And she was a woman who couldn’t even talk her husband into staying home!
“Louise!”
Did he make love to all the women he worked for, or was she special—a tougher nut to crack, requiring special treatment?
“Lou—” Her maid was standing in the door to the little dressing room where she and Oliver slept, her pale blue wrapper clutched around her, her hair hanging unbrushed to her waist and an anxious look on her face. “Oh, Louise, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what possessed me to startle you like that. Go and get dressed. I’ll ring down for some breakfast.”
“But Madeleine—Mrs. Malcolm—what’s wrong?”
“I want to leave for Paris.”
“When?”
“Now! As soon as possible! I want to get out of London.”
Louise looked bewildered. “But it will take at least a day to pack....”
“Yes, all right ... in two days, then.” Maddie shoved Louise gently back into her room to get dressed and then closed the door behind her, leaning against it with a sigh. She should have said she had had a nightmare. That was what it was, after all, and Louise would have understood that. She was right, of course. They couldn’t just pack up and
go at once, leaving Oliver behind to take care of business.
Perhaps in two days she would be able to face Devin Grant herself.
Perhaps, for just two days, she wouldn’t have to see him at all.
#
But three days later, Maddie was still in London, looking down at yet another calling card that had just been handed to her
and saying, “Well, Ollie, I suppose I should be grateful that I am saved from going out to be accosted in the
street by everyone’s calling around to see
me
.”
Laurence Fox’s photograph of Maddie had appeared in the
Illustrated London News
that morning. The Savoy had been obliging enough to send a copy up to her even before Laurence himself bounced into her sitting room waving the magazine in the air and asking her how she liked it—the photograph, not the magazine. Maddie had expressed some reservations about being labeled the “American Beauty Rose,” but admitted that the photograph—one of those in which she wore a pink taffeta cloak, its collar held up behind her head—was very well done indeed, and she openly expressed her admiration for Mr. Fox’s talent.
“No, no, dear Mrs. Malcolm, the subject is all,” he said, obviously pleased with himself. “And I am happy that my subject is satisfied. Here, I have brought you a copy of that print and several of the others, which also do you justice—or at least come close to it.”
At his eager insistence, Maddie examined the pictures, feeling very strange, and not a little embarrassed, to be looking at her own image, which stared back at her, occasionally giving her a flirtatious look or an impudent smile. In one, there were tears in her eyes. What could she have been thinking of then?
It was like looking at herself in a mirror, except that it wasn’t really herself, somehow. Or perhaps she had never really looked at herself. No, she remembered examining her reflection all the time when she was young, wondering when she was going to become a swan. She hadn’t had to do that after she married Teddy, because she could see her own beauty in the way he looked at her. And she was older now—that much was certainly evident in the photograph—and ought to be less concerned with her looks.
She wondered what Devin Grant would think about the American Beauty Rose.
Nevertheless, Maddie thanked Laurence profusely, told him to apply to Oliver Drummond about their contract and for written permission if he wished to have some of the other photographs reproduced, and handed the whole boxful of them to Louise to put away in some dark drawer. Louise, however, chose this opportunity to assert her independence, and later that night Maddie again found herself staring at herself, this time from her dressing room wall. Only by the gentlest persuasion was she eventually able to get Louise to put the pictures up in her room instead, where she could cluck over them as much as she liked without making Maddie blush every time she walked past them.
Of course, she had to expect that Florence, too, would call the instant she saw the
News
to congratulate her and to announce that she had already called Mr. Fox to make an appointment for herself.
“I must say,” Florence gushed into the telephone—for it was only ten o’clock in the morning, long before she was ready to stir from her dressing table—“he was very sweet about doin’ me at once. I expect he felt he couldn’t refuse, having already done you, but I’m not proud. Besides, Geoff and I are off to Paris on Thursday—did I tell you we’d decided to go sooner, after all?—which means I won’t be here for my own debut, but you will look out for me, won’t you, and bring stacks of copies with you when you come. Will you be stayin’ at the Bristol, by the way?”
Maddie was uncertain afterward about the impulse that made her say she would be, when she had in fact instructed Oliver to book rooms at the Ritz instead, or even to reveal to Florence that she would be leaving on Friday herself. Florence bad been kindness itself to her, and Maddie did not want to desert her now that she had made a few more friends. But Florence could be so ...
exhausting
was the only word for it. She did agree to come to her room and help Florence pack the next morning, and to hear all about her own photographic session, and she told herself that she would
not
be disappointed if Laurence offered his tea and cakes to Florence too.
The next, more unanticipated, result of Maddie’s appearance in the national press was a rush of telephone calls, which Louise began routinely to answer with, “I regret, sir, that Mrs. Malcolm, does not endorse beauty products, not even Your Soap [or Somebody’s Lotion or
the Other’s Tooth Powder], although she is obliged to you for your offer. Good day.”
Thanks to a sympathetic hotel switchboard operator, such calls dwindled to a trickle within twenty-four hours; but then private individuals whom the Savoy could not always distinguish from salespersons began to telephone, and Oliver took over the screening duty. Finally, people began to call in person. This at least was within Maddie’s control, so that when the desk rang up to say a Mr. Kropotkin wished to see Mrs. Malcolm, she agreed to receive him.
Kropotkin, dressed like a Parisian boulevardier, appeared a few minutes later. He bowed and removed his hat, which he handed to Louise, who eyed him suspiciously for a moment before he bowed to her, too, and kissed her hand, leaving Louise staring at it instead, as if the hand no longer belonged to her. Maddie invited him to sit down.
“It seems we are now members of the same club,” he said to Maddie, after accepting an offer of coffee from the slightly flustered Louise.
“Which club is that, sir?” Maddie asked.
“Why, Mr. Fox’s Famous Faces Fellowship, to be sure! I confess, however, that I cannot imagine why he troubles himself with such as I when beautiful roses such as you consent to pose for him.”
“You flatter me, sir. But I believe Mr. Fox is not so young that he does not consider posterity. You will be far better remembered in fifty years’ time than I will, and our young friend’s grandchildren will be able to point proudly to your photograph in the encyclopedia and say, ‘Our grampa took that’.”
Kropotkin laughed. “I had not thought of it precisely that way, but perhaps you are right. Nevertheless, we live in the present age, do we not? And you have a pressing need with which I may perhaps help you.”
Maddie leaned forward eagerly. “Have you heard something about my husband, then? I am sorry to press you, but we are leaving for Paris in a few days, and I am grateful that you even came to see me.”
“Not at all, dear lady. Alas, I fear I have no direct news. I shall naturally send any further information I may receive to your hotel in Paris. Nevertheless, I have—”
Maddie interrupted when Oliver appeared just then and introduced him. “I trust you will not object if my secretary joins us, sir? He is my confidant and adviser in this matter of my husband.”
Kropotkin waved Oliver to a seat and waited until all three were supplied with a cup of coffee before observing, “You will forgive me, dear lady, but am I misinformed that the gentleman who escorted you at Newmarket, Mr. Devin Grant, is representing you in this matter?”
Maddie saw no point in denying that Devin had been with her that day but decided that attempting to explain why he was would be futile. “He is assisting us, yes. But as I trust I made clear to him as well, Mr. Kropotkin, I am not one to leave such a personally important matter entirely to a stranger. Naturally, I’ll pursue my own inquiries in the hope that pooling our mutual resources will bring results more quickly.”
“I see.” Kropotkin glanced at Oliver, who maintained his usual bland policeman’s expression. Kropotkin seemed to come to a decision.
“Then I am willing to include Mr. Drummond in the information I am about to reveal to you, Mrs. Malcolm. But at the risk of causing friction between you and Mr. Grant, I must beg that you not reveal it to him.”
“May I ask why?”
“You may ask,” Kropotkin said, reassuming his most charming manner, “but I fear I will not tell you.”
“Very well,” Maddie said. “You have my word that I will not discuss anything you say with Mr. Grant.”
“Unless Grant discovers it on his own,” Oliver interposed.
Maddie nodded. “Yes. Mr. Drummond respects Mr. Grant’s abilities ... and does not wish to cause any more friction, as you call it, than necessary. We’ll maintain this confidentiality as best we can, then, if you do the same, sir.”
Kropotkin considered this too, between leisurely sips of coffee. Maddie felt convinced that he knew about the less-than-trusting relationship she had thus far maintained with Devin Grant. Perhaps it was as well that he did; she did not want to deceive him, but neither did she care to attempt to explain to him something that she could not adequately explain to herself. She hoped only that he did not know Devin Grant well enough to share secrets with him that he kept from her.
Kropotkin put his cup down on his saucer and reached into his pocket. “Very well. What I have for you is a list of names and a letter—two letters—of introduction. Any one of these people may provide just the clue you need, or none of them may. But they may also be able to refer you to other persons whose names—because I have been so long out of touch on these matters—I do not know.”
He produced a piece of paper from his wallet, unfolded it to make a few quick notes, and handed it to Maddie.
“Who are these people?” she asked, perusing the list of about a dozen names, none of them familiar to her.
“Things have changed considerably in Paris, you may know,” he replied indirectly. “Incidents involving violent anarchists reached a peak there some five years ago, and the government cracked down on the activities of all anarchists. Those such as my colleague Jean Grave, whose philosophy does not condone violence, also suffered repression. But since that time, little by little, the anarchist press has reestablished itself. The names I have given you are in the main those of the editors of such periodicals, whose own contacts are widespread.
“I have marked the names of men whom I consider, with all respect, dear lady, would be more responsive to businesslike inquiries from Mr. Drummond. The others are more—shall we say—Parisian and thus more susceptible to an appeal from a lady in distress. These letters—” he handed her two unsealed envelopes—“are introductions for you and for a gentleman. I did not specify whom, but Mr. Drummond may make use of it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kropotkin,” Maddie said, passing the list to Oliver. “You have been very helpful.”
She rose and reached out to shake Kropotkin’s hand. “I am grateful to you, sir, for giving me hope that I may yet find my husband not in danger at all, but in association with gentlemen such as yourself.”
They exchanged farewells, and Oliver accompanied Mr. Kropotkin to the lift. Maddie sat back to mull over their conversation. Was she really hopeful because of anything Kropotkin had said, or was she deluding herself? She knew Teddy well enough to think it more likely that he would be attracted by the excitement of scheming to plant a bomb or knock down a statue than by talk and ideas, however revolutionary. A group of anarchists who skirted the edges of the law, but were in no real danger because the government had removed their claws five years ago, might be doubly attractive to him. She could only hope that among those men was one who would see Teddy’s weaknesses and protect him for her.
What still nagged at the back of her mind was what Peter Kropotkin had not said. What did he know about Devin Grant that she did not? He obviously distrusted Grant too, although very likely for different reasons. She would have to consider this possibility very carefully before she saw Devin again.
#
Walking back from the lift, Oliver unfolded the list Maddie had given him. All French names, although Michel Lamont’s, which Grant had given him, was not among them. He hadn’t expected it to be, of course. Grant must have known he would find out quickly enough what had happened to the earl of Southington’s valet. The elusive Frank Hartwell was harder to pin down. Grant must have known that, too, and Oliver had no doubt that he was Grant’s real objective.
Oliver looked at the list again, then smiled as he put the slip of paper back in his pocket. He had been a whiz at puzzles when he was a boy, but it had been years since he had tackled a really challenging one. It would give him great satisfaction to beat Grant to the solution of this one.
It seemed weeks rather than mere days before Maddie was at last standing on the platform at Victoria Station watching Oliver direct the loading of her bags and trunks into her Pullman car compartment. Louise had already gone in to look over their accommodations. Before allowing her mistress aboard, Louise always examined every form of public transportation—even a first-class compartment on the British section of the Orient Express—to remove from it any stray bits of picnic lunch, forgotten novels of dubious moral content, and other remnants of the previous occupants, which mere employees of the railway could be expected to overlook.