It was all a very long time ago and nothing to do with who and where she was now. Laura swallowed hard, pushing back against the childish sense of betrayal. It was just a book, just paper and ink and leather and someone’s silly sketches along the margins.
Only, they weren’t silly.
Laura flipped slowly through, her attention caught despite herself. They were little more than pencil sketches, most of them, but they contained such a sense of energy and movement that they seemed much more. There were children dancing, acrobats balancing on a wire, fantastical bouquets of flowers, old wives hanging out the wash, and one particularly detailed rendition of lovers trysting within a glade—although the lady wore a rather wry expression as she glanced away, a whole world of expression in one twist of the pencil. Each poem had been dramatized in some way, Laura’s mother’s words turned flesh in a miracle of ink and suggestion, doing with line what Laura’s mother had done with language.
Curious, Laura flipped backwards, to the title page.
To Julie, it read, in bold black letters, just below Laura’s mother’s name. Who sees no use in poetry. Shall I make you change your mind? André.
There was a sketch beneath, a pretty girl perched on a low wall, laughing down at the man seated at her feet, who read aloud to her from a book that was subtly but unmistakably the one in Laura’s hands. His face was tilted up, hers down, in a way that left the viewer in no doubt as to her answer to his question.
Laura slammed down the cover, feeling as though she had been caught spying. She could feel the ghosts all around her: Julie in her light summer muslin; her mother, all paste jewelry and riotous curls, declaiming to a rapt audience in that throaty voice to which just a hint of an Italian accent still clung; this younger M. Jaouen, this André, with hair that curled down around his neck, sprawled on the ground reading from a book held aloft in one hand.
Something brushed past her and Laura jumped, her heart in her throat.
It wasn’t a ghost but Gabrielle, her face like a thundercloud. She snatched at the volume, tugging it out of Laura’s hands. “What are you doing? That was my mother’s.”
My mother’s too, Laura almost said, but didn’t. Chiaretta with her sparkling jewels and undulating gestures was far away, too far to follow.
Relinquishing the book to Gabrielle, Laura said only, “Your mother was very talented.”
Gabrielle hugged the book close to her chest. “I know.” She glowered at Laura over the top of the book, half-defiant, half-defensive, as though daring Laura to say more.
“We’ll have to start you on drawing lessons,” said Laura mildly.
Gabrielle stubbornly shook her head, her hair snarling around her face. “I don’t have the talent.”
“Talent is no prerequisite to proficiency.” She of all people should know that. Not every talent was hereditary, much as one’s parents might wish it so. “You don’t need genius to learn to draw a clear line, just a steady hand and an attentive eye.”
She could see Gabrielle starting to digest that, still hostile, but thinking.
Laura followed up on her advantage. “If we only did those things for which we had a talent, most people would never do anything at all. Yes?” Pierre-André was tugging at the corner of her skirt.
But what a Pierre-André! She was never going to hear the end of this from Jeannette. The little boy’s disordered curls stuck up like devil’s horns; his previously clean smock was liberally striped with dirt; and there were twin streaks of grime across his cheeks. What was more, he was half smothered within an immense garment that dragged down from his tiny shoulders, so large that the sleeves trailed straight down to the ground. Laura, who had been forced to memorize the various uniforms of the French forces as part of her training in Sussex, recognized it as the coat of a lieutenant in the Consular Guard. On Pierre-André, the waist fell nearly to his feet and the tails fanned out behind like a train.
“Look at me! Look at me!” Pierre-André tried to twirl and got tangled up in his own dangling sleeves. The long tails of the coat trailed behind him, picking up a decorative trim of dust as they swished across the floor.
Laura lunged to catch him before he could go over.
“There are more!” he exclaimed in glee. “We can play soldiers!”
“Not in here, you don’t.”
Laura looked up to see Jean standing in the doorway, looking like a hobgoblin in a fairy tale.
“The children aren’t supposed to be in here.” It was the longest sentence Laura had ever heard Jean say. “No one is supposed to be in here.”
Two sentences! They were truly honored.
“Then someone should lock the door, shouldn’t they?” said Laura tartly.
“An excellent suggestion, Mademoiselle Griscogne,” said someone from behind Jean, and another shadow fell across the crowded floor.
“Papa!” exclaimed Pierre-André, tripping over his tails in his excitement. “Look! I’m a soldier!”
“That will teach Cousin Philippe to leave his spare uniform here
,” murmured Jaouen. For Pierre-André’s benefit, he said, “Very dashing, but why don’t you take it off now. We’ll have to find one for you closer to your size.”
“Really?” Pierre-André began to shrug out of the jacket, getting hopelessly tangled in the too-long sleeves. “Can I have one? Can I? Can I?”
Laura would have gone to help him, but Jaouen beckoned to her. “If you will, Mademoiselle Griscogne.”
She wondered what he would do if she said she wouldn’t. Why ask if one would, when there was no won’t? She would have preferred an outright command, such as, “Come here. Now.” Sit. Roll over. Play dead.
Laura followed Jaouen to the window embrasure. So much for their rapport of the previous night. She wondered if he would like to reconsider his policy on curtsying.
When he spoke, though, his voice was mild enough. “Why aren’t the children in the nursery?”
The most dangerous animals weren’t the ones who barked and bayed. They were the ones who took their time to bite and sank their teeth the most deeply. The cunning ones. The quiet ones.
The sun slanted through the window with all the desperate brightness of a winter sunset. Laura put up a hand to shield her eyes from the orange glare. “They finished their lessons for the day, so I took them exploring as a treat.”
“I’d rather you hadn’t.”
Laura looked around, trying to figure out what was so objectionable. It was amazing how much havoc two children could wreak on a pile of boxes in a scant few minutes. Books littered the floor; a pile of canvases that had rested against the wall had toppled over; and the globe, detached from its stand, had rolled into a corner of the room. “If it’s the mess . . .”
“It isn’t the mess that concerns me.” Jaouen’s eyes were on Pierre-André, still figuring out how to get his arms out of the too-large jacket. He looked back at Laura. “It is unsettling for the children to be around their mother’s things.”
Pierre-André didn’t look particularly unsettled to her. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. Gabrielle, on the other hand, still maintained her death grip on her mother’s volume of poetry as she watched her father and the governess with a decidedly inimical expression.
Jaouen might have a point there, but Laura wasn’t willing to acknowledge it. She went on the attack instead. “More unsettling for them to have that death’s head following them around.” She jerked her head in the direction of Jean. “He frightens them.”
“He wouldn’t, if they stayed in the nursery,” said Jaouen pointedly.
What was the point of Laura having gained access to the household if she was confined to the schoolroom? At the end of the week, she would be able to provide the Pink Carnation with a stirring account of Gabrielle’s Latin translations and Pierre-André’s progress in sums. If she was ever allowed out of the house to deliver it.
“Forgive me, sir,” Laura said with heavy sarcasm. “When you instructed me to keep the children indoors, I mistakenly believed that your directive referred to all the walls of the building, not merely those that confined the nursery. Shall I keep them in the schoolroom alone, or might their parole extend to the night nursery as well?”
Jaouen braced a hand against the windowsill, fixing her with that disconcertingly blue stare. Sunlight winked off the lenses of his glasses, dazzling Laura with sparks of silver and gold. “Have your other employers allowed you to speak to them like this?”
Laura took a gamble. “No,” she said bluntly.
For an endless moment, Jaouen was silent. Resting his head against the window embrasure, he said, with amused resignation, “I suppose I am meant to be flattered that you reserve your special treatment for me?”
Laura seized her advantage. “You cannot expect me to confine the children to two rooms, Monsieur. There are animals who have wider cages.”
Jaouen brightened with the zeal of the born debater. “We are each of us in a cage, Mademoiselle. Some more tangible than others.”
“Man is born free, but everywhere is in chains,” quoted Laura.
A spark of recognition lit in Jaouen’s eyes at the familiar quotation from Rousseau. He raised a brow. “I wasn’t suggesting you manacle them to the nursery rafters.”
“How could I? The nursery doesn’t have rafters.”
“Surely someone so ingenious as you can find a way around such a minor obstacle.”
“Not,” said Laura demurely, “without securing prior permission from my employer. One would never want to overstep one’s bounds.”
She surprised him into laughter. He looked younger when he laughed. It filled out his cheeks and hid the dark circles beneath his eyes. For a moment, she could see him sprawled on the grass, a poetry book in hand.
“A point to you,” he said. “Well played.”
“What do I get if I win the match?”
“To keep your position.”
Ouch. Laura felt as though she had been dealt a summary slap across the face. Foul, she wanted to cry. But she couldn’t. He was, as he had just reminded her, her employer. Quite different from any employer she had ever had before, but still her employer.
Before she could muster her scattered wits to make an appropriate—and tactful—response, Jaouen made a noise of irritation and reached into his jacket. “I nearly forgot. This came for you.”
As Laura looked at him in confusion, he held out a folded note, with her name written on the back of it. There was no wax on it; it must have been delivered unsealed.
Taking it from him, Laura began unfolding it, saying, “I can’t imagine who would—oh.”
“Oh?” said Jaouen.
Laura displayed the letter to him. “I sent a query to a bookseller about a text I wanted for Gabrielle and Pierre-André. He doesn’t have it, but he knows someone else who might.”
She had no doubt Jaouen had already read the note. It was dated a good two days before. She sent a sideways glance at Jean, who was looking about as smug as a hobgoblin could look, which, considering that hobgoblins were seldom known for their modest and retiring natures, was very smug indeed. Jean must have received the note on her behalf and held on to it until he had the opportunity to show it to his employer.
No matter. There was nothing in it that even the most suspicious Ministry of Police official couldn’t be allowed to see. The bookseller was desolated to inform her that he was unable to provide her the Latin fables she had requested, but he believed that a fellow bookseller on the Rue Saint-Honoré might have the item she desired. There had been two copies the last time he had inquired. He suggested she inquire after them at her earliest convenience.
Her earliest convenience was her half day, Sunday. As for the rest . . . Two copies. Two o’clock? That seemed the likeliest explanation. She had a rendezvous with an agent of the Pink Carnation next Sunday at two o’clock in the bookshop on the Rue Saint-Honoré.
Jaouen looked thoughtfully out over the piles of boxes in the center of the room. “You might find what you need among Père Beniet’s books.”
“Père Beniet?”
“The children’s grandfather. My wife’s father.”
It was a strange way of phrasing it, but that wasn’t what caught Laura’s attention. Beniet. The name nagged at her memory. It might have been from the Pink Carnation’s files on Jaouen. His wife’s family’s name would have been in there somewhere, along with all of the other pertinent details, especially since it was through his wife’s family that he was connected to Fouché. But that wasn’t it at all. Beniet. Julie Beniet. She could hear someone saying it, with the English inflection, not the French. Candlelight glinting off claret, crystal glasses above a polished table. She had been brought in as an extra to round off a table, seated all the way at the end by the vicar’s brother-in-law. But at the top of the table, the talk was all of Julie Beniet.
Laura looked wide-eyed at Jaouen. “Your wife was Julie Beniet?”
The drawings in the poetry book, the canvases piled by the wall, that charcoal drawing
of Pierre-André and Gabrielle in Jaouen’s study . . . She knew it was rude to stare, but she couldn’t help it. André Jaouen and Julie Beniet! It was like finding that Fouché had been married to Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, or Leonardo da Vinci to Lucrezia Borgia.
“The very one.” There was a tightness to his voice that ought to have signaled a warning, if Laura had been listening for it.
“I saw an exhibition of her paintings.” Laura almost added “in London,” but caught herself in time. “They were . . .”
“Awe-inspiring? Groundbreaking? Life-changing?”
“All of that.”
She might not have any artistic gifts herself, but she could appreciate them when she saw them. No wonder the sketches in the margins of her mother’s poetry had seemed to leap and dance. Julie Beniet. She had been invited to paint the Royal Family and refused. Her work had caused a brief sensation in London, both for her painting and her politics.
It was said that Élisabeth Vigée-Lebrun had gone into a sulk that lasted for months.
“What—,” Laura began, and then snapped her mouth closed. There were some questions one didn’t ask, and especially not of one’s employer.
“What happened to her? Not that.” Jaouen obviously hadn’t missed her brief, betraying glance at Pierre-André. In a clipped voice, he said, “It was a fever.”
Laura had thought she was immune to embarrassment, but it had her in its grips now.
“I am sorry,” she said. It sounded painfully inadequate.
Jaouen apparently felt the same way. He pushed away from the window. “So am I. Do you have any more personal questions you wish to ask?”
Laura’s spine stiffened. “No.”
“Good. The children have my permission to explore the house. But take care where you go.”
Without another word, he turned and walked away, his boots clicking against the dusty floor.