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‘Mama, Cousin Theo tells me that there is a most interesting chateau in St Martin, a village beyond St Père. He has an introduction to the count and thought you may like to accompany him tomorrow and see the building.’
‘Hmm?’ Lady James laid down her pen and frowned. ‘Yes, if that is the Chateau de Beaumartin, I have heard of it. I believe it has an unusual early chapel, a remnant of an earlier castle. Tomorrow is not convenient, however.’
‘It is the day Cousin Theo will be visiting. That and no other, he says, so I am afraid we will have to be a little flexible if we are not to miss the opportunity.’
‘Flexible? He obviously has no concept of the importance of routine and disciplined application for a scholar. Very well. I never thought to see the day when I would have to accommodate the whims of a scapegrace nephew.’
‘I believe he is calling on business, not for pleasure, Mama. And he is a most accomplished artist,’ she added, feeling the need to defend Theo in some way. He would be amused to hear her, she suspected. Somehow he seemed too relaxed and self-confident to worry about what one eccentric aunt thought of him. ‘He will be here at ten, Mama.’
‘Indeed? Well, if we are to spend tomorrow out, then we have work to do. Those proofs will not wait any longer, not if I am to entrust them to what passes for the French postal system these days. It pains me to find anything good to say about the Corsican Monster, but apparently he made the mails run on time.’
‘Yes, Mama, I will just go and wash my hands.’ It did not seem possible to say that she would rather spend the remainder of the afternoon while the light held in working up some of the rapid sketches she had made during the day. The one of Theo drawing, for example, or lying stretched out on the river bank with his hat tipped over his nose, or the tiny scribbled notes she had made to remind her of the way that blue creeping flower had hugged the ground.
Never mind, she told herself, opening the door to her little room on the second floor. They would still be there in her pocket sketchbook, and her memory for everything that had happened today was sharp. All except for those soft, vague minutes while Theo had been plaiting her hair and she had fallen asleep. That was like the half-waking moments experienced at dawn, and likely to prove just as elusive.
She splashed her face and washed her hands in the cold water from the washstand jug without glancing in the mirror. She rarely did so, except to check for ink smudges or to make sure the parting down the middle of her hair was straight. Now, as she reached for her apron, she hesitated and tipped the swinging glass to reflect her face. And stared.
Her nose was, rather unfortunately, becoming tanned. Her cheeks were pink and her hair…She looked at least two years younger. Which was probably because she was smiling—not a reaction that looking in the mirror usually provoked. Or was it that?
Elinor assumed a serious expression. She still looked—what? Almost pretty? It must be the softness of those ridiculous tendrils of hair escaping around her forehead and temples. Looking pretty was of no practical use to a bookish spinster. On the other hand, it was rather gratifying to discover that her despised red hair could have that effect. And the unladylike tan at least disguised the freckles somewhat.
What would have happened five years ago during her disastrous come-out if she had dressed her hair like this instead of trying to hide it? Nothing, probably. She was still the younger daughter, destined to remain at home as Mama’s support. And she had always been studious, which immediately put men off. It took a long time, and numerous snubs, before she realised she was supposed to pretend she was less intelligent than they were, even when their conversation was banal beyond belief. But she never could bring herself to pretend. It was no loss; she would be bored to tears as a society wife.
The apron she wore when she was working was still in her hand, the cuff-protectors folded neatly in the pocket. She looked down at the sludge-coloured gown and tossed the apron on to the bed. The gown was going, it might as well go covered in ink spots.
Elinor ran down the twisting stairs, humming. Even the waiting proofs of A comparison between early and late eleventh-century column construction in English churches did not seem so daunting after all.
‘Pink roses?’ Lady James levelled her eyeglass at the crown of Elinor’s villager hat, decorated with some of yesterday’s roses. ‘And ruby-red ribbons? Whatever are you thinking of?’
‘The ribbons match my walking dress, Mama. And I think the roses look charming with it. The dress is one of those Cousin Belinda persuaded me to buy, if you recall. I thought I should make an effort for our call.’
‘Hmm. Where has that young man got to?’ As the clocks had not yet struck ten, this seemed a little harsh.
‘He is just coming, Mama.’ Reprehensibly Elinor had her elbows on the ledge of the open casement and was leaning out to watch the street. ‘Good morning, Cousin Theo. You are very fine this morning.’
‘And you, too.’ He swept off his tall hat and made a leg, causing a passing group of young women to giggle and stare. Biscuit-coloured pantaloons, immaculate linen, a yellow silk waistcoat and a dark blue coat outshone anything to be seen on the streets of Vezelay on a workaday Wednesday morning. ‘Has the bonfire occurred?’
Jeanie, their Scottish maid who had travelled with them from London and who was proving very adaptable to life in France, came down the stairs, opened the door with a quick bob to Theo, then vanished down the street with a large bundle under her arm.
‘Unnecessary, as I told you.’ Elinor whispered, conscious of her mother behind her gathering up reticule and parasol. ‘Jeanie’s on her way to the used-clothes dealer right now.’
‘Do you intend to converse with your cousin through the window like a scullery maid, Elinor, or are we going?’
‘We are going if you are ready, Mama.’
‘I am. Good morning, Theophilus. Now, then, who exactly are these friends of yours?’
‘Good morning, Aunt. Not friends, I have never met the family. I did business with the count’s late father earlier this year, just before his death. There are…complications with the matter that I need to discuss with the son.’
Lady James unfurled her parasol, took Theo’s arm and swept off down the hill, leaving Elinor to shut the door and hurry after them. ‘Count Leon is about my age and lived almost entirely in England since just before the Terror.’
‘His father obviously had the sense to get out in time.’
‘The foresight, certainly. He moved his money to English banks and his portable valuables he placed in hiding in France. The estates and the family chateaux were seized, of course. Most of the furnishings and paintings were dispersed.’
‘And your business with the late count?’
