Tempting Fate (52 page)

“How delightful,” Madelaine responded, putting her hand through his arm. She could see, now that he was in her house, that the last few years had aged him. His dark hair was shot with gray and his facial lines were cut deeply into his flesh. He moved vigorously, which was reassuring. “It has been some time, Phillippe.”

“Since Monbussy,” he agreed. “Whatever became of that château?”

Madelaine’s face darkened a moment “It did not come through the war very well, I fear. The whole of the south front was blasted off, and a good portion of the roof was ruined. I have not yet made up my mind what to do about it. The farmers in the area look after it, so there is no vandalism, but I’m not sure I wish to live there at the present.” She remembered the excellent advice Saint-Germain had given her on such matters. “In time, I may change my mind,” she said thoughtfully. In ten or twenty more years she would need a place where she could disappear for a while, and Monbussy might answer very well. She could occupy herself in repairing and restoring the château.

“I hope you will, Madame. It would be a great pity to see such a fine place left to decay.” He had been walking beside her toward the rear of the house without being aware of it. Now he paused and looked around him. “Where are we going?”

“To my study. You have caught me at my work, and with my translator here, I do not wish to lose time. Will it bore you to sit with us for half an hour while we attempt to finish putting these photographs in order? If we interrupt the work now, I fear that it will be quite a while before we can complete the task.”

Timbres was slightly disarmed by her questions. “Of course not, Madame. It might be more convenient if I left and returned at another time.” He looked around the study, at the stacks of books and papers and the three tall file cabinets. There was an old-fashioned feel to the room, although the furniture was modern enough save for the tall secretaire in the corner,

“Don’t be a goose, Colonel. You are more than welcome here and it is my pleasure to have company now.” She smiled at Irina for the first time. “This is my translator, Colo … Monsieur Phillippe Timbres. Monsieur Timbres, Madame Irina Ohchenov. She prefers not to use her title now, although it was Duchess.”

Phillippe Timbres took Irina’s hand and kissed it perfunctorily. His attention was on Madelaine, and he stared at her. “You have not aged a day,” he said in a low voice as he took his seat in the chair before the secretaire.

“Isn’t it absurd?” she said lightly. “I have the most lowering fear that one day I will … look in the mirror”—she gave a short, sad laugh at the words—“and discover that I am one of those crones whose faces are so filled with wrinkles and lines that they seem to be made of lace.”

“Impossible,” Phillippe said, aghast.

Irina gave Madelaine a curious glance. “You have known Monsieur Timbres for some time, then?”

“We met in … was it 1917, Col … Monsieur?” She did not wait for his confirmation. “I was at my château Monbussy, and the war required that I leave it. You were a Major then, or was it Captain?”

“A Captain, Madame.” He cleared his throat as he stared at her. It was almost seven years since he had seen her, although they had exchanged a few letters since then. She must, he knew, be close to thirty, and yet she did not appear to be more than twenty. Her youthfulness, which had so attracted him when he was thirty-eight, at forty-five perplexed him. “You have let your hair grow.”

“Yes,” she said, touching it. “When I am on a dig, it is impossible to have it properly cut, and so I leave it alone. This weather has persuaded me that it may be time to have it trimmed again.” She turned back to Irina. “This good man was sent to tell me that we were required to evacuate the building for the army. He was kindly and most sympathetic. I cannot tell you how much I appreciated his concern.” She held out a photograph she had been studying. “Does this belong with that second stack you are working on?”

Irina took the picture and stared at it. “I believe you’re right. There is that strange word again.” She pointed it out with her pencil, and Madelaine bent over the photograph with her. “I cannot make sense of it, but perhaps in time…”

“In time,” Madelaine repeated. “When I was young I was so afraid that there would not be enough time.” Musingly she picked up another photograph and scribbled a few notes on the paper beside her. Then she stopped and looked at her notes again. As always, she was using her abbreviations for more obvious features of the tables, abbreviations that would later be returned to their proper forms by Madelaine’s typist. She blinked as she perused the page. “Irina,” she said in an odd tone, “what do you make of this?” She handed her the sheet of notes.

“Your usual remarks,” Irina said after she had given the words a quick scan.

“And in the photographs?” Her violet eyes grew brighter. “What do you make of those peculiar words?”

“I have told you,” Irina said disinterestedly. “In time I will determine what archaic form is being used.”

“But it isn’t archaic,” Madelaine said, allowing her excitement to show. “It is the same as the rest of the tablet, but it is like
this
”—she held up the sheet—“like the notes I keep. It’s not a strange word, it is an abbreviation of some other sort of simplified notation.” Her smile was triumphant.

Irina gave a startled, happy shriek. “Of
course!
” She seized the nearest photograph and began to scribble down the phrases she had questioned. Where there were repetitions, she made a note of the words before and after them, and as she worked, Madelaine bent over her, pointing out other curious combinations of letters. Irina perused them, leaning back in her chair, then offered the photograph to Madelaine. “I’m not entirely sure, but it appears that this combination of letters is part of a name. Perhaps two names.”

“Yes.” Madelaine nodded as she looked at it. “How does it read, assuming that this is the company or person making the transaction. What is the name of your company, Monsieur Timbres?” she demanded.

“Joseph et Dognac,” Phillippe said, surprised by the question.

“Let us try that. Here. As I make it out, it says ‘by’ or perhaps to the seabird a,’ well, some quantity or other ‘of red wine in containers with bread grain and’ another quantity, apparently ‘of oil. On the mandate’ or ‘order of,’ let us say, ‘Joseph et Dognac.’ I don’t understand the ‘seabird,’ but it might be slang.”

“Or a ship, or an inn,” Phillippe suggested, caught up in her excitement.

“A ship or an inn?” Madelaine grinned at him. “Oil, wine, bread grain … Irina, we have come upon a cache of sales receipts!” She laughed aloud. “We may even be able to determine where the orders came from and where they were going.”

Irina smiled now, as well, and began to enjoy a feeling of success. They had achieved a great deal, she thought. And if she had been hoping for a more exalted revelation, she did not let that minor disappointment show. “We’ve done well, Madelaine,” she said in her low, pleasing voice.

“We’ve done splendidly,” Madelaine retorted. “Irina, you do not know what this represents. You have not been on digs, as I have, and striven for years to complete just one set of documents on a small area; This may seem trivial to you, but I know from my own experience that this is a major accomplishment, and when it is known, your part in it will assure you as much work as long as you wish it.”

“That is, if we can complete this work,” Irina said carefully.

“We can. We will,” Madelaine told her as she thumbed through one of the piles of photographs. “I have the place of discovery for these, of course, and there are good photographic records of the tablets in situ but now the trick will be to determine the points of origin, and whether these were items of import or export.” She had lapsed back into the slightly abstracted manner that indicated great concentration.

Seeing this new activity, Phillippe Timbres stood, saying with awkward courtesy, “I must be de trop, Madame. With your kind permission, I will return another time when it is more convenient. I know you wish to be left to…”

Madelaine’s eyes met his and she set the photographs aside. “You must not leave, Monsieur Timbres. You have been part of our discovery, and it is proper that you stay with us. This is a most important accomplishment and it deserves some celebration. I have been digging up ancient history for quite a few years, and this is one of the best bodies of information I have found yet. It’s true that the work is only beginning, and it will be some time before we have prepared enough translations to make useful deductions from them; it may require another visit to the site to photograph more of the tablets, although these are the best of them. When that is done, we’ll be too exhausted to celebrate. We must do it now. I will find the champagne and you, Irina, see what Sophie has left in the refrigerator.”

“But, Madame…” Phillippe protested with an amused and helpless gesture toward Irina for support. “I have done nothing. I have merely appeared, after several years, and I can have no real claim on—”

“Captain Timbres,” Madelaine said quite seriously. “You know better than that.”

Phillippe had the oddest sensation as he nodded. “Very well; I will stay.”

“C’est bien,” Madelaine murmured, and bounded out of the room.

Irina regarded Phillippe with humor. “She is a fine archeologist, but there are times she reminds me of my…” She stopped suddenly, her expression becoming somber.

“Of your…” Phillippe repeated, aware of the pain in Irina’s eyes.

“It was nothing, Monsieur,” she said in a stifled tone.

“Your daughter?” he asked with a great deal of sympathy.

Irina was unable to speak, but her mute nod confirmed his guess. She turned toward the door, hoping that Madelaine would make as impetuous a return as her departure. The clock on the wall seemed now to have slowed to half its usual beat.

“Pardon me, Madame. I did not mean to intrude. I was afraid that inadvertently I contributed to unpleasant memories. Will you forgive me?” He had taken two steps toward her, concern on his deeply-marked features.

“Let us say no more about it, Monsieur Timbres. With the way things have been, all of us have such memories, I am sure.” She made an unnecessary adjustment in her blouse and could think of nothing else to do with her hands. “Madame de Montalia is most fortunate to have this study, for it is always cool in the summer.”

“Yes, I had noticed that,” Phillippe remarked, taking the lead from her. “I have not seen this house before. I obtained her address from her banker. Since I was the one who ordered her out of her château, he was willing to tell me where to find her now. It took some persuading at first, but when I mentioned how she and I had met, he was willing to part with the information.” He once again took his seat and did not permit himself to look too long at Irina Ohchenov.

“She has mentioned Monbussy to me,” Irina said, bringing herself back under control. She had not felt that keenness of loss for more than a year, and the strength of her emotions alarmed her. The clock once again began to keep normal time.

“I can see that it would have been best to send her a note asking when I might call, but it was so simple to come here that I did not think, and when Monsieur Saufin told me that Madame de Montalia was at home, and not off in a foreign country, I’m afraid I did not think as I should.” He ventured a quick glance at Irina and saw that her color was better, the lines around her eyes less marked.

The door opened and Madelaine came in with a silver tray with two glasses balanced on one hand and a bottle of champagne clasped by the neck in the other. She knew at once that there had been a difficult exchange between Irina and Phillippe but nothing in her outward manner revealed this. She put the tray down quite expertly and lifted the bottle of champagne. “It isn’t very old—1920, in fact—but I haven’t anything better here.”

“I haven’t had champagne since…” Irina broke off again, remembering that Ragoczy had given her champagne after he had brought her to his apartment. It had been the second night she stayed there, and he had seen that she was given an elegant meal served in the old way, with heavy silver and linen napery and crockery so fine it was translucent. “For quite some time,” she finished lamely.

“Nor I,” Phillippe said at once.

Madelaine was twisting the wire guard holding the cork, a determined smile in her eyes. “It will be just an instant more…” The wire came free and the cork moved very slightly in the neck of the bottle. Madelaine set her thumbs against it and began to ease it out. She was faintly aware that both Irina and Phillippe were watching her intently, and her attention faltered.

At that moment the cork flew out of the bottle with a loud retort and champagne frothed out over her hands.

“One of you, get the glasses!” she said loudly, holding the bottle away from her skirt. “We’ll lose half of it.”

Phillippe reached the desk first and took both the glasses, thrusting them under the cascade. He could feel his mouth smile. As the first glass filled with bubbles, he slipped the second into its place.

“It’s fine now. Hold the glasses steady and I’ll pour.” Madelaine nodded to Phillippe as he lifted the glasses for her.

“But where is the third glass?” Irina asked as she belatedly noticed the number.

“Oh,” Madelaine said with a blithe gesture as she set the bottle down, “I should not have any of it. It doesn’t agree with me.”

Phillippe, who had held out one of the glasses to Madelaine, now brought it back and looked chagrined. “But then, it isn’t…”

“My dear, this wasn’t necessary,” Irina said at the same time.

“Well, we can’t put it back in the bottle. Do drink it. I would not like it to go to waste even if it is only 1920. Four-year-old champagne. You may not thank me for it.” She went to her chair behind the desk and dropped into it. “Let us toast the good ship
Seabird
and her crew.”

“We don’t know it was a ship,” Irina reminded her, taking the glass Phillippe gave her. The scent of the wine was delicious, too tempting to be denied.

“We will hope that it was, because that will mean that these records are more important than they would be if it is merely an inn or a counting house.” She lifted her heavy hair off her neck.