18
When Mary ran upstairs to my uncle, the bells went quiet. I dressed quickly, pulling a brush through my hair’s length from crown to waist, hoping Henri was focused on eating rather than any lack of strings on my uncle’s bells. I needed to get next door without incident. There was at least one small safeguard I could accomplish today, one small something within my power, but it was going to require a humbling I dreaded. But doing anything, even something that would humiliate me, was better than sitting in wait for the next disaster. Mary flew in the door, breathless.
“He’s up, Miss. And making his own toast, if you can credit it. But he was getting a bit of honey on the sleeve, and that’s what the bells was for. I reckon he’s thinking to push on his little key and make them bells ring every time he’s needing something and we ain’t there, heaven help us.”
Heaven help us, indeed. She came over and pulled hard on my corset strings. And what in the world could Mrs. DuPont be thinking of all this? They would have to go today, if I had to find them rooms myself and pay for it. Then I paused in my planning and bit my lip. Mr. Babcock had taken care of all my money in Paris. At the moment I didn’t even know where it was located. I’d had to borrow the price of his body from Mr. Marchand. If Mr. Babcock had not already paid Mrs. DuPont, there might be trouble much sooner than I was prepared to deal with it. When Mary tied the strings, I jerked on a dress, hurried to the desk in the corner, and began to write.
“Do you have any money, Mary?”
She looked up at me in surprise. “I ain’t sure, Miss, I …”
“See if you can scrape up the price of a telegram. I need to get word to Mr. Babcock’s offices. Look in my bags. Perhaps Marguerite will know how to get it sent?”
I scribbled out the last words. “And Mary, I need you to do another thing for me, just as soon as you send the telegram. Go to Mr. Babcock’s rooms, box up all his things, especially his papers, and bring them in here … no, maybe up to the attics. The police are going to come and “seal” his possessions, or that’s what they called it, because we are not relatives. We’ll get them to the right person in due course. …” I realized I had no idea who that would be. “But he was bribing officials, Mary, and I don’t know who to trust with his paperwork. And he’s got all my money somewhere — I’m certain he never got it to a bank. And on second thought, do that first, before the telegram. Leave them a few clothes for show.” I kissed Mary’s cheek, for once not letting her get a word in edgewise, and went downstairs to find Henri shoveling eggs from plate to mouth. He stood at my appearance, dabbing the little mustache with a napkin.
“Miss Tulman, I am sorry to —”
I cut him off. “It’s no matter at all, Mr. Marchand. Do you mind if we just go?”
I stayed rather close to Henri Marchand, even though he smelled strongly of cigarettes. The slouching man was at his lamppost, just as Mary had said, in his blue vest today, eyes following us. I’d forgotten my bonnet, and felt naked for it as we moved down the sidewalk. I knocked on Mrs. Reynolds’s front door, feeling horribly exposed, and with my heart beating hard, making my headache worse. Henri shifted his feet.
“Miss Tulman, I wish to say that …”
“Do hush, Mr. Marchand. It was all my fault and there’s really no need.”
He hushed, and Hawkins opened the door, looking down on my bare head dubiously.
“Miss Tulman and Mr. Marchand to see Mrs. Hardcastle,” I told him. “I shan’t take up but a moment of her time, so if you would be so kind.” I did not wait for an invitation, but came right past the startled Hawkins into the dim, overfilled foyer, letting Henri follow. “Shall we wait in the drawing room?” I opened the door myself and went into the drawing room before the poor man could say a word about it.
I sat down on the settee, hands in lap, while Hawkins went to inform Mrs. Hardcastle, and Henri opened the drapes, letting in the morning sun. He observed the street and then he sat as well, hat on his knee, regarding me.
“Are you well today, Miss Tulman?”
“Not particularly,” I answered. He tilted his head slightly, acknowledging this likelihood.
“And you are in the midst of some trouble, no?”
“Oh, I am in the midst of some trouble, yes,” I answered. I looked about the room. It was nicer, I thought, than the other rooms in the house. Perhaps Mrs. Reynolds had paid less attention to it, or had just not had the opportunity to fill it to capacity. I got up to examine the watercolor behind me, too restless to sit. I did not look at Henri when I said, “I do want to thank you, Mr. Marchand. Most sincerely. For your help at … and with the police. I was extremely … distressed.”
“Miss Tulman, I …”
We both turned to the noise coming from the foyer, and then Mrs. Hardcastle, Mrs. Reynolds, and the two Miss Mortimers entered the drawing room in such an overabundance of taffeta I wondered if the ladies were having some sort of contest about who could wear the most. As they rustled through their curtsies and bows, Mrs. Hardcastle came immediately across the room and took me by the shoulders.
“My dear, what dreadful news. I am so sorry to hear of Mr. Babcock.”
“Oh, indeed!” said the brown-frizzed Miss Mortimer. “What a shock for you, Miss Tulman. To have your heart broken yet again!”
She grimaced hard as the blonde Miss Mortimer stepped deliberately on her foot before flouncing down onto the settee beside Henri. He shot me the impertinent grin, the brown eyes amused, almost sparkling, one brow slightly up. Mrs. Reynolds gave me a cold nod and then smiled as she joined them, well pleased, evidently, by the seating arrangements.
“Mrs. Hardcastle,” I said, voice lowering, “I would speak to you for a moment, if I might.”
She raised the pince-nez, following me to two chairs arranged companionably together in front of a cabinet of curios. We sat, the two Miss Mortimers doing an excellent job of filling the other end of the room with chatter while I prepared to set aside my pride. Mrs. Hardcastle watched me expectantly.
“I will spare us both and be direct, Mrs. Hardcastle. I know we have not been friends, but I need to ask a favor of —”
I saw her give a start. “And why, Miss Tulman, do you think we have not been friends?”
I stared at her frank face, uncomprehending. Surely she couldn’t have forgotten all that tea in Aunt Alice’s morning room? Those moments were some of the most painful in my existence. Mrs. Hardcastle chuckled.
“Well now, don’t look at me like that, my dear. If there was no friendship between us, it certainly wasn’t on my side.”
I blinked. This conversation was nowhere near the topic I had intended, but I could not let this pass. “Mrs. Hardcastle, for years you visited my aunt’s home and showed her every consideration, tittering and laughing behind your cups while she treated me abominably, and you visited Stranwyne Keep — on her request, I remind you — and started the proceedings to have my uncle committed to a lunatic asylum. How exactly would you perceive such behavior as ‘friendship,’ Ma’am?” I could feel my cheeks burning, pent-up emotion boiling up hot from my chest. Mrs. Hardcastle raised her eyebrows.
“Why, whoever laughed at you, child? Alice’s behavior was so ridiculous it was an absolute lark. Why do you think we ever came there? We were all waiting for the day you would stand up and tell her to go to blazes but apparently you did it without us, more’s the pity. I’d quite looked forward to that.”
I was so angry I could scarcely see straight. “And how was I to tell her to ‘go to blazes’ and still feed myself, Ma’am? Had you thought of that? Or did you think her incapable of putting me on the streets?” I’d nearly shouted this last, and the conversation on the other end of the room faltered for just a moment before resuming, though not without glances thrown our way.
“Miss Tulman,” said Mrs. Hardcastle, moderating her voice, “let us be calm. How could Alice have turned you out without losing the income on your father’s money, the money for your upkeep? You didn’t really think Alice Tulman would have turned her back on those pounds to make a point to you? When the woman threw away money right and left? Ridiculous! Really, my dear, I would have thought you had more intelligence than —”
“Mrs. Hardcastle …” I leaned forward. “… I was not aware that I had one farthing from my father until I inherited Stranwyne Keep.”
Mrs. Hardcastle sat back in her chair, the pince-nez plopping onto her bosom. “Really!” she said. “Well!” And
