Chapter Twenty-One
It was nearly time for dinner when they arrived back at the Villa de Burbonne. Henri and Isolde had cancelled other plans to dine quietly with Frankie and Reynard and spend the evening discussing the day’s findings.
They had just finished in the dining room and removed to the salon when a commotion rose in the main hall. The marquis glowered in the direction of the noise, but decided to let their capable butler handle it . . . until the sound of scuffling and raised voices invaded the salon itself.
The butler and a strapping footman were struggling with a frantic dervish of a fellow who kept saying he had to see the marquis or Miss Bumgarten.
Frankie shot up from her seat like she’d been fired from a cannon.
“Julian?”
At the sound of his name he stopped fighting and looked around.
“Miss Bumgarten—I must speak with you!”
She hurried to him with Reynard just behind her, while Henri motioned to the servants to release him.
Julian was rumpled and tousled from the struggle, but it was his wild expression that stopped Frankie cold.
“Where is Claire?” she demanded. “I must see Claire.”
“That is what I came to ask,” Julian said, looking from Frankie to Reynard and then the marquis and marquise. “She is not with me. I came to Paris alone. When I went to my parents’ house, they said you had been there, looking for me and Claire. They said you told them we came together, but we did not. I know nothing of her coming to Paris. I swear to you—I have not seen her since the night of her performance at the earl’s home.”
Frankie was struck speechless. Reynard, however, found his voice.
“That is absurd, Fontaine. She left Frankie a note saying she was coming to Paris with you.”
“But she did not. And if she did not, where is she?” Julian was beside himself. “I know she has the strong will, but if she came alone—the docks and streets and rail stations—they are not safe for a beautiful young woman. I cannot live with myself if Claire has come to harm. Please, help me find her.”
Frankie fought through her shock to go to Julian and take his hands. “You are sure she didn’t sneak aboard a ship with you—follow you here?”
“I came on a freight ship. She would have been too noticeable on such a vessel for me not to know. Please, you must believe me—she is on her way here, or is somewhere on the streets of Paris . . .”
He couldn’t make himself finish that and neither could Frankie as her thoughts careened through those beautiful streets and boulevards that changed so alarmingly at night. There were thieves, pickpockets, and procurers abroad, not to mention drunken gangs and even moneyed gentlemen looking for flesh-sport—or worse. From the looks on their faces, everyone else in the salon was thinking the same things.
Frankie turned to Reynard. “I know she came. After writing such a note to me and taking her violin, she would not have turned back. She was headed for Paris and Julian.” Fear seized her chest, making it hard to breathe. In blind need, she reached for him. “We must find her, Fox.”
“We will find her, Frankie, I promise.” He wrapped his arms tightly around her, and as she clung to his hard, capable frame, she could feel his heart beating almost as frantically as hers.
* * *
The Gare du Nord was crowded the next morning as Red and Evelyn stepped off the train from Lille and confronted a vast terminal filled with clicking departure boards, food vendors, travelers, conductors shouting orders, and tracks full of engines venting steam under the grand glass roof of the main station.
Red hardly knew where to start, but Evie pointed to the stationmaster’s office and he took it on himself to make a path through the crowds for her to that destination. They had no luck getting the stationmaster or head bursar to help them locate records of passengers arriving from Lille in the last four days. Evie was shocked at their callous refusal to help locate their “poor, dear niece who was traveling alone.”
Red, however, was not one to give up easily. He sat Evie down at a small café with their bags while he slipped in a rear entrance to the offices and prowled the halls until he found a likely candidate for a bit of bribery.
The small, hungry-looking clerk’s eyes widened at the sight of a hundred francs waving before him. He darted into the bursar’s office and soon returned with a ledger containing summaries of the ticketed passengers arriving from Lille. Unfortunately, the records only held ticket numbers, not names, which disappointed not only Red, but his greedy little informant.
Red joined Evie at the café and told her the bad news. Their only recourse now was the laborious task of canvassing the railroad conductors, porters, and attendants for anyone who might recall her. Then he had an idea: Reynard was fond of gentlemen’s clubs. If he could find the names and locations of several, he might be able to cajole or bribe the porters—or whatever they were called in France—to get a message to Reynard.
Evie had been to Paris several times, most recently with Red and his eldest niece, Daisy, as she prepared for her husband quest. Alas, she reported, she had never had reason to investigate clubs for gentlemen in Paris. Just as she was making a list of people she might call on to ask for such information, Red grabbed her writing arm hard enough to make her pencil rake across her writing paper.
“What on earth—” She looked up, but Red was on his feet already and waving frantically. She peered around him to the most welcome sight she had beheld in months. Frankie and Reynard Boulton were hurrying toward them with surprised and hopeful faces.
“There you are—you troublemakin’ female!” Red engulfed Frankie in a hug so tight that her spine popped in two places. He released her and gave Reynard a punch in the shoulder that caught him off guard and rocked him back a step. “And you, rapscallion—makin’ off with not one of my nieces but two
!”
He looked around, expecting to see Claire, and when he glanced back at them with a puzzled expression, their faces had changed. “Where is she?”
“You haven’t seen her either?” Frankie asked anxiously, reaching for the countess’s hands.
“We thought she would be with you,” the countess said, looking around at the crowd. “Didn’t you and Mr. Boulton come to Paris to retrieve her?”
“We did come to take her back to England,” Frankie said, her countenance falling. “But she is not with Julian. Apparently, she set out for Paris on her own.”
“Surely not,” the countess said with a gasp. “A young woman traveling alone? These are such perilous times—what could she have been thinking?”
“We finally located Julian last night and he hasn’t seen or heard from her,” Reynard added. “He and my Parisian friends are helping us search every place she might be. We came through Lille on the train, like you, and thought perhaps she might have come through the Gare du Nord.”
“Perhaps if we checked with the stationmaster,” Frankie suggested, looking past them for the office.
“Tried that,” Red said with a disgusted expression. “No dice.”
“This ‘Julian,’” the countess said, “surely he must have an idea of where she might go. Friends he has mentioned . . . his family . . . other musicians . . .”
“He is searching for her too, but he has had no luck either,” Reynard put in. “With two more pairs of eyes, we can cover more ground.”
“Sounds smart,” Red said. “As soon as we get set up in a hotel, we’ll hit the streets an’—”
“Bring your bags,” Reynard ordered, reaching for the two largest valises. “You will stay with us at the villa of the Marquis de Burbonne.”
“Really, we cannot impose on your friends,” the countess said.
“Not a bit of it.” Reynard was already several feet away and drawing them along with him. “Henri and Isolde would be devastated not to meet you. They’ve heard so much about you.” He paused to let them catch up and flashed a wry grin. “Besides, the marquis is not just a friend, he is family. And he owes me a favor or two.”
* * *
Some distance away, Claire was swaying on a horse-drawn caravan seat, beside an older woman with fierce dark eyes and graying hair put up in braids around her head. There were numerous bracelets on her arms and gold hoops in her ears, much like those of the other women in the caravan of wagons making its way toward Paris. A grizzled older man in a dark vest and coat that almost hid his embroidered shirt drove the caravan with a pipe clenched between his teeth.
The woman was Domka and her husband was Silvanus, the “Rom Baro” of the small traveling clan. Domka saw the way Claire leaned forward as if yearning to leap from the seat and into the new life she would find in Paris. She smiled and reached for Claire’s hand, holding and patting it in a gesture that said “patience, my child”—a phrase she had heard several times in her nearly four days of traveling with the Romany.
Julian would never believe her, Claire thought, when she told him how she came from Calais to Paris. How she was spotted and followed by two men as she left the ferry and inquired about the train station . . . how she saw them coming after her and ran . . . how they pursued her. She tried to disappear around corners and down alleyways and once even climbed a metal fire escape and hid in a doorway above an alley. She finally gave them the slip, but then found herself totally lost and in a part of Calais that had seen better days.
She tried to ask directions of a man she saw and he turned to her with dark eyes and an even darker glare. He backed her into an alley that led to a group of men gathered around tables littered with cards and dice and earthen wine jugs. A man playing a guitar stopped the moment she appeared.
Soon she was surrounded by dusky men with sharp eyes, who began to talk all at once and terrify her with words she couldn’t understand. A couple of them pushed her into another’s arms and she screamed. Silvanus had appeared, assessed both the situation and her, and in his presence the others halted in expectation. He walked around her, looking her over, and when his gaze fell on the violin case strapped to her shoulder, he stopped dead.
Coming closer, he looked her in the eye, searching her, contemplating what he saw. He said something in what seemed like French. She shook her head, barely able to breathe for the fear constricting her throat. Then he said in heavily accented English, “You play?” and gestured to the violin.
When she nodded, he looked around at the other men, then turned back to her and commanded: “Play
. Now
.”
He stepped back, folded his arms, and assumed an air of judgment. The other men grinned, muttered to one another, and copied his stance. They would see what kind of pale music this frightened young English girl made.
She dropped to her knees and, with trembling hands, opened her violin case and took out her instrument. Her knees were weak as she rose and straightened her spine. She couldn’t think what to play, what would pacify this hostile group—something that might allow her to escape. She closed her eyes to concentrate and Julian’s beloved face rose in her mind. She seized the image and drew her bow across the strings. Him. She had to play for him
.
The music flowed from her violin, resonating with the passion she had for music and for the love her music had brought her. His sweet brown eyes filled her mind . . . playful, then passionate, and then deep with understanding. Her playing became rich and soulful as she unspooled her heart and hopes in that shabby rear yard, before those hostile men.
The joy of playing, of becoming one with the music, slowly returned. She finished one piece and transitioned into another, livelier piece that expressed the fullness of her heart and set her foot tapping. With her eyes tightly closed, she was with Julian in her thoughts and was strangely reassured that someday soon she would see him again and they would find a way to be together always. Whether it was fate or destiny or simple happenstance that brought him to her, she would not surrender him and her hopes for the future without a fight.
A third piece, short and bright, finished her command performance. She took a deep breath, calming her racing heart, and opened her eyes. She was surprised to see that women—and what women!—had appeared at the edge of the group and stood watching her, listening. Their dark hair was loose and flowing and they wore colorful blouses and skirts embroidered with fanciful patterns. At their ears were golden hoops and their wrists were stacked with bracelets that jangled as they moved.
An older woman with graying hair and features that even decades past youth were clear and striking swayed forward into that circle of men. She confronted the big man in a language Claire couldn’t begin to place, and sounded less than pleased about something.
She turned to Claire with a cool, commanding smile and said in halting English, “I am Domka.” She pointed at Claire. “You . . . ?”
“Claire,” she answered, feeling like her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. Domka repeated Claire’s name and said it to the other women, who looked at one another and tried out the name. Some made a moue of ambivalence, others smiled and nodded in approval. Then Domka took her by the hand and turned her toward the barren lot where several colorful caravans were settled.
Despite that rocky start, they welcomed her into their camp. That evening she shared their food and listened to their singing and their stories, though she caught only half the words. There were children of all ages running around the central campf ire, and animals galore—dogs and goats and big, fancy-colored ponies—were kept at the edges of the circle of caravans.
They asked where she was going and where she had been in her travels. Being travelers themselves, they had an interest in new horizons. She told them of her first home in Nevada and of the great, wide-open spaces of western America. Then she spoke of New York, a big and complicated city where money and enterprise shook hands daily. They made faces like they smelled something awful and after some interpretation, she learned they had an aversion to cities and the great, tall buildings that the rest of the world considered monuments to man’s ingenuity.
She described the ships she had sailed the great ocean on, and the horses her father had bred. They loved horses and asked her to describe them in great detail. Then she told them about Julian, who was waiting for her in Paris.
They smiled and sighed, and it was time for her to ask questions.
They were travelers, they said, “Romany” who came from the east many generations ago. They lived as their ancestors had; unencumbered by possessions, not planted in the land. They were free to travel and experience the world in all its confusion and contradictions and glory. And they made their living as they could . . . bartering, working at odd jobs, providing services not usually available to the “planted” people, like fortune-telling and palm reading.
Claire knew the English called them “gypsies,” but she saw the pride they took in the name they had for themselves and from that day on would only refer to them as Romany or travelers. Being travelers, they had no objections when Domka proposed they travel to Paris to see Claire safely to her Julian.
Each night as they traveled, she played music with Domka’s husband, Silvanus, who was a self-taught violinist of some skill. He introduced her to wonderful songs and the stories behind them as they sat around the fire at night. Together they played for the others to dance, until the women pulled her violin from her hands and made her dance with them. The music’s rhythm invaded her blood and she danced as she never had before, laughing and feeling connected to these women and through them to the whole world.
On the last night before they reached Paris, the women took her aside and, with Domka translating as best she could, they gave her advice on men in general and husbands in particular. They laughed and drank wine and listened to the music the men made in their absence. Claire went to bed on her pallet beneath Domka’s caravan with a prayer that she would find her Julian before another night fell.
When they stopped on the outskirts of Paris the next afternoon, the women came to her with a plan to escort her into the city and help her find her Julian. She was doubtful, but the women were determined to help and seemed well versed in moving through city streets unnoticed. She watched them don dark-colored skirts with no adornment and simple blouses. They hid their bracelets under their sleeves and their hair in braids beneath shawls and hats. Claire wore her usual dark woolen suit and carried her violin on her shoulder. The rest of her clothes and belongings she had left with the travelers in partial repayment of their kindness.
By the time they reached the center of the city, twilight was sliding into night. Streetlamps had been lighted and the traffic of commerce was giving way to the traffic of the night; carriages and coaches, cabs and horses. They kept to the boulevards and the shadows of the buildings, where Domka paused to consult with ragged, wraithlike characters who directed them onward. In every city, Domka said, there was a network of unnoticed people of the streets who knew things that were valuable and who would share for a price.
When Claire asked what the price was, Domka shushed her and made a sign in the air. “Bad luck to ask.”
Their destination turned out to be the Paris Opera House. They watched from across a broad street as carriages queued up to unload their passengers for a performance. The women turned their sun-burnished faces from the ostentatious display of wealth and power trooping up the grand steps to the entrance. It wasn’t long before the steps were empty and the carriages had departed to wait elsewhere for a summons at the end of the evening.
Quiet fell and with it went Claire’s spirits. She had searched the arrivals for a glimpse of Julian, but found no match for that beloved face. She sat down on a step at the side of the entry, feeling deflated.
Domka and one of the others pulled her to her feet and walked her into the side street that ran along the opera house. There they took down her hair and with a comb from one’s hair, freed it from all constraint. It fell in thick waves around her shoulders and made her feel oddly exposed. Then they removed her fitted coat to bare her blouse, insisting that she must cooperate if she wanted to see her Julian again. Each woman unsheathed an armful of bracelets and selected two to slide onto Claire’s wrists. Each said something quietly as they did so, and Claire had a strange feeling they were blessing the bracelets somehow . . . or casting a spell on them.
“Circles . . . trap good luck,” Domka said, patting her cheek.
The others smiled and nodded. “You wear always,” Domka said and the others echoed: “always.”
Claire felt a growing expectation as they worked to make her ready for . . . whatever they expected to happen. It was as if they were stripping away the artificial and unworthy of her, to leave her with only the essential and valuable. A slight breeze played with her long hair, a lovely sensual feeling she hadn’t experienced since she was a girl. Moments later, they removed her violin from its case and handed it to her. Domka ushered her back to the steps of the opera house, positioned her at the top of them, and commanded: “Play. Now
.”
Claire was confused and a little annoyed. She was to play here, outside this imposing monument to music? She almost laughed. What did one play for one’s debut as a street musician?
Still she had come this far. Perhaps there was something more here, something she did not see but the travelers did. She recalled a piece she knew Julian loved—an arrangement he himself had written.
Closing her eyes and picturing his beloved face, she began to play.