Juliette Laxton was the younger sister of Isabelle Gautier, who had married the Marquis de Villeduval. Their father, a widower, was a wealthy bourgeois businessman, and the marriage was seen as beneficial to both sides. The Villeduvals would have an injection of much-needed money and land, and Monsieur Gautier would see at least one of his daughters settled with a title, and could claim an aristocrat as a son-in-law.
Only Juliette had had any idea of the depths of Isabelle’s misery, married to a much older man who cared only for himself.
Then, shortly after the death of Monsieur Gautier, Isabelle was killed in an accident when a coach was overturned. The only survivor was three-year-old Sido, whose leg had been badly broken.
After his wife’s death the marquis did something so strange, so out of character, that the only rational explanation was surely insanity brought on by grief. For it had turned out a double tragedy: His half brother, Armand, his father’s favorite, had gone missing at the same time. All attempts to find him had failed.
Isabelle was not buried in the family vault in Normandy. Instead, her coffin was taken to a small church by the sea. There were no mourners and little ceremony. She was placed in a simple grave and the headstone merely recorded her name, Isabelle Gautier, without title, inscription, or date.
The marquis was never to speak of his wife again, and his half brother’s disappearance proved to be the death of his father.
Juliette had never gotten over the loss of her beloved sister. Her only consolation had been the hope that she might be allowed to bring up Isabelle’s daughter, Sido, but it was not to be. For reasons Juliette had never understood, Sido’s father, the marquis, had written to say that he wanted nothing more to do with the Gautier family.
For Juliette it had been a double bereavement. Not only had she lost her sister and her closest friend, but shortly after this she had had a miscarriage and been told that there was little hope of her conceiving again. It had been her greatest sadness, for she had always imagined herself surrounded by a large and noisy family.
She sat now in front of her dressing table mirror, wishing her visitor would leave. Not for the first time, Lady Faulkner was giving Juliette the benefit of her advice.
“My formula for looking perpetually young is to avoid laughter and excessive use of the facial muscles. That, I can assure you, leads to wrinkles and the falling of the flesh. Best by far to keep one’s face emotionless. Only by such a means can one hold back time’s cruel hand—”
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Juliette’s face lit up with a charming smile when she saw her husband enter the room, while Lady Faulkner’s remained masklike and rigid.
“I trust your family is well?” said Henry Laxton with a bow.
“Quite well,” replied Lady Faulkner stiffly.
“And does your son still spend all his time at the theater, sporting with pretty actresses?” The question was designed to speed the guest’s departure.
Lady Faulkner’s features knew not quite how to react to this. Her lips longed to purse themselves together in disgust at such a suggestion, but lines, as she had just informed Mrs. Laxton, must be avoided at all costs.
“I have no idea what you mean, Mr. Laxton,” she said, standing up and waving her fan vigorously. “Jack is at Oxford, where he is studying diligently. Now I must leave you. I have other calls to make where I will, I know, be very welcome.” And with great indignation she swept out of the room.
The Laxtons waited until they heard the front door being closed, then both burst out laughing.
“She seems more absurd every time I see her,” said Henry Laxton, pouring himself a cup of tea. “Jack hasn’t been near Oxford all term, from what I can gather. The woman is a fool.”
Juliette sighed. “Mon chéri, please remind me to laugh and smile and to use every muscle my face might possess, lest I end up looking as sour and miserable as that woman.”
“That would be an impossibility. Now, on a more serious note, I have had a letter this morning from Charles Cordell, and I have news that will hearten you. It relates to Sido de Villeduval.”
“To Sido? What is it?” asked Juliette urgently.
“Apparently Sido was brought home from her convent for a party that her father was giving in honor of Count Kalliovski.”
“That odious man!”
“Quite. That odious man had a whim to see her, and has persuaded the marquis not to send her back to the convent.”
“How do you know all this? It’s incredible!”
Henry Laxton grinned. “I have my spies.”
“No, don’t joke. Tell me. I know! You heard it from a client of the bank.”
“Not quite, but tonight you will be able to ask after Sido yourself. You will meet someone who spoke to her only a few days ago.”
“You’re talking in riddles! Who is it?”
Henry Laxton walked toward the window and then turned back.
“Cordell has asked if we would be willing to take in a boy for a few months. He is fourteen years old, an orphan, brought up by a contact of Cordell’s in Paris, a man called Têtu.”
“But what has this boy to do with Sido?”
“Aha!” said Laxton. “I am coming to that. Têtu and the boy are traveling entertainers—”
“Traveling entertainers! What strange company Mr. Cordell keeps,” Juliette exclaimed.
"—and a couple of days ago they were invited, with a magician called Topolain, to perform at a party the marquis was giving.”
“The same party that Sido was at?”
“Precisely. And at this private performance the magician Topolain performed the bullet trick for which he was famous in Paris. It was Kalliovski who fired the pistol, and he shot the magician dead.”
“But why?”
“Why indeed? He claims it was an accident, a trick gone wrong, though neither Cordell nor Têtu believes that. Têtu is certain that it was because both he and Topolain knew something about his past. Whatever the reason, Têtu is now terrified that Kalliovski will come after him and the boy. He went to Cordell for help. Cordell has asked that we look after the boy for a few months.”
“And this boy met Sido?”
“Yes. Evidently she helped them escape.”
“And what is the boy called?”
“Yann Margoza. He hasn’t had many advantages in life. Maybe we can help him, give him some education. If we are true to the principles of enlightenment, then a pauper is fit to be a king, and there is no reason why this boy cannot live on equal terms with us and learn to be a gentleman.”
Juliette’s face lit up with excitement. “There’s no question of it. This boy met Sido! He will live with us as a part of the family, not in the servants’ quarters.”
Henry Laxton came over and kissed the nape of his wife’s very white neck.
The carriage bringing Yann to this rough dark diamond of a city made its way over Blackfriars Bridge. Mr. Tull, whose job it had been to transport the boy here, had one last stop to make, at the inn on Fleet Street where he had been instructed to wait for Mr. Laxton’s carriage.
The courtyard of the Boar Inn was full of stagecoaches and horses, ladies and gentlemen, assorted parcels and trunks, all taken up with the hectic business of arriving or leaving. Mr. Tull decided upon a well-earned breakfast. He stopped at the door of the inn and looked woefully at the boy. It struck Mr. Tull as nothing short of an insult to have to take a foreign ragamuffin into this decent God-fearing place. He sighed. Orders were orders. He was to hand the boy over to Mr. Laxton. Until that was done, he would have to keep him close by, for the boy had the look of one who might scarper. He took Yann by the scruff of the neck and steered him, as one would a dog, into a seat by the window.
Yann shook himself free of Mr.Tull’s clutches and sat huddled up in the corner. The journey had been a blur of misery and grief. He didn’t like his jailer, for that was how he had come to think of Mr. Tull, a bulldog of a man who had made it quite clear that the feeli
ng was mutual. He had said as much in very bad French. “Stupide garçon. All this trouble! For what? For you?”
After that they had traveled in silence. It suited them both, for Yann needed time to think about what had happened. Never had he felt more alone and wretched than he did now. He regretted that he had ever agreed to come to this country, brought here by a man he didn’t like and didn’t trust, to stay with a man he had never met.
The inn with its low wooden beams was paneled and stained near black by tobacco. Smoke filled the air as well as the sharp smell of burned fat and stale ale. It was full of hungry people, travelers’ appetites demanding constant satisfaction.
“Bring me a tankard of the finest ale, a steak, and a dozen oysters,” said Mr. Tull to the innkeeper.
The innkeeper looked at Yann as he might look at a dirty plate. “The same for him?”
Mr. Tull reluctantly nodded his head. “Only a small beer for him, mind you.”
When the innkeeper had gone Mr. Tull said angrily, “I don’t know why a gentleman like Mr. Laxton would be wanting to give a street urchin like you a roof over your head. If you were to turn up on my doorstep, I’d have you taken down to the workhouse without a second thought. I wouldn’t want one of your kind near me or my kin.”
Yann might not have understood the language, but he got the gist of what Mr. Tull was saying all too clearly.
Mr. Tull fidgeted impatiently as he waited for his ale, tapping his short stubby fingers on the table.
They ate in silence. Mr. Tull mopped his plate clean with the last of his bread, finished his ale, and burped loudly.
“I would say ‘Excuse me, Your Honor,’ if I were in good company,” he said, emphasizing the word good, “which I ain’t, so I won’t be saying nothing.”
He stood up and shook himself.
“Now you stay put while I see if the carriage has arrived.” He leaned across the table, grasping the lapels of Yann’s coat. “If you so much as move one of them there miserable muscles of yours, you’ll be in for it and no mistake. Do you get my drift?”
Yann watched as Mr. Tull wove his way across the courtyard and in that instant he decided to take his chance. His one aim was to get back to Paris to find where Têtu had been buried, and kill Kalliovski. The idea of doing away with the count was all that had kept him together on the long journey here.
In his haste to leave, he ran into the innkeeper.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going, you blasted scallywag?” the man shouted as the tray he was carrying went flying. There was a loud crash as pewter tumblers and plates of food fell to the floor. For a moment the whole room fell silent, and heads turned to see a boy running for the door as if his life depended on it.
Yann didn’t stop to look back at the mess he had caused. Quickly, he swerved past a coach driver who made a desperate attempt to catch him. He ducked and dived around horses and carriages. Turning back he ran straight into a well-dressed man who firmly but kindly put his hand on his shoulder.
“Yann Margoza, I take it?” said Henry Laxton in flawless French.
Mr. Tull came panting and puffing after him, shaking his fist.
“Where’s that ruddy boy? That little heathen, I’ll wring his scrawny neck, I will. He’s been nothing but trouble since I first clapped eyes on him.”
“You will do no such thing,” said Mr. Laxton, still holding firmly on to Yann. Pushing him into his carriage and climbing in after him, he nodded to his coachman, who handed Mr. Tull an envelope with his money in it.
Mr. Tull started counting.
“It is the agreed sum,” said Mr. Laxton.
By now the carriage was making its way out through the arch, disappearing into the main thoroughfare.
“Wait a minute! Not so ruddy fast!” shouted Mr. Tull to the disappearing wheels. “I need money for the breakages.”
Mr. Tull was not in a good mood as he walked toward the Fleet River and the Red Lion Inn, a tavern renowned for the company of rogues.
If you couldn’t make an honest penny by hard work, then perhaps it would be more worthwhile to make a dishonest pound instead. “Where is the justice?” said Mr. Tull to himself. “The rich get everything and do nothing for it, and all the while they expect the likes of me to risk life and limb for them. And they don’t even pay for breakages.”
He had heard the talk of clever people in Paris and in the London coffeehouses, people who knew what the tomorrows of life had in store. Civil war, that was what they were predicting. As far as he was concerned it couldn’t come soon enough. There was money to be made in upheavals.
chapter twelve
The savagery of grief tore at Yann, filled him with rage, stripped him of his gift for reading people’s minds. All that was left was the silence of heartache. His past and his future had vanished, had been gobbled up and spat out again as if the very marrow had been sucked from his soul with the murder of Têtu.
Lost in the fury of his thoughts, he hadn’t heard one word Mr. Laxton had been saying, until finally, standing in the hall of the house in Queen Square, he realized that by some twist of fate he had entered another world, and he didn’t want to be here.
Henry Laxton’s valet, Vane, had been with his master for many years and spoke tolerable French. He took Yann upstairs and showed him a large bedchamber, dominated by a four-poster bed and smelling of oranges. They reminded Yann of hot summers and journeys with Têtu. Behind a screen at the far end was another door that led to a small antechamber, and there by the fire sat a bath filled with steaming hot water. What it was doing in the room Yann wasn’t sure until Vane started solemnly rolling up his sleeves and said that sir was to take a bath.
Yann stared at him in disbelief and then, seeing that this was no idle threat, made for the door, but to no avail. Vane was doglike in his determination, with a wiry strength that took Yann by surprise. Finally, defeated by exhaustion and the lack of sleep, he resigned himself to drowning.
He was washed and scrubbed until the water was as filthy as the Seine and his skin tingled all over. Wrapped in a large housecoat, he sat in front of the fire while a barber set about cutting off his long black locks and vigorously rubbing a lotion into his scalp, for the express reason, so he said, of ridding Yann of fleas.
From an assortment of shirts and breeches, Vane then set about dressing Yann as if he were a tailor’s dummy. Finally, he tied a cravat around his neck and set a looking glass before him. What Yann saw there was a stranger. If it hadn’t been for the anger in his face he would have said he was staring at someone else.
Vane inspected his handiwork and took Yann down to the sitting room on the first floor to present him to Mr. and Mrs. Laxton.
“Well, look at you, sir,” said Mr. Laxton in his perfect French. “To the manor born, I would say.”
Yann, not knowing what was expected of him, bowed stiffly. All this felt as if it were happening to someone else, that he was simply an actor upon the stage.
“You have met my niece, Sido de Villeduval, I gather,” said Mrs. Laxton.
Yann looked at her. Was he dreaming, or did she look like Sido?
“Yes.”
“And was she well?”
Was she well? He had to think what he was being asked. Was this the reason he had been brought here, to answer this one question—was Sido well?
Finally he said, “She is unhappy.”
After an awkward supper that seemed to go on and on, with many courses and unanswered questions, Mr. Laxton took him into his study. On hearing of Têtu’s death, he told Yann that this was to be his new home. What he meant by this, Yann had no idea. The only family he had ever known was Têtu. Home couldn’t be counted in candlesticks and cutlery, of that much he was sure. Home for him had been simple. Home was Têtu.
That night he lay awake, finding the soft mattress worrying, the smell of oranges unsettling. Finally he got out of bed and fell asleep in front of the fire, like a cat.
The days that followed were encompass
ed by ticking clocks and dull, meaningless routine. Time dragged its weary feet for Yann in this grand house. The long, empty momentum of the minutes and the passing hours was something he had never been aware of before.
A tutor had been employed for Yann, a Mr. Rose. He was as thin as a sheet of paper left flattened and forgotten in a book, and had about him the smell of dried-up ink. Knowledge had been beaten into him and he saw no reason why it shouldn’t be beaten into every other child. His philosophy of education was not one he had shared with Mr. Laxton.
On the first day of his employment, what appeared before Mr. Rose was a well-dressed, intelligent-looking young gentleman.
“Appearances can be deceptive,” Mr. Rose was to grumble three weeks later. “The boy is nothing more than a savage. No tailored garment is going to alter that fact.”
This cutting remark had been his first complaint, followed by, “The boy has no aptitude for learning.”
Mr. Laxton had spoken firmly to Yann, who stood in his study and said nothing.
Another two weeks passed, by which time Yann felt as if his very life was beginning to be drummed out of him by this wizened leaf of a tutor. He would gaze out of the window, longing to be down in the street where life went on, until he could take it no longer.
One day Mr. Rose, in a fit of temper, threw a book at Yann, hitting him on the head. Yann got up and calmly took the cane from his terrified tutor, breaking it across his leg before delivering a knockout blow. Mr. Rose almost flew across the room. He lay stretched out cold on the wooden floor, his nose bleeding profusely.
Yann went down the stairs to Mr. Laxton’s study and told him exactly what he had done and why.
There was a general commotion, a doctor was called for, and Mr. Rose, regaining consciousness, demanded that the boy be brought before a magistrate and sent to the clink for the savage he was. Then, seeing that Mr. Laxton was going to do nothing of the sort, he left, appalled, holding his handkerchief to his very sore nose.
Immediately he went hurrying around to Lady Faulkner, whose son Jack had benefited greatly from his tutoring. For her part she had swiftly and delightedly passed on the news that the Laxtons, for want of a child, had taken in an alleycat.The scandal kept many a lady happy over her morning coffee and many a gentleman at his club wondering what the respectable banker was thinking of.