by Maia Chance
“Allow me to gather my bonnet and gloves, dear,” Ophelia said. She’d send the note to Madame Fayette with an errand boy, and her cozy chat with Malbert would have to wait.
Just as Ophelia was going upstairs to fetch her bonnet and gloves, a rap sounded on the front door. Baldewyn sighed loudly and answered it. Ophelia saw Pierre, Monsieur Colifichet’s apprentice, pass Baldewyn a large parcel wrapped in brown paper and twine.
Probably some sort of delivery for Malbert and his mysterious clockwork hobby.
* * *
“Good gracious, what has happened to your lip, my dear Miss Austorga?” Ophelia asked, once they were rattling along in the carriage towards the exhibition hall.
Austorga’s fingers flew to her red, swollen upper lip. “Oh! Nothing at all.”
Ophelia looked at Eglantine, beside her sister. Eglantine still covered her own lip. Seraphina, next to Ophelia, had an upper lip as calm and white as a daisy.
“Miss Smythe,” Ophelia said in a stern voice. “Did you suggest to the Misses Malbert that they should apply hot beeswax to their lips?”
“I simply cannot have hair on my lip at the prince’s ball,” Austorga said.
“It is swan’s down, dear,” Ophelia said in soothing tones.
“Hair!” Austorga yelled.
“Oh, do shut up,” Eglantine muttered.
Seraphina blinked behind her spectacles and stared out the carriage window.
* * *
Once the young ladies and Ophelia had gone off in the carriage, the coast was clear. Henri the coachman was driving the carriage, and Beatrice was out tippling.
Prue carried the housewifery book upstairs. Baldewyn the Lizard snored away, bolt upright, on a dining room chair. She went out the front door. Sure enough, Lord and Lady Cruthlach’s carriage stood across the street. Two ebony horses shifted from foot to foot. She crossed the street and the carriage door swung open.
Hume put out a hand and snatched the book.
Fine by Prue.
She turned, but fingers hooked her collar and she was lifted up like a stray kitten and tossed into the carriage. The door slammed, and the carriage rumbled forward.
“This routine is getting a little worn out, mister.” Prue righted herself on the seat.
No answer.
“You might do me the nicety of looking me in the eye next time you kidnap me.”
Stony silence.
* * *
When Hume corralled Prue into that infernal parlor, Lady Cruthlach cried, “Do you have it?”
Hume did have the book, tucked under a meaty arm.
“Oh, yes, I see it, I see it! Bring it closer. Come! Hurry, hurry!”
Prue stayed by the door. “You promised to leave me alone!”
Lady Cruthlach ignored her. Hume placed the book on a low table before Lady Cruthlach. Lady Cruthlach dove to her knees and opened it.
How could the old dame’s knees take it? Her joints must be as crackly as a boiled fowl’s.
Lady Cruthlach pored over the pages, flipping and looking, flipping and looking. “Oh, ’tis the one! ’Tis the one indeed!” Her face went back and forth from gleeful to serious, like an actor practicing in a mirror. She let out a chirrup and pointed to a page. “This one, Hume. This one will make a fine start.”
“Yes, Your Ladyship.” Hume bowed, took up the open book, and carried it off.
Prue had been forgotten. She turned to sneak off, but then thought better of it. She should make sure the Cruthlachs were going to leave her in peace, now that they had their moldy book. She cleared her throat. “Lady Cruthlach, I don’t suppose it would be forward of me to make questionings into why exactly you’ve had your ogre kidnap me again.”
“Oh, good heavens,” Lady Cruthlach said. “I had quite forgotten about you—it is so thrilling to at last be in possession of that volume, you understand. Well, no, of course you do not understand. You are but a simple girl, born into the cinders, no? But all of that will change, and soon, too, as soon as Athdar and I have regained our strength. We have just enough time, I think.”
No doubt about it: Lady Cruthlach was a little misty in the attic. “I’ll just be going, then.”
“No!”
“Sorry, but I really ought. I got work to do.” Prue opened the door.
Hume hulked on the other side.
“Good boy, Hume,” Lady Cruthlach said. “Take Cendrillon to the chamber Marguerite prepared.”
Sendry-on? Who in tarnation was that?
Hume pinched Prue’s wrists together at her back.
“I ain’t Sendry-on!” Prue shouted over her shoulder. “I’m Prue! Prue Bright!”
“Lock her up, Hume,” Lady Cruthlach said.
15
The International Exhibition had had Paris in a lather since April. Eglantine and Austorga told Ophelia all about it during the carriage ride. Seraphina kept aloof. Exhibits from dozens of nations displayed artworks, handicrafts, the latest scientific and industrial inventions, ancient relics, and even entire Japanese and Chinese houses. The center of everything was an enormous building that enclosed a pavilion and gardens.
Their carriage crunched to a stop on a packed drive. Henri handed them down one by one. Seraphina ignored Henri, but Eglantine and Austorga both treated him to a simper.
Henri’s brown eyes twinkled. He did not seem to have noticed any rashy red upper lips.
In the packed exhibition hall, the echoing chatter was deafening. Some folks pushed and others, their faces buried in catalogues, tripped. The crowds around the daises were so thick that Ophelia couldn’t really see the newfangled steam-powered mechanisms on display.
“Mademoiselle Smythe is mad for velocipedes, Madame Brand,” Austorga said in Ophelia’s ear. “Her father has given her two of them, but her mother won’t allow her to ride them anywhere but in their back garden.”
Ophelia stood on tiptoe to observe the steam velocipede. It did not have pedals to turn the wheels, as a usual velocipede had. Instead, it glistened with a large brass canister, pipes, and tubing.
“It looks dangerous,” Ophelia said.
“Well, yes, but Papa always says that danger is the price one pays for scientific advancement.”
“Does he, now?” Danger. Interesting. Were the clockwork inventions in Malbert’s workshop dangerous? “Miss Austorga, I have been meaning to ask you—do you have a great interest in the ballet?”
“I do enjoy attending the ballet, yes. As well as the opera and the theater—I do so enjoy beauty and spectacle, as well as opera chocolates, and, well, the society.” She blushed.
Gentlemen’s society. “I see. And do you happen to know a great many persons who work at the ballet?”
Austorga glanced away. “Work there? Why, no.”
“You have never been backstage at the opera house?”
“Mais, non! A lady would not go there. Why do you ask me such things, Madame Brand?”
“Oh, because the Boston Ladies’ League for the Betterment of Fallen Angels wishes to extend their ministry to Paris—and it occurred to me that you might make a splendid president of—”
“My days are ever so full . . .”
Ophelia patted Austorga’s arm. “Fine, dear, fine. Perhaps, also, you are too young for such a post.”
They moved with a noisy clump of people to the next display. Austorga receded into the crowd, and Ophelia found herself next to Eglantine.
Eglantine studied her exhibition catalogue, dark eyebrows furrowed.
“When I was a girl, I did so love to read stories,” Ophelia said in the rambling fashion people expected of matrons.
“Ah, indeed?” Eglantine didn’t look up from her catalogue.
“Magical stories, mostly. You know—fables and romances and fairy tales. Particularly fairy tales.” In fact, when Opheli
a was little she’d enjoyed, more than anything else, the no-nonsense hints in the Farmer’s Almanac.
Eglantine’s gaze snapped up. “Fairy tales?”
“Oh, yes. At any rate, I meant to say that once, I cannot recall precisely when or where—perhaps in my uncle’s library in Concord, because the old dear was such an avid collector of rare books—once, I read a different version of the ‘Cinderella’ tale. It was only slightly different, but I do recall that in that version, the tale provided the address of Cinderella’s home.”
Eglantine slitted her eyes.
“Yes, my dear,” Ophelia said. “Fifteen Rue Garenne. Your house.”
“What a fine memory you have.”
“How true! I simply cannot be defeated at that charming game called ‘I’m Going on a Picnic’—”
“We do not speak of this,” Eglantine said, lowering her voice. “Our family has our privacy to think of, but yes, Cinderella dwelled in our house. I never heard of this knowledge printed in a version of the story, however. It is simply something we know in our family. I must confess, Madame Brand, that I find it not a little alarming that you know this family secret when you only happened to meet Prudence in Germany.”
“Ah, yes, but as your own father, the marquis, told me, in life it is la chance that plays the greatest role. Oh, yes, I’ve just remembered the other difference in the tale.” Ophelia watched Eglantine carefully as she said, “The diamond stomacher belonged, not to one of the stepsisters, but to Cinderella.”
Something like panic shone in Eglantine’s eyes.
“Is there a stomacher, Miss Eglantine? A real one?”
“It is forward of you, Madame Brand, very forward to quiz me in this manner!”
“Nosy Posy—that is what my sisters used to call me.”
Eglantine looked like she wished to call her something a sight more potent. “Very well. I shall satisfy your curiosity, Rosy Fosy—”
“Nosy Posy.”
Eglantine sniffed. “There is a stomacher, a family heirloom, that has been passed down for almost two hundred years.”
“Made for Cinderella.”
“Perhaps. Or for one of her stepsisters—I myself suspect that if Cinderella did indeed wear it to the ball, she had stolen it from her stepsister.”
“Goodness!”
“Yes. Cinderella was a conniving creature, or so my grandmother told me—and she heard it firsthand from her father, who heard it from his grandmother. Cinderella was her great aunt, you see.”
“And . . . where is this stomacher now?”
Eglantine lifted her brows.
“Because, you see, I simply adore antiquities with these wonderful tales attached to them.”
“It was always kept in the house until several years ago, when Papa decided it was best to keep the family jewels in a locked box at the bank.”
“It is there?”
“Yes.”
“Who might unlock this bank box?”
“Only Papa.” Eglantine looked as though something was eating her.
“What is it, my dear?”
Eglantine tossed her head. “Nothing, only, well, I wished to wear the stomacher on my gown at Prince Rupprecht’s ball. The stomacher . . . when you touch it, you see, and wear it, well, it makes one feel so beautiful and strong—”
Sounded like hocus-pocus to Ophelia.
“—but then Austorga said that she wished to wear it—she must always ruin things, she always has—and she caused us to bicker so fiercely that Papa said neither of us should have it.”
“Your poor thing,” Ophelia said, and tsked her tongue.
* * *
Gabriel had not thought it decent to explain to Miss Flax the precise nature of the Jockey Club de Paris. The club had been founded, thirty-odd years ago, as a “Society for the Encouragement of the Improvement of Horse Breeding in France.” But like any gentlemen’s club populated by aristocratic and wealthy men with too much time and money on their hands, the Jockey Club was less about racehorses and more about—so to speak—fillies. The club held permanent boxes at the opera house, and Gabriel had heard rumors of club members having special after-hours soirées with the most admired members of the corps de ballet.
The club was housed on the main floor of the magnificent Hôtel Scribe on Rue de Rabelais. The smoking room, every inch polished wood, gilt, crimson damask, or voluptuous marble nudes, was silent. Four or five men lounged here and there, cradling drinks, gazing blearily at newspapers, puffing at cigars, and pondering clouds of smoke. Two waiters flitted.
“Ah! Penrose old boy!” Anselm Pickford, Lord Dutherbrook said. “Told the concierge to send you right in! Said you were welcome in the good old club any day.”
“Pickford.” Gabriel dropped into a leather armchair. “How long has it been? Three years?”
Pickford grunted. “Lost count. After the scandal with that saucy little charwoman, I won’t go back to England. An entire nation of Goody Two-shoes.” Pickford was a corpulent fellow with a boyish face, straw-straight hair, and a prominent bald spot. He had evidently insisted that his tailor not take into account his inflating anatomy. Everywhere one looked, one saw straining threads and flesh bulging behind fine woolen cloth. He held a goblet of pink glacée in one hand and a silver spoon in the other.
“Never go back? What a pity,” Gabriel said.
“Well? Still at the musty books and whatnot? No one, you realize, understands why you insist upon spending your days and nights swotting when you might lead a life of utter leisure.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any good at that. I must have work to do. As it happens, Pickford, I was very pleased to learn that you were residing in Paris and that you are a member of this club.”
“Learned from who?”
“From, ah, who was it? That fellow from Eton, the one with the, ah, the nose and the—”
“Right ho. St. John, was it?”
“Quite right. St. John. Jolly chap.”
A waiter appeared.
“Whiskey,” Gabriel said to the waiter. He turned back to Pickford. “As I was saying, I was pleased to learn of your presence here, because I am looking into a small matter regarding a gentleman by the name of Caleb Grant.”
Pickford’s spoon hovered. Pink glacée plopped onto his lap.
“You have made Mr. Grant’s acquaintance, then,” Gabriel said. He fished out his handkerchief—still stained with the pipe grease Miss Flax had smeared on his cheeks—and passed it to Pickford.
“Yes, I know him, but Penrose, old boy, I never thought you were one to chase skirts.” Pickford blotted his trousers. “Grant picks them out just so. Couldn’t be better at it.” He passed the handkerchief back.
“I understand that Grant is the head choreographer and dancing master at the opera ballet. But he—?”
“He’s the dancing master, indeedy-o. Runs those little teases through their courses, makes them keep their figures. Never allows a plain one through his doors. You wish to enlist his services? Sample a little French fare?”
The waiter arrived with Gabriel’s whiskey. Gabriel took a grateful swallow. He wasn’t a prude, nor was this by any means the first time he had shared company with a gentleman of such habits. Yet since Gabriel had met with Miss Flax, the notion of theater girls making extra monies on the side made him feel at once guilty and, oddly, angry. Although precisely with whom he was angry—Miss Flax? Himself? Men who regarded such women as mere trinkets?—he did not know.
“Yes, I would very much like to enlist the services of this Grant fellow,” Gabriel said. “Tell me, how does it work?”
“Simple, really. One of us—one of his clients—will make an introduction, usually at the ballet.”
“In a box.”
“Yes, of course. Heavens, I don’t believe I have ever sat in one of those—those seats of t
he hoi polloi. Oh, good heavens, no. Although one might meet a more willing class of girl than one does when sitting with all those stuffy little society debs with nothing but matrimony on the brain. Yes, Penrose old chap, that is a fine notion that you’ve had.”
“It was not—”
“I’ll sit in the orchestra seats next time.”
“Returning to Grant’s services,” Gabriel said.
“Ah, yes. Well. I’ll just introduce you, and you’ll explain to him the sort of girl you wish to meet.”
“Sort?”
“This isn’t the London marriage mart, old boy. Grant’s got a big stable, with fresh ones coming and going all the time. You choose. Brunette or blond. Gazelle or ripe peach. Saucy or stupid. Put in your order—even have a look-see through your opera glasses—and he’ll arrange the rest.”
“For a small fee.”
“His fee is not precisely small—but I happen to know that you, Penrose, need not worry yourself with such vulgar things as money. How I do detest vulgarity in any form.” Pickford shoveled in more glacée.
“What if the girl of my choice is not willing?”
“They’re all willing, old boy. Every woman in Paris has got her price.”
“Should we meet tonight at the ballet, then?” Gabriel stood. “I shall be in Prince Rupprecht’s box.”
“Good, good. Prince Rupprecht I’ve not yet met, but I’ve heard he’s a fine fellow. New to Paris, only six months or so here. Tired of the old homeland, they say, and he’s come to savor a bit of culture, what? Yes. Perhaps you and I and our little treats might dine afterwards—if Grant is able to immediately procure what you are searching for.”
“Capital.” Gabriel made his escape.
Before he left, Gabriel stopped to speak with the club’s doorman. He slid a banknote into the doorman’s hand. “Would you tell me if the Marquis de la Roque-Fabliau is a member of this club?”
The doorman made one grave nod.
* * *
Ophelia, the stepsisters, and Seraphina continued to view the steam-powered marvels, along with droves of other folks. None of the three young ladies seemed terribly interested in the exhibit and Ophelia was just wondering why they had been so eager to come, when she saw her answer.