are going to see new places, and new people, and some of them might not be splendid? And if you are frightened, or uncomfortable, or if you want something, or to play, then you will have to wait, and you will have to be silent. That is very important, Uncle.”
Uncle Tully sat up in his trunk, his white hair a little wild. “Lane! Would I have to be silent in the trunk?”
“Yes, Mr. Tully. That’s so.”
“I do not like silence, Simon’s baby.”
“I know it, Uncle.”
Uncle Tully thought hard, muttering to himself. Then he said, “If I count, then the silence is only on the outside. Not inside my head. Not in my head. Only on the outside. I do not mind the outside kind. I can make it go away on the inside.”
Lane squatted down beside me, elbows on his knees, and we looked at each other. My uncle looked to us both.
“He is quite good at closing his eyes and waiting now,” I said. “Remarkably so.”
“Mr. Tully, can you stay quiet, no matter what? Can you do it?
Uncle Tully was solemn. “Sometimes big things can be little,” he said.
Lane sighed.
“All right, Uncle,” I said. “You may ride in the trunk.”
Uncle Tully smiled, as if day had appeared among the gaslights. “Little niece,” he whispered.
“Yes, Uncle?”
“Can I tell you a secret? Should I?”
“I think you should.”
Uncle Tully whispered, very loud, “I would like to shut the lid again! Now!”
We got out of my grandmother’s house in Paris early, hoping to catch the first train and the earliest possible steamer from Calais. We’d had to hire a wagon for my trunk, but not having the extraordinary skill of Mr. Babcock, there had been no time to find transportation for all that was left in the workshop. We left the boxes on the landing, and I went to Mrs. DuPont’s room to give instructions on how to send them on to us, and also to place a ruby ring in her hand. Pink suffused her white skin as she stared down at the ring.
I said, “This house will not be the best place for you, Mrs. DuPont, or for Mr. DuPont.”
“Hello, Mr. DuPont,” I replied. Marguerite patted his hand. “Use it to find somewhere that is private and quiet, and for Marguerite, to send her to school. A good school, mind you, not severe. Will it be enough?”
Mrs. DuPont closed her bony fingers around the ring. “Yes, it will be enough,” she said.
“And no more selling?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head.
“Keep your agreement with my estate, if you wish. I plan to maintain the house for a time, in case …” I didn’t finish. “Or if you wish to work elsewhere, write and I will send a reference.”
She nodded, and I’d turned to leave when I heard a small voice say,
“Yes. Thank you, Miss Tulman.”
I was halfway down the corridor before it occurred to me that Mrs. DuPont had used my name.
In the foyer, Lane and the wagon driver were setting my steamer trunk down on the tiles, Mary assisting by carrying a hatbox and giving an endless stream of instructions on the correct way to get a trunk down the stairs. I was nervous and ready to be gone, half thinking to see imperial soldiers come marching down Rue Trudon, though I knew Joseph and Jean-Baptiste were watching. They had already said their good-byes, Jean-Baptiste causing Mary a few tears, but Joseph was coming with us to Stranwyne, as soon as his sister was settled and his passport approved. I was grateful for this. I wanted another set of eyes on Lane when I couldn’t be there.
Lane went back up the stairs for my bags, his long legs taking them two at a time in his hurry, the driver made for the door, and then Mrs. Hardcastle was saying, “Hello! Hello! Good morning, Miss Tulman!” from the open doorway.
I turned in time to see Mary run pell-mell across the foyer, this time holding her hatbox, and sit herself abruptly on my steamer trunk. Mrs. Hardcastle raised the pince-nez, looked at Mary briefly, shook her head, then came bouncing across the foyer, opening her reticule.
“Well, I am so glad I caught you, my dear. I waited to speak to you yesterday, but you never came downstairs after whatever you had been up to. …” She paused, hoping I might fill that gap. When I did not, she said, “And as fascinating as that little scene was — and I am not being facetious in the slightest when I say that it was fascinating, my dear — I did have a purpose for inviting myself to several cups of tea, overstaying my welcome, and now barging in on you this morning.” She handed me a letter, beaming. “I’ve not forgotten our agreement, you see. I wrote Alice Tulman the very afternoon of our chat, and heard back at the morning post yesterday.”
I glanced once at Mary, but all seemed to be well in the steamer trunk. “I take it this is not good news, Mrs. Hardcastle?”
“Not good news at all, my dear!” Mrs. Hardcastle could not actually stand still for excitement. “Alice has heard all about Mr. Babcock. I’m certain something was in the papers, and … Now wait, child! You have not let me finish. You see, I know a solicitor …” She lowered her voice even further. “… a hopeless solicitor. An imbecile and a drunkard, if you can credit it, with …” she whispered the next words, “a history. A history that I just happen to be acquainted with. So let’s just say that Alice Tulman is about to be very badly advised in her legal affairs! Is that not delicious?”
My mouth had opened in utter astonishment, so I closed it, wondering if perhaps Mrs. Hardcastle had ever had conversations with Mrs. DuPont that did not concern my wardrobe. Mrs. Hardcastle was smiling at me expectantly.
“Why, thank you, indeed, Mrs. Hardcastle. You will keep me informed?”
“I am a spy in the enemy camp!” She giggled like a girl. “But take heart and enjoy your trip, my dear, the weather has just been divine.” She leaned close, whispering dramatically, “And you’ve made the Miss Mortimers so abominably jealous that I shall have fun for days!”
Mrs. Hardcastle bustled happily out the door, and Mary slumped off the steamer trunk in relief.
We made our train, miraculously, without noise or incident, paying for a private compartment just in case, and even more remarkably, we managed to catch our steamer in Calais. I wondered if Uncle Tully had his eyes closed, counting out his waiting, or if he was actually watching, and if so, what he thought of real life from the view of a peephole.
The steamer was extraordinarily empty, only a few French officers, perhaps on business to London for the war, and the lack of loading and unloading quickened our departure. This also meant a first-class cabin was available, so Uncle Tully could come out of his trunk. Mary had pulled strips of pink cloth from the workshop, bringing them to hang and create a set of walls my uncle could sit inside, along with a broken clock to repair. I stayed on deck while Lane and Mary got him settled, the steam engines chugging, watching the waves and the wake the boat created as it slowly pulled away from France. Hopefully the fresh air and wind would keep me from repeating my lamentable state of health during my last Channel crossing.
I was leaning a bit over the rail, letting the salt spray dampen my face, when someone approached and stood by my side. I straightened, a hand to my bonnet now that I was facing the breeze, and looked into the face of a man, uniformed, a bit short, and vaguely familiar.
“My apologies for disturbing your thoughts, Mademoiselle Tulman,” he said.
“Oh, why, I …” My voice trailed away, my heart beginning a hard, slow
“My name is Charles de Morny, Mademoiselle. I can see that you know the name.”
