Accordingly, his own house was in Dock Street, flanked by finer shops and counting houses. And in truth the street was like some pulsing vein of life, filled with the noise of clopping hooves and creaking wheels and voices chattering above a constant flow of people from so many walks of life and varied places she would not have been surprised if Mr. de Sabran in his white coat drew no attention. But of course he did. Two women they were passing drew aside as though he were the very devil, and a carter going by them with his waggon tipped his hat and called down crude “congratulations” on Quebec’s surrender, but Mr. de Sabran neither broke his stride nor paid them notice. Like her father, with the manners of a gentleman, he walked between her and the muddy street, and as they crossed the road he gave his arm to her to help her keep from stumbling in the wheel ruts. She released his arm as soon as they had crossed, but she remembered her own manners enough to say, “Thank you,” and received his brief nod in reply.
William had married well. Deborah, his wife, being the daughter of a judge, had brought money and connections to their union that helped William rise in both respectability and wealth. His house was built entirely of brick, a full three stories high, its windows sashed and glazed with finest glass. And since Lydia’s last visit, he had added at least one more servant to his household. The girl who held open the door to admit them was not someone Lydia recognized, though it was clear she’d been told to expect their arrival.
Not blinking an eye at the sight of an enemy officer there on the doorstep, the servant stepped back for them and said to Lydia, “Mr. and Mrs. Wilde are in the parlour, miss.”
They weren’t alone. They had another visitor, a tall, well-built young man who stood as Lydia and Mr. de Sabran entered. Had it been another person, Lydia might have believed he’d stood to show respect, but she knew “respect” was not a word that ever featured in this man’s vocabulary.
“Cousin Silas.” She was much relieved to hear her own voice held the proper notes of coolness and composure. Though she did not offer him her hand he held his own out notwithstanding, knowing it would be the height of rudeness to refuse him, and she was too well brought up to behave rudely in her brother’s house.
The light brush of his kiss across her knuckles was a victory, and his mocking eyes made sure she knew he knew it. “Cousin Lydia.”
Before they could say anything of note to one another, William intervened, and coming forward took her two hands warmly in his own, erasing Silas’s unwelcome touch before releasing her to greet the man who stood behind her, patiently observing.
“Mr. de Sabran,” said William, with his usual good memory for names, “I’m glad to see you once again. How was your voyage?” Then he caught himself, and said, “Of course, forgive me, I forget you don’t speak English,” and to Lydia’s surprise asked something briefly in what sounded to her ears like French.
Mr. de Sabran made a short reply in that same language.
Still surprised, she turned to William. “When did you learn to speak French?”
“I can speak several languages.”
Deborah, his wife, confirmed this as she rose from her chair. “It’s true. So long as no one wanted to converse more broadly than ‘good morning,’ ‘how are you,’ ‘did you enjoy your voyage,’ and ‘what is the best price you can give me for your cargo?’?” With a smile, she leaned to embrace Lydia. “His French may sound impressive, but I should suspect that with that phrase he’s reached the limits of his knowledge.”
Lydia liked Deborah, who in age stood nearly halfway between Lydia’s own twenty years and William’s thirty-six. She was golden-haired and elegant and graceful in her movements, as befitting the society in which she had been raised, but she was fair of mind and quick to laugh and kind. She held her hand now to Mr. de Sabran as William introduced them, then she turned again to Lydia and said, “But you’ll be wanting to refresh yourself, I should imagine, won’t you? Have you eaten any dinner?”
They’d had cheese and bread and apples on the sloop, but Deborah did not seem convinced that much would carry them until the supper hour.
“I’ll tell our cook,” she said. “She can, I’m sure, make something light for you. Will you have tea as well? Or one of William’s ships has lately brought us some fine chocolate, if you’d rather that.”
Lydia was not altogether keen on chocolate, but she’d watched Mr. de Sabran force his tea down every morning and pretend that it was pleasant, and she guessed he would be grateful for a change, so she said, “Chocolate, please.”
The same girl who had let them in the house now saw them upstairs to their rooms. Mr. de Sabran’s was on the floor above hers. Still, when Lydia had washed her face and hands and smoothed the wildness from her hair and brushed her gown’s folds into order, she emerged to find him waiting for her on the landing. He’d been standing leaning with his shoulder to the wall, but as she exited her room he straightened, gave his short and customary nod, and fell in step behind her on the stairs.
Down in the parlour, Silas had entrenched himself in one of the fine armchairs by the window, the curtains newly drawn against the fast-descending evening.
William’s house was furnished to reflect his status as a man of consequence. The walls of his parlour were hung with a rich painted paper brought over from England, the draperies matching the blue of the floral design, and the oil-burning lamps in the sconces set on every wall were reflected by round shields of mirror and silver.
The pot for the chocolate was silver as well, as indeed was the tray that it sat upon, holding a large dish of very small cakes, and the cups they were given were fine painted porcelain.
She wondered what Mr. de Sabran thought, faced with opulence after their own plainer home. She had given no thought until now what his own home might be like, although she supposed she’d assumed from what Joseph had said of the men of the Troupes de la Marine, and the image she’d shaped in her mind of Quebec, that he’d come from a more rustic background. Yet he did not look out of place at all, here in this room drinking chocolate, the porcelain cup held in his hand with an ease that surprised her.
Not out of place, but not at home.
He was keeping apart from them, as was his usual way—sitting off to one side in a chair she suspected he’d chosen because it afforded him views of the door and the window at once.
Joseph did that, too. It was an instinct gained from having been in battle, she suspected, so a man might then see the approach of any danger.
William tried a few times to include Mr. de Sabran in their conversation by addressing him in slow and simple English, speaking over-loudly, until Lydia was moved to comment, “William, he is French. He is not deaf.”
Beside the window, Silas smiled. “Indeed. I should imagine that his hearing will be very sharp indeed while he is in our city. There is much news to be gathered here.”
Lydia looked at him. “If you suspect him of being a spy, you have no one to blame but your father, for thrusting him into our midst in the first place.”
As the words fell out she knew she’d made a fool’s mistake. She saw within her cousin’s eyes the gleam that had, from childhood, meant he was about to twist the knife. And so he did.
He smoothly said, “I’m sure my father did not think it would be a great burden for you, since you’ve had the room to spare within your house these twenty years to shelter others not your family. If he was mistaken, if it is a burden, you have but to tell me. I am sure he would be happy to relieve you of your guests,” he told her. “All of them.”
The threat, though velvet-toned, was clear, and Lydia reproached herself for having selfishly forgotten Violet’s safety was not something she had any right to put in jeopardy.
She cast her eyes down, swallowing her pride to show him deference. “It’s no burden.”
Deborah deftly moved the talk to other things, while Lydia exchanged a glance of shared frustration with her brother. With all his wealth and influence, he could do nothing either; only hope, as did they all, that Uncle Reuben would not choose to change the rules of their arrangement.
Turning from William she noticed that Mr. de Sabran was studying Silas. His features, impassive, gave nothing away of his thoughts, though she would have been interested to know them.
She wondered, too, what the French officer saw when he looked at her brother.
She’d always believed she saw William more clearly than most, but what she’d learned from Henry of the Monte Christi trade had left her vision fogged with doubts.