Beauty, Beast, and Belladonna Page 6

  “The favorite tale,” Madame Genepy said. “The tale everyone asks for.”

  “And you know a version rather different than those found in storybooks,” Gabriel said.

  “Yes. My grandmother taught it to me, asked me to remember it by heart, as I sat in the kitchen with her preparing food. She said I was a born storyteller, like she was, my memory so sharp and my tongue so keen.” She stroked the cat.

  “And how does this story go?”

  “My tongue is no longer so keen. Yet my memory is good. They say it is fading, they try to tell me I do not remember the stories correctly anymore, but I do.” Madame Genepy lay her head against the side of the chimney and shut her eyes.

  “Perhaps we ought not trouble her,” Banks said, picking cat hairs off his sleeve.

  Lucile looked around the doorway, holding a broom. “Grandmother!” she said sharply. “Wake up.” Lucile turned to the visitors. “You will have a trying time getting even a piece of a story out of her. She fades in and out, and her memory is fading, too. Each time she tells her tales now, they come out differently. We no longer know what the original story was.”

  Madame Genepy snuffled awake. “You girl—who are you?”

  “I am your granddaughter, Lucile.”

  “But I have never seen you before.”

  “You see?” Lucile said. She stomped away with her broom.

  Gabriel was certain that Lucile was going to listen to everything from out in the corridor.

  With a few more promptings, Madame Genepy at last began her story. “In this land before time began, the Mother of the Seasons made this land lush with animals. She presided over a kingdom of great palaces. Palaces of stone they were that reached deep into the earth, into the very womb of the earth.”

  Banks coughed and Ivy blushed.

  “In the most splendid palace of all lived a beast. Fearsome he was, and gorgeous, with the body of a young man and the furred face, the tusks, the all-knowing dark eyes of an animal.”

  The cat growled, and Gabriel noticed that it didn’t look quite domesticated with its bob tail and tufted ears.

  “Oh dear, where was I?” Madame Genepy said.

  “The beast,” Gabriel said. “Great palaces of stone. Castles, I suppose you mean by that?” Ruined castles studded the Dordogne and Vézère River valleys. From a distance one could not always distinguish between a ruin and a natural stone outcropping. And some castles were built over the natural limestone caverns with which the region was honeycombed. These caverns, Gabriel had heard, boasted stalactites and stalagmites.

  “You spoke of a beast, madame,” Ivy said.

  “A beast?” Madame Genepy clawed at her shawl. “Once, there was no divide between human beings and beasts, but now, the Mother of the Seasons has allowed only one reminder of what once was. He stalks the hills.”

  “What does he look like?” Gabriel asked.

  “He?” Madame Genepy’s eyelids quivered. “Beasts everywhere in these woods. Teeming with beasts. With fangs and claws and tusks. Hideous white stags with sharp golden antlers, too. Beware!”

  The cat hunched and hissed. Lucile rushed in and wrapped an arm around her grandmother’s shoulders. “Calm down,” she murmured. Lucile looked at the guests. “You see? Only nonsense. They do not even sound like real stories anymore. You must go. She gets herself worked up, and then her heart—”

  “Of course,” Gabriel said, attempting to squelch his frustration. He stood. “I am very sorry to have upset her. Perhaps we might call again on another day?”

  “Perhaps,” Lucile said, not meeting his eye.

  Gabriel, Ivy, and Banks bundled up and went back outside into the clear, sharp air.

  7

  Abel seemed to think that he was going to assist Ophelia in all further inquiries into the vicar’s death. However, Ophelia planned to escort him to the kitchen, set him before a plate of pastries, and make an escape. After a fruitless search of the rest of the vicar’s bedchamber, they set off for the kitchen.

  Along the way, Abel complained of his bedchamber in the servants’ quarters of the château—“like the garret of a consumptive playwright” was how he described it—about the rations at the Warbridge School—“you could use the morning porridge for spackling walls”—and how Château Vézère’s food, though “rather good,” was not sufficiently bountiful.

  “But you are an unexpected guest,” Ophelia said. “Surely they would’ve made more food if they had expected more guests.”

  “This is a château, not a monastery, for heaven’s sake. And besides, there ought to be an outright feast going on, for I’m told there is to be a wedding in four days.” Ophelia was half convinced that Abel had looked at her belly.

  Oh, the shame. She quickened her pace. “Why has Mademoiselle Gavage relegated you to the servants’ quarters, Master Christy?”

  “She is unaware of my royal blood. Oh, and she said something about having run out of the usual sort of guest chambers.”

  They passed the dining room. Men’s voices within. Had Griffe returned from his ride?

  “Wait,” Ophelia whispered, stopping Abel with a hand. She poked her head through the dining room door.

  No Griffe. Forthwith and Larsen were eating a late breakfast. They sat cater-cornered, speaking in low, earnest tones, and they didn’t notice Ophelia at once. She caught Forthwith’s words buffalo and invest. Then she heard him say, “Father is hell-bent on me taking over his soap manufactories. Can’t stand the thought of me going into things for myself. It’s Oedipal is what it is.”

  Larsen grunted and nodded.

  Forthwith glanced up, and his face hardened. “Oh, sister dear, loitering about like a ghoul again?” he called.

  “Oh. Hello. No, I haven’t—well, I haven’t had any breakfast yet.” Suddenly, Ophelia felt half starved. More importantly, she felt the need to monitor Forthwith and whatever he was plotting. She was, in a way, responsible for his presence in the château. It felt like she’d released a python into the house. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen,” she whispered over her shoulder to Abel.

  Abel craned his neck to see what was on offer on the dining table.

  “No. Don’t go in there,” Ophelia said.

  “I certainly will—and you resemble a choleric nursery maid when you pull that face.” Abel toddled into the dining room. “I see those custardy tart things that have run out below stairs.” He plopped onto a chair and introduced himself formally to Forthwith and Larsen.

  Ophelia sighed, and went to the table, too.

  “Good morning, Miss Stonewall,” Larsen said.

  “My dear sister’s got the most awful habit of eavesdropping,” Forthwith said. “Made Mother despair of her ever finding a husband who wasn’t a criminal or a deaf-mute. But then, Griffe doesn’t seem to mind, does he?”

  “Would you pass the coffee?” Abel said.

  “Young lad like you ought to be drinking good goat’s milk, not coffee,” Larsen said. “Coffee will stunt your growth.”

  “I really don’t care. It is my mind I am concerned with. I’ll leave the brute force to other men.”

  “That’s the spirit, little fellow,” Forthwith said, but his smile slipped away under Larsen’s sharp glance. He meekly passed Abel a pitcher of milk.

  “What are you speaking of with Mr. Larsen, dear brother?” Ophelia asked. “Something about investments?”

  “Gentlemen’s business,” Forthwith said.

  “Oh? Father will be so pleased to learn you are at last turning to business after your dissolute style of living these many years past.”

  “What is that?” Larsen asked. He looked at Forthwith. “I thought you said you have done this sort of thing before. Dissolute, your sister says?”

  “An exaggeration. I have been somewhat taken up in sporting life—”

  “Gam
bling?” Larsen asked.

  “No, no. Hunting. Fishing.”

  Larsen relaxed. “Nothing wrong with that. You call hunting and fishing dissolute, Miss Stonewall? Why, they are healthful pastimes, in keeping with the laws of nature.”

  “Dear Ophelia was raised as a lady,” Forthwith said, “and I for one will not corrupt her delicate sensibilities by speaking of commerce in her presence. Mother would be furious with me.” He stood. “Mr. Larsen, shall we resume our little chat out in the field? My fingers positively itch for a shotgun.”

  “Ja, ja,” Larsen said. “Too late to take the dogs out today—that vicar dying put a damper on things—but we might go and rustle up some game birds.”

  “Marvelous.” Forthwith flashed a white smile and sauntered out.

  Larsen picked up a newspaper and began to read. Abel was chewing pastries, full chisel. Perfect. Ophelia got up.

  “Wait. Where are you going?” Abel called through a mouthful.

  “To practice the harp,” Ophelia said over her shoulder.

  * * *

  The sorry truth was, Ophelia still had no clear idea who might’ve stolen her ring and murdered Knight. Checking everyone’s chamber, one by one, was the only thing she could think of to do.

  She would’ve liked to start with Forthwith’s. He was up to something, speaking to Larsen of investments when he had as much business experience as a kipper. But Forthwith could be in his chamber now.

  So she’d try other bedchambers. Any other bedchambers.

  She rapped on the door next to the vicar’s. No answer. She looked in. Unoccupied. Filmy garments oozed from a traveling trunk, and the bedclothes were knotty. Jars, bottles, and brushes littered the dressing table. This couldn’t be Bernadette’s chamber—too messy, too vain. Could it be Ivy’s? No. Ivy did not use face paint, and there was a box of complexion powder and a pouf over there.

  This must be Madame Dieudonné’s chamber.

  Ophelia stole inside.

  She began with the dressing table. The powders and complexion creams were of the first quality, beautiful boxes and jars with gilt French lettering. A set of ivory false teeth in a box. Perfume bottles nestled in a velvet-lined case, wafting intricate aromas. Ophelia sneezed, which was why she didn’t hear the door open.

  “Pardonnez-moi,” someone said behind her.

  Ophelia turned.

  Madame Dieudonné stood in the doorway, clutching a wrapper about her. She was utterly bald, her withered face pink from the bath.

  The little white poodle charged at Ophelia, yipping, teeth bared, the blue bow on his topknot bouncing.

  “Meringue!” Madame Dieudonné shrieked.

  Ophelia bent and held out her hand. Meringue skidded to a stop, sniffed her hand, and seemed placated. Back in her circus days, Ophelia had been a trick pony rider as well as the partner of a poodle who jumped through flaming hoops. She reckoned she had a way with animals.

  “Why are you in my chamber, mademoiselle?” Madame Dieudonné said, her accent garbled by her lack of teeth. She shut the door behind her and came towards Ophelia.

  “Oh. I was—I believed this was my friend Mrs. Brighton’s chamber, and I wished to borrow a little perfume. I forgot to pack any, you see, and I feel quite lost without it.”

  “Perfume?” Madame Dieudonné lowered herself creakily onto the dressing table stool. She pushed the false teeth into her mouth. “Mais oui. I have many. Choose one.”

  “Thank you so much.” Ophelia studied the perfumes, wondering which would be the least likely to attract fops or muskrats.

  Meringue sniffed avidly at Ophelia’s ankles. He lifted a hind leg.

  “Non!” Madame Dieudonné swooped Meringue into her lap. She uncapped a jar of complexion cream. “One must tend to one’s complexion even in the midst of terror.” She dabbed cream on her bald scalp. “That is what I was taught. Troubles will come and go, yet at the end of the day a lady is still expected to be beautiful.”

  “You refer to the death last night?” Ophelia said, selecting a crystal perfume bottle.

  “Death, my dear? Don’t be coy. We all know it was a murder.”

  “We do?”

  “Empty bottles of poison? Stolen jewelry? Noxious berries? Mais, oui. Playing naïve is all very well when the gentlemen are present, but we ladies must not try to deceive each other when we are alone.” Madame Dieudonné tapped her temple. “I am working the puzzle out. Only a few pieces remain unaccounted for.”

  “Such as?”

  “I must not say. It could be dangereux. Monsieur Knight’s death did not surprise me, you understand. I knew that he was not a good man the moment I saw him boarding the stagecoach in Marseille. He was a man with the enemies.”

  “How did you know?”

  “There was something, oh, I do not know, something cheap and shifty about him. He did not speak kindly to the boy from Afrique. He seemed to be fleeing something. Mais, I would never trust a man of the cloth.”

  “Was anything stolen from you last night?”

  “A pearl necklace, oui.”

  “But you noticed nothing?”

  “Nothing. I sleep deeply, always. I take a sleeping draught.”

  “How do you know about the belladonna berries? Did you enter the orangerie this morning?”

  “I was told of the berries by—who was it? I cannot recall. My memory has never been terribly good. As a girl, I was always too busy with my many beaus to cultivate my mind.”

  “If you reckon it was murder, who do you suppose did it?”

  “How would I know? All of you—all—are strangers to me.” Madame Dieudonné flicked her eyes down and up Ophelia, appraising. “Tell me, Mademoiselle Stonewall, how does it feel to be a humble American girl betrothed to a European nobleman of such an illustrious lineage?”

  “Oh. Well, I—I suppose it feels very nice.”

  “Simply remember, my dear, that beauty does not last.”

  “If you refer to the Count de Griffe, I assure you that my regard from him does not rest upon his outward appearance.”

  Madame Dieudonné cackled. “A wit, as well. But I refer to your beauty, not Griffe’s.”

  “Mine?” Ophelia was no beauty. She was too beanstalky and her face too, well, simple. Stripped down. Basic.

  “You have a certain quality that some gentlemen admire. And I assure you, it will not last. Look at me! Men are fickle. Disgusting. They will feign adoration only to toss you aside like yesterday’s underclothes. They will clamor for a spot on your dance card one season, and pretend not to know you at all—at all!—the next time you meet.”

  “I beg your pardon, but did you . . . had you made the acquaintance of Mr. Knight before you met him in Marseille?”

  “Sacré bleu, not him.” Madame Dieudonné watched with maternal pride as Meringue contorted in order to slurp his nether fuzz. “Do you suggest that I—”

  “Of course not. You are journeying to Paris?”

  “Yes, to stay with an old friend. I resided in the Côte d’Azur for too long, I am afraid, and things between me and the creditors at Monte Carlo became terribly dull.” Madame Dieudonné opened a hatbox on the floor beside her and lifted out a large, blond, bouffant wig. She placed it on her head. Then she selected a pot of rouge and dabbed spots onto her cheeks. “Would you like some rouge, Mademoiselle Stonewall? You appear pale.”

  “Oh. No, thank you. I must be going. I’ll see you at luncheon, surely.” Ophelia hurried towards the door.

  “But you did not select a perfume,” Madame Dieudonné called.

  “Later, perhaps.”

  * * *

  Back in the corridor, Ophelia’s lungs were tight with excitement. Madame Dieudonné seemed to have known a gentleman in the château before, and not only that, she was furious with him. Had that gentleman been the vicar?

 
She tried the next door. Another bedchamber, but an unoccupied one; there wasn’t even a coverlet on the mattress. The door after that led into a lady’s room, and Ophelia knew it was Ivy’s because it smelled of her lilac perfume.

  Ophelia tiptoed in.

  Jars and ornaments on the dressing table lay in regimental rows and at right angles. The many rich gowns in the wardrobe were arranged according to color. The book at the bedside was in German, but it had enough diagrams for Ophelia to figure it was a technical book about architecture.

  Ivy was a military captain trapped in a damsel’s body.

  Ophelia didn’t find the ruby ring or anything else of interest. She crept out.

  She rattled a few more locked doorknobs. Then, pounding footsteps. She pressed herself against the wall. A maid rushed past, tears coursing down her face and a bucket of coal swinging in her hand. She didn’t even see Ophelia.

  Upset about the beast, maybe?

  No.

  “Hello, Mr. Tolbert,” Ophelia said.

  Tolbert slunk along the corridor, hands in pockets. He didn’t answer, but his nostrils shuddered.

  “Quizzing that maidservant about whatever it is you’re missing?” Ophelia asked.

  “What business is this of yours?”

  “What was stolen from your bedchamber? Perhaps I could help you find it.”

  Tolbert curled his upper lip and sniffed.

  Ophelia took another stab. “By the by, Mr. Tolbert, where were you headed on that stagecoach?”

  “A very important parcel is waiting for me at the port in Bordeaux.”

  Oh, really. “Then you must be in a dreadful hurry to be on your way.”

  “Pah! I will not be on my way until I find what was stolen from me.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “In Paris.”

  “What are you doing in this region?”

  “Working. Pray, cease prying into my affairs.” Tolbert shoved past.

  Ophelia sighed. She continued trying doors until she ran out. Many were locked. Others led to chambers that appeared to be unused.

  At the end of the line she turned, and stopped short. Abel blocked her path, plump arms folded. “The harp, Miss Stonewall? There is no harp in Château Vézère.”