“From the boat in the box with the other things.”
I remembered seeing that now, the box of tin toys in the corner. There had been several boats with bells, much like the one we’d found in my grandmother’s library at Stranwyne, the one Uncle Tully had made balance on its keel. Having the boats must have been important to him at one time, if Marianna had made sure to have them in Paris. But she was gone, just as Mr. Babcock was gone, and Lane was not here to help me either. How could I protect my uncle? How could I take care of everyone? So far I had taken care of no one at all. The knot in my insides was now an agonizing weight, the tears I could not prevent rolling freely down my cheeks. The clocks in the room struck a multi-note clang, marking the half hour. I felt a feather-light touch on my sleeve.
“Here, Simon’s baby,” said Uncle Tully. I looked down to see the brass flower sitting in his palm. When I waited, he pushed it into my hand. “Here. You like the flower.”
I took the intricate, shining thing, amazed at this freedom, feeling its weight like a bloom of pure gold in my hands. And Uncle Tully had given it to me to hold. He might as well have told me he loved me.
I woke once in the night, the moon shining down, making strange shadows in the workshop. A light shone from my uncle’s bedchamber, dim, and I could hear him puttering around inside the room with soft, metallic clinks. Mary had made a sojourn downstairs for nightgowns and spread us a pallet of blankets on the carpeted floor — we’d both deemed it safer in the hidden workshop than on the lower floors — and I could hear her heavy breathing from just beside me, feel her warmth on my back, immeasurably grateful that she was with me. I lay awake a long time, staring at everything and nothing, tears wetting my loose hair and the pillow. Never had I felt so alone.
A touch on my shoulder and I sat straight up from the pallet on the floor, clutching hard at the blanket, the sun streaming in from the high windows making me blink.
“I’m that sorry to wake you, Miss, but you’d best be coming downstairs right away. There’s a sight to be seen, Miss.”
I stumbled upright, a bit stupid with sleep, feeling a heavy ache behind my eyes. I pulled the blanket around my nightgown, running a hand over my wild hair, which I’d neglected to braid, and forced myself to keep up with Mary’s pace. She was fully dressed and in a hurry.
“Tell me what’s the matter,” I said, waking up enough to be frightened. But Mary only shook her head.
“Down here, Miss,” she said, leading me down sixty-six stairs and into the salon, where she went to the hearth and stood, arms crossed over her apron. I could not understand what was upsetting her until I saw that there was something new on the wall, a piece of wood, screwed firmly into the plaster on one side of the chimneypiece, little white shavings all over the floor. I touched the wooden plank. It was part of a chair. A small box was attached to the wood, and from the bottom of this box hung a brass bell, just like I had seen last night on Uncle Tully’s workbench. I turned to Mary in horror. Surely not. Surely Uncle Tully had not put that bell here? Mary’s face was grim.
“Did you go out of the storeroom last night, Miss? ’Cause I know I was locking the door.”
“I didn’t, Mary, I swear it. And I remember that you locked it.” I looked again at the innocent little bell. If Uncle Tully could make bells ring by themselves, I don’t know what made me think a simple lock and key could keep him in. I looked down into the open top of the box and found the clear jar and the wire, just like last night. But Uncle Tully couldn’t make this bell ring, not all the way downstairs? Could he? I looked to Mary, and her large eyes confirmed that he had, and he could.
“There’s another one in my room, Miss, and in yours, one in the dining room, and one next to the convenience.”
I dropped onto the settee. “Is he …”
“Sleeping like a lamb, Miss.”
“But have you …” I ran a finger over my temple and lowered my voice. “Have you seen the DuPonts?”
Mary’s voice followed suit. “That Mr. DuPont was creeping about early this morning, Miss, as soon as I came down the stairs.”
“Do you think he could have seen Uncle Tully? Was he acting normally, Mary?”
Mary rolled her eyes, and I acknowledged the idiocy of the question with a shrug. “Well, if he was, Miss, then Mr. Tully will be all caught up good and proper on the state of that first Napoleon’s health, that’s all I’ve got to be saying about it. We …”
Mary fell silent as Mrs. DuPont came into the salon, her expression unaffected by the sight of me sitting downstairs in my nighttime dishevelment. “Your breakfast is in the dining room, Mademoiselle.”
“Miss Tulman!” I said sharply, in no mood for niceties. Her mask of a face did not change as she held out a letter. I came to take it, she curtsied, and shut the salon door.
“Bat!” Mary blurted. “If it wasn’t for the girl I’d say toss her on her backside, that’s what.”
I ripped open the letter and began to read.
“And what are we going to be doing about them DuPonts, Miss? Mr. Babcock was the one that had all that in hand, and you know that man is about by his lamppost this morning, Miss, watching our doors as bold as brass, shiftless as you please. How to even be taking a bit of air without … What is it, Miss?”
I looked up from the letter. “Mrs. Cooper says someone has dug up Uncle Tully’s grave. She is quite upset about it. It happened during the night, two … no three days since. They’ve filled it back in again.”
“Lord!” said Mary.
I dropped back into my spot on the settee. We thought this would happen, but now that it had, what did it mean? Did Wickersham know my uncle lived, or no? I pushed a finger against my throbbing temple. Seeing Mrs. Cooper’s writing, like a little piece of Stranwyne in Paris, had left me shaken for other reasons as well. Mr. Babcock was to have been steward of the estate while I was away. How was I to safeguard my uncle and Mrs. Cooper, and manage the entire village as well, now that he was gone?
A noise interrupted my thoughts. The front door was opening, and I could hear Mrs. DuPont’s French, and a deep male answer. I jumped up from the settee.
“She knows you ain’t dressed, Miss, even she wouldn’t …”
But Henri Marchand was through the salon door before Mary could even finish her thought, hat in hand, preened as always, stopping mid-stride at the sight of me. He did not smile, though his brows went up slightly, and he took me in from head to toe for a trifle longer than was strictly needful. I snatched up the blanket I’d left on the settee, wrapping it about myself like a shawl while Mary’s hands went to her hips. She was bristling like an angry cat.
“A gentleman,” she said loudly, “would turn himself about and be going out the way he came!”
If she had hissed and spat at the man, I would not have been surprised. Henri opened his mouth, undecided, took one step backward and that was when the bell beside the hearth rang, sudden and shrill. I jumped, but Mary merely scrunched her freckles, her face a picture of pained resignation. Bells were ringing all over the house. I straightened my back.
“Mr. Marchand,” I said over the noise. He pulled his gaze from the bell to my face. “I’m very glad you came. I wonder if you would mind escorting me next door?”
He opened his mouth, as if to ask a question, only to shut it once more. I could see him trying not to let his eyes wander.
“If you would be so good as to wait while I make myself decent? I shall take care of those bells and won’t be a moment. Marguerite is having a bit of a joke with the bellpull, I suppose. I promise not to take more than a few minutes of your time.”
I held the blanket ends together as I passed by his gaping face, Mary flanking me like the palace guard. I paused and turned around in the doorway. “Or wait in the dining room, if you’d like. I’d bet ten francs there’s a breakfast in there fit to feed the emperor.”
