“Mais, non! A lady would not go there. Why do you ask me such things, Madame Brand?”
“Oh, because the Boston Ladies’ League for the Betterment of Fallen Angels wishes to extend their ministry to Paris—and it occurred to me that you might make a splendid president of—”
“My days are ever so full . . .”
Ophelia patted Austorga’s arm. “Fine, dear, fine. Perhaps, also, you are too young for such a post.”
They moved with a noisy clump of people to the next display. Austorga receded into the crowd, and Ophelia found herself next to Eglantine.
Eglantine studied her exhibition catalogue, dark eyebrows furrowed.
“When I was a girl, I did so love to read stories,” Ophelia said in the rambling fashion people expected of matrons.
“Ah, indeed?” Eglantine didn’t look up from her catalogue.
“Magical stories, mostly. You know—fables and romances and fairy tales. Particularly fairy tales.” In fact, when Ophelia was little she’d enjoyed, more than anything else, the no-nonsense hints in the Farmer’s Almanac.
Eglantine’s gaze snapped up. “Fairy tales?”
“Oh, yes. At any rate, I meant to say that once, I cannot recall precisely when or where—perhaps in my uncle’s library in Concord, because the old dear was such an avid collector of rare books—once, I read a different version of the ‘Cinderella’ tale. It was only slightly different, but I do recall that in that version, the tale provided the address of Cinderella’s home.”
Eglantine slitted her eyes.
“Yes, my dear,” Ophelia said. “Fifteen Rue Garenne. Your house.”
“What a fine memory you have.”
“How true! I simply cannot be defeated at that charming game called ‘I’m Going on a Picnic’—”
“We do not speak of this,” Eglantine said, lowering her voice. “Our family has our privacy to think of, but yes, Cinderella dwelled in our house. I never heard of this knowledge printed in a version of the story, however. It is simply something we know in our family. I must confess, Madame Brand, that I find it not a little alarming that you know this family secret when you only happened to meet Prudence in Germany.”
“Ah, yes, but as your own father, the marquis, told me, in life it is la chance that plays the greatest role. Oh, yes, I’ve just remembered the other difference in the tale.” Ophelia watched Eglantine carefully as she said, “The diamond stomacher belonged, not to one of the stepsisters, but to Cinderella.”
Something like panic shone in Eglantine’s eyes.
“Is there a stomacher, Miss Eglantine? A real one?”
“It is forward of you, Madame Brand, very forward to quiz me in this manner!”
“Nosy Posy—that is what my sisters used to call me.”
Eglantine looked like she wished to call her something a sight more potent. “Very well. I shall satisfy your curiosity, Rosy Fosy—”
“Nosy Posy.”
Eglantine sniffed. “There is a stomacher, a family heirloom, that has been passed down for almost two hundred years.”
“Made for Cinderella.”
“Perhaps. Or for one of her stepsisters—I myself suspect that if Cinderella did indeed wear it to the ball, she had stolen it from her stepsister.”
“Goodness!”
“Yes. Cinderella was a conniving creature, or so my grandmother told me—and she heard it firsthand from her father, who heard it from his grandmother. Cinderella was her great aunt, you see.”
“And . . . where is this stomacher now?”
Eglantine lifted her brows.
“Because, you see, I simply adore antiquities with these wonderful tales attached to them.”
“It was always kept in the house until several years ago, when Papa decided it was best to keep the family jewels in a locked box at the bank.”
“It is there?”
“Yes.”
“Who might unlock this bank box?”
“Only Papa.” Eglantine looked as though something was eating her.