A Spark Unseen

“Yes,” he said, “that is what I choose.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Is that what you choose?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes, it is. We’ll discuss your plans for making money on the train. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll just let you all chat for a few moments while I go upstairs and put on a dress.” And take a bath, and possibly cry, I thought. “I’m certain you will have things to explain to Mrs. Reynolds.” I started to pick up my skirts, remembered I didn’t have any, and instead walked with as much dignity as I could muster toward the stairs. The gray gaze followed me.

“Mr. Moreau,” said Mrs. Reynolds, as if she were trying out the name, “I am so concerned that you would leave Paris. Are you certain you wish to … abandon your art?”

Lane did not answer her. Instead he came across the foyer, and before I could protest he had his hands on my head and his mouth on mine, hard. By the time he let me go I was blushing, as he’d meant for me to be.

“Go on, then,” he said, his grin at me wicked. But I didn’t. I stayed where I was, watching him go gracefully across the foyer to do his penance with Mrs. Reynolds, unable to contain my smile. With Mrs. Hardcastle in the room, Lane Moreau might as well have put an announcement in the Times.

I had not yet started up the stairs when I had another hand on my arm.

“I am taking my leave, Miss Tulman,” said Henri. “Here, you will allow me to be French just this once.”

He kissed me on both my dirty cheeks, a strange feeling, as they were both still flushed from Lane. I glanced once toward the salon, where I saw the gray gaze shooting daggers through the door.

“There! That was not so bad,” said Henri, his brown eyes sparkling, “but I think it was not quite the same, no?” He was teasing me, and he knew full well that Lane was looking. But then he became serious. “You should get out of Paris quickly, yes? I would not bother much with packing. Take Mr. Tulman safely to his home and make your young man behave. That will be more than enough to keep you busy.”

“You are certain you can go to the ambassador without danger to yourself?”

He made a little poof noise that I assumed meant that I should not worry. “I am … what is the word? Slippery. Have you not noticed, Miss Tulman? I am going as soon as I can change my clothes. If I do not, I shall have to console the women in your salon. I would rather be with the ambassador, I think.”

“Here,” I said, putting a hand on his arm, “now you will allow me to be French.” I kissed his cheek, gratified by an expression of sleek surprise, and then doubly so to glance over my shoulder and find Lane’s face dark with annoyance. I smiled at him, and when I turned back around, Henri was already gone. Joseph slouched in the doorway to the library, and so quick I thought perhaps I had not seen it, he winked. Still smiling, I turned and hurried up the stairs to Marianna’s room, shut the door and leaned on it, breathing hard, as if I’d just won a race.

I dismissed the velvet chair at a glance, and instead went to the bed and sank down beside it, hoping I was not too dirty for the floor. Mary, being the wonder that she was, had a tub of water ready for me before the hearth. I needed to wash the dust from my hair, to take care of the myriad tasks that would get us out of Paris in the morning, especially concerning my uncle. But I was so tired. Everything in me ached, except for the one place that had been aching so long it had become a part of who I was; now that place was unknotted, unloosed, wonderfully and blessedly free. I felt my eyes closing, resting in the feel of it.

I jumped when the door burst open. “Lord!” Mary said, blowing through the room like a hurricane. “Ain’t you done good, Miss! Mr. Tully, he’s gone and made his own toast, brushed his jacket, and put himself to bed, no wrapping up of blankets or nothing.”

She tugged me to my feet.

“It’s a marvel, that is. But, Miss … now I ain’t talking about Mr. Tully no more when I say this, Miss, but …”

She paused in the act of peeling off my dirty clothes, hands on my shoulders, her eyes as large and round as I’d ever seen them.

“But if that weren’t a lesson on handling a man, then I don’t know what was!” She stripped me down and gave me a push toward the tub. “I’m thinking you did real good, Miss! Real good. Now if I was able to be going about saying all that in French, then I’d be taking a page out of your book, if you take my meaning, Miss. I’m certain it would be a favor to me. …”

I held my second foot over the water, the momentary bliss at the thought of being clean taken away by the sudden memory of Robert’s body, lying still and broken on the cavern floor. “Mary, I need to —”

“Talking a man’s head right ’round till he don’t know where he’s at. That’s artful, that is, Miss, and I’m thinking ’tis what a young man needs. Now take that Jean-Baptiste, Miss, he’s a real nice young man, Miss, settled you know, more mature, not so silly and boyish. Do you know what I’m talking about, Miss?” She guided me into the water with a splash.

“Mary, I —”

“And with a real interesting name. Jean-Baptiste! It’s so foreign sounding, ain’t it, and it rolls right off the tongue. Jean-Baptiste,” she demonstrated, shoving a chunk of soap into my hands. “Jean-Baptiste. Jean-Baptiste! He was staying here all night and day, Miss, helping me with the packing up and such. I figured we was going, Miss, just as soon as we was able, and him being just as gentlemanly as you please, teaching me some real useful French, and you know what he did, Miss?”

I slid farther into the water and vowed to forever hold my peace.

“He was showing me how to pick a lock, Miss! Now that’s real interesting, and real useful …”

“Mary,” I said softly, “I am terribly glad to see you.”

“… and what do you think, Miss, if he didn’t find all your money and a paper or two in the top of Mr. Babcock’s second-best hat! So now we can be paying the dressmaker. And he’s liking hair curls best, Miss. Has a real fondness for … Lord! Or what I mean to be saying is sacre bleu!” Mary plucked something from my pile of discarded clothing, and held it up to the light. “Is this thing a ruby?”

I didn’t remember if I answered or what Mary said next. I fell asleep in the tub.

31

That evening I stood with Lane in the attic room, looking down at my uncle, lying still across the bottom of my steamer trunk. The gaslights were lit, and Lane looked more his normal self: clean- shaven, tan skin behind a plain shirt with the sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, and with a scowl on his face.

“I don’t like it, Katharine,” he said.

I didn’t like it either. The soiled lining had been ripped out and the trunk was clean, ready enough for use, but all my trepidation from the first time we’d done this had come back to me triple force. This plan was madness, once again, with everything to go wrong and everything to lose.

“Uncle Tully,” I whispered, “are you truly certain?”

The blue eyes popped open. “Oh, yes, little niece, yes! It is just so. Just so! It is tight, like blankets, and there are holes. Holes to see through, Simon’s baby! Lane! Tell my niece there are holes to see through.”

The gray gaze turned to me in all seriousness. “Miss Tulman, there are holes in the trunk that Mr. Tully can see through.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Moreau.”

“My pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

“Little niece!” said Uncle Tully, petulant. I tore my attention away from Lane. “If there are holes, then I can see out, but when they are little holes, then no one can see in! Is that not splendid? And this place is better than the other place, and the next place is better than this one, isn’t that right, little niece? And you are coming?” This was to Lane. “And you are coming, and the girl is coming?”

“Yes, that’s right, Uncle.”

His shoulders slumped with relief, then they stiffened again. “And the clocks?”

“Yes, Uncle.” I knelt down beside the trunk. “Uncle Tully, do you understand that if you ride in the trunk, you