You could almost feel it at a distance,” Arabella said. “The power of the man was-well, it made my head swim a little, though I hope you won't repeat that,” she said to Amelie De le C?ur. The two women were drinking tea in the boudoir of Arabella's town house on Theobald's Road. Swatches of fabric lay all about them, as though they took their leisure upon a rainbow.
“That is what others have said,” Amelie agreed. “That he has a magnetism, a greatness that cannot be denied.”
“Everyone felt it, in all the boats. We even raised a cheer, spontaneously.”
Amelie clasped her hands together in rapture. “Ah, madame!”
“Oh, I'm glad to find another who feels as I do,” Arabella said confidentially. “What the English government is doing to him amp;” She shook her head. “I don't mind telling you that whenever I find myself in the company of anyone of influence, and of course they all come to the theatre, I tell them that justice is paramount. We must not cast our own laws aside. If the emperor cannot be brought before an English court, then he is innocent and must be released. I suppose I've had no influence at all, but I cannot help but speak out.”
Amelie nodded, eyes aglitter. She glanced reverently over at the picture of Napoleon that Arabella had purchased and hung on her wall that very morning. The sunlight streamed in the tall windows and washed over the room, illuminating the image of the now-fallen hero. It was a copy of the celebrated portrait of Bonaparte on the battlefield of Eylau by Baron Gros, and showed the emperor on horseback, gesturing as a follower kissed his boot and dying soldiers lay all about, some of them raising faltering hands toward him, like Lazarus reaching out to Jesus. Actually, it was a wretched daub, even from the point of view of technique, but Arabella was trusting that young Amelie wouldn't know the difference. Or care.
“I wish I had been with you!” said the dressmaker's daughter. “My mama made gowns for Josephine. Did you know?”
“I did not. Did she ever meet…?”
Amelie leaned a little closer. “Once, yes. The emperor came into Josephine's salon at Malmaison-well, he was not yet the emperor-and they spoke for a time with my mama present. He nodded to her as he left. She was amp;” There did not seem to be a word in either French or English that could describe what she was, but the near rapture upon the young woman's face was enough. Finally Amelie gave up the search and shrugged. “She has never forgotten.”
“I would imagine not!” Arabella said. “Would you not do anything to free him now?”
“Anything,” the younger woman agreed.
Arabella reached out and squeezed her hand.
“Does it not offend you to see these royalist women, these arrogant, empty-headed cows, traipsing back to France as though they have conquered? As though the natural order has been restored!”
“It is very difficult, yes, but…”
Arabella said nothing, only raising her eyebrows and nodding a little in encouragement.
Amelie's gaze fell away. “But look at the hour! I must be off.” The young woman rose to her feet.
“When you find a fellow spirit amp;” Arabella offered as she stood, but Amelie only smiled. In a few moments she and her servant had bustled out the door.
“Well,” Arabella said to the empty room. The dress-maker's daughter had slipped out before Arabella could ask her question-not that she really felt she needed to now. It was all perfectly obvious to her. She crossed to the small desk and began writing a note to Henry Morton.
Christabel came in to clear away the tea service.
“Christabel?”
“Ma'am?”
“Tell me, why would a woman who made gowns for Josephine, and is an admirer of Napoleon, come to London and claim to be a staunch royalist, making gowns for the wives of all the prominent royalists-the people who have opposed Bonaparte from the beginning?”
“I don't know, ma'am. Why?”
“Because she is a spy, Christabel. She has been spying on Bonaparte's enemies here in England and is no doubt hoping that no one will ever learn the truth. I wonder what these foolish royalist women have been telling her? And all through the war she has had her French fabrics and lace-carried to England by the smugglers. Mr. Morton's friend Boulot is known to her, and he was a smuggler or a dealer in their wares. Who better to carry the things she learns back to France than a smuggler? And she was acquainted with Madame Desmarches, who was the mistress of the Count d'Auvraye. Too many coincidences. She is a spy, and perhaps her daughter is, too.”
Cristobal looked pensive, her pretty brow wrinkled in thought. “Who is Boulot, ma'am?”
“Never mind.”
Christabel turned to take her tea tray out.
“Christabel?”
“Yes, ma'am?”
“Would you take that bloody painting off the wall?”
“With pleasure, ma'am.”