Heart of Gold (7 page)

The stalls became more various. Books, bric-a-brac,
flowers, more clothes, second-hand musical instruments
– the market was a treasure trove of stuff both useful and
useless. Aubrey made some considered purchases, but a
number of things he bought on impulse, simply because
they caught his eye. Some cheap costume jewellery.
Skeins of wool. A tuning fork. A bag of glass beads.

After parting with a handful of coins for a pair of
brightly coloured spinning tops, Aubrey took stock.

'Done?' George asked. He was finishing a strawberry
ice-cream.

'I think so.'

'So, you're now prepared.'

'If I have to distract a small child while tuning a piano
and mending a pullover, I'm all set.'

'Marvellous.' George scratched his nose. 'Promises to
be a ripping holiday, this.'

T
HE
B
OULEVARD OF
W
ISDOM LED TO THE UNIVERSITY.
Intrigued by Lutetia's street names, Aubrey consulted
his guidebook. After the revolution in the eighteenth
century, Louis Gant, one of the senior committee members,
had been fanatical about renaming all the thoroughfares
in the city. The old street names were remnants of an
oppressive past when the monarchy ruled, and the liberation
of the people would only be complete when their
addresses were liberated too.

Thus, many streets were renamed after admired revolutionary
qualities such as equality or fortitude. The
move met with little resistance, particularly since arguing
against the reforms of the revolution usually ended up
with more names added to the list of those about to be
executed for anti-revolutionary sentiments.

Some of the old street names survived, however. Louis
Gant's program had faltered after he went on to express
the view that cheese was inherently anti-revolutionary
and needed to be stamped out. He was quickly promoted
to the head of the 'To Be Executed' list and wasn't missed
at all.

George kept up an admiring commentary as they
strolled, extolling the virtues of the architecture and the
young ladies with equal verve. Aubrey, however, had
his mind on sorting out his priorities. Which of the
multiple demands on his time would he undertake
first? He was tempted to try to find the Faculty of
Magic for himself, but duty suggested he take on his
father's requests first. Then again, locating Dr Romellier
for his mother might be straightforward. Or perhaps he
should approach the police officer, Inspector Paul,
about his grandmother's stolen letters? And while he
was there he could inquire about Monsieur Jordan's
progress . . .

No
, he told himself,
don't open another can of worms until
you've eaten the last one
.

So it was without great surprise that Aubrey found his
feet directing themselves toward the university just in
time for Professor Lavoisier's lecture on taxonomy. In
front of the lecture theatre, while George inspected the
gothic grandeur of the cloisters, they happened to bump
into Caroline Hepworth.

'Caroline,' Aubrey exclaimed with his best attempt at
astonishment, 'whatever are you doing here?'

She was wearing a small, stylish hat trimmed with navy
blue ribbon. Her blouse was white linen while her skirt
was a shade of soft lavender. Shifting her large notebook
from one arm to another, she studied him with an
expression that was not the outright delight he'd been
hoping for.

'Aubrey. How long did it take you to find out
Professor Lavoisier's lecture schedule?' She favoured
George with a smile. 'Hello, George. How's the cornet?'

'I'm making sure I don't over-practise. It's a nasty
problem for any brass player.'

Aubrey felt like putting up his hand to attract
Caroline's attention. 'What are the chances, eh? Our
bumping into each other like this?'

'I refuse to believe in chance where you're concerned,
Aubrey Fitzwilliam. I believe you'd try to manipulate the
Laws of Probability if you could.'

'I couldn't . . . I mean, wouldn't. I –'

'Exactly. Now, I have a lecture to attend.'

Aubrey desperately wanted not to appear a complete
idiot in front of Caroline. It was difficult, considering the
effect she had on him. Sometimes it felt as if his brain
were turning to soup whenever he saw her.

'Of course.' He fumbled for and found his pocket
watch. 'Good Lord, is that the time?'

Caroline rolled her eyes, but the transparent ploy gave
Aubrey a moment to think. Then his eye fell on a noticeboard
on the wall outside the lecture theatre. 'George, we
must go. We'll be late for the audition.'

George blinked, then rallied well. 'Can't be late. Sorry
to rush, Caroline. Best of luck with the taxation lecture.'

'Taxonomy. The science of classification.' She pursed
her lips and then smiled, briefly. 'You know, this lecture is
going to be repeated this afternoon. I'd rather attend
then, I think. Perhaps I'll spend the morning with you
two instead, it being such a lovely day. If you don't mind.'

'Mind?' Aubrey said. 'We'd be delighted.'

'Good. I haven't been to an audition for an age.'

Aubrey felt as if he'd dug a very deep hole and then
dived head first into it. 'Audition. Yes.'

'Where is Tontine Hall?' George asked, scratching his
head at the audition poster. It had been roughly and
boldly printed, black on red. 'I'm guessing that's where
the audition's being held. I mean, I remember that's
where we're going.'

'It's not far,' Caroline said. 'I'll show you the way.'

She strode off along the cloistered walkway, leaving
them to follow in her wake.

Aubrey thought frantically. An audition. Of all the
foolish things . . . At least it was an Albion-language
production – a gesture of solidarity with Gallia's allies,
organised by the university's Albion Friendship Society,
according to the poster. Ivey and Wetherall's
The
Buccaneers
. A musical comedy from the finest Albionish
playmakers of the age. He closed his eyes and rubbed his
temples, remembering the school production of
The
Buccaneers
. It could be worse, he supposed. He could be
starring in the first all-crocodile production of
Hrolf, King
of Scandia
, for instance.

Aubrey loved the stage, but he knew his singing voice
was not first rate. Third rate, at a pinch. He could manage
Ivey and Wetherall patter songs, but heaven help him if
he had to attempt any of the romantic duets.

Of course, if Caroline could be persuaded to take a
part, he'd show he was a quick learner.

Tontine Hall was a red-brick monstrosity that looked
as if it had been built on the remains of a medieval chapel
or two. Caroline stood at the entrance. If Aubrey didn't
know better, he would have thought she were grinning.

'After you,' she said.

When faced with potential embarrassment, Aubrey
had one tactic: head up, march straight into the thick of
battle and rely on his wits to cope with what came.

'Thank you.' With George at his shoulder, Aubrey
opened the heavy wooden door and strode inside.

He walked into a haze of cigarette smoke. On a stage
at the end of the hall, a piano plinked away gamely. The
tall arched windows were covered by black curtains and
the room smelt of cloves and dry rot.

Surrounding the piano, a score or so of people were
trying their best to sing the chorus of 'Jolly Jack Tars
Are We'. Their Albionish was good, but with a distinct
Gallian accent that sat oddly with lyrics professing
undying loyalty to King and Country.

Aubrey made his way to the stage. The few spectators
in the seats regarded him with enough curiosity to stop
smoking.

He waited until the song finished. Fell apart rather
than finished was Aubrey's summation, but he didn't
want to be critical. He'd been involved in enough
haphazard performances at Stonelea School to realise
that any dramatic performance was a little miracle in
itself.

'Hello?' he ventured, and all eyes on the stage turned
toward him. The pianist actually rose from his seat to get
a better look. He took the cigarette from his mouth and
threw it to the floor. 'You are an Albionite!' he said with
evident delight. 'Welcome!'

Immediately, Aubrey was surrounded by the Gallians.
Most seemed to want to embrace him or kiss him on the
cheeks, men and women both. The members of the
Friendship Society belied the Gallian reputation for
aloofness. Their regard for Albion did seem genuine, to
the extent that Aubrey almost found it overwhelming.
Finally, the pianist dragged Aubrey onto the stage.

'The Albion Friendship Society welcomes you,' he
declared in Albionish. 'What can we do for you?'

Aubrey peered over the heads of the adoring Gallians.
Caroline and George stood just inside the entrance,
covering their laughter. 'Er. Who's in charge here?'

The pianist raised an eyebrow. 'I am the director of this
production. Claude Duval is my name.'

'Do you have any non-singing parts?'

This set Duval into paroxysms of glee. 'You want a
part? In our humble play to honour the alliance between
our two nations? But of course! To have a true Albionite
in our production will be an honour!'

A cheer went up at this announcement, but it was an
oddly staggered one as the pianist's words were translated
and passed among the spectators, crew and prospective
players. 'This will be a triumph!' a short, dark woman
cried.

Aubrey pointed to his friends. 'And I'm not alone. Two
more Albionites are here to join you.'

As one, the spectators and players rushed at Caroline
and George. Surrounded by Gallians, they were shepherded
to the stage.

'George is an excellent cornet player,' Aubrey
announced. 'While Miss Hepworth is . . .'
Competent in
just about any area
, he thought, but Duval interrupted.

'She is most beautiful,' he said, and he took her hand.
'Won't you be our leading lady?'

Caroline allowed Duval to kiss the back of her hand.
She removed it from his grasp, slowly. 'No.'

'No?'

'I'm sorry. I'm far too busy with my studies.' She
smiled, and Aubrey thought Duval was about to swoon.
'I will help backstage when I can. And I must have front
row seats for opening night.'

Duval thought this a splendid idea and he spent some
time introducing Caroline to everyone, calling her the
Belle of Albion.

The Albion Friendship Society was apparently a rather
recent phenomenon. Waving his hands with excitement,
Duval explained that his mother had been an Albionite
and he had spent some years there, when younger. 'Now,
times are not good,' he went on. 'The Continent is alive
with suspicion and fear, so I asked myself, "What can I
do?"' He clapped his hands together. 'The answer came
to me and I began the Albion Friendship Society to
encourage camaraderie between our two nations. We
have held lectures and soirees, and now we embark on
our first dramatic production. Ivey and Wetherall! So
fine, so Albionish!'

'Well, yes. Both of them.'

'And your name,' Duval asked Aubrey. 'What is your
name?'

Aubrey hesitated. Would it be better to go incognito in
his time in Lutetia? Or was his presence in the city well
enough known already? 'Fitzwilliam,' he ventured.
'Aubrey Fitzwilliam.'

A stick-thin young woman stared at him. 'You are not
related to the Prime Minister of Albion? Sir Darius
Fitzwilliam?'

Aubrey shrugged. 'I have that honour. I am his son.'

'No,' Duval said, clutching at his chest. 'It is our
honour! This will be an event that will be talked about
for years.'

Possibly
, Aubrey thought,
but perhaps not for the reasons
you think
. 'You're too kind.'

'Now.' Duval gestured grandly. 'We must celebrate the
grand alliance of our nations. Friends forever!'

'What about the auditions?' Aubrey asked.

Duval shrugged. 'We will continue them another
time.' He eyed Aubrey and his companions. 'How long
have you been in our city?'

'George and I arrived yesterday.'

'Impossible! We must show you Lutetia!'

Duval and his friends would hear no objections.
Aubrey, George and Caroline were swept up like driftwood
in a flood. The chattering, laughing Gallians bore
them out of Tontine Hall and into the city.

What began as a high-spirited promenade through the
nearby parks and gardens turned into lunch at a café on
the edge of a small lake. While couples rowed past and
children sailed toy yachts, Gallian–Albionish relations
were advanced on several fronts via the avenues of food
and drink, with miscommunication simply adding to the
hilarity. The sun shone through the trees. The fragrance
of wisteria rolled over the café from a nearby arbour
where the mauve flowers created a pastel-coloured
tunnel. A small band in a corner of the café played dance
music.