Ruby Red: Edelstein Trilogie 01 (15 page)

“We’ll meet at breakfast tomorrow morning, Gwyneth,” said Lady Arista, putting a hand under my chin. “Chin up! You’re a Montrose, and we stay calm and composed everywhere, always.”

“I’ll try, Grandmother.”

“That’s right. Oh, dear!” She waved her arms about as if shooing flies. “What do those people think they’re doing? I’m not the Queen!” But with her elegant hat, her umbrella, and the coat, all color-matched, she obviously looked so British to the tourists that they were taking photos of her from all sides.

Mum gave me a last hug. “The secret has already cost human lives,” she whispered into my ear. “Don’t forget that.”

I watched her and my grandmother with mixed feelings until the car had turned the corner, carrying them away.

Mr. George took my hand and held it firmly. “Don’t be frightened, Gwyneth. You’re not alone.”

He wasn’t kidding. I was surrounded by loads of people I wasn’t supposed to trust. I mustn’t trust any of them, my mum had said. I looked into Mr. George’s friendly blue eyes and searched them for something dangerous and dishonest. But I couldn’t see anything of the kind.

Trust no one.

Not even your own feelings.

“Come along, we’d better go in. You must get some food inside you.”

“I hope that little conversation with your mother was illuminating,” said Mr. de Villiers on the way upstairs. “Let me guess: she warned you against us. We’re all unscrupulous liars, am I right?”

“You’ll know more about that than I do,” I said. “We were talking about how you and my mother once had something going on together.”

Mr. de Villiers raised his eyebrows in surprise. “She told you
that
?” There was actually a touch of embarrassment in his expression. “Ah, well, that’s a long time ago. I was young and—”

“And easily impressed.” I finished the sentence for him. “That’s what my mum said too.”

Mr. George roared with laughter. “Oh, yes, that’s right! I’d quite forgotten. You and Grace Montrose, you made a handsome couple, Falk. If only for three weeks. Then she plastered a slice of cheesecake over your shirtfront at that charity ball in Holland House and said she never wanted to say another word to you.”

“It was a strawberry tart,” said Mr. de Villiers, with a twinkle in his eye. “She really meant to throw it in my face, but I was lucky and she only hit my shirt. The stain never came out. She was jealous of a girl whose name I can’t even remember.”

“Larissa Crofts. She was the chancellor of the exchequer’s daughter,” said Mr. George.

“Really?” Mr. de Villiers seemed genuinely surprised. “The chancellor now or the chancellor then?”

“Then.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Reasonably pretty.”

“Well, anyway, Grace broke my heart, because after that she started going out with another boy from my school. I remember
his
name all right.”

“Yes, because you broke his nose and his parents nearly sued you for it,” said Mr. George.

“Is that true?” I was absolutely fascinated.

“It was an accident,” said Mr. de Villiers. “We were on the same rugby team.”

“Such revelations, Gwyneth!” Mr. George was still chuckling happily when he opened the door of the Dragon Hall.

“You can say that again.” I stopped when I saw Gideon sitting at the table in the middle of the room. He came toward us, frowning.

Mr. de Villiers gently guided me in. “It was nothing serious,” he said. “Love affairs between the de Villiers and Montrose families never work out. You could say they were doomed to fail from the start.”

“I’d call that an entirely superfluous warning, Uncle Falk,” said Gideon, crossing his arms. “She’s definitely not my type.”

By
she
he meant me. It was a second or maybe two before the insult sank in. My first instinct was to say something like “Well, thank God for that! I’m not too keen on arrogant show-offs, myself.” But I kept quiet.

Okay, so I wasn’t his type. So what? If I wasn’t, I wasn’t.

As if I cared.

Received exciting news from the future today. The eleventh in the Circle of Twelve, Gideon de Villiers, will elapse to spend three hours a night with us in future. We made up a bed for him in Sir Walter’s office. It is cool and quiet in there, and the boy will be protected to a great extent from curious glances and stupid questions. During his visit today, all the officers on duty looked in “quite by chance.”

And quite by chance, they all had questions to ask about the future.

The boy told us it would be a good idea to buy shares in Apple, whatever that may be.

F
ROM
T
HE
A
NNALS OF THE
G
UARDIANS

4 A
UGUST
1953

R
EPORT
: R
OBERT
P
EEL
, I
NNER
C
IRCLE

TEN

“
CLOAK: VENETIAN VELVET
, lined with silk taffeta. Gown: printed linen from Germany, trimmed with Devonshire lace, with a bodice made of embroidered silk brocade.” Madame Rossini carefully spread these garments out on the table. After we’d eaten, Mrs. Jenkins had taken me back to the sewing room. I liked this little room better than the formal dining room; there were wonderful fabrics lying around everywhere, and Madame Rossini was probably the only person here whom even my mother couldn’t possibly have distrusted. “The
ensemble
in mid blue with touches of cream, an elegant afternoon outfit,” she went on. “And matching shoes, silk brocade. More comfortable than they look. Luckily you and the coat ’anger take the same shoe size.” She placed my school uniform aside. “Oh,
mon Dieu
, the most beautiful girl in the world would look like a scarecrow in this. If they would only shorten the skirt to a fashionable length. Ah, zat ugly yellow! Whoever designed this ’ated schoolgirls. He really ’ated them!”

“Can I keep my own underwear on?”

“Only the panties,” said Madame Rossini. “Wrong for the period, but no one will be looking under your skirt. Or so I ’ope. If they do, you just kick zem good and ’ard. It may not look like it, but these shoes have toes reinforced with iron. ’Ave you been to the toilet? It is more difficult with the dress on.”

“Yes, I have. You’ve asked me that three times already, Madame Rossini.”

“We must make sure of everything.”

The way people fussed about me here kept surprising me, and all these little details! After dinner, Mrs. Jenkins had even handed me a brand-new toiletry bag so that I could brush my teeth and wash my face.

I’d expected the corset to cut off my air supply and squeeze the roast veal right out of me, but it was surprisingly comfortable. “I thought women fell down fainting in rows from wearing these things.”

“Oh, zey did. First, because they laced them too tight. And second, you could ’ave cut the air with a knife, because nobody washed, they just put on more perfume,” said Madame Rossini, shuddering at the idea. “Lice and fleas lived in their wigs, and mice even made nests in them. The most beautiful fashions, but not a good time for ’ygiene. You’re not wearing a corset like those poor creatures. You ’ave a special one à la Madame Rossini, comfy like a second skin.”

“I see.” I was terribly excited when I climbed into the hooped petticoat. “This feels like carrying a birdcage around with me.”

“Zis is nothing,” Madame Rossini assured me, as she carefully put the dress over my head. “The ’oop is tiny, not like they wore at Versailles at that time. Twelve feet in diameter! And yours is not whalebone but featherweight high-tech carbon fiber! But don’t worry, no one will see zat.”

Pale blue fabric patterned with cream-colored sprigs of flowers was billowing all around me. It would also have looked pretty good as a sofa cover. But I had to admit that, even with the enormous skirt and seemingly impossible length, it was very comfortable, not to mention a perfect fit.

“Enchanting,” said Madame Rossini, pushing me over to the mirror.

“Oh!” I said, surprised. Who’d have thought a sofa cover could look so good? And me in it. My waist seemed so small, my eyes so blue. Wow! Although my low décolletage reminded me of an opera singer about to explode.

“We’ll put a leetle lace in there,” said Madame Rossini, who had followed the direction of my eyes. “After all, it is an afternoon gown. In the evening, yes. You have to show what you ’ave got. I hope to have the pleasure of making you a ball gown! And now for your ’air.”

“Am I going to wear a wig?”

“No,” said Madame Rossini. “You are a young girl, and it is afternoon. If you make your ’air pretty and wear a ’at, that will do. We need do nothing with your skin, it is pure alabaster. And that pretty crescent-shaped mark on your temple could be a beauty spot.
Très chic!
”

Madame Rossini used heated rollers on my hair, and then skillfully fixed the front of it to my parting with hairpins and let the rest fall in soft ringlets to my shoulders. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and admired myself.

I couldn’t help thinking of that costume party that Cynthia had thrown last year. I’d gone as a bus stop, for want of any better ideas, and at the end of the evening, I felt like getting hit by a bus wouldn’t be so bad, because people kept asking me annoying questions about the timetable and when the next bus would come along.

Ha! If I’d only known Madame Rossini then! I’d have been the star of the evening!

I turned back to the mirror once again, fascinated, but that was all over when Madame Rossini came up behind me and put “the ’at” on my head. It was a monstrous confection of straw with feathers and blue ribbons, and I thought it spoiled the whole outfit. I tried to persuade Madame Rossini that I didn’t need to wear it, but she wouldn’t give way.

“No, impossible! Zis is not a beauty competition,
ma chérie.
We must have authenticity.”

I looked for my mobile in the jacket of my school uniform. “Could you at least take a photo of me—without the hat?”

Madame Rossini laughed. “
Bien sûr
, my dear!”

I posed, and Madame Rossini took about thirty photos of me from all sides, some of them even with the hat on. At least Lesley would have a good laugh.

“There, now I will go up and tell them you are ready. Stay here, and don’t touch that ’at! It is perfect.”

“Yes, Madame Rossini,” I said dutifully. As soon as she had left the room I tapped in Lesley’s mobile number, fingers flying, and texted her one of those hat pictures. She called back fourteen seconds later. Thank goodness, the reception here in Madame Rossini’s sewing room was good.

“I’m on the bus,” Lesley shouted into my ear. “But I have my notebook and pen all ready. Only you’ll have to speak up!”

Talking at top speed, I told Lesley all about what had happened, trying to explain where I was and what my mum had said. Although I was talking in rather a confused way, Lesley seemed to be following me. She was thrilled when I told her I’d brought her back a key from the past. She kept saying, in turn, “Wow, crazy!” and “Do be careful!” When I described Gideon (she wanted to hear all the details), she said, “I don’t think long hair’s so bad. It
can
look quite sexy. Think of
A Knight’s Tale
. But don’t forget to check out the ears he’s hiding under there.”

“They don’t make any difference. He’s a conceited jerk, and anyway he’s in love with Charlotte. Did you get that bit about the philosopher’s stone down?”

“Yes, I’ve made notes of it all. As soon as I’m home I’ll go online. This Count Saint-Germain—why does the name seem so familiar to me? Could it be from a film? No, I’m thinking of the Count of Monte Cristo.”

“Suppose he really can read thoughts?”

“Just think of something harmless. Or count backward from a thousand. In steps of eight at a time. Then you won’t be able to think of anything else.”

“I’ll try. Oh, see if you can find out anything about a little boy called Robert White who drowned in a swimming pool eighteen years ago.”

“Okay, I got that,” said Lesley. “Wow, this is weird! We should have gotten you a knife or pepper spray or something.… I know! You can take your mobile with you.”

I tripped my way over to the door in my long, full dress and peered cautiously out into the passage. “What, into the past? Do you think I’ll be able to call you from there?”

“Don’t be silly! But you can take photos—they’d be a help to us. Oh, and I’d just love to see one of your Gideon! With his ears showing, if possible. Ears tell you a lot about a person. Especially the earlobes.”

I could hear footsteps. I quietly closed the door. “Here we go. I’ll be in touch later, Lesley!”

“Just be careful,” said Lesley yet again, but then I closed my phone and slipped it into my décolletage. The little space under my breasts was just the right size for a mobile. I wondered what ladies in the old days used to keep in there. Little bottles of poison? Miniature revolvers? Love letters?

The first thing that went through my head when Gideon came into the room was, why doesn’t
he
have to wear a hat? The second thing was, how can anyone look good in a red moiré waistcoat, dark green trousers that cut off at the knee, and striped silk stockings? If I thought anything else, it was probably, I hope to goodness no one can guess what I’m thinking right now.

The green eyes passed swiftly over me. “Nice hat.”

Damn him.

“Lovely,” said Mr. George, coming into the room behind him. “Madame Rossini, you’ve worked wonders.”

“Yes, I know,” said Madame Rossini. She had stayed out in the corridor. The sewing room wasn’t big enough for all of us. My skirt took up half the space on its own.

Gideon had tied his hair at the back of his neck, and I saw my chance to get my own back. “Nice velvet bow,” I said with all the sarcasm I could summon up. “Mrs. Counter, our geography teacher, always wears exactly the same thing.”

Instead of looking angrily at me, Gideon grinned. “Oh, the bow is nothing special. You should see me in a wig.”

Strictly speaking, I already had.

“Monsieur Gideon, I ’ad put out zose lemon-yellow breeches for you, not ze dark ones.” When Madame Rossini was annoyed her accent was stronger, and she forgot how to say an
h
or
th
now and then.

Gideon turned to Madame Rossini. “Yellow breeches with a red waistcoat and a brown coat with gold buttons? I thought it was just too many bright colors.”

“Men of ze Rococo period
liked
colors.” Madame Rossini looked at him severely. “And I am ze expert here, not you!”

“Yes, Madame Rossini,” said Gideon politely. “I’ll listen to you next time.”

I looked at his ears. They didn’t stick out at all, and there was nothing else odd about them. Of course I didn’t really
care
.

“Where are ze yellow chamois leather gloves?”

“Oh, I thought if I wasn’t going to wear the breeches, I’d better steer clear of the gloves as well.”

“Of course!” Madame Rossini huffed. “With respect to your sense of fashion, young man, we’re not talking good taste here, we’re talking authenticity. And I took care to pick colors that would suit your complexion, you ungrateful boy.”

Grumbling, she let us go past her.

“Thank you very, very much, Madame Rossini,” I said.

“Ah, my little swan-necked beauty! It was a pleasure! At least you appreciate my work.” I had to grin. I liked the idea of being swan-necked.

Mr. George’s eyes twinkled at me. “If you’ll follow me, please, Miss Gwyneth.”

“We have to blindfold her first,” said Gideon, about to take my hat off my head.

“Dear me, yes. I’m afraid Dr. White insists on it,” said Mr. George, with an apologetic smile.

“But it will ruin her ’airstyle!” Madame Rossini snatched Gideon’s fingers away. “
Tiens!
Do you want to pull ’er ’air off ’er ’ead? Never ’eard of a ’atpin? There!” She firmly planted the hat and hatpin in Mr. George’s hands. “And carry that ’at carefully!”

Gideon tied a black scarf around my eyes. I automatically held my breath as his hand touched my cheek, and unfortunately I couldn’t keep myself from blushing. But luckily he couldn’t see that because he was standing behind me.

“Ow!” I said. He’d caught a few of my hairs in the knot.

“Sorry. Can you still see anything?”

“No.” There was nothing but darkness before my eyes. “Why can’t I see where we’re going?”

“You’re not allowed to know exactly where the chronograph is kept,” said Gideon. He put one hand on my back and propelled me forward. It was an odd feeling, walking along unable to see my way, and Gideon’s hand on my back made it worse. “An unnecessary precaution, if you ask me,” he said. “This house is a labyrinth. You’d never find your way back to the room. And Mr. George thinks you’re beyond any suspicion of treachery anyway.”

That was nice of Mr. George, even if I didn’t know exactly what it meant.

My shoulder collided with some hard object. “Ow!”

“Hold her hand, Gideon, you stupid oaf,” said Mr. George, sounding rather annoyed. “She’s not a supermarket trolley.”

I felt a warm, dry hand closing round mine and jumped nervously.

“It’s okay,” said Gideon. “Only me. We go down a couple of steps now. Watch out.”

For a while we went on in silence, side by side, sometimes straight ahead, then down some stairs or around a corner, and I concentrated as hard as I could on not letting my hand shake. Or sweat. I didn’t want Gideon thinking he made me feel awkward. Did he notice how fast my pulse was pounding?

Then my right foot suddenly met nothing, and I stumbled and would have fallen over completely if Gideon hadn’t caught me with both his hands and put me back on solid ground. Now his hands were around my waist.

“Careful, there’s a step here,” he said.

“Yes, thanks. I noticed when my ankle turned over,” I said indignantly.