Page 65 of The Spy and the Nightingale
My sister’s voice.
She forced a smile. “And I am Isobel.” With effort she turned away from Lucy as though the introduction had been of no import rather than utterly cataclysmic. She willed her smile to give nothing away. Was Dubois’s chuckle forced? Suspicious? She’dmomentarily lost all ability to gauge others’ reactions, too involved in hiding her own.
One of Nathaniel’s hands tightened on her ribs, gentler than his fingers had been: a small squeeze of acknowledgment. His arm around her waist was a tangible reminder, again, that she was not alone in navigating this. He offered reassurance in the silent warmth and strength of his body. He believed she could do this. He would not have brought her otherwise, for any reason; she could not have talked him into it even had she tried, if he’d not trusted her. It steadied her a tiny bit.
She was hiding her emotions, she hoped, but she very much feared she couldn’t for much longer, not with Lucy—oh merciful God,Lucy!—sitting close enough that they might have held hands if they wished.
The men began conversing. Cuvelier was complaining about an issue with a servant that had occurred, causing them to be late. Dubois commiserated about how difficult it was to find good help... She gave up trying to follow their conversation, her mind awhirl.
Waiting had been almost unbearable. Sitting beside Lucy, unable to speak freely, afraid to look at her lest she give herself away, was entirely unbearable.
Whether Dubois also knew—and perhaps Compton—because surely if Dubois knew, he would reveal it to Compton if Compton himself had not pieced it together? Whether or not they knew, the most pressing issue had now become what to do about it.
She couldn’t sit here. All the careful subterfuge would be for naught if she could no longer hold it in. She’d give herself away. Not just herself, but Nathaniel and Lucy as well.
Once again a seam in this gown was strategically weakened. She couldn’t surreptitiously tear it without standing, however. Nathaniel held his wine goblet casually in his left hand, listingslightly towards Lucy—he’d created an opening, waiting for her to pick up on it.
It took almost no effort to knock into the goblet with every appearance of an accident. The wine drenched her sister’s skirts.
“How terribly clumsy of me!” she exclaimed. “I am so sorry! Please, let me help you.” She slid off Nathaniel’s lap, discreetly catching the skirt of her dress beneath her slipper as she stood. Rending silk was loud as it ripped quite satisfactorily along the weakened seam. She’d stepped more aggressively than necessary, but the trick worked. “And now I have torn my dress as well. Truly, I am terribly clumsy tonight. I am so very sorry. Is there somewhere I might repair it?” She presented Dubois with the imploring face of a foolish woman, unaware of any undercurrents of tension in the room. “It is only that I have borrowed it from a friend and do not wish it to worsen. Oh, she will be so vexed at me!” Her voice shook slightly, but perhaps that was only to be expected of a clumsy, silly woman.
Lucy blotted at the wine on her skirt. “And I should like to get the worst of this out before it sets.”
How cool her sister’s voice was.
Was Dubois’s look as calculating as she feared, or was she reading too much into it?
“Your girl who was here before...” she said. “Could she help us?”
“I will summon Chrysanthème,” Dubois said after a pause. “She can assist the both of you.”
Waiting for Chrysanthème to answer his summons was impossible, but she must, although she vibrated with suppressed tension. Nathaniel kept a hand on her back; he slid it to her hip with a squeeze when Chrysanthème arrived.Courage, his hand said.
Chrysanthème led her and Lucy down a corridor, deeper into the building, speaking at a conversational volume. “Some nightsthere are here women who come to work. I will lead you to the retiring room of those in Le Repaire who may have need to refresh their makeup or repair their clothing in the course of an evening. There we will tend to your gowns.”
She nodded mutely; behind her, Lucy made no sound.
Chrysanthème leaned in close after the three of them had passed through another doorway, pitching her voice very low. “You are safe with me. Étienne and Amélie have set me to help you in whatever ways I can without tipping off Dubois.” More startling than Chrysanthème’s English was that its accent was owed to London rather than France.
Chrysanthème opened another door, ushering them into a sumptuous retiring room. Pots of cosmetics arranged atop a counter were reflected by the large mirror set along one wall. “I will ensure you have privacy here to converse,” she said quietly. “I will remain just outside, if you have need of me. I will also know if anyone else comes down this corridor. It is the only entrance to this room. I will of course report later to Dubois that I remained at all times with you and heard nothing at all of interest to him aside from minutiae pertaining to the oh-so-boring repair of ladies’ gowns.”
The door closed quietly behind Chrysanthème.
Lucy... She and Lucy rushed towards one another, embracing. She could not tell, with Lucy in her arms, which of them shook harder.
“Whatare you doing here?” Lucy asked urgently. “Are you here by choice?”
She swallowed hard around the lump that threatened to steal speech. “I am. I must ask you the same.”
Lucy looked down at her hands.
What did that mean? There was no time. “I came—” She steadied her voice. “I came to find you. To France. Here, to?—”
Lucy’s expression was incredulous. “How?” Then she shook her head. “No. There is no time for such a discussion. Have you any idea how dangerous these men are, Issy?Do you?”
“Yes.” She’d had a comparatively mild taste last night of it in action. “I do.”
“And this man you are with, M.Beaumont. I have not seen him before. Is he?—”
