“I am American, yes,” she said. “Mrs. Brand, of Boston Massachusetts. Although I grew up in Cleveland, Ohio, where many of my mother’s family still reside.”
“Ah! That is why you so much resemble la belle Mademoiselle Stonewall.”
“My niece. Yes. She is also visiting Paris at present.”
“Your niece! Ah! She is like a prairie wildflower, oui? So simple, so fresh. Forgive me for saying so, madame, but the ladies of your family are very handsome.” Griffe gazed at Ophelia’s crepey, greasepainted face with frank appreciation. “All of the ladies.”
*
The rest of the visit to the exhibition passed without incident, although dodging the Count de Griffe’s earnest, poetic speeches had been taxing. Evening was falling, drizzly and cold, when they dropped Seraphina at her home across the river. When Ophelia and the Misses Malbert arrived at the mansion, Baldewyn assisted them with their cloaks and bonnets, informed them that dinner would be ready shortly, and then passed Ophelia an envelope.
“Delivered for you, madame,” he said in a disgusted tone.
The envelope was addressed to Madame Brand.
Ophelia tore it open in her chamber.
Interesting news. I shall look for you in the opera house lobby at ten minutes until eight.—G.P.
News!
Ophelia forgot all about how she was exhausted, hungry, and footsore. She even forgot to check on Prue—who was surely at her drudgery down in the kitchen. Ophelia burned the note in the grate and set out for Henrietta’s chamber to borrow another evening gown.
This time, she had the sense to choose a gown made of gauzy green silk that could be pulled tighter across an uninspiring bust, and a green mantle. The matching slippers would be agonizingly snug.
She loaded the lot in her arms. As she passed by the dressing table, she stopped.
The book—How to Address Your Betters, by A Lady—was gone.
She frowned, and then hurried out. Probably Lulu had taken it. Lulu seemed to have secret aspirations that had nothing at all to do with being a maid.
*
Prue huddled on a numbingly cold stone floor in the dark.
It had been hours since Hume had dragged her along stone corridors, up stairs, around more corners than a granny’s quilt, and locked her up in a dim chamber.
At first, Prue had been too flabbergasted to cry. Then she was furious with herself for letting this lot get the better of her for the third time. Then the sobs came, heavy and hard. Now she was just parched and bone tired. She didn’t even have the gumption to inspect the chamber, only barely lit now that evening had fallen outside. She just lay there on the floor, waiting to see what Fate had up her dirty sleeve this time.
The door latch rattled.
Prue held her breath.
When the door opened, it wasn’t Hume. Dalziel looked in, holding a candle.
Prue pushed herself up into a mermaid’s pose (well, that’s what Howard DeLuxe had called it when they’d put on The Lusty Whalers of Nantucket). “I don’t know what you folks is planning for me,” she said, “but I—I’ll—”
“I shan’t harm you, Miss Prudence.” Dalziel stepped into the chamber and shut the door. “I am ashamed of them, and ashamed of myself for not having realized sooner how much Grandmother’s mind has decayed. I have been busy with my studies, and I assumed that everything was as well as it could be—despite Grandfather’s health, but that has been failing for many years now. Hume, of course, is little more than a trained bulldog, and he does Grandmother’s bidding slavishly. . . .” He swept a loose hank of black hair from his eyes. “Forgive me. I ramble.” He stepped closer.
Prue shrank back. “You look like a nice enough feller, Mr. Dalziel, but for all I know your whole family means to sup on me tonight.”
“I shan’t come a step closer. You are frightened. You do not understand.” Dalziel knelt on the floor, a funny sight with him in his fine clothes. He placed the candleholder on the stone floor and nudged it between Prue and himself.