The Perilous Journey of the Not-So-Innocuous Girl (9 page)

“Outil, did you have anything to attend to on the grounds?” Marguerite asked in her best sticky sweet voice.

“Yes, m’lady. There are several assignments that require my attention, but my first priority is to you.”

“Then you may be dismissed, but only until I summon you once more.” Marguerite didn’t care a thing about what Pomphart wanted, but she didn’t want to risk endangering her relationship with her father any further on their last night together.

Outil did not budge until Pomphart took a step back. Only then did the automaton move sideways and toward the door, handing Marguerite’s things to a maid standing at the ready.

“You will follow me.” Pomphart turned on her heel and marched forward without watching to see if Marguerite would follow.

Marguerite took a step in the same direction but was caught at the arm by the maid with her coat. “Don’t go with her, miss! She’s a wicked one. I don’t know what she’s been plannin’ but I guarantee you it’s not anything good!”

Surprised and touched in the smallest way by the concern of this common house worker, Marguerite patted her hand and assured her, “Thank you, but I’m fine. There isn’t anything worse she can do to me that she hasn’t already done, and this is our last night together.”

“Yes, miss. Just … be careful!”

Marguerite nodded and followed after Pomphart, who seemed to be heading to the kitchens. She caught up with her and wondered at their winding path through what was now turning into the serving areas. As a child Marguerite had been permitted to explore the entirety of the house any time she liked, except the quarters where the servants worked. She would pop into the kitchen for a treat now and then, and she knew where everything was, in general, but she hadn’t been through many of the lower halls. She couldn’t imagine where the old hag was taking her.

On their left and right, frightened house servants paused to bow and move out of the way, not used to seeing the lady of the house in their domain and none of them enjoying the site of Pomphart. When they finally slowed, it was in front of a small door off a corridor between the kitchens and the pantries. It was not a direct route and so was not often used. Not a soul could be seen or heard for several twists and turns.

Pomphart looked up and down the hallway before she took a key out of her skirts and fitted it in the keyhole. With a bit of jiggling the door eventually swung open, revealing a stone passageway leading under the house.

Marguerite stiffened.

“After you,” Pomphart hissed and held out her hand toward the stairs.

“What is down here?” Marguerite was slightly hesitant, but wanted to know more about this secret passage than she cared about Pomphart’s motives. She took a step into the passage and down one stair.

Quick as a wink, Pomphart slammed the door behind her. Blackness fell like a curtain over Marguerite’s eyes. She suddenly felt off balance and stumbled as she tried to turn on the small step and push the door back open.

“What are you doing?” She could hear the lock turning in its mechanism as she banged on the thick wooden door.

“I’m preparing you for your new life, m’lady. They won’t put up with your attitude in Lyon!” The way her voice was muffled through the door put a note of panic into Marguerite’s chest. She continued to bang and shove, but if she could barely hear Pomphart and they were merely inches away from each other, then the hopes of anyone else hearing her and coming to her aid were very slim.

She gave up pounding, leaned her head on the door, and could barely make out the sound of receding footsteps. How could she have been so foolish? What was Pomphart thinking? She pounded again just for emphasis. “I hate you, Pomphart!”

Marguerite wasn’t the type to cry in this kind of situation. She took a deep breath and started calculating. The servants would be most busy in the next hour or so when dinner was being prepared. If she could save her energy until then, maybe someone would hear her when passing by the main hall. She definitely did not want to wait here for Pomphart to come collect her repentant pupil. She carefully turned and sat on the top step. Deep, cold blackness lay before her on all sides. By the light coming through the bottom of the door, she could just make out the rough-cut stone walls and the stair on which she sat.

The thought of what might be lurking below her perch made Marguerite shiver, so she steeled herself against the idea and focused on the problem at hand: how to tell what time it was. She supposed she could listen for the scurry of their feet, but she wished now that she carried her own timepiece. She had read in a fashion report that it was the latest trend in Paris for women to carry their own pocket watches, some even as bold as to wear a delicate wristwatch concealed by their gloves. She wished now that she had purchased one on the spot. She might’ve been able to read it by the slit of light under the door.

Marguerite unconsciously reached for the one thing she did have— the cricket. It felt small and familiar in her hand. She took it out to hold in her lap, careful not to spring the mechanism, but she wasn’t careful enough. Her finger slipped off one of the legs and landed squarely on the trigger button on its side. The tiny creature sprang immediately into action, flying off of her hand into the abyss.

“Drat! No!” Marguerite lurched forward in a vain attempt to capture it before it fell. Her hand grabbed nothing but air just before she heard the
plink
…
plink
… of its brass body bouncing away.

“No, no, no!” Tears sprang into her eyes. How would she ever get it back?

Suddenly, the very moment she heard the fourth bounce, a light sprang up from the little bug’s position, illuminating the entire stairway and most of the room below. With the way clearly lit, Marguerite sprang to retrieve it.

She scooped it up like a precious stone and cradled it to her breast, tears freely falling down her cheeks. She turned it over in her hands, carefully examining the light shining out of its eyes.

“What magic is this?” Her heart fluttered when she thought of Claude and the time he must have spent crafting the tiny creature. “No wonder he didn’t want me to lose you! I wonder what else you can do.”

She looked up and pointed the cricket’s face at her surroundings. The room below her was made of solid stone and smelled musty from being cradled in the earth for decades with no ventilation. Wooden beams lined the ceiling and cobwebs hung in all directions. Large trunks lined the walls and a few were scattered about the floor. Archaic metal contraptions covered in dust and more webs from spiders long dead were stuffed in corners here and there.

“This must be some sort of storage room. I wonder how long these things have been down here.” She quickly calculated dates in her mind. The estate was at least two hundred years old. “There could be anything down here!” She spoke in a whisper to her cricket as she scanned the forgotten treasures before her, trying to decide what to investigate first.

A rust-colored trunk near the foot of the stairs seemed newer than the others. She carefully picked her way down the steep stone steps and bent to inspect the lock. It wasn’t latched so she tried pushing the lid up with the palm of her hand. It popped up easily, letting loose a cloud of dust and dead bugs.

Inside, stacks and stacks of papers were tied with brightly colored ribbons. Some seemed to be letters, others official documents or notices from the government. She gently picked up a small packet tied with a strand of lavender silk. Turning it over in her hands, she looked for clues as to what the contents may be. On the back of the packet she saw her father’s name printed in a beautiful script, obviously a woman’s. She pulled apart the layers to peek inside without having to open the bundle. She saw the opening line of what appeared to be a personal letter.

My Dearest Jean,

“A love letter?” Marguerite whispered. “Who would write my father a love letter?”

A terrifying thought occurred to her then. Was Pomphart’s plan to leave her trapped in this forgotten place? To die along with the rest of these memories? If no one could hear her then no one would find her. Pomphart could tell her father she had run away and no one would think anything of it, knowing how unhappy she was with the plans to move to Lyon. She looked desolately at the stacks of trunks. She pictured her skeleton being discovered decades from now and people weeping—“If only we’d known Pomphart was evil!” Maybe Captain Moreau would come looking for her when she didn’t board the ship in the morning. That would be an excellent drama. The ship … how desperately she wanted to be on that ship now!

Suddenly the door at the top of the stairs flew open and a bot plunged into the stairway. “M’lady Marguerite?” It was Outil’s soft metallic voice.

“Outil! You scared me half to death!” Marguerite plunged the letters into her pocket, they only just fit. “How did you find me?” She shut the trunk and ascended the stairs.

“Madame Pomphart does not have good intentions. I activated the homing mechanism on the cricket in order to observe your safety. When I saw that you were below the manor house I came at once.”

“There is a homing device in the cricket? Who has access to this?” She was both relieved and perturbed at the same time.

“No one, miss. It was installed as a precaution by Master Claude in case we were ever in need of your location. He never used it. I have only used it one other time as a test.”

Relieved, she pushed past her bot, heading for the light of the deserted hallway above. Turning back, she remembered her manners. “Thank you, Outil.” It seemed strange somehow to thank a mere bot for anything. Yet it seemed strange not to thank anyone who rescued you. She pressed on.

“Do you know if the homing device is what made these lights come on?” She showed the cricket to the bot, who carefully took it from her and expertly pushed two small panels on the underbelly of the bug. The light switched off.

“It might have been. I cannot be certain unless we perform another test.” Outil handed the cricket back to Marguerite and held the door back for her to pass.

“We don't have time for that now. Come with me to my quarters. I must locate my father immediately and I don't want to run into Pomphart alone.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “How did you get the door open?”

“I was constructed with dynamic fingers capable of several tasks, including lock picking.” Outil carefully closed the door and placed a slender finger to the keyhole; her finger immediately morphed into several shapes before resting on one that slid easily into the hole and, turning, clicked the mechanisms back in place.

“Amazing!” Marguerite wondered for a split second over the sheer brilliance of her friend—her love, then raced to her rooms where she began packing her bag for her voyage.

The look on Madame Pomphart’s face was priceless when Marguerite appeared at the dinner table in fine spirits. Marguerite wondered if the old woman had even bothered to check the cellar or if her intentions really had been to leave her there to die. Either way, things were working out exactly as Marguerite had planned, despite the temporary incarceration.

“Don’t you look lovely?” Her father’s voice sounded a bit sad as she sat at her seat beside him. Pomphart sat across the large table from her at his other side. “I’ve invited Madame Pomphart to join us tonight as a sort of celebration of your graduation.”

Marguerite’s heart was breaking for her father. She knew he wanted what was best for her and she couldn't bear to leave him in this sad mood.

“Father, I would like to propose something to you.” She took a deep inhalation as she prepared to weave her tale. “I have reconsidered my options and I believe I was foolish before. I should very much like to entertain the idea of Lord Delacourte courting me.”

Her father’s countenance immediately lifted, his eyes shone with wonder. “Are you certain?” A smile was spreading across his face.

“Yes, I am.” The lie stung in her mouth. She knew she was laying open the makings of an even bigger wound, but she just wanted one more happy night with her father. She wanted to see him merry and laughing rather than reserved and sighing while trying to do the
fatherly
thing and make his daughter responsible.

“Well then I believe a celebration really is in order!” He trumpeted merrily to the entire household, “Bring out the best wine! Pomphart, you will write to the Delacourtes first thing tomorrow morning! My girl! You will not be disappointed, I am certain of that.”

Marguerite smiled at her father and stole a glance at Pomphart whose face she couldn’t quite read. There was definitely a hint of disappointment there, but also a touch of triumph. Did the old bat think locking her in the cellar had actually changed Marguerite’s mind?

The rest of the evening went very well. Pomphart excused herself to her rooms early. An automaton was invited in to play the grand piano that had lain untouched in the music hall for nearly fifteen years. Marguerite and her father talked and laughed about old memories and she let him prattle on about future events, the wedding, the grandchildren. He was merry and lively with just a touch of wine, just the way she wanted to remember him. She couldn’t bear to think of his sorrow when he discovered she was gone in the morning, and not bound for Lyon, but somewhere much farther from his heart and much more dangerous.