The Orchid Affair

Chapter 5

It was with a heavy tread and weary heart that André returned to the Hôtel de Bac.

It was twilight again, twilight to twilight, one day bleeding into the other. A candle sat unlit on the table by the door. Blundering in the vast darkness of the hall, André found the flint and lit the candle, bringing the area around him into a semblance of visibility. In the grand, high-ceilinged chamber, the single flame seemed to emphasize the darkness rather than combat it.

He had the notes from Querelle’s interrogation with him. There was still a full night’s work ahead of him, turning fifty pages of disjointed testimony into reports of varying sizes and shapes: a discrete paragraph for the ledgers of the Prefecture, a one-page summary for the First Consul’s bulletin, and a more comprehensive account for Fouché’s private use, all to be delivered by the following morning. Memory presented him with Querelle’s face, skull-like in the candlelight, the skin sagging over the bones as he uttered the words that would condemn his comrades to a like cell in a like prison, and all their hopes with it.

This wasn’t what they had fought for, he and Julie.

André took the candle with him, using it to light his way to the room he had appropriated as a study.

There was a crayon drawing of Gabrielle and Pierre-André propped over the mantelpiece, the only item of personal significance that André had brought with him from Nantes to Paris all those years ago. In it, Gabrielle was a curly-haired five, Pierre-André a round-cheeked infant.

It was the last work Julie had done before she died.

Perhaps she was the lucky one, Julie, not to have seen how it all turned out, all their brave dreams of a world reborn. How joyously they had donned the Revolutionary cockade, seizing the chance for all their philosophies to be made flesh. Ancient injustice was to be banished, feudal dues abolished, the antiquated system that pitted noble against commoner erased. The Age of Reason had at last arrived, and they were its heralds.

André had attended the National Convention as one of the Nantes delegation, raising his voice against the entrenched evils of privilege and power, while Julie put her arguments into paint, creating bold historical scenes, mostly drawn from Ancient Rome, all depicting the triumph of Republican virtue over aristocratic sloth. Her Mother of the Gracchi had been all the rage, eclipsing even David’s Oath of the Horatii in its depiction of the sacrifices for one’s country incumbent upon a good citizen.

But not these sorts of sacrifices. Nor the ones that had been demanded by the guillotine in the name of public safety. That wasn’t the sort of world he and Julie had so optimistically planned to bequeath to their children.

Oh, Julie. André was tired and lonely and his head hurt.

Draping his coat over the back of his chair, André carefully lowered the fifty-odd pages of notes he held under his arm onto his desk. He would just go say good night to Gabrielle and Pierre-André before he went back to work. It was probably nothing more than a fancy, but he hadn’t been able to rid himself of the unease that Delaroche’s words had aroused in him. He didn’t want Delaroche anywhere near his children.

André could feel the warmth of the nursery through the door even before he entered. It seeped through his bones straight into his soul, the knowledge that while outside the world might be mad, within lay peace and serenity, his children warm and safe.

André pushed gently at the door, one of the flimsy half-panels to which the last century’s aristocratic set appeared to be prone. The door gave an appalling groan as it opened, but there was no answering noise from within the room, no scramble of little feet or cries of “Papa!” There was only the crackle of coal, the click of Jeannette’s knitting needles, and the creak of her chair as she rocked back and forth beside the hearth.

Pierre-André’s hobbyhorse lay abandoned on its side; Gabrielle’s book sprawled discarded beside the hearth.

André spoke into the stillness. “Where are Gabrielle and Pierre-André?”

Jeannette didn’t bother to look up from her knitting, although the needles moved with a fervor that suggested repressed emotion. “They’re off with their governess.”

She pronounced the word as though it were something foul.

“Outside the building?”

“That’s generally where out is,” Jeannette said snippily.

Jeannette had always considered him an unnecessary adjunct to her Miss Julie, to be tolerated on sufferance because he was the means of creating new babies. Otherwise, he was simply an annoyance. An annoyance who paid her salary, but that was beside the point. Jeannette didn’t allow herself to be swayed by such crass motives as money.

“And didn’t I tell her that it was too cold out for the little mites? But, no. It was ‘Walking is good for them’ and ‘They need the exercise.’ As though the Paris air could be good for anyone, nasty, smoky stuff.”

Outside, the shadows had congealed into full darkness. Bare tree branches shifted ominously against the window, scratching at the glass. “Where did she take them?”

Jeannette lifted her needles in the air, at great peril to her knitting. “Why ask me? I’m just the nursemaid. Not that anyone bothers to tell me anything. Oh no, I’m just the one who sat by them when they were sick and nursed them through their fevers and mopped their little brows.”

Brow-mopping was always a bad sign, but André had other things on his mind. The streets of Paris were dangerous and ungoverned at night, no place for two small children. “How long have they been out?”

Jeannette looked darkly at her knitting. “Long enough that their poor little fingers will be quite frozen through. Out without a carriage, in this weather! And what’s to say that she’ll even bring them back, I ask you?” She glowered fiercely at André. “This is what comes of taking on strangers.”

André spoke harshly to cover his growing fear. “If you suspected something amiss, why didn’t you stop them?”

“Me, interfere?” Jeannette rocked back and forth in her chair. Click, click, click went the needles. “She’s the governess. I’m just their old nursery maid. Never mind that I’m the one what’s been with them since they was born, the poor motherless mites. Oh no. They have a fancy Paris governess now.... Wait! Where are you going?”

André was already halfway out the nursery door. “To find Jean,” he said tersely.

André’s heels clicked eerily on the old parquet floors, echoing off the marble walls. The old courtiers in the mural above the stair seemed to be laughing at him behind their fans, taunting, mocking. The references had checked out—but how hard would they have been to forge? Any of the families might have been bribed.

He could hear Delaroche’s voice, musing on the frailty of young flesh, like the low notes of the chorus in an opera just before the pit opened onto hell and damnation.

André’s candle cast grotesque shadows along the wall, pursuing him down the stairs, whispering warnings. Was it usual for governesses to remove their charges from the premises, and on the first day? He wouldn’t know; he had never had one. But it felt wrong. He and Jean could fan out, search the streets. The children were related by blood to Fouché; a man would have to be bold, mad, or a fool to harm them.

Unfortunately, that still left a large portion of the population of Paris.

André quickened his steps, racing to outpace the nightmare images that dogged him. He was almost to the bottom of the flight when the door to the courtyard creaked open, bringing with it a blast of cold air and a small boy in red mittens whose color even the semidarkness couldn’t dim.

André’s foot came down heavily on the marble floor. He was speechless with wonder and relief.

“Papa!” Pierre-André cried gladly, and rushed towards him as Gabrielle followed behind, too old and grand to run at him, and the governess last, tidily closing the door behind them.

“Good evening, Monsieur Jaouen,” she said, as though she hadn’t just given him the worst fifteen minutes of his life.

“Where in the blazes have you been?”

The expression on everyone’s faces turned from pleasure to alarm, except for the governess, whose entire range of expression seemed to be limited to stony and stonier. It was hard to tell which was which, but André thought she went to stonier.

Pierre-André flung his arms around his father’s waist. “We bought books, Papa! And I saw purple feathers.”

André touched his fingers lightly to his son’s head, feeling the silky softness of his baby curls. So precious. So fragile. André scowled at the governess. “What were you doing, taking the children out after dark?”

The governess very carefully stripped off her gloves, finger by finger. “It was light when we left. Sir.”

André raised a brow. “Surely one so well-versed in the natural sciences would know that when the sun rises, it also sets.” His booted foot began to tap an angry tattoo against the marble floor. “I returned home from the Abbaye to find the children gone, with no word as to their whereabouts. Not a good beginning, Mademoiselle. Not a good beginning at all.”

The governess’s eyes shifted to Jeanette, who had followed André down the stairs and was standing just behind. She looked smug.

“But I told—” Catching herself, the governess pressed her lips tightly together, her chest swelling as she breathed in deeply through her nose. It took her only a moment to compose herself. Studiously not looking at Jeannette, she said, “Forgive me, Monsieur Jaouen. I had meant to return before dark. Our outing took longer than I intended.”

She wasn’t a snitch, the governess, he would give her that much.

“What was this outing that was so vital that it had to be accomplished immediately?” He folded his arms across his chest and stared the governess down. Or, at least, made the attempt.

Gabrielle sidled up beside him, ranging herself by his side, against the new governess. It offended André’s sense of fair play. They were three against one. Four if one counted Jeannette, which André didn’t. Jeannette would never willingly join any team to which he belonged.

The governess met his gaze without fear. “I took Gabrielle and Pierre-André to a bookshop. They were badly in need of basic texts.”

Books. He hadn’t thought of books. Given that he had lived most of his life among books, it was an alarming oversight.

“Why didn’t you ask me?” he asked gruffly.

The governess chose her words carefully. “I wasn’t sure,” she said, “when the opportunity would arise.”

“You might have sent a message to the Prefecture.”

“I didn’t wish to disturb you.” The governess bowed her dark head. It ought to have been a pose of humility. Instead, André felt that he was the one being shamed. “Sir.”

“Next time,” he said imperiously, “make out a list and send Jean. He can fetch whatever you need.”

“Thank you. Sir.”

All those “sirs” were beginning to get on André’s nerves. “Why didn’t you ask for the use of the carriage?” he asked. “It would have been made available to you.”

The governess lifted her chin, looking particularly governessy. “I thought the exercise would do the children good. It isn’t healthy to keep them in the house.”

It wouldn’t have annoyed him so much if he didn’t agree. “I would prefer you keep them close to home as much as possible. There are dangerous people about.”

André half-expected the governess to argue. In fact, he rather hoped she would. A nice, acrimonious exchange might go some way towards relieving his harried feelings.

Instead, she paused, her lips pursed. She looked thoughtful. Too thoughtful. “It was, perhaps . . . imprudent. I will not make the same mistake again.”

André hadn’t spent the last five years interrogating people for nothing. There was something she wasn’t telling him.

“Papa!” Pierre-André was tugging at the edge of his waistcoat.

The governess distracted him from his speculations by adding, “Naturally, had Monsieur made his wishes clear, I should, of course, have respected those instructions.”

So much for the show of meekness.

André held her gaze. Her eyes were a particularly dark brown, so dark they were nearly black, fringed by lashes as thick and dark as her hair, lashes a courtesan would envy. “Consider them instructed,” he said.

Pierre-André wriggled under his arm. “We bought books, Papa!”

The governess inclined her head in assent, but there was something too regal about the motion to be called obeisance. “I will be sure to check with you before I arrange any other outings in the future.”

“See that you do,” said André, but the words felt rather like an afterthought. He had already been dismissed. Quite impressive, all around. It was enough to make one believe her claim that she had been keeping small children in check for sixteen years.

Pierre-André yanked on his waistcoat so hard that André saw stars. “Look at my books, Papa!”

Wincing slightly, André yielded to the pressure. He, after all, had not had sixteen years’ experience with children. “Your books?” he repeated, with an attempt at interest. He felt suddenly very, very tired and more than a little bit dim, all the fear and anger leaching away into fatigue. “Oh. Books.”

Right. The papery things for which the governess had dragged his children out around Paris. He really should have thought of books. It had never occurred to him. Père Beniet’s library had been like the magic cave in a fairy story; one needed only to wish on it for the right book to appear. The books had been boxed; the house in Nantes sold. It seemed impossible that it no longer existed.

“Look, look, look!” urged Pierre-André.

Blinking, Jaouen braced his hands on his son’s shoulders and looked down at the book he was holding out to him. The book was so large that Pierre-André staggered with the effort of holding it open. André took the book from him, stooping to hold it at his level.

“Those look like flowers,” André said.

“Natural history is part of the education of a gentleman,” said the governess primly.

“Which I would know if I were one?”

The governess froze. “I would never presume—that is . . .”

André decided to put her out of her misery. “I studied natural philosophy too, as a boy,” he said, directing his words to his son. He glanced up at the governess. “Including botany.”

“I will be starting them on Latin as soon as an appropriate text arrives,” said the governess quickly.

“Primarily, I ask that you keep them safe.” Feeling that he had made his point, André put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. Gabrielle looked solemnly back at him, all big eyes and snub nose, like a puppy waiting to be petted. “I’ll be up to see the rest of your books by and by,” he promised.

Pierre-André pouted. He had heard “by and by” before. Gabrielle didn’t say anything, but her face closed up, like clouds drawing together.

“Come along, children,” said the governess. “Jeannette will get you out of your outdoor things and then you can have a story.”

In a shot, Pierre-André was away, scrambling up the stairs. “Jeannette! Jeannette!”

“Gently!” the governess called after him, and, for a wonder, Pierre-André actually checked his vociferous progress. For about two seconds.

Gabrielle looked to her new governess. Without a word, the governess took a book off the pile in her arms and handed it to her. Quietly, Gabrielle followed her brother up the stairs.

“Sir,” the governess said, and dipped a curtsy as she turned to go.

The obeisance didn’t suit her. The pretence of humility sat uncomfortably with her, like a garland of flowers draped across steel. There was something akin to armor about the stern gray of her dress. It fit snugly against her back, emphasizing the resolute line of her spine.

It bothered him that she felt the need to curtsy. It needled him deep in his republican entrails.

“If you would, Mademoiselle—” What was her name again? Worse and worse that she was a member of his household and he couldn’t even remember her name, just her position, as though she were a piece of furniture, something fungible, designed for his service.

It had been something to do with gray. Gray like her dress and the confining stone of the Abbaye. Gris. Yes, Griscogne, that was it.

“Mademoiselle Griscogne?”

The governess paused on the second step. She turned back to him, her face carefully expressionless. André wondered what she was really thinking. Nothing complimentary, he suspected.

“Yes, sir?”

“Tell Jeannette to send down a coffee and a headache powder to my study. I know she has them,” he said.

“I shall do my best to extract them from her, sir,” Laura said.

The faint outlines of a smile altered the tired lines of her employer’s face. “Without thumbscrews, if you please,” he said, and turned to go.

Laura paused, one hand on the banister. She thought that was a joke. She hoped that was a joke. With one who worked for Fouché, one couldn’t be quite sure. Thumbscrews might be a requisite part of the job description.

For a moment, there, she had thought he intended to use them on her.

That had either gone very well, or very badly. She wasn’t quite sure, but she did know she could use a headache powder of her own. Her ears were ringing, either from the prolonged exposure to cold or to Jaouen; either one would have the same effect. She seemed to have forgotten to breathe for the duration of most of that interview.

But he hadn’t sacked her. Whatever else had happened, he hadn’t sacked her.

This was, however, shaping up to be the oddest relationship she had ever had with an employer, and that included the viscountess who believed she was the reincarnation of Cleopatra. Laura’s employer had spent most of her time draped across a sphinx in the salon trailing diaphanous draperies, but she had left Laura to do what she would with the children, who were named, appropriately enough, Mark and Anthony.

Laura watched discreetly as Jaouen walked briskly through a door at the far end of the hall. Even as visibly tired as he was, his movements vibrated with purpose. His study must lie that way, and in it whatever papers he had brought back from the Abbaye. By tomorrow, those precious papers would already be back at the Prefecture, out of her reach. She needed those papers and she needed them now, before Jaouen took them away with him again.

Jaouen had just given her the perfect excuse.

Laura paused on the threshold of the schoolroom as the germ of an idea began to form.

Jeannette, misinterpreting Laura’s hesitation, jerked her head to the left, to a door all but concealed in the paneling. “I put your bag in there.”

“Thank you,” said Laura, and went where the nursery maid had indicated.

It must have been a dressing room in a more affluent time, back before the two large chambers next to it had been requisitioned as nursery room and schoolroom respectively. A fanciful, if faded, scene of elaborate birdcages, brightly colored birds, and lush foliage covered the walls, attesting to the taste of the last Comtesse de Bac. The dressing table was still in place, its ornate, gilt-framed mirror propped over a table topped in delicately veined marble, as was a grand armoire with curving ornaments on top, but a narrow bed had been shoved into one corner of the room, made up with sheets, a blanket, and one very flat pillow.

Laura stood in front of her new bed in her new room and pondered her options. The idea was risky, but it might just work.

Opening the armoire, Laura reached for her carpetbag.

Yes, there it was, among a jumble of similar remedies: a small twist of white powder. It was always best to keep dangerous items out in the open, among similar objects, or at least so the Pink Carnation said. The sleeping draught had been designed to look like an innocent packet of headache powder, just as the powerful emetics next to it had been disguised as bottles of stomach tonic.

Dosing Jaouen with an emetic that would have him clutching his stomach and writhing would certainly part him from his papers, but just might cause some suspicion. Maiming one’s employer was generally not a wise way to go, especially when one’s employer had daily access to sophisticated instruments of torture. But there was nothing at all out of the ordinary about an already exhausted man succumbing to sleep within a reasonable interval after taking a headache powder. The powder, her tutors in Sussex had told her, generally took about half an hour to take effect. One packet should put a man to sleep for at least a few hours.

Laura hoped she wouldn’t need that long.

With hands that were surprisingly steady, Laura tucked the packet away into her left sleeve. The fabric pressed it snugly against her wrist. There were benefits to unfashionable attire.

In the brightly lit schoolroom, Pierre-André was occupied building a castle out of blocks under the supervision of Jeannette, who was furiously knitting away.

“Pardon me,” said Laura. “Do you have any headache powders?”

Jeannette’s needles clacked together with manic speed. “One day with them and you’re already calling for headache powders?” Her tone clearly expressed what she thought of effete Paris governesses who couldn’t even handle two darling angel children for one day without taking to their beds.

“Not for me,” said Laura. “For Monsieur Jaouen.”

She almost added “your employer,” but held her tongue. She needed Jeannette right now, even if Jeannette didn’t know it, and it would be easier not to antagonize her.

Clack, clack, clack went the needles. Jeannette gave her a narrow-eyed look. “And why would you be bringing headache powders to the master?”

“Because,” said Laura, “he appeared to have a headache.”

This irrefutable logic was wasted on Jeannette. Adding one and one, Jeannette arrived at forty-two. Stabbing at the wool, she said warningly, “If you’re thinking of wriggling your way into the master’s affections . . .”

Laura laughed at the sheer absurdity of it. “Can you imagine me as the wriggling kind?” If seduction were what the mission called for, she would still be back in London, listening to talentless adolescents plunking out Italian airs on the pianoforte.

She conjured up Jaouen’s unshaven, hard-featured face, his thoughts and feelings guarded by more than just a pair of glasses. One might as well attempt to seduce a block of granite. Even if she were the seducing kind, which she most decidedly was not.

“I assure you, I do not, er, wriggle.”

“Where are you from?” demanded the nurse. Laura recognized the abrupt question for what it was, a grudging olive branch and, in its own way, an apology.

“I was raised mostly in Paris.” Both policy and politeness demanded that she answer, but Laura could feel the paper with the drug scratching against her wrist, urging haste.

“But what about your people?” Jeannette prodded.

Laura twitched her sleeve down further over her wrist. “My father was from the Auvergne.”

Exactly what he had been was another story entirely. He liked to claim that he was the illegitimate offspring of a noble family of that region, but Laura suspected that was nothing but a fairy story, part of the legend he had built around himself until he himself believed it. From what Laura had managed to glean, her father was, in fact, the unromantic offspring of legally wed petit bourgeois with a small legal practice somewhere in the Auvergne.

“Southerners.” The nurse’s Breton accent thickened as she said it with the northerner’s contempt for those lazy, immoral souls down south.

Laura couldn’t resist needling her just a bit. “My mother was Italian.”

Her mother really had been the illegitimate offspring of a noble family, the daughter of a Venetian aristocrat and a professional courtesan. She had been everything Laura’s father had wanted to be.

“That accounts for your looks, then.”

Laura didn’t bother to explain that her mother had been Northern Italian, fair-skinned and blue-eyed. Her dark looks were entirely the legacy of her French father. “Or lack of them?”

There was nothing like a bit of self-deprecation to soften up a crusty old servant. “Now, now,” said Jeannette, her voice and joints cracking as she laid aside her knitting and heaved herself up by the arms of the chair, “I didn’t say that. I’ll get you your headache powder. It’s a kind thought,” she added grudgingly.

“The children will be happier if their father is happier,” Laura said piously. No need to tell her that Jaouen had requested it.

“Paris is no place to be happy,” said Jeannette darkly, motioning Laura to follow her as she creaked her way across the nursery. “He’s not been happy since he came to Paris, and the children can sense it, poor lambs. He would have done better to stay with them at home and not come gadding about these fancy foreign places.”

Hiring fancy governesses. “How long has he been in Paris now?”

Jeannette clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth. “On to four years now. Or was it five? Miss Julie died in ninety-nine, and he didn’t stay long after.”

From the choice of address, Laura assumed it was a fairly safe guess that Jeannette had been with Mme. Jaouen before her marriage—most likely Mme. Jaouen’s own childhood nurse. The story made a compelling picture: the grieving widower fleeing the gravesite, traveling halfway across the country rather than be faced with the daily reminder of his loss.

Torturing Royalists probably did make for an excellent diversion from grief, Laura told herself caustically. She had no special sympathy for the old regime, but she did have rather an objection to the breaking and grinding of limbs.

Laura said what she was expected to say. “He must have loved her very much.”

“Everyone loved Miss Julie,” said Miss Julie’s old nurse. “Here’s your headache powder.”

“Thank you.” Laura took the small packet of white powder in a steady hand. She could feel the other packet, the hidden one, pressing against her left wrist. “I’ll take it down to Monsieur Jaouen right away.”

“You’ll want to give it to him with coffee,” Jeannette called after her. “He likes his coffee.”

“Thank you,” said Laura again, and, with a purposeful tread, went in search of the kitchens to fix some coffee.