Chapter Twenty-nine

Dark clouds moving in from the west threatened a storm, or at least rain, so Ned insisted that they take a carriage. A resigned horse pulled the ancient cabriolet, his plodding gait more suited to a plow than a carriage. Ned called it an equipage more suited to a bonfire than an outing but, he said, it did possess a hood should they be caught in the rain. And it was small enough to fit through the village streets.

Sometimes Ned’s aristocratic standing was very obvious. The thought gave Marguerite a bit of amusement. She would never have even considered commandeering her host’s horse and carriage, no less disparaging it. Walking was her normal mode of transportation—easy enough in Paris. The city was not so big that it was difficult to get from one place to another on foot—at least in the areas she frequented. And here at the chateau, it would never have occurred to her to request a carriage to take her to the village.

Not that she was objecting. She was so shaken by the fear that had attacked her when she saw Delphine with Tony that she might not have been able to make the journey without hanging on to Ned for support. That, she did not want to do. She had to remain strong.

Especially now. He did not seem to have realized. She had to make the situation clear to him.

The carriage, which was indeed showing its age, bumped across the causeway. The hood helped to break the wind, which was tossing the sea into frothy whitecaps, but in combination with the noise of the waves it made conversation impossible.

Once they were in the woods, however, things were quieter. Even leafless, the trees kept out the wind. The tang of the salty air was replaced by the musty scent of dead foliage. The scent of dead dreams. Foolish, foolish dreams.

“You see now why marriage between us would be impossible.” She did not look at him as she spoke, but kept her gaze fixed on the path ahead.

The carriage jolted as the horse jerked suddenly. Ned must have pulled up on the reins. She closed her eyes. He should not have been surprised.

But he obviously was. He gave an exasperated sigh. “Really, Marguerite, you say the most idiotic things.”

“It is necessary to be realistic.”

He laughed, that low, amused laugh of his. “I think you must spend too much time at the theater. You do see melodrama everywhere.”

“And you close your eyes to problems.” It was not fair of him to make light of this.

He pulled the horse to a halt and turned to face her. “Listen to me.” When she kept looking straight ahead, he reached out and turned her to face him. “Listen,” he repeated. “We do not know for sure that there is anything wrong with the tonic.”

“Even if there is not, you cannot deny that there is something wrong with Delphine.”

“Something wrong?” He gave that laugh again. “Is that the polite way to say she’s off her head? Mad as a hatter?”

“Yes!” She spat it out angrily. “Yes. She is mad. Does it satisfy you to hear me say it?”

His hand reached out and covered hers. When she looked down, she realized that her hands were clenched so tightly that her nails were digging right through her gloves. She carefully unclenched them and let him wrap his own around them.

“Marguerite.” He said her name softly, and when she looked into his face she saw only gentleness there. “This is nothing new, is it?”

Lowering her eyes, she shook her head.

“That school her mother took her from, the one her uncle wanted to return her to—it wasn’t really a school, was it? It was a lunatic asylum.”

A small sigh escaped her, and she nodded. “But I heard my aunt telling my mother about it. It was a terrible place. The way they treated her. My mother promised that Delphine would not have to go back there. And now I have inherited that promise.”

He tilted his head, considering. “You know, it is possible that an asylum could be the best place for her.”

“No. Absolutely no. You have no idea—they put her in a bath of ice water, and they tied her up so she could not move her arms. And—you will think this is silly, but it is not. They would not let her wear her own clothes. They made her wear ugly smocks.” She looked at him beseechingly. “You know Delphine. For her, this would be the worst punishment of all.”

She could see that he did understand, but he was not convinced. “If she is dangerous…” he said.

“But most of the time we manage, Tante Héloise and I. You have seen how she calms down when we insist.”

Her hand was on his arm, and he covered it with his own. His mouth tilted into a half smile. “There is no need for us to make any decision right now. We still don’t know if there is anything wrong with the medicine. But I must warn you, if she is dangerous, I do not want her to share a house with our children.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Lord Edward, you do not seem to understand. There can be no children, there can be no marriage, if it is as I fear. You cannot introduce a dangerous madwoman into your family.”

“Oh, I don’t know. My sister Emily married a fellow with some decidedly odd birds perched on his family tree. And there are some cousins we do our best to avoid.” He grinned at her. “You have to learn to stop worrying. If she’s a serious problem, we can always set her up in a house of her own with a caretaker or two, and let her play queen of the realm to her heart’s content.”

“But…but the expense of such an arrangement would be enormous.”

“Another thing you don’t seem to understand is that my family is rich. There’s not much we can’t afford. And we can certainly afford to take care of our relatives.”

He reached over and lifted her chin to close her mouth before giving the reins a shake to start the horse on its plodding way.

He did not understand. But sooner or later he must. She had to make him see the impossibility of it all. How could he think that money would solve this problem?

Ned hadn’t been to the village since the day he had followed Marguerite. It was odd—that day had been bright and sunny and today a storm was threatening, but even so, the village seemed to have lost some of its oppressive grayness.

He looked around. No, it was still gray—gray stone for the walls, gray slate for the roofs. There were even gray clouds overhead. The village had not changed. He had changed, and the reason for that change was sitting beside him.

Sitting tensely beside him.

Her hands in their black gloves were clenched on her lap. She was enveloped in her black cloak and another ugly black hat was perched on her head. The only touch of color was the brooch at her throat, fastening her cloak. Her dark eyes, her beautiful eyes, were shadowed again.

If he did nothing else in this life, he would drive those shadows away.

He stopped the carriage in front of the church. It was the only place where the village street was wide enough to leave the carriage without completely blocking the way. It was also the only place with a fence to which he could tie the horse. Morvan was a place where people traveled on foot.

By the time he had looped the reins around the fence, Marguerite had descended from the cabriolet. He shook his head. Couldn’t she even allow him to hand her out of a carriage? Did she have to be so independent all the time?

At least she was willing to take his arm as they entered the pharmacie. It was a surprisingly modern shop, with porcelain apothecary jars in rows upon the shelves behind a polished counter. Everything was immaculate, and an antique brass scale, which seemed to be more for atmosphere than for use, gleamed brightly.

The chemist, who appeared from the rear of the shop, was also a surprise, and not a welcome one. Ned had expected a dusty, grimy shop, overseen by an ancient, trembling apothecary. A part of him had clung to a hope that if there was something wrong with the tonic, it had been a simple mistake made here, not a deliberate poisoning.

Unfortunately, the chemist was a young man, not more than thirty or so, neatly, almost elegantly, dressed—as well turned out as his shop. He did not look the sort to make a careless mistake. This might be tricky.

Formal introductions were a desirable first step. “I am Lord Edward Tremaine, and this is Mlle. Benda. We are staying at the Chateau Morvan.”

A faint smile appeared on the chemist’s face, as if he had been well aware of who they were, even if he had not known their names. He inclined his head in courteous acknowledgment of the introduction. “François Seznec, at your service. How may I help you?”

“We have a rather odd request to make of you,” Ned said.

Marguerite held out the bottle. “There is this tonic that Dr. Fernac gave to my cousin…”

Seznec took the bottle and sniffed it. “Ah yes. Dr. Fernac’s special tonic.” He smiled. “Do you require more of it?”

“No,” said Ned. “We were wondering if there might be something wrong with it.”

“With this?” The young man laughed. “It is utterly harmless. A bit of calcium, and bit of magnesium, and some peppermint for flavor.”

Marguerite licked her lips nervously. “I need to know if something might have been added to it.”

At that Seznec reared back, his expression cold. “I assure you, mademoiselle, that all medicines that leave this shop are prepared with the greatest care and caution.”

“No, no!” She raised a hand in protest. “I did not mean that. Not at all. It is just that—I wondered if something might have been added to it later.”

“Accidentally, of course,” Ned put in. He kept his face expressionless, as if defying the chemist to question him.

“Accidentally,” Seznec repeated, looking at them with icy eyes. “Of course.” He looked down at the bottle, and then looked back at them. “Tell me, what sort of symptoms do you think this accidental contamination might have caused?”

After a deep breath, Marguerite spoke carefully. “Digestive pains and increasing distress. Vomiting. Dizziness. Then difficulty breathing.”

The chemist looked at her steadily. “And then?”

“Death.”

He looked at her and then at Ned. “You realize that these symptoms could have any number of explanations. I am not a doctor, and even if I were, I could not give a diagnosis.”

“We realize that,” Ned said. “We were hoping that you might be able to tell us if our fears that the tonic might have been…contaminated…are groundless.”

“Accidentally contaminated.” Sarcasm dripped from Seznec’s tone. He stared at them with stony eyes. Then he shrugged. “I do not have a real laboratory here, you must understand. I do not have a great deal of equipment. But I will see what I can do.”

Marguerite sagged in relief, and managed a smile of gratitude. “Thank you. That is all I could hope for.”

Seznec’s expression softened as he looked at her, and he inclined his head with what was almost a smile.

Only after they were in the carriage and on the way back to the chateau did Marguerite ask, “Do you think he realized I was asking about poison?”

“Of course,” Ned said. “He is not a fool, more’s the pity. But his name, Seznec. I’ve heard it somewhere recently, but I can’t think where.”

“Seznec?” Marguerite frowned in thought for a few moments. “Ah, yes. That was the name of the priest the vicomte was talking about. The one who was killed.”