So in Love (18 page)

B
efore a week had passed, Jeanne’s routine as a governess had been established. In the mornings, she gave Margaret her lessons in the small schoolroom at the top of the house. In the afternoons, the two of them took a walk followed by a few hours of dance, music, or painting classes.

The ballroom where they practiced dancing was quite cool in the hotter time of day. Likewise the small room that Douglas had suggested they use for Margaret’s painting class. Sometimes it felt as if the entire house had been given over to Jeanne with the express intent of making Douglas’s daughter happy.

Margaret was a precocious child, one who seemed to revel in the world around her. Every day was an adventure. She was a natural mimic, and quickly learned the Italian phrases Jeanne taught her. Her greatest affection was for painting, however, and it was evident that the child was talented. Margaret had already gone beyond her meager talents, and Jeanne made a mental note to discuss further lessons with Douglas.

Douglas’s interest in his daughter’s day surprised her.
He supervised her diet, her exercise, and her lesson plans. He was the one who suggested that Margaret might wish to learn Greek.

“Only if you wish to teach it, of course,” he said to her. “Or Latin, if you prefer.”

“Do you think she’ll have any need for it?”

“Do you only espouse teaching a subject that might have value? I remember discussing your lessons with you, and your education didn’t seem at all practical.”

“Not for the convent,” she quickly answered before she could bite back the words. “I learned independence of mind and spirit, Douglas, and that the world is a kind and a just place. Neither one of those lessons has been of value.”

“If her curiosity leads her to places she shouldn’t go, Jeanne, perhaps her wisdom will keep her from acting foolish.”

“So you think that no education is ever truly wasted?” she asked.

He smiled. “Any good teacher would think so.”

She had never once considered that he might be iconoclastic in regards to his daughter. Or that he might be forward-thinking. He had no prejudice whatsoever for the fact that Margaret was female. Nor had he ever expressed dissatisfaction or disappointment in that fact. In addition, Jeanne had the distinct impression that she served as Margaret’s governess only to enhance the child’s learning, not to change or alter the essence of Margaret herself.

Unlike Jeanne’s father, who had her educated so that she might be a reflection of his good taste and his erudition, Douglas thought Margaret was, simply put, perfect.

Jeanne didn’t know what she had expected Margaret MacRae to be like, but it wasn’t a child who had such a well-developed sense of herself. She was unlike Davis the way a butterfly is different from a stone. In addition, she had a quick wit and a facile mind.

Today they were studying the history of the Empire, a subject that was as new to Jeanne as it was to Margaret. Neither one of them was overly interested in the topic, but it was a necessary part of the child’s history lesson.

Jeanne sat at a small desk on a raised portion in the front of the schoolroom, while Margaret sat in front of her. The morning had been one of storms and now a fine rain was falling. She’d opened the two windows to let in some of the balmy air and kept the door ajar so that the cross currents would allow some type of breeze. But the time passed in a desultory fashion, and both teacher and student were obviously indifferent to their studies.

“Do you think God can be seen, Miss du Marchand?” Margaret abruptly asked. She propped her elbow on the table she used as a desk, and leaned her chin on her palm, staring out of the window to the gray-hued horizon. There wasn’t a hint of fair weather in the sky. Instead, it appeared that it might rain all day.

“Where did that question come from?” Jeanne asked, looking up from her desk and surveying the child.

Margaret shrugged, her gaze still directed toward the view.

“I don’t believe so,” Jeanne answered. “I believe you’re supposed to believe in God without seeing Him.”

Margaret looked unimpressed. “Do you believe in God?”

“I do, yes.” She waited for more questions, hoping that Margaret wouldn’t peer too closely into her governess’s faith. The years at the convent had soured her as to religious practices.

“Is Heaven supposed to be invisible as well?”

“Are you thinking of your mother?” Jeanne asked gently, holding her breath, and wondering what reaction that question would engender.

Margaret shook her head. “No, my cat.”

“Your cat?” Jeanne asked, surprised. “I didn’t know you
had a cat.” The moment the words were out, she remembered the portrait in Douglas’s study and the kitten who’d been painted into the scene.

“She died, Miss du Marchand,” Margaret said patiently, glancing at her.

“I’m very sorry, Margaret. I didn’t know.”

“You couldn’t have, of course. It happened a year ago.”

Jeanne folded her arms and waited.

Margaret didn’t disappoint. “Do you think there’s a cat heaven and a dog heaven and a people heaven?”

“I think there are some questions that you should ask your father,” Jeanne said in self-defense.

“He said to ask you.”

He would.

“No,” she said firmly, “I do not believe that Heaven is invisible. Not to its inhabitants. I do not think the living can see it, however. As to animals and humans, surely God would be merciful and open the gates of heaven to those we love, whoever and whatever they are.”

Margaret looked slightly mollified. “That’s what Papa said.”

“You mustn’t do that, you know,” Jeanne said, impatiently tapping her fingers on top of the desk.

“Do what?”

She wasn’t fooled by the innocent smile the child gave her. “Ask each of us a question and pick the answer you like the best.”

Jeanne didn’t know what Margaret might have said to such an accusation. At that moment the door swung open a little, revealing Douglas standing there.

“You should feel privileged to be so solicited, Miss du Marchand,” he said, smiling and entering the room.

She hadn’t seen him for a few days, and as usual the sight of Douglas made her heart beat faster and her breath feel tight.

His attire was simple, the clothes expensive but unadorned. The lace on his cuffs and at his throat was not an elaborate pattern. His shoe buckles were silver squares. His vest was sedately embroidered with silver thread on the black silk, while his breeches were tan. He was the very picture of a prosperous businessman, an individual sober of mien and intensely focused.

Ever since she’d issued her decree, he’d not visited her once. For that fact she told herself she was profoundly grateful. In her mind she portrayed him as nothing more than a parent of her student, a delusional thought that she was able to continue for hours at a time. Until, of course, she saw him or Margaret spoke of him, which she did often. And then her pretense would come tumbling down like a flimsy structure of blocks, to lie jumbled on the floor.

She missed him. Intently. At night she’d sometimes awaken and lie staring at the ceiling, clenching the sheets with both fists. Once, she’d even awakened at the end of a particularly sensual dream, on the precipice of release. She’d called his name into her pillow and beat on the mattress, but it didn’t eradicate the need or ease the loneliness.

“I’ve come to invite you to the warehouse,” he said to Margaret. “There’s a ship due to arrive from the Orient, and I know you’d like to see the treasures for yourself.”

“May we really, Papa?” Margaret asked. She glanced at Jeanne. “Please, Miss du Marchand, say yes, and we can spend the whole afternoon there.”

A temptation? Or a foolish idea? Perhaps even a dangerous one. Jeanne folded her hands in front of her and looked at Douglas inquiringly.

“You should plan on visiting the MacRae empire, Miss du Marchand. You can see our vault of gold ingots.”

“We have so much more than that,” Margaret said, standing and going to her father’s side. She turned and looked at Jeanne. “You should see the warehouse, Miss du
Marchand. It’s like the most enchanted place in the entire world. Please, may we go?”

His look dared her to refuse. Did he know that she was feeling rash—or was it lonely—enough to take his dare? Foolish man, she’d thrust her fist at God Himself. She was more than capable of declining Douglas MacRae.

“We have our lessons,” she said softly.

Let him command her, and then there would be no assent on her part, and no responsibility for what would inevitably occur. Or perhaps it was only what she wanted to happen. But he remained silent, watching her, refusing to order, relinquishing his role of employer for that of tormenter.

Ask me, and I’ll come. Tell me, and I’ll be the first at the door.
But still, he said nothing.

Disappointed, she turned to Margaret. “We need to finish up our study of history today,” she said.

Douglas looked down at his daughter’s frowning face. “We’ll do it some other time, Meggie.” He glanced at Jeanne. “I’ll leave you to your lessons, then,” he said, placing his hand on his daughter’s head. He did that often, a benediction of touch that was gentle and almost unconscious, as if he reassured himself that she was near. Margaret, in turn, always smiled up at him—the two of them in harmony with each other.

It was a perfect familial moment, one that made Jeanne’s stomach clench.

After he left, the room seemed less bright, as if the storm had intensified or the gray day suddenly dimmed even more.

Jeanne turned to Margaret. “We have an hour before luncheon. Shall we make the best use of our time?” She forced herself to smile brightly at the child.

Margaret frowned at her, but returned to her desk and picked up her slate nonetheless.

“You know you wanted to go, Miss du Marchand,” she said a moment later.

Jeanne glanced at her, surprised.

“My cat was like you sometimes. I’d give her a piece of fish but she’d pretend not to like it. Papa said it was her pride that was hurting. She’d wanted to catch the fish herself.”

Jeanne stared wordlessly at Margaret, unable to decide what was worse: being likened to a cat or the fact that the child was extraordinarily perceptive.

The stairway was fetid and close, the smell of refuse and unwashed bodies emerging from the depths.

Nicholas, Comte du Marchand, held his lace handkerchief firmly against his nose and tried not to breathe as the stench increased.

“This is your idea, Talbot?” he asked the man in front of him.

The goldsmith turned, his unapologetic grin illuminated by the lantern in his hand. “Where else do you expect me to find a man to do your bidding, Count?”

“My title is an ancient one,” Nicholas said, pinching the handkerchief close to his nose. “Pray do not offend me by using it like a club.”

Talbot only grinned again, and descended another of the slippery steps. “Mary King’s Close dates back to the seventeenth century, your lordship,” he said mockingly. “Almost as old as that title of yours, I’d venture.”

Nicholas’s ancestors had helped finance the Norman invasion of England, but he didn’t bother attempting to educate the goldsmith.

The pit they descended into was a series of streets that had, for some odd reason, sunk into the ground not long after they were cobbled, creating a settlement beneath the
city. Beyond the darkness, he could see a flicker of torchlight and lantern, and could hear the echo of laughter.

“Don’t be afraid, your lordship. Those aren’t ghosts.”

Nicholas frowned at the younger man, wishing that he’d tumble down the steps into the darkness. He doubted anyone would ever find the body.

“Don’t be absurd,” he said between clenched lips. “I’m not a child, to be afraid of the dark.”

“There’s more down here than the dark,” Talbot said. “There’s a tale that plague victims were walled up in here. You can still hear their screams if you keep quiet.”

“A gruesome history,” Nicholas said dryly. “Do you not know any more pleasant stories?”

“Queasy, your lordship?” Talbot’s laughter echoed against the soot-covered brick.

Nicholas took a step forward and placed the head of his cane against the man’s back. “Did you know, Talbot, that there is a blade located inside this walking stick? A short jab and you’ll be one more corpse.” He glanced around, surveying the blackened bricks and deep shadows. “I’ll venture that more than one body has been left here over the years.”

Talbot stepped forward, and glanced over his shoulder at Nicholas. “My pardons, your lordship, I meant no disrespect.” Before Nicholas could comment, he disappeared into the shadows. “Don’t step on any old bones, your lordship,” he said, his amused voice disembodied and echoing.

Nicholas followed his path, by necessity placing his hand on the slimy brick wall and picking his way down the steps. The glow of the lantern abruptly disappeared from view, leaving him in total darkness.

The skittering sound around him increased, punctuated by high-pitched squeaks. He detested rats.

“Have you lost your way, your lordship?” Talbot said,
suddenly appearing at the bottom of the steps surrounded by a nimbus of light.

“Is it absolutely necessary to come to this…” He hesitated for a moment, knowing that there was no appropriate word for this dungeon. “Place?”

“It gets easier a few feet up ahead, your lordship.”

Nicholas grimly smiled, thinking that once he had the ruby, he would never again be forced to consort with the goldsmith.

The floor abruptly sloped beneath his feet, rendering him momentarily disoriented. He stopped and focused on the light ahead. As he walked downward toward it, he realized that Talbot had entered a tavern.

He ducked his head below a low-hung lintel, and entered a wide smoke-filled room. A corpulent man dressed in a stained shirt with rolled-up sleeves was tapping a keg that sat on rockers on the bar’s surface. He looked up at their entrance and studied them for a moment before nodding at Talbot. Nicholas fingered the neck of his walking stick and reassured himself that he was somewhat protected.