A Spark Unseen

leave this house alone. Can we agree upon that?”

Mary began a mumbling protest, but my gaze was pulled straight to the papers I had left in the chair. I had been planning to leave the house just as soon as possible.

“No need to look like that, child,” said Mr. Babcock, coming to pat me awkwardly on the shoulder. “I quite understand the difficulties, and I did not bribe half of France to not get any of the benefits. I shall take you first thing in the morning, or as early as you can be ready. Will that do? Assuming your uncle can be made comfortable, of course. I have brought him some things I hope will prove sufficiently distracting. …”

But whatever else he might have said was cut off by the kiss I planted on his sagging cheek.

“Well, well,” he said again, reaching down to straighten the buttons of his waistcoat. I knew he was pleased. But I also saw a shadow of sadness pass across his face.

I sent Mary to my uncle, to be certain he still slept, and ascertaining that I did not have a black eye, merely a bruise along my right cheekbone, shockingly purple, I made myself decent and left Marianna’s bedchamber. I counted each step as I descended, twenty-two from my landing to the lowest floor. That would make sixty-six stairs between the DuPonts and my uncle’s lair in the attic. It did not feel like enough.

The DuPont family stood assembled along the front wall of the salon, as if awaiting inspection, Mr. DuPont, I was happy to see, wearing all the clothing he should be. The dust sheets were gone, the window shutters opened to the steady drizzle, and a small coal fire glowed in the grate. It was a nice room, I thought, very bright and new looking, but I missed the dignity that came with Stranwyne’s dark and ancient shabbiness.

They must have arrived quite early to clean it, I thought, watching Marguerite stare dreamily at the gilded designs on the ceiling, hair floating about her head like a fluffy blonde cloud. I wished her elsewhere. Mr. Babcock had suggested I be gentle with the DuPonts — I was, after all, depriving them of what must have been an easy and welcome addition to their income — and I planned to be as just and reasonable as was possible. But the child did not need to listen while I dismissed her mother. Perhaps she did not speak English. I turned to ask, but Mrs. DuPont stepped forward before I could speak.

“You cannot send us away, Mademoiselle.”

I closed my mouth, and then said, “Mrs. DuPont, I most certainly —”

“Napoleon est mort,” Mr. DuPont interrupted, hat in his hands. I raised a brow in his direction.

“You will not send us away, Mademoiselle,” Mrs. DuPont repeated. “You will need the cooking and the shopping —”

“Napoleon est mort.”

“— and I am a fine cook.”

“Mrs. DuPont, I have no intention of —”

“And your salon, is it not pretty, just as the English like?”

“I —”

“We are good workers. Everyone says that we are. …”

“Then I am certain you will have no difficulty whatsoever in finding another position,” I said firmly, putting an end to the argument. “You will receive an excellent reference and a full month of wages, as agreed, so you may —”

“Napoleon est mort,” Mr. DuPont said loudly. I saw Marguerite, utterly unperturbed, reach up and take his hand. I softened my tone.

“— so you may begin elsewhere. I wish you all the best of luck. Please leave whatever keys you have let yourself in with and I will bid you a good day.”

“I think,” Mrs. DuPont said very slowly, “that what Mademoiselle wishes the most, is for the privacy. Is that not so?”

I stiffened slightly, a little frown on my forehead. I was certain her sharp gaze had not missed it. “Mrs. DuPont, I thank you for your time here, but your services are no longer required. Please leave your keys on the table in the foyer. Can I be more clear?”

“But I have already done so, Mademoiselle. Last night, as you instructed, before retiring to our rooms.”

I stared, uncomprehending, and then I caught the barest tilt to one corner of her mouth, a smug lift in an otherwise expressionless face. “Mrs. DuPont,” I said slowly, “exactly where are your rooms?”

She nodded just slightly, as if acknowledging the arrival of a long-awaited question. “In the servants’ quarters, Mademoiselle,” she replied, “across the hallway from the kitchen.”

I stood mute, drawing in five full breaths before I accepted the truth, and then my temper flared, as I was sure she’d meant it to do. Mrs. DuPont had never actually left the house. The DuPonts lived in the house. Without anyone’s knowledge or permission. I filtered through the memory of our conversations. Had she told me she was leaving or had I assumed? What had been said and done last night when we thought the house was empty? A wave of hot fury was spreading outward from my chest, but there was a cold, cold fear bubbling just beneath it. What might this woman have already seen? Or heard?

Mrs. DuPont waited quietly, unmoving, her black eyes watching me think all these things. “You will need servants, Mademoiselle,” she repeated.

“And tell me why,” I said deliberately, “I would retain a servant who has breached her contract with my estate, who has lived in my house without permission for …” I tilted my head, leaving the question in the air.

“Five years, Mademoiselle.”

“For five years,” I said. The flush of anger reached my cheeks. “Can you explain why I would keep such a servant, Mrs. DuPont, instead of bringing the police?”

“Because, Mademoiselle, I think you will wish for the servant that does not ask the questions. Am I not right? I think the servant who can hold her tongue will be what Mademoiselle requires.”

If Mrs. DuPont’s expression remained unchanged, I’m sure mine did not. All my fury was cooling, icing over with dread.

“Mademoiselle will need the servant who will not mind the comings and goings, who will not mind that they stay on the lowest floor. And we …” She indicated the man and child with a wave of her bony hand. I’d nearly forgotten they were there. “We can be very quiet, Mademoiselle. We know how to hold our tongues in the street. When Mademoiselle pays a good wage, we can all hold our tongues very well.”

Again we stared at each other, and if before there had been a battle between our eyes, this time it was not even a contest; Mrs. DuPont had all the weapons.

“I think we shall be very happy together. Do you not agree, Mademoiselle?”

We all turned to a sharp tap from the window. Mrs. Hardcastle was peering in from the other side of the smearing glass, pince-nez on her nose, an umbrella over her enormous hat, other indistinct bodies pressed around her. She was grinning, pointing meaningfully at my front door.

“You have visitors, Mademoiselle,” said Mrs. DuPont. “Marguerite, prend leurs manteaux, amener les ici.” And to her husband she said, “Disparais!” He vanished without a word while Marguerite bounded toward the front door, where someone was already rapping. “You will need tea and sweet things,” Mrs. DuPont said gravely, her black eyes dancing at me. “I will prepare it, Mademoiselle.”

“Miss Tulman,” I whispered at her back. She looked over her shoulder and nodded once, her face as satisfied as a death mask could be.

14

Mrs. DuPont left the room with the rustle of raven wings, only to be replaced by Mrs. Hardcastle, charging through the same doorway like a stampeding bull.

“Miss Tulman! Good morning! Good morning!” Mrs. Hardcastle grabbed both my startled hands, shoving a