*
In the blue light of dawn, Ophelia dressed in her fine, forest green visiting gown, which stank of lake water and was only half dry. She drew on her black velvet paletot, laced up her battered brown boots, and carried the turtle out into Chateau de Roche’s park. She found a path that wound through misty woods and fields towards the river.
A turtle ought to be asleep in November, beneath dead leaves and mud in shallow, still water.
Ophelia took her time, despite how chilly she grew in her damp gown. At last, she found a stagnant little backwater sheltered by overgrown brambles, at the edge of a tributary stream. She crouched on the bank and held the turtle out. He flopped into the water and disappeared.
*
Two hours later, Chateau de Roche’s front drive was a carnival of horses, trunks, coaches, footmen, and groggy guests. Ophelia and Prue descended the front steps. They would ride with the Count de Griffe back to Paris. After that, Ophelia wasn’t exactly sure what would happen.
“Guess we aren’t the only ones who want to clear out,” Prue said.
“I allow, the ball did not end on an especially festive note,” Ophelia said.
“I reckon your long face is about the professor?”
“The professor? What? No. Why would I think of him?”
“Maybe on account of you look like your hopes and dreams was just run over by a steam tractor?”
“He has gone,” Ophelia said. “Last night, I was told.”
“He’s a mutton-head to leave you.”
“He has his pride. Can’t blame him for that.” It was also true that if a lady was responsible for breaking her own heart, she really had no right to complain. “Sybille’s killer has been brought to justice. That is the most important thing. And we’ve found your mother.”
“Don’t sound so glum about it, darling,” Henrietta said, sailing down the steps behind them. She wore a smart traveling costume and a plumed hat, and her eyes darted about from guest to guest. Tallying up their titles and economic wherewithal, no doubt. “Go on. Look at that ruby on your finger. Doesn’t that cheer you up?”
No. It did not.
“Hey!” Prue said. “Ain’t that Seraphina Smythe? Over there. Getting into that wagon-looking thing.”
“Goodness. I fancied she was a prim and proper English rose,” Henrietta said, squinting. “Whatever is she doing in that rattletrap?”
It was Seraphina. But she’d removed her spectacles, and her cheeks were flushed. Driving off in a hay wagon with—
“Henri,” Prue said. She whistled. “I’ll be. That’s why the carriageway gate was always open. On account of Seraphina and Henri and their amorous rendezvous.”
“Prue!” Ophelia said.
“What? I’m learning French.”
“What about the lost key?”
“I reckon Beatrice really did lose it at the market. Don’t know how she could see straight half the time, what with all that wine she glugs.”
They were helped up into Griffe’s carriage by a coachman. Griffe bounded down the steps and climbed into the coach, all smiles.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said. “Mademoiselle Stonewall, how lovely you look this morning. I am most glad to convey your friends to Paris. The friend of Mademoiselle Stonewall is the friend of mine, eh?”
This was going to be an awfully long journey.
They set off.
About half an hour later, Griffe was snoring with his head thrown back against the seat, mouth open.
Prue piped up. “Ma, I’ve got something to tell you. I ain’t going back to America with you.”
“I had no intention of going back to America, sugarplum. The grass is so much greener here in Europe. The gentlemen are more innocent, somehow.”
Not wise to Henrietta’s tricks, more like.
“I’m going to be a nun, Ma.”
Henrietta burst out laughing.
“It ain’t funny.”
“What about that young gentleman, Dalziel? He’s smitten with you.”
“I’m through with fellers. I already mailed off a good-bye letter to Hansel this morning.”