“Baldewyn,” a woman’s voice called behind him. “Baldewyn, qui est là?” There was a tick-tick of heels, and a dark young lady appeared. She was perhaps twenty years of age, with a pointed snout of a face like a mongoose and beady little animal eyes to match.
“Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle Eglantine,” Baldewyn said, “this young lady—an American, clearly—claims to be a kinswoman of the marquise.”
“Kinswoman?” Eglantine said. “How do you mean, kinswoman? Of my belle-mère? Oh. Well. She is . . . absent.”
Ophelia had picked up enough French from a fortune-teller during her stint in P. Q. Putnam’s Traveling Circus a few years back to know what belle-mère meant: stepmother.
“No matter,” Ophelia said. “Mademoiselle, may I present to you your stepsister, Miss Prudence Deliverance Bright?”
“I assure you,” Eglantine said, “I have but one sister, and she is inside. I do not know who you are, or what sort of little amusement you are playing at, but I have guests to attend to. Now, s’il vous pla?t, go away!” She spun around and disappeared, the tick-tick of her heels receding.
Baldewyn’s dour mouth twitched upwards. Then he slammed the door in their noses.
“Well, I never!” Ophelia huffed. “They didn’t even ask for proof!”
“I told you Ma don’t want me.”
“For the thousandth time, humbug.” Ophelia hoisted her carpetbag and trotted down the steps, into the rain. “She doesn’t even know you’re on the European continent, let alone on her doorstep. That Miss Eglantine—”
“Fancies she’s the Queen of Sheba!” Prue came down the steps behind her, hauling her own bag.
“—said your mother is absent. So all we must do is wait. The question is, where?” They stood on the sidewalk and looked up and down the street lined with monumental old buildings and shivering black trees. A carriage splashed by, its driver bent into the slanting rain. “We can’t stay out of doors. May as well be standing under Niagara Falls. I’m afraid my greasepaint’s starting to run, and this padding is like a big sponge.” Ophelia shoved her soaked pillow-bosom into line. “Come on. Surely we’ll find someplace to huddle for an hour or so. Your sister—”
“Don’t call her that!”
“Very well, Miss Eglantine said they’ve got guests. So I figure your mother will be home soon.”
The mansion’s foundation stones went right to the pavement. No front garden. But farther along they found a carriageway arch. Its huge iron gates stood ajar.
“Now see?” Ophelia said. “Nice and dry under there.”
“Awful dark.”
“Not . . . terribly.”
More hoof-clopping. Was it—Ophelia squinted—was it the same carriage that had passed by only a minute ago? Yes. It was. The same bent driver, the same horses. And—
Her heart went lickety-split.
—and a pale smudge of a face peering out the window. Right at her.
Then it had gone.
*
On the other side of the carriageway arch lay a big, dark courtyard. Wings of Henrietta’s mansion bordered it on two sides. The third side was an ivy-covered carriage house and stables, where an upstairs window glowed with light. The fourth side was a high stone wall. The garden seemed neglected. Shrubs were shaggy, weeds tangled the flower beds, and the air stank of decay.
“Look,” Prue said, pointing. “A party.”
Light shone from tall windows. Figures moved about inside and piano music tinkled.
“Let’s have a look.” Ophelia abandoned her carpetbag under the arch and set off down a path. Wet twigs and leaves dragged at her skirts.
“You mean spy on them?”
“Miss Eglantine didn’t seem the most honest little fish.”
“And that Baldy-win feller was a troll.”
“So maybe your ma is really in there, after all.”