An Echo in the Bone (70 page)

“On what?” Dottie pawed at the blond spiderweb of her hair, escaped
en masse
from the inconsequent snood in which she’d bound it and dancing over her head like flames. “Oh, help!”

He captured her hair, smoothing it tight to her head with both hands, then gathering it at her neck, where he plaited it expertly, to the admiration of a passing seaman, clubbed it, and tied it up with the velvet ribbon that was all that remained from the wreck of her snood.

“On what, forsooth,” he told the back of her head, as he finished the job. “On whatever the dreadful enterprise is on which you’ve embarked.”

She turned round and faced him, her stare direct.

“If you want to describe rescuing Henry as a dreadful enterprise, I agree entirely,” she said with dignity. “But my mother would naturally do anything she could to get him back. So would you, presumably, or you wouldn’t be here.” And without waiting for a reply, she turned smartly on her heel and made for the companionway, leaving him speechless.

One of the first ships of the spring had brought a letter with further word of Henry. He was still alive, thank God, but had been badly wounded: shot in the abdomen, and very ill in consequence through the brutal winter. He had survived, though, and been moved to Philadelphia with a number of other British prisoners. The letter had been written by a fellow officer there, another prisoner, but Henry had managed to scribble a few words of love to his family at the bottom and sign his name; the memory of that straggling scrawl ate at John’s heart.

He was encouraged somewhat by the fact that it
was
Philadelphia, though. He had met a prominent Philadelphian while he was in France and had formed an immediate liking for him that he thought was returned; there might be something of use in the acquaintance. He grinned involuntarily, recalling the instant of his meeting with the American gentleman.

He hadn’t paused long in Paris, only long enough to make inquiries after Percival Beauchamp, who was not there. Retired to his home in the country for the winter, he was told. The Beauchamp family’s main estate, a place called
Trois Flèches
, near Compiègne. And so he had bought a fur-lined hat and a pair of seaboots, wrapped himself in his warmest cloak, hired a horse, and set grimly off into the teeth of a howling gale.

Arriving mud-caked and frozen, he had been greeted with suspicion, but the quality of his accoutrements and his title had gained him entrance, and he had been shown to a well-appointed parlor—with, thank God, an excellent fire—to await the baron’s pleasure.

He’d formed an expectation of the Baron Amandine on the basis of Percy’s remarks, though he thought Percy had likely been practicing upon him. He also knew how futile it was to theorize in advance of observation, but it was inhuman not to imagine.

In terms of imagining, he’d done a good job of not thinking of Percy during the last… was it eighteen years, nineteen? But once it became obvious that thinking of him was now a professional as well as a personal necessity, he was both surprised and disconcerted to find just how much he remembered. He knew what Percy liked and therefore had evolved a mental picture of Amandine in accordance.

The reality was different. The baron was an older man, perhaps a few years Grey’s senior, short and rather plump, with an open, pleasant face. Well dressed, but without ostentation. He greeted Grey with great courtesy. But then he took Grey’s hand, and a small electric shock ran through the Englishman. The baron’s expression was civil, no more—but the eyes held a look of interest and avidity, and despite the baron’s unprepossessing appearance, Grey’s flesh answered the look.

Of course. Percy had told Amandine about him.

Surprised and wary, he gave the brief explanation he had prepared, only to be informed that,
hélas
, Monsieur Beauchamp was not at home but had gone with Monsieur Beaumarchais to hunt wolves in Alsace. Well, there was one supposition confirmed, Grey thought. But surely his lordship would condescend to accept the hospitality of
Trois Flèches
, for the night at least?

He accepted this invitation with many expressions of unworthy thanks, and having doffed his outer clothes and replaced his seaboots with Dottie’s garish carpet slippers—which made Amandine blink, though he at once praised them exceedingly—he was propelled down a long corridor lined with portraits.

“We will take some refreshment in the library,” Amandine was saying. “Plainly, you are perishing of cold and inanition. But if you do not mind, allow me to introduce you
en route
to my other guest; we will invite him to join us.”

Grey had murmured acquiescence, distracted by the light pressure of Amandine’s hand, which rested on his back—slightly lower than was usual.

“He is an American,” the baron was saying, as they reached a door toward the end of the corridor, and his voice conveyed considerable in the way of amusement in that word. He had a most unusual voice—soft, warm, and somehow smoky, like oolong tea with a lot of sugar.

“He enjoys to spend some time each day in the solar,” the baron went on, pushing open the door and gesturing Grey ahead of him. “He says it keeps him in a state of robust health.”

Grey had been looking politely at the baron during this introduction, but now turned to speak to the American guest and so was introduced to Dr. Franklin, reclining comfortably in a padded chair, lit by a flood of sunlight, stark naked.

In the subsequent conversation—conducted with the greatest aplomb on the part of all parties—he learned that it was Dr. Franklin’s invariant practice to bathe in air every day when possible, as skin breathed quite as much as did lungs, taking in air and releasing impurities; thus the ability of the body to defend itself from infection was substantially impaired if the skin were constantly suffocated in insanitary clothing.

Throughout the introductions and conversation, Grey was acutely aware of Amandine’s eyes upon him, full of speculation and amusement, and of the cumbersome feel of his own insanitary clothing upon his doubtless suffocating skin.

It was an odd feeling, to meet a stranger and know that said stranger was already privy to his deepest secret, that he in fact—if Percy were not altogether lying, and Grey didn’t think he had been—shared it. It gave him a feeling of danger and vertigo, as though he leaned out from some sharp precipice. It also bloody excited him, and
that
alarmed him very much.

The American (now speaking pleasantly about an unusual geological formation he had seen on his journey from Paris; had his lordship noticed it?) was an elderly man, and his body, while in fair condition aside from patches of some purplish eczema about the lower limbs, was not an object of sexual consideration. Nonetheless, Grey’s flesh was tight on his bones, and not enough of his blood was in his head. He could feel Amandine’s eyes on him, frankly evaluating him, and recalled all too clearly the exchange with Percy regarding Percy’s wife and his brother-in-law the baron:
Both, on occasion. Together?
Had the baron’s sister accompanied her husband, or was she perhaps at home? For one of the few times in his life, Grey wondered seriously whether he might be a pervert.

“Shall we join the good doctor in his beneficial practice, my lord?”

Grey jerked his eyes away from Franklin, to see the baron beginning to peel off his coat.

Fortunately, before he could think of anything to say, Franklin rose, remarking that he felt he had had sufficient benefit for the day. “Though of course,” he said, meeting Grey’s eyes directly, with an expression of the deepest interest—and not a little amusement, too, “you must not allow my departure to prevent your own indulgence,
messieurs
.”

The baron, impeccably polite, at once resumed his coat, and saying he would join them for
un
aperitif
in the library, disappeared into the corridor.

Franklin had a silk dressing gown; Grey held it for him, watching the white, slightly sagging—but remarkably firm and unwrinkled—buttocks disappear as the American slowly worked his arms into the sleeves, remarking as he did so upon a touch of arthritis in his shoulder joints.

Turning and tying the sash, he fixed an open gray gaze upon Grey.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said. “I take it you were not previously acquainted with Amandine?”

“No. I knew his… brother-in-law, Monsieur Beauchamp, some years ago. In England,” he added, for no particular reason.

Something flickered in Franklin’s eyes at the name “Beauchamp,” causing Grey to ask, “You know him?”

“I know the name,” Franklin replied equably. “Is Beauchamp an Englishman, then?”

A number of astonishing possibilities had flashed through Grey’s mind at that simple remark “
I
know the name,”
but an equally rapid evaluation of them decided him upon the truth as safest, and he merely said, “Yes,” in a tone indicating that this was simple fact, no more.

Over the next few days, he and Franklin had had a number of interesting conversations, in which the name of Percy Beauchamp was conspicuous by its absence. When Franklin returned to Paris, though, Grey was left both with a genuine liking for the elderly gentleman—who upon learning that Grey was bound for the Colonies in the spring had insisted upon giving him letters of introduction to several friends there—and a conviction that Dr. Franklin knew precisely what Percy Beauchamp was and had been.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said one of the
Tartar’s
hands, elbowing Grey un-gently out of the way and breaking his reverie. He blinked, coming back to find that his ungloved hands had turned to ice in the wind and his cheeks were numb. Leaving the sailors to their freezing task, he went below, feeling a peculiar small and shameful warmth at the memory of his visit to
Trois Flèches
.

3 May, 1777

New York

Dear Papa,

I have just received your Letter about Cousin Henry, and hope very much that
you will be able to discover his Whereabouts and obtain his Release. If I can hear
Anything of him, I will do my best to let you know. Is there anyone to whom I
should address Letters to you in the Colonies? (If I hear of no Alternative, I shall
send them in care of Mr. Sanders in Philadelphia, with a Copy for Safety to Judge
O’Keefe in Richmond.)

I hope you will excuse my own sad Delinquency in corresponding. It does not—

alas—stem from any press of urgent Activity on my Part, but rather from ennui
and lack of anything of Interest about which to write. After a tedious Winter
immured in Quebec (though I did considerable Hunting, and shot a very vicious
Thing called a Glutton), I finally received my new orders from General Howe’s
Aide-de-camp in late March, when some of Sir Guy’s people came back to the
Citadel, and I returned to New York in consequence of them.

I never received any Word from Captain Randall-Isaacs, nor have I been able to
hear anything of him since my Return. I fear very much that he may have been
lost in the Blizzard. If you know his people, perhaps you would send them a Note
with my Hopes for his Survival? I would do so myself, save that I am not sure
where to find them, nor how to phrase my Sentiments delicately, in case they are
also in Doubt of his Fate, or worse, are not in Doubt. You will know what to say,
though; you always do.

I was somewhat luckier in my own Travels, having suffered only minor Shipwreck
on my way downriver (we came to Grief during the Portage at Ticonderoga,
being fired upon by a Party of American Sharpshooters from the Fort. No one
was harmed, but the Canoes were peppered with Shot and some Holes were
unfortunately not discovered before we put back into the Water, whereupon two of
them sank abruptly), this followed by waist-deep Mud and the reemergence of
carnivorous Insects when I took to the Roads. Since my Return, though, we have
done little of interest, though there are constant rumors of what we may do.

Finding that Inactivity chafes more in what you may call a civilized Setting
(though none of the Girls in New York can dance at all), I volunteered to ride
Dispatches, and have found some Relief in that.

Yesterday, however, I received Orders sending me back to Canada, there to join
General Burgoyne’s Staff. Do I detect your fine Italian Hand in this, Papa? If so,
thank you!

Also, I have seen Captain Richardson again; he came to my Rooms last Night. I
had not seen him for nearly a Year, and was much surprised. He did not ask for
an Account of our Journey into Quebec (not surprising, as the Information would
be sadly out-of-date by now), and when I asked after Randall-Isaacs, only shook
his Head and said he did not know.

He had heard I had an Errand to carry special Dispatches to Virginia, before
going to Canada, and while of course Nothing must delay me in that Errand, had
thought of asking me to do a small Service for him as I returned northward.

Somewhat wary as a Result of my long Sojourn in the frozen North, I asked what
this might be, and was told that it was no more than the Delivery of a cipher
Message to a group of Loyalist gentlemen in Virginia, something that would be
simple for me, owing to my Familiarity with the Terrain; the job would not delay
me more than a Day or two, he assured me.

I said I would do it, but more because I should like to see some Parts of Virginia
that I remember with fondness than because I should like to oblige Captain
Richardson. I am somewhat wary of him.

Godspeed your travels, Papa, and please give my Love to my precious Dottie,
whom I long to see. (Tell her I shot forty-two Ermine in Canada; she shall have a
Cloak made of the Skins!)

Your most affectionate Reprobate,