The Adventuress (15 page)

“It is so horrible,” I said, “I can hardly bear to remain, but at the same time, I cannot tear myself away.”

Mr. Fairchild turned back into the room. “I know just what you mean. Thirty-four years. Do you think he really never removed the mask?”

“Surely to wash his face,” I said.

“But if the guards were ordered to shoot on sight, would he have taken the risk, even for a moment. How does one sleep in a mask of iron?”

“Very badly, I imagine, although given the length of time—all those years—a person would adapt, somehow.” I stood in the center of the room and looked up at the tall, arched ceiling. Wind rattled in the chimney and Mr. Fairchild and I both froze, staring at each other.

“That is quite enough for me,” he said, and took me by the arm. “I cannot think when I have better appreciated my freedom.”

The others were waiting for us outside, where the officer and the guards who stood at the entrance of the prison were regaling them with tales from the fort's past. Cécile, tired of the enterprise, voiced the loud opinion that it was time we return to Cannes. In response, Margaret threatened to spend the night in the cell. This sent the guards into peals of laughter. I was about to interject my own thoughts when I felt a tug on my sleeve.

“Did you see my reticule in the cell after I left?” Amity asked. “It's gone. The strap must have broken.”

“I don't remember seeing it,” I said.

“I'll go back and look,” she said. She walked approximately six feet in the direction of the prison entrance, then stopped and turned back to me. “Do you know, I feel quite incapable of entering that space alone. How ridiculous.”

“It is not ridiculous. I'll fetch Jeremy.”

“I don't want him to know. He likes my strength, and I fear it is too early to show him my weaknesses.”

“What about your brother?” I asked, looking for Augustus. “Where has he gone?” I did not see him anywhere in the courtyard.

“I do hope he hasn't managed to get lost,” Amity said. “Finding him is probably more important than going after my reticule. There was nothing of import in it.”

“I shall go after your reticule,” I said. “You look for Augustus.” I slipped back into the prison—although calling it that seemed almost silly given the current lack of guards. It was, at this point, more of a prison in theory than in actuality, at least that was what I told myself as I returned to the corridor lined with cells. The door to the Man in the Iron Mask's cell was partially closed, so I pulled it open, feeling the weight of the door working against me. Amity's reticule was on the floor, near the fireplace, the satin ribbon loop that would have held it on her wrist torn at the seam. I crouched down to retrieve it.

As I returned to standing, two wretched sounds accosted me: the creak of metal scraping against metal and the thud of a solid mass of wood. I could not move, knowing all too well what I would find when I turned around to face the door. It would be closed.

Worse still was what followed, the click of a lock.

 

Amity

Two months earlier

Very little effort had been required on Amity's part to convince her mother that her engagement merited a spectacular party. Birdie Wells initially thought London would be the best location, and that it should be held at the height of the season. Alva Vanderbilt's daughter had been married in New York, and Mrs. Wells aimed to emulate her. Consuelo, who was now the Duchess of Marlborough, had been treated like a royal bride, the streets of Manhattan crowded with people longing for a glimpse of her on the way to St. Thomas Episcopal Church. Jeremy's mother was trying to insist on Westminster Abbey, or at least St. Margaret's, but Birdie worried that her daughter's reception might not be quite so spectacular in London. Not everyone there—particularly British mothers of eligible daughters—was fond of the idea of British nobles marrying wealthy American heiresses, and Birdie wanted Amity to be the most celebrated bride of her generation.

While her mother and the duchess argued about the location of the wedding, Amity suggested Cannes as an alternative to London for the engagement festivities. Would it not, she asked, seem like a halfhearted compromise to tell her future mother-in-law the engagement party would be in London rather than the wedding? And didn't the French know better than anyone how to celebrate?

Birdie, exhausted from arguing about the wedding, capitulated to her daughter's demands, and no sooner had she started planning the party in earnest than she realized the brilliance of Amity's idea. Cannes was refined and elegant, not crass like Monte Carlo, and would establish Birdie and her daughter as the sort of ladies who ought to be at the center of London society. When Amity became the Duchess of Bainbridge, she would render Mrs. Astor and her Four Hundred irrelevant. No one in New York would care about invitations to that once famous ballroom; instead they would long to be included in the parties hosted by the Wells family, so that they might one day make the list for those thrown by the duchess.

Amity did not care about any of this. She was in love, and all she wanted was to be with her prince. Of course, he was not actually a prince, but she happily ignored that detail, and set about planning her party in Cannes so that it would solidify all of her hopes and dreams. Jeremy had invited the Hargreaveses, and this would prove the perfect occasion for her to get to know Emily; given the closeness of her fiancé to that lady, it seemed imperative to Amity that the friendship extend to her. She would do everything she could to ensure it, and they would leave the Riviera as dear to each other as sisters; of this, there could be no doubt. Amity would accept nothing less.

 

10

Mustering my courage and burying my nerves, I flung myself in a single movement at the sturdy door to the Man in the Iron Mask's cell. As I expected, it was immovable. There was no handle on the inside, and I could not get it to budge even by throwing all my weight against it. I began to beat on it, crying out for help, but the wood was dotted with metal studs that tore at my hands, leaving them bloody and bruised. I screamed until my throat was raw, but to no avail. The guards assigned to this little-used section of the building must still be outside, cavorting with my friends.

I crossed to the window and rallied myself. Obviously, I would not be left here for long. No one was going to leave me on the island, and surely in a few minutes someone would come looking for me. Amity knew where I was. The only potential delay in my rescue could come from it taking her longer than she had hoped for her to find Augustus. Surely at any moment, Colin would burst through the door and free me.

Despite my attempts to focus on these comforting thoughts, panic began to bubble inside me, due largely, I believe, to the history contained within the walls of the cell—walls that seemed to grow closer with every passing moment. I pride myself on the ability to think rationally, and I did my best to treat the situation as an investigation of sorts. How many people had been graced with the opportunity to experience what life really had been like for the Man in the Iron Mask? Here I stood, locked in his cell, trapped, scared, cold, hungry—well, I was not hungry. The day was warm, and the cool stone of the cell no imposition on my comfort. But I was trapped, and I was scared.

I had heard the lock. Someone had deliberately incarcerated me here, if I may take the liberty of using the term. Was Margaret playing some sort of prank? I could not believe she would do such a thing. I checked my watch; it had been only a little more than a quarter of an hour. Surely they would not keep me waiting much longer.

At last, the lock clicked again, and relief washed over me. I waited for the door to open, but it did not.

“Hello?” I called out. “Is someone there?” There was no response. I pushed against the door, but it did not budge. Then, leaning against it with my entire weight while pressing my feet hard into the floor, I pushed again, and this time the door moved, only a few inches. I could not understand what was impeding my progress. The wood was not dragging on the floor—there was a gap between the bottom of the door and the tiles. With a third push, expending all the effort I could muster, I managed to move it enough so that I could slip through the opening and back into the corridor.

Once free, I saw that there now stood in the corridor a large rain barrel blocking the door. It had kept it from swinging freely on its hinges. Without pausing, I rushed out of the building—the guards had not returned to their posts—and out to the parade ground, where, so far as I could tell, my friends had not taken note of my absence.

“I do so very much appreciate you all coming to my rescue,” I said.

“Your rescue?” Jeremy asked. “Em, I was wholly unaware that you allow yourself to be rescued.”

“Sometimes, Jeremy, it is necessary.” I turned to Amity. “Did you find Augustus?”

“No, but the guard at the Royal Gate told me that he had already left and started for the dock, so I imagine we will see him on the boat. You look terrible, Emily. I do hope locating my reticule didn't do this to you.”

“I did find it,” I said, and handed it to her.

“Your hands!” Margaret exclaimed. “What happened?”

“I went to retrieve Amity's reticule from the Man in the Iron Mask's cell,” I said. “While I was collecting it, someone closed the door and locked me in. I screamed for help, but no one was close enough to hear me. As you can see, my attempts to beat open the door took a greater toll on my hands than on the door.”

“Someone trapped you?” Colin asked.

“I heard the lock click after the door shut.”

“Did you hear anything else?” he asked.

“No. Eventually, I heard the lock again, but I still could not open the door.” I told him about the rain barrel, and he ran off, back into the prison. Amity insisted on bandaging my injured hands with handkerchiefs and fussed over me like I were a wounded child.

“It is quite all right,” I said. “No lasting harm done.”

“It is most unacceptable,” Cécile said. “I want to know the identity of the miscreant who played this trick on you.”

“If it was a trick,” Amity said. “What if he had left her longer? What if she had fainted in terror and struck her head as she fell? This is no lighthearted prank.”

Colin returned. “I saw no rain barrel, Emily.”

“It was there and so heavy I could barely move it.”

“It is not there any longer. I searched the other cells and the rest of the corridor as well, but found nothing.”

“How strange.”

“Were you playing a trick on us, Emily?” Amity asked, a smile spreading across her face. “You are so very! I was actually worried that some maniac was after you! And your hands—what were you thinking, injuring yourself? Did you think we would not believe you if you had no physical proof?”

“That is not what happened at all,” I said, shock racking my body. “I told you—someone locked the door. I heard it click.” The tenor of the group around me changed almost imperceptibly, but I could feel that no one believed my story to be credible. Neither Jack nor Mr. Fairchild would make eye contact with me, and Christabel had turned away from me altogether. Cécile and Margaret, upon whom I thought I could rely, remained silent. Only Colin offered support, standing close and squeezing my wrist, not wanting to further bruise my hands.

“Badly done, Em,” Jeremy said. “I was ready to go complain to the commander of the fort and insist that he interrogate all his soldiers until someone confessed.”

“You assume I have invented the story?” I asked.

“Someone could have moved the barrel,” Margaret said, but her tone was not convincing.

“So quickly?” Mr. Fairchild asked. “And without any of us noticing?”

“We were all focused on Emily,” Colin said. “Her story along with the injuries to her hands could have served as a ready distraction. It is possible that there are places in the prison I did not know to look.” With a few words, he persuaded the guards to search with him, but when they returned, he was shaking his head. “Nothing, I am afraid.”

“It is time we return to the mainland,” Cécile said. “I do not think we shall find any satisfactory answers here.”

*   *   *

The boat ride back to Cannes took only twenty minutes, but I feared this trip would feel like an eternity. Tension hung over us all, and I overheard Mr. Fairchild and Jack saying that they understood Cécile's comment about satisfactory answers to directly imply that she believed I had orchestrated the incident. Outraged by this, I went to her, confident that they had misinterpreted her words.

“I do believe you, Kallista,” she said, “and I will tell the gentlemen as much. But it is very strange, do you not think?”

“Of course I do,” I snapped. “After all, I was the one trapped in that awful cell.”

Margaret joined us. “Do not listen to any of this rubbish,” she said. “I think we were all swept up by the mood of the island. It is a foreboding place, and our imaginations have run away with us.”

“My imagination has not been called into action,” I said.

“I was not suggesting anything of the sort,” she said. “But the rest—they are inventing stories for their own entertainment.”

“I confess I thought neither of you believed me,” I said.

“I am wounded,” Cécile said, striking her breast. “How could you think us capable of such disloyalty?”

“It is beneath me,” I said, lowering my head and tugging at the makeshift bandages on my hands.

“We should have spoken up on your behalf,” Margaret said.

“I am terribly sorry,” I said. “I should have had better faith in you both.”

“It does not merit further thought,” Margaret said.

I nodded. “You are right, of course, but it does trouble me that we have not the slightest idea of who did this. I hate to even ask the question, but did either of you actually see Augustus leave the fort?”