Chapter Thirty-one

The storm raged through the night, covering any noise Ned might have made on his way to Marguerite’s room. It wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing could have kept him away.

They made love slowly, giving of themselves freely. There was no need now to persuade or convince. Afterward, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, discovering the time for sharing confidences.

Ned had always thought of himself as an easygoing, cheerful sort of fellow. If he had been asked, he would have said he was made for comedy, not tragedy. But he was amazed by the depths of emotion he was now experiencing.

He lay on his side so he could enjoy the sight of Marguerite’s face. She looked softer, the tightness of the frozen mask she wore too often smoothed out. Tenderly, he caressed the side of her face. “There has been very little sorrow in my life and probably far more than my fair share of happiness. Most people would say I have lived a charmed existence. But I have never known the joy I feel with you.”

She turned her cheek into his hand. “Is that what it is, this feeling? It lifts me up and carries me to—I don’t know where. To some place I have never been.”

“You are not afraid, are you?”

“No, not at all. It is as if I have arrived at the place I always longed for even though I did not know it existed.”

It was not dark enough in the room to hide the shadows in her eyes, the shadows he was determined to dispel. He made his voice cheerful. “Tell me what our home will look like.”

“Our home?” She sounded as if she had never given the matter any thought.

“Yes.” He was determined that she would think about it. “Where shall we live? Would you like to live in England? In the country or in London?”

She gave a surprised little laugh. “I never—I always lived with my parents. They were the ones to decide, you see.”

“Ah, but now you will be the one to decide.”

She laughed again, a little more amused now. “I thought it was always the man who made such decisions.”

He loved to hear her laugh. She did it so rarely that he was quiet for a moment, savoring it. He was going to make sure that there was plenty of laughter in her life from now on.

“No,” he said, poking her gently. “You will have to do some of the deciding yourself. First, country or city?”

He watched the look of incredulity start to fade. She was drifting into consideration of the idea. He kept very still, not wanting to disturb her imaginings.

“I’ve never lived in the country.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Not until I came here. The quiet—the quiet has been good. But it’s so enormous, and all the stone—so cold.”

“There’s a start. Quiet, but nothing as big and cold as a medieval castle.” He kept his voice cheerful.

She laughed again, but there was regret in it now. “You are being foolish, you know. I must live someplace where I can find work, where I can give concerts. All I need is an apartment with a room big enough for my piano, my Pleyel.”

“Now you are being foolish. Spending these past months in this medieval pile has made you forget that we’re living in the modern age. Railroads speed us all over the continent in no time at all. You can leave home today and tomorrow be in Paris or Rome or Vienna or Copenhagen or Prague or whatever city you are to perform in.”

“Yes, but…” She was frowning. He could almost feel the worry sneaking in. “But traveling is so complicated.”

“Now that’s where a husband comes in useful,” he said smugly. “I can make all the arrangements, see to it that you get to the train and the hotel and the concert hall on time, and there will be nothing for you to worry about.” Most of that would actually be done by servants, he thought, but did not mention. He suspected that having servants around all the time was something she would need to get used to.

“A husband.” She took a deep breath, as if she was about to start that nonsense about how they couldn’t possibly marry, so he kissed her until she melted in his arms.

“Sleep, my love, and dream about our home to be,” he whispered.

In response she gave a little wordless murmur as he tucked the blankets around her.

By the time Marguerite awakened, it was quiet—quiet enough for her to hear the thuds and rustles of the maid laying a fresh fire on the hearth. She felt a delicious contentment all through her and stretched out a hand. Sadly, it encountered nothing, not even a bit of residual warmth from Ned’s body. Still, she had the memory of him and of his body imprinted on her. She also had the promise that he would return to her bed every night.

He made her believe that a future including both of them was a real possibility, and not just a delicious fantasy. Imagine talking about houses! Still, even if their present idyll could not last, she was determined to be happy. She could store up enough happiness from the time she had with him to last her for a lifetime if necessary.

The glow of contentment was still keeping her warm when she left her room and saw Ned waiting for her. She was not in the least surprised, and took his arm as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“What should we say to them?” she asked as they descended the stairs.

“That you have made me the happiest man in the world by accepting my proposal?”

“Do not be foolish.” She could feel the blush heating her cheeks. “I meant about the treasure. Should we tell them it is a reliquary, and not a treasure of jewels and gold?”

“No, I think not. They might stop searching.” He came to a halt on the steps and sounded almost hesitant. “I may be wrong, but if I am right, I feel as if we owe it to that priest to find it. He was willing to give his life to protect that relic.”

“Yes. You are right. We owe it to him.”

“However, I think I will tell them my idea about the rosette design. There’s the one on the escutcheon over the vicomte’s door as well as your brooch, and the way he carried on suggests that it means something.” He grinned. “If nothing else, it will keep them busily searching.”

They arrived in the breakfast room together, as they had the day before, but today there were no dramatics. The scene of the day before might never have happened.

Antoine was dipping his brioche into his bowl of café au lait with no sign of digestive discomfort. Delphine was smiling sunnily at him as she spread raspberry jam on her own brioche. A narrowed glance at Marguerite was the only sign that there might have been some lingering resentment on her part.

Marguerite attributed that look less to resentment than to the fact that her hand remained on Ned’s arm longer than was strictly necessary, and as he seated her at the table, his hands brushed her more frequently and more lingeringly than might be considered proper.

If Delphine objected, tant pis. So much the worse.

Marguerite was beginning to think that it did not matter what Delphine thought. She was no longer willing to arrange her life to accommodate Delphine’s whims and fancies. She saw before her a future that was her own. She was willing to take Delphine’s care into account, to watch over her, but she was not willing to sacrifice herself for her cousin. Was this selfishness on her part? Perhaps, but she no longer cared.

Ned’s hand brushed hers and she turned to smile at him. If Delphine did not like it, that was too bad. Marguerite was happy, when for too long the best she had hoped for was the absence of fear. She would not let Delphine spoil this with her fits and tantrums.

Tony glanced out the window. “The storm seems to have finished, and we are all here.” He shot an annoyed glance at Ned and Marguerite. “If you can spare us the time, we will be able to return to our search.”

“About that…” Marguerite looked up. “Ned has an idea.”

Tony immediately looked interested. “You found something in the archives?”

“Not there, but I was thinking about the old man’s reaction to Marguerite’s brooch,” Ned said. “It is the same design that is carved on the escutcheon over his door, and it seems to me that I saw a carving of a rosette in that shape more than once in those rooms in the other part of the chateau. Either on a piece of furniture or in the paneling.”

Tony’s eyes lit up. “Yes—that could be the clue we need! They were clever, those old craftsmen. They created hidden drawers in the furniture and panels in the walls for patrons who trusted no one with their secrets. A rosette is an excellent way to disguise a latch.”

“That must be the answer!” Delphine leaped from her chair, bouncing with excitement. “We will find the treasure, and who knows what else besides.”

She was so like a child much of the time, Marguerite thought with a smile. With a child’s artless enthusiasm, and with a child’s ability to create an imaginary world. Had she made a terrible mistake? Had she seen something sinister in Delphine where there was only childishness?

“Come along,” Delphine said, pulling on Marguerite’s arm. “Why are you just sitting there?”

Marguerite lifted her cup. “I am just sitting here because I have not yet had my breakfast. And neither has Ned. Then we must pay our morning call on the vicomte, and Ned and I both have work to do. If you wish to begin without us, go right ahead.”

“We will join you this afternoon as usual,” Ned said, helping himself to brioche.

Delphine stomped her foot angrily. “You are impossible! How can you be so unhelpful?” With that, she flounced out of the room.

Marguerite shook her head. Yes, Delphine had a child’s enthusiasm, but also a child’s selfish impatience and inability to see anyone else’s point of view.

Ned had thought it would be fairly simple. They would find the room with the rosette carved into the paneling, Tony could figure out how to open the secret compartment—he was good at mechanical contrivances like that—and they would have the “treasure” to show to the old vicomte. Then he could take Marguerite to meet his family, they could be married, and all would be well.

Ha!

Once they started looking, they discovered rosettes everywhere. There were carved rosettes, marquetry rosettes, and painted rosettes. There were rosettes on furniture, on picture frames, on walls and ceiling, even in inlaid patterns on the floors.

That blasted rosette must have been some sort of badge or talisman for the Morvan family. They used it everywhere.

The first day they spent on the floors. Marguerite had gone into the linen room and found a pair of heavy aprons for her and Delphine, and they tied kerchiefs over their hair. Tony and Ned removed their coats, waistcoats, and neck cloths and rolled up their sleeves. Armed with dustpans and brooms, they went to work.

Once the dust of decades had been swept up, to the accompaniment of almost constant sneezes, they found a rosette in the center of the circular hall’s marble floor. It proved to be perfectly solid. Then they found a series of rosettes bordering the parquet of a sitting room. One of these was less than solid, but the weakness proved to be nothing more than insect damage.

Filthy and aching from the unaccustomed physical exertion, they retired to their rooms to soak in hot tubs before dinner. No sparkling conversation accompanied the evening meal. Grunts and groans were the order of the day. Ned had always thought of himself as a reasonably active fellow, fit for a game of cricket or a bruising gallop over the fields. This evening he could barely lift a spoonful of soup to his mouth. He didn’t know how housemaids managed.

He managed to stay on his feet long enough to get to Marguerite’s room once everyone had settled down for the night only to discover that Marguerite had also settled down and was sound asleep. She lay on one side of the mattress, her hair spread over the pillow, and her arm reaching across the bed. Reaching for him? He smiled at the thought.

Since she had left a lamp burning, he knew she had expected him. There was room on his side of the bed—after one night, it was already his side— so he took off his clothes, folding them neatly this time, and slipped in beside her. When he put his arm around her to draw her near, she made a small noise, almost a purr, of contentment and nestled against him.

His last waking thought was that this must be one of the joys that marriage provided—sleeping in the arms of the one you loved even when you were too tired to do anything but sleep.

On the second day they found a tall secretary-cabinet covered in elaborate marquetry and brass decoration. Tony leaped on this, and his excitement energized them all. It was, he said, almost certainly the work of Daniel Roentgen, an eighteenth-century cabinetmaker noted for the ingenuity of his hidden shelves and drawers.

Delphine had to be forcibly held back when she tried to claw a drawer open.

“If you break the mechanism we may never get all the compartments open,” Tony scolded.

“All of them?” she asked.

“All. There could be hundreds in a piece this size.” At Ned’s incredulous look, Tony retreated. “Well, dozens anyway.”

That was enough to keep Delphine from physically attacking the cabinet, but she simmered with impatience as Tony carefully examined it. Gently he caressed the wood. “Magnificent,” he said softly. “Look at this craftsmanship.” With a finger he traced the inlaid portrait of a musician with a lute. “So perfectly done that even after all these years of neglect, one cannot feel the join.”

“But how do you open it?” Delphine practically screamed the question.

“Gently, gently.” Tony smiled at the cabinet. “You have secrets within secrets, don’t you?”

He fingered a rosette at the top of a narrow band of carving, pushing gently first at its center and then at its sides. A push at its left was rewarded with a soft click. The panel to the left sprang open, revealing a stack of four drawers. Marguerite clutched Ned’s arm as she leaned forward to look, but the drawers proved to be empty.

A large rosette unlocked the slanted cover of the desk. The rear compartment had numerous small drawers and pigeonholes, but when Tony turned a knob on the bottom drawer, the center section retreated, exposing a further compartment on each side behind the drawers. All of them empty.

His exploration of the secretary and its secrets went on for hours, to his fascination and everyone else’s frustration. Often the release of a catch was greeted by a groan as long-unused mechanisms were awakened. “Yes, yes,” he murmured, “I know, my sweet, you want a bit of oil here to ease the passage.”

“Tony,” Ned said, “remember where you are.”

Tony blinked, recalled to his audience, and then grinned and patted the secretary. “She is a beautiful piece of work, isn’t she? But she resents having been neglected for so long.”

“Couldn’t we just smash the thing?” Delphine demanded.

“That would be criminal.” Tony was truly shocked. “This is a mechanical marvel.”

Delphine was not impressed, but held her tongue.

As the afternoon wore on, Tony uncovered dust, dead insects, and even a mummified mouse, but nothing that could be considered a treasure. Then he discovered a drawer with a hidden compartment beneath it. They hovered over his shoulders as he lifted the false bottom of the drawer to reveal some papers, tied together with a ribbon, and a brooch.

Delphine snatched at the brooch with a cry of satisfaction. Almost immediately, her delight turned to a grimace. “What is this?” She held it up between her fingers.

Ned took it from her and smiled. The small oval, surrounded by pearls, was a miniature painting of an eye. “I have heard of these,” he said. “It’s a lover’s token. A secret one. Instead of an entire portrait, only the eye is shown. The lover knows whose eye is shown, but others will not.”

Delphine dismissed it with a humph, but Marguerite took it in her hand and gently rubbed the dust off. “How charming,” she said.

Tony sighed with disappointment. “I suppose that explains these.” He waved the papers. “Love letters.”

“I should be the one to read them.” Delphine reached out a hand for them. “They belong to my ancestor.”

The others were quite willing to resign the letters to her because they kept her occupied for the next two hours while Tony completed his examination of the cabinet.

From time to time they could hear Delphine murmuring things like, “Ah, that is a pretty phrase there,” and “Yes, he does indeed love me.” Marguerite cast worried glances at her cousin, but Ned gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“What does it matter if she imagines herself the recipient of love letters? It amuses her,” he said, “and there is no danger.”

Marguerite was not so sure. It always worried her when Delphine withdrew into her fantasy worlds, and it seemed to be happening more and more often.

Finally, Tony announced that he was finished. He had measured carefully, and there was no space for any additional hidden compartments. Still, he gave the cabinet a regretful pat. “You are a beauty. I promise I will give you a good cleaning and oiling so that all your gears turn smoothly.”

That ended their second day of searching.

As they returned to the inhabited part of the chateau, Marguerite spoke softly to Ned. “Do you suppose there might be other things hidden? Besides the reliquary, I mean.”

“Who knows? If your ancestors fancied furniture like that secretary, they might have made hidey-holes all over the place.”