The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie

Mackenzie plaid kilt. His hair was neatly combed, his face newly shaved, his gloves in place. Violet couldn’t help thinking he’d looked better disheveled, with his hair sticking out and his strong hands uncovered.

Violet realized several frozen heartbeats of silence had gone by, and the audience, Daniel, and her mother awaited her answer.

Her returning breath nearly choked her. “When the veil parts,” she said hoarsely, remembering at the last moment to speak French with a Russian accent, “all manner of things may come through.”

The audience murmured their agreement. Daniel regarded Violet with eyes full of mischief, the sparkle in them rivaling the brightest of the glowing balls above them.

“Ye don’t say. I couldn’t ask a question of me dear old mum, could I? Gone these twenty-four years or so?”

Violet kept staring at him. What was he doing? Daniel had gone hard with anger when Mortimer had suggested she contact his mother in front of the gentlemen in the London house. What was he up to now?

She needed to turn away from him and move on to the next petitioner. But her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and she couldn’t make her feet move.

The audience started applauding, taking up a chant of “Oui, oui.” Over this, Celine, in the voice of the child Adelaide, interrupted. “She is here, Monsieur. She has been waiting for you.”

Daniel’s back was to the audience, and he didn’t hide his amusement when he flicked his gaze to Violet’s mother. “Is she, now? That’s interesting.”

Celine’s voice changed pitch again, sounding more contralto, with rich, velvet tones. “I am so sorry, my son,” she said in perfect English. “I did not know my own mind. I never meant to hurt you.”

Daniel’s smile didn’t waver. “That’s all right, Mum. Don’t you worry about it, now.”

Celine breathed a soft sigh. “Thank you.”

The audience sighed with her.

Daniel winked up at Violet, then he patted the edge of the stage, turned from it, and strolled away, his kilt moving over his backside. Violet watched him as he made his way to an empty chair in the rear of the theatre, speaking congenially to the others in the row until he settled into his seat.

He wasn’t going to leave. He would sit there for the entire show.

And then what? Denounce her? Tell the audience that the countess and princess were confidence tricksters, newly come from London?

Daniel folded his arms, watching Violet, his grin in place. Her mother’s contact with his mother had not impressed him one whit. Violet forced herself to turn away, but her body was shaking, and she could barely stammer an answer to the next person.

Daniel remained in the back row as the performance went on—they were contracted for the full two hours. At any moment, Violet expected Daniel to stand up and declare the whole night to be nothing but flummery, that the audience should demand their money back and never trust Violet and those like her again. He’d tell them what Violet had done to him in London, and that he’d come here with magistrates to cart her off to prison.

But Daniel only watched as Violet talked to petitioners until her throat was dry, her ability to evaluate them evaporating. Fortunately Celine, who noticed nothing wrong, went on speaking to the spirits and conveying what the loved ones wanted to hear.

Violet was exhausted by the time Celine finally drooped back in her chair, her hands falling limp at her sides. “I can do no more,” Celine said in a tired whisper.

The gaslights on the stage flared up once, hissed, and went out. Mary was good at cues.

The audience burst into wild applause. There were cries of thanks, shouts for an encore. Violet signaled for Mary to pull the curtain closed, hiding her mother. Then Violet stepped out in front of the red velvet, her legs shaking.

She immediately looked to the back right of the house, where Daniel had been sitting. But that row was mostly empty, Daniel gone. Maybe he’d been a ghost after all, come to stir her guilty conscience.

The audience started to quiet, waiting expectantly. Violet raised her hands and launched into her rehearsed speech. “Please, the countess has given all she has. She is spent for the night, but she will reappear here on Saturday, after she has rested and meditated. If you wish a private consultation, you must write to the address on the card her maid will hand to you as you leave. I thank you for coming, and the countess thanks you.” Violet jerked around to look through the crack in the curtain, as though someone had called her. “What . . .?” She whirled to face the audience again, her veils trembling. “The countess. Please, you must go. I must . . .”

Violet broke off and scurried back through the curtains. The stage behind them was empty, Mary having long since escorted Celine away.

Violet paused to catch her breath as the fold of velvet dropped closed behind her. Dizzy and dry mouthed, she caught up the half-full pitcher of water, thrust her annoying veils aside, and drank a long draught.

Mr. Mackenzie was alive, and here, unless Violet, in her overwrought state, had dreamed him. Perhaps she’d played so long at spirits that she’d started to believe she truly could see the dead.

Tommyrot. He was alive.

How the devil had he found her? Violet had bought train and boat tickets under a false name, had taken the rooms to let here under still another name, neither of which were Bastien or their personas of the countess and princess. At the boardinghouse, she and her mother were plain Madame and Mademoiselle Perrault, from Rouen, with a maid. Mary kept her own first name, pronouncing it Marie, but no one paid much attention to maids, many of whom were called Marie, regardless.

How did Daniel discover that Violette Bastien and Princess Ivanova were one and the same? Daniel had not seen Celine at the London house, and Violet was always careful to never have their likenesses printed anywhere. Concealing herself behind her black tulle veil had obviously made no difference.

Had Daniel truly come here to have them arrested? Or perhaps to blackmail Violet for his silence? He could not have come to Marseille for any benevolent reason—for that he’d have stayed in England and left her in peace.

Violet wanted to rush to the dressing room, grab her mother and Mary, and run again. Somewhere, anywhere. Maybe to Russia in truth, a place they’d never been.

She made herself swallow a little more water and calmly walk to the theatre manager’s office to secure the takings. She’d learned to collect the money right away, after one unscrupulous manager had disappeared with all the cash one night. Violet counted the money, gave the manager his cut, then stashed their share inside her corset and hurried down the hall to the dressing room at its end.

Celine was there in a soft armchair, truly exhausted. She rubbed her bare forehead. “I should not have worn the turban. The blasted thing is so heavy.”

Her South London accent crept into her English for a moment before she heaved another sigh and reverted to cultured French. “Please, may we go home, Violet? I have such a headache.”

“Of course, Mama. You and Mary go in the carriage. I’ll change my clothes and walk home. It’s not far, and it’s still early.” And if Daniel lingered with constables to arrest Violet for assaulting him, her mother might have a chance to get away.

“You are so good to me.” Those words came often out of Celine’s mouth, in her weary tone, but Violet knew she meant them.

Violet gave Mary the takings to lock away at the boardinghouse. She wasn’t fool enough to walk down the street, even in this fairly safe part of town, with thousands of francs inside her bodice. And if constables were coming, her mother would have the money.

But no one waited to pounce on them outside the stage door. Violet made sure Celine and Mary were safely away in the hired carriage, with no one following them, before she returned to the quiet dressing room, breathing a little more easily. She changed out of her costume, packed their things, including the turban, into a valise, and slipped out the stage door again.

Violet walked down the narrow lane behind the theatre toward the main street, her head down. She now wore a workingwoman’s garb of plain skirt, shirtwaist, and coat, with a flat hat pinned over her simple knot of hair. She might be a typist or a telegraph worker hurrying home after a long, tiring day.

Before she reached the street, a hand landed on her shoulder, and Daniel Mackenzie pulled her back into the shadows of the passage.