Light Fantastique (7 page)

“You want me to help you?” Iris didn't know whether to be thrilled he wanted to include her or upset that he wanted her mind rather than, well, the rest of her.

“I
need
you to help me. And I need to sleep.”

He stumbled out of the atelier. Iris thought about reading another object, but she didn't know which he had touched most recently and which ones O'Connell had, and she had no desire to invade the Irishman's privacy. She peeked out of the window, but all she saw was snow falling from the sky.

Chapter Eight

Théâtre Bohème Townhouse, 2 December 1870

Marie stayed on the front stoop and watched Doctor Radcliffe dart through the crowd around the fallen man. Some of them looked askance at his dark skin, but the intense expression in his gray eyes moved them out of the way. Patrick O'Connell followed behind him, as always, and eliminated any other obstacles. Maestro Bledsoe ran from the front of the theatre, and Marie shook her head, bemused. Now he was the one without a cloak, but she hung back, the impulse to play the role of
premiere femme
trying to take over. The muscles in her face settled into a haughty expression, and her shoulders straightened as if to show off her figure.

She closed her eyes.
I am Marie St. Jean. I am not a
premiere femme
. I am an ordinary but haunted girl.

What had Iris said about a dangerous spirit in the theatre? Could it be the same one who had appeared to her? Or who she thought appeared to her. Sometimes she couldn't distinguish between her dreams and reality. But why would she have been napping in Corinne's—
no, my
—dressing room?

Not mine. I am not Henriette.

She knew what would help, what always did. She would go underground and visit the one person who always saw through her, perhaps the only one who knew her core self, although he would never answer her questions. Still, being down there near him placed her firmly in herself, not one of her roles. Unfortunately the special entrance she needed to the underground was in the theatre, and the crowd stood between her and it.

The gendarmerie appeared as well as a tall man in a nondescript dark suit and hat. Something about him said he was important, and she followed her instinct to draw back and pull her hood over her head. Now he intercepted Bledsoe, and they walked toward the theatre's front entrance.

This was her chance. She slipped down the stairs and walk, then across the street to avoid the crowd. One of the gendarmes questioned Radcliffe, who gestured as he wiped his bloody hands on a rag. O'Connell stood by a distraught woman, whose degree of distress made Marie guess she'd been with the murdered man. Another man in a dark suit questioned her under O'Connell's watchful eye, and Marie shook her head. The Irishman had an interesting mix of being attracted to high-drama situations and sometimes causing them, but with a surprising amount of tenderness. She thought he'd be good for a young lady who needed both excitement and gentle handling in the future.

Snow fell in small and then larger flakes, obscuring the tableau. Marie crossed again at the corner and walked down the block before ducking down the alley she'd chased Corinne through the day before. Or had tried to chase her.

Now, the portico door or the rear door? Which is least likely to bring me in contact with
Maman
? Probably the portico door—she's likely hiding out from the inspector in the bowels of the theatre.

She turned and slunk through the carriage lane and to the side door under the portico. The door opened to reveal Lucille.

“Stupid
fille
, what are you doing out there? He will see you.” She grabbed Marie and pulled her into the theatre and the cloak room.

“Who? The man you were looking for earlier?” Marie extracted herself from her mother's grasp and rubbed her arm.

“
Non
, the inspector. He has been here before.”

“Why?” Marie was accustomed to Lucille's high drama, but the woman seemed thoroughly frightened this time. She even spoke in a mix of French and English, which she only did when particularly perturbed.

“Because of things you and I would rather not speak of. Why are you not back at the townhouse as I instructed Mademoiselle McTavish?”

Marie opened her mouth and closed it before her inner
premiere femme
could say, “Because I am an actress, and I belong in the theatre.” She clenched her left fist and started her litany, but her mother's lips drew back in a satisfied smirk.

“Because you cannot stay away. Because you were born to be Fantastique.”

“No, I have other business.”
And this is why I don't tell you things.

“With Monsieur Bledsoe?”

Marie's thoughts aligned with her mother's apparent suspicions, and the remainder of the cold from outside melted from her cheeks. She couldn't tell her mother of her true intentions, but she didn't want to lie outright. “That is my affair, not yours.”

“If you are to make another grave mistake that will take you away from me, I have a right to know. Are you interested in the maestro?”

Once set on a path, Lucille wouldn't let go. Marie sighed. “I find him handsome and interesting. I may even enjoy being in his company, but I am well aware he has made his share of mistakes, and I have no desire to help him pay for them.”

“
Bien.
” Lucille released her grip on Marie's arm, and they walked into the front hall. Lucille drew a curtain back, glanced outside, and let the material fall back into place with a heavy snap. “They are still out there.” A wrinkle of indecision appeared on her forehead, an unusual expression.

“What were you so concerned about earlier?” Marie asked. “Why did you chase us out of the theatre? Is it safe to go through there now?”

She almost asked about the strange man who appeared to her in her dressing room, but she still was unsure if it was real or if she had dreamed the whole thing from the tortured mind of the Henriette character. That was the problem with playing someone whose brain ended up being addled by opium.

“The devil inside or the angel of justice outside,” Lucille said, and her shoulders slumped. “At least there is the chance the devil sleeps.”

“I'd probably find his company more interesting.” Marie turned to go, but Lucille put a hand on her shoulder.

“You are well aware that sometimes good intentions end up badly. Keep that in mind and be careful. A strong man can only protect you to a certain point.”

She let go, and Marie entered the theatre itself. A lone figure sat on the stage and played the violin with a touching, mournful air: Maestro Bledsoe.

Merde.
That's what I get for implying my interest to my mother. I should've known it would work out for me to see him.

But something in the music tugged at her, and she stood behind a pillar and listened to it. The expression of the notes made her homesick for something, but she didn't know what.

A piece of paper fluttered down from the balcony above her. Marie looked up but couldn't see who had dropped it. She picked it up and shoved it in the pocket in her cloak.

* * * * *

Sometimes the wanderlust in Johann subsided just enough for him to feel a twinge of homesickness. The snow outside made him think of how his family home would look now at the beginning of the holiday season. Perhaps a light dusting would give the peaks and sharp-angled roofs a glittering edge, or a heavier fall would make the old hall look like a dowager trimmed in white fur—dignified and elegant, but also potentially deadly.

His mouth twisted into an almost-grin at the association. One never escaped a conversation with his grandmother, the dowager Marchioness, without some sort of scar. Typically for him it included a hint or direct statement of what a disappointment he was to the family, a dreamer rather than a doer like his older brother.

A fluttering movement caught the corner of his eye, and he looked up to see Marie standing in the back of the theatre, something clutched in her hand. Whatever it was disappeared into her cloak pocket, and her expression distracted him from curiosity about what she'd caught, if anything. Longing warred with confusion on her face.

“Mademoiselle?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

“That music,” she said and put a hand to her middle between her heart and her stomach. “It made me homesick for something, but it doesn't make sense. This is my home, such as it is, but now I miss…something. What were you playing?”

Johann had spoken with hundreds and played before thousands, but he'd never told his secret. His gut said he could trust her even if he wasn't trustworthy himself. What would it be like if he was, if he could bear open his heart to someone else? He'd never wanted to, and the idea struck him as strange, but accustomed to going with his impulses, he stepped into that space between fear and trust.

“It's my own composition. I call it
Winter
.”

She moved closer, and the amused lift of her cheeks became apparent when she stepped into the light cast by the lamps in the orchestra pit. “Original title.”

He put his violin on its stand. “You mock me, Mademoiselle?”

Her smile vanished, and now her cheeks reddened. “Oh, no! It was lovely, but it needs a name that's less bleak and more poetic, maybe
Blossoms Under Snow
?”

He liked seeing her blush and wondered if she was one of those women whose flush covered her entire torso if it was deep enough. He sent a
desist
thought to his groin, but it bounced the notion back with the urge to keep her talking and blushing. “I can't use a word like
Blossoms
in a composition title. I'm far too manly for that—it would make me appear weak.”

“Then how about icy shards? That shouldn't challenge your masculinity.” The temperature in her tone matched that of the hypothetical ice.

What had he said? It figured he would get himself in trouble before long. What did she want?

The answer came to him, then—to be respected for who she was. And he saw her as a very strong woman. But he didn't know what to say to get himself out of this mess. He only knew one thing—he didn't want her to leave angry.

“Forgive me,” he said and took her hand. That was always a safe bet, much safer than the ones that had ended him up in this mess, the ones he'd taken to escape his father's influence.

“For…?” She wouldn't look at him, and she snatched her hand away.

“For being an ass. I'm too good at it. I didn't mean to imply that womanliness was the opposite of strength. In truth, you and Iris are two of the strongest people I know.”

“Iris? You are on such intimate terms with her?”

“Miss McTavish, then. Yes, we've been working together to help Edward, and no, nothing improper has occurred between us. We're…friends.”

“You're not accustomed to being friends with women.” Her statement was almost a question.

“Not typically. I've not treated them well in the past, I fear.”

What was she doing to him to make him want to confess and clear his conscience to make room for… For what? He certainly had no desire to be tied down to anyone. As soon as he got this little problem with the Clockwork Guild worked out, he planned to continue the adventure they'd started, perhaps even to the Ottoman Empire and beyond, and he wasn't afraid to go on alone.

She drew back, but she didn't leave. “Why the sudden burst of honesty?”

“It was the music. It is a piece about my home, and I play it when I miss it.”

She took a seat on the front row, and he joined her but sat with a proper seat between them.

“Where is home for you?” she asked. “I know you're from England, from near that little village where Cobb's train picked you up, but not much else about you.”

The sentiment hung between them—other than that he had an apparent gambling problem.

“Ossfield Manor,” he said. “It's one of the noble estates in the countryside, beside Edward's family estate. We grew up together.”

“So your father is…”

“A marquess.”

“So you're a noble son?” Her face expressed amused disbelief. “I should have guessed.”

“A second son. And how so?” He looked at his hands, his fingers calloused from his long years playing music. “These don't look like a nobleman's.”

“No, but you have the air of a spoiled brat about you sometimes, although you have a good balance of loyalty, at least to your friends.”

Now he was truly offended. “Mademoiselle, you wound me. I'm not a spoiled brat by any means. In fact, the money I lost was completely my own, not my father's.”

“But couldn't he have helped you?”

That was the point, for him to refuse.
But all he said was, “He didn't want to. In fact, he sent me away in disgrace and told me he didn't want to ever see me again.”

“So why did you do it, gamble so much away you've made trouble for yourself?”

He'd never been able to explain to Edward, who did what he wanted and whose family had long given up on trying to push him into any sort of role he didn't care for, but Johann recognized that Marie seemed to struggle with a reluctance similar to his. He took a deep breath and pushed his father's disapproving face out of his mind.

“It's family tradition for second and third sons to go into some sort of trade or role that would help the running of the estate, whether it's a magistrate, some other local office, or even a businessman who can help broker the estate's goods. No useless army commissions or clergy vocations for the Bledsoes, especially since those require an investment of some sort.”

“So they pressured you?”

“It wasn't pressure so much as lifelong training. ‘Make yourself useful' was my parents' refrain from my childhood, and art and music are the most useless trades of all.”

“Even though you're disciplined enough to have made it work for you. I heard of you long before I met you.”

He jumped on the chance to distract her from her line of questioning so he wouldn't have to tell her about the stupidest thing he'd done. “Was I what you expected?”

“Not at all.”

“Oh?” He moved to the seat next to her. “And what did you expect?”

She shrugged and pulled her cloak around her. He took the hand that was on her lap and kissed the back of it.