The Fugitive Colours (Genevieve Planché Book 2), page 8
I learned later that while all this was happening, Sir Humphrey and Evelyn, thrown together while he followed his assignment in Derby, fell in love and were married. When Louis XV finally released Thomas from Sèvres, the two of us set out for England, eager to return to our family and friends, Evelyn among them.
If only it had been that simple!
When we managed to alert the English authorities that we were homeward bound, the two countries were still very much at war. Thomas and I found ourselves stuck at the Hague in Holland, a neutral country, where the ambassador to France opened negotiations with the ambassador to England on our behalf. Those negotiations dragged on for months and months and months. It was obvious our fate was a priority to no one. Thomas and I married, I worked on a series of paintings, and I became pregnant. Only then did we receive permission to set foot on English soil. However, there were severe restrictions on what Thomas could do or where he could go, imposed by none other than Sir Humphrey Willoughby.
I’ll never forget the shock on Thomas’ face as he read the letter listing those restrictions. “I think they’d very much like to find an excuse to send me to prison,” he said. It was a rare admission of fear – and resentment. Most of the time, Thomas reassured me that all would be well. I always pretended that I was convinced. But fear nagged deep inside me, and alongside it, guilt.
George and I reach the public entrance to the Tower of London, very near the river. The Thames is crowded with masts, ships eagerly arriving from all over the globe to convey their goods, tea, silk, sugar, coffee, spices, furs, timber. Watching all this booty arrive is the Tower, squatting on the north bank.
My manservant grimaces. George holds superstitions about places with violent pasts. I can’t really blame him for his unease, especially not today. It’s anything but a cheerful afternoon. The sky is leaden grey. The river mist, which can be impenetrable at dawn, still clings to the Tower walls and gates, mingling with the coal smoke. It creates a fitting atmosphere for what one suspects took place on the other side of the wall.
He might not care to accompany me inside, but I couldn’t very well have George standing outside the Tower walls for heaven knows how long. “George, there’s a row of shops and a coffee house over there,” I point to a cluster of small establishments on a shallow hill northwest of the Tower. “If I give you sixpence, could you wait there, find a place inside if it gets too cold? I hope to not be within the Tower for too long, but I don’t know exactly how long, I’m afraid.”
George agrees at once and scrambles toward the shops. I take a deep breath and find a place on the line of people waiting to be let inside. There are three things to see inside the Tower: the Crown Jewels, the Armoury and the Menagerie. Different attractions for different people.
I don’t see Evelyn anywhere, but knowing her character as well as I do, I’m certain she would purchase her pass to the Menagerie and make her way there with her daughter, Diana, expecting to meet me inside. I shuffle along in the line. In front of me, a group of people talk about a favourite topic no matter where one goes in London, the burdensome taxes we pay. New ones are being added with painful frequency. The newspapers claim it is to pay our war debt, the cost of seven punishing years.
“So now, I have a tax for the soap I use to wash, a separate tax on my tea and my sugar, a tax on the salt for my food and one on the beer that I drink,” wails the man in front of me. “What’s next – a tax on the air I breathe? You have to be a Bristol sugar baron to survive!”
I hate all the taxes too. It’s one of the main reasons I’ve so little money saved, but the loud and repetitive complaints set my teeth on edge. After what seems like an endless wait, I reach the front of the line. On my printed pass, it says, “The Lion Tower”.
I spot Evelyn, not among the lions but the monkeys that are leaping about in the smaller building. She and her daughter and a third person, most likely a nurse, are laughing and pointing at the frenzied creatures on the other side of the iron gate. Despite my cauldron of warring feelings for Evelyn, I am glad to see her in the flesh. She’s wearing a long, grey cape that must provide superb warmth during such a cold, damp afternoon. Her black hair shines likes a tight helmet on her finely moulded head.
“Oh, Genevieve, there you are,” she says, all friendliness.
“Lady Willoughby,” I answer with a curtsey. Since she married the son of an earl, she is entitled to certain gestures of respect from everyone, even old friends. One might think it astounding that she, the stepdaughter of a Derbyshire banker, captured a member of the nobility. But there are advantages on both sides. Humphrey is a youngest son, without land to inherit, and Evelyn brought a large dowry settlement to the marriage.
“Diana wants to see the polar bear, but there is no sign of him anywhere,” she says. “Say hello to Mrs. Sturbridge, Diana.”
The girl turns from the monkeys to favour me with a bright smile. Diana is a winning combination of her parents’ physical traits, Evelyn’s black hair and Humphrey’s light blue eyes.
“I was hoping you’d bring Pierre to the menagerie so that he and Diana could play together,” Evelyn says. “The children are so close in age.”
“I thought you had something important to discuss, something of an urgent nature,” I blurt. “That is why I’m here.”
She regards me coolly. Or does sadness pull at the corners of her mouth? I can’t always tell.
“Is it so unpleasant to see me again, Genevieve?” she asks wistfully. So it’s sadness. And I’ve just been rude.
“Of course not,” I say. “But I’ve taken an important new commission for my silk weaving design workshop. There is a certain amount of pressure regarding when we finish.”
Evelyn expresses interest in my design business, posing all sorts of questions. In the back of my mind, I know this is not why she asked to see me. But I’m happy to keep this thread of conversation going for two reasons. The first is that I am dreading the true cause of her summons. The second is Evelyn has one of the quickest, most perceptive minds of anyone I know, man or woman, and I always benefit from her insights.
“It is quite impressive how you’ve built up this workshop,” she says. “And it has not gone unnoticed how, ever since you returned to England, you’ve kept clear of any… controversy. You live very quietly.”
The evening I spent at Joshua Reynolds’ house was hardly quiet. But for some reason, I don’t want to tell Evelyn anything about that.
“As has Thomas,” I point out. “He lives quietly. Don’t you agree?”
The friendly light in her eyes dies, and her lips harden as if she must push herself forward now to complete a dreaded but necessary task.
Evelyn says, “Let’s have a spin around the lion house, shall we? It might not be so crowded now.”
My stomach clenching, I nod and follow Evelyn, her child and her maid into the lion house.
Chapter Eight
If Evelyn had hoped for thinner crowds milling around the cages holding the Menagerie’s largest beasts, she was mistaken. Simply opening the door and making our way inside is difficult. But Diana is jumping up and down with excitement at the prospect of seeing a live lion, so we push forward.
The story goes that the Menagerie had its start when the kings and queens of England conveyed to the Tower the inconveniently large beasts they had been given as gifts by rulers around the world. They were in possession of lions, leopards, tigers, monkeys, bears, ostriches and even an elephant who arrived courtesy of the Spanish king. As entertaining as the exotic beasts could be, caring for them was difficult. The animals ended up at the Tower. The Menagerie grew out of those intermittent attempts to shelter the beasts, and then, due to the public’s persistent interest, to display them.
I do know something about uncertain fates. The animals have my sympathy.
Evelyn instructs her maid to take Diana closer to the lion cages but to hold her hand tightly at all times and to keep hold of her money purse as well, since pickpockets favour the Tower attractions.
“Do you think there are criminals among us here, pretending to take an interest in animals?” I ask.
“Humphrey says there have never been more criminals in London than now,” she says very seriously.
Humphrey hasn’t been good for her sense of humour.
Evelyn leads me away from the animals and toward a corner without a good view into any of the cages and so less crowded. The smell manages to reach us here, different than that of any London street or stable. It’s the smell of wretched and uncomprehending captivity. Outside a narrow, filthy window, I see the sky is turning a deeper grey. Either a rainstorm is imminent or it’s beginning to get dark.
“Genevieve, have you heard of the Comte de Guerchy?” she asks in a low voice.
“Never,” I say. “Did you think I would know him? Is he a Huguenot?”
“Hardly that. De Guerchy is Louis the Fifteenth’s ambassador to the English court.”
“I didn’t expect that King George was receptive to French ambassadors,” I say.
“Well, the treaty ending the war was signed early last year. So our two countries are supposedly friends and should trust each other.”
The sarcastic way Evelyn said friends, I knew that she – and by extension, her husband, Sir Humphrey – felt no friendship for the French. Thinking of the strange French couple I met at Joshua Reynolds’ house, I have to admit I share her antipathy.
Lowering her voice even further, Evelyn says, “A means was found for Humphrey and his colleagues to intercept letters passing back and forth between the Comte de Guerchy in London and the Duc de Choiseul in Paris, read them surreptitiously and allow them to pass along. De Choiseul is the chief minister of King Louis, as I’m sure you know.”
I can’t pretend to be surprised. Years ago, Sir Gabriel Courtenay told me that the British government’s idea of spying was to open other people’s mail.
“But what has any of this to do with me?” I ask.
“Nothing to do with you. It’s Thomas. His name was mentioned in de Guerchy’s letter posted to Paris last month.”
I recoil. “No, I can’t believe it. Why would this ambassador mention Thomas? What did he say?”
“Not very much.” Her lips clamp shut.
“Evelyn, please tell me. You must. Why do the French even care about him now? It’s been years since we came back to England. Unless they’re still angry about what happened, that he didn’t want to remain at Sèvres and serve as its chemist? Oh, if Thomas is in danger—”
Evelyn says, “You are becoming overwrought. Please, Genevieve. We must not attract attention.”
I force myself to say, more calmly, “Is there anything you can tell me about this letter?”
She answers my question with another question: “Have you heard of the Chevalier Charles d’Eon?”
“Now, who on earth is that?”
“An aristocrat, a dragoon in their army, decorated for bravery during the war.” She pauses. “He is the subject of the letter. It seems he is causing them no end of trouble. He was sent to London last year as the Plenipotentiary Minister, ostensibly to perform certain diplomatic duties, such as final prisoner-of-war exchanges.”
“Why do you say ‘ostensibly’?”
“Because at Westminster, they’re fairly certain that Chevalier Charles d’Eon is one of the Secret du Roi, just as Sir Gabriel Courtenay was.”
Now I have to truly fight to stay calm. The Secret du Roi is an elite group of spies, most of them aristocrats, who answer only to King Louis XV.
“If that is the case, what’s d’Eon doing in London?” I ask. “The war is over.”
“Oh, you can’t be so naïve, Genevieve. The French despise us as much as ever. They’d do anything to cause our country pain. Now, what Chevalier d’Eon is doing here specifically, I’m afraid Humphrey hasn’t been able to learn his spying instructions. It’s not something one can ask of anyone and get an honest answer. For most of this year, d’Eon has been causing King Louis grief, not our government. He was recalled but refused to leave England. The Chevalier d’Eon is threatening to publish letters with details of the king’s private life unless he receives a huge pension. In Paris, they’re so angry that they’re writing about kidnapping d’Eon and forcing him back to France.”
I know exactly how terrifying that sort of kidnapping can be. As does Thomas. Which brings me back to my most pressing question.
“How is Thomas mixed up in the misdeeds of the Chevalier d’Eon?”
“It’s not clear.”
“Evelyn, why are you telling me these things, frightening me to death, if you can’t be explicit?” I demand.
She takes a deep breath. “The content of the letter is about the Chevalier d’Eon and progress made in trying to find him, as he seems to have gone into hiding. But in between the written lines of the letter, in invisible ink, is a short message about Thomas.”
Sir Gabriel instructed me both how to write in invisible ink and how to convert its hidden messages back to visibility. Its use in this letter means that, to the French, Thomas is a matter of urgent importance, perhaps more so even than tracking down their blackmailing spy.
Over Evelyn’s shoulder, I can see the nearest cage, and when a group of people shuffle along, the lion himself comes into view. Large and of a dark gold colour, with his famed long mane, he sits on a pile of straw in the middle of the cage. Even from here, I can feel his furious misery.
“What is the short message?” I ask.
“It’s a few sentences, phrases really, saying that Thomas Sturbridge, presently in the household of the Earl of Sandwich, is of the highest calibre of all the chemists in England, and he trained under Jean Hellot, the head chemist at Sèvres and chief chemist of France. That’s all.”
“Why does Thomas’ ability interest the French ambassador?”
“That’s what Humphrey doesn’t know. It could be that they are preparing to approach him, trying to involve him in some enterprise. Humphrey doesn’t know what. It could all be detailed in a different letter he wasn’t able to get his hands on.”
“I have to tell you, Thomas would not be any good at finding a French spy who has gone into hiding.”
“Thomas could be wholly unconnected to the Chevalier d’Eon. But I wanted to see you, Genevieve, to say that it’s never been more important for Thomas to avoid contact with questionable people and to stay away from anything remotely connected to what he did at Sèvres.”
I say slowly, “But Evelyn, you know very well that Thomas agreed, in writing, never to create blue or any other shades of colour for the rest of his career. He’s a tutor now. He teaches and he lectures on things like electricity. His work has nothing to do with art, it has little to do even with chemistry. If Thomas gives his word on a matter, that is final.”
Evelyn is unmoved by my speech. “In his letters to you, Thomas has not mentioned anything about a particular visit, a message, an approach?” she presses me.
Did her husband instruct her on what to say to me today, the exact questions to ask?
“No,” I say.
An awkward tension fills the air.
“How would the French find their way to Thomas, when he’s at the country house of the Earl of Sandwich?” I say. “Unless the earl himself is under suspicion?”
She shakes her head. “Oh, heavens, no. The Fourth Earl of Sandwich has held the highest responsibility in His Majesty’s government. He was First Lord of the Admiralty. He is guilty of being overfond of the gambling table – and other dissolute pursuits – but nothing more threatening than that. He’s a Montagu, after all.”
Now I am completely certain that Evelyn is of one mind with her husband. She’d never describe a man in those words. And I have a horrible feeling that her requests of me are about to get worse.
“Genevieve, when is Thomas returning to London to spend his nights with you in Spitalfields?”
My heart sinks.
“At the end of next week or the week following.”
She purses her lips. “Why isn’t he in London already? The season has begun, Parliament is in session. The Earl of Sandwich is here.”
“But his son isn’t, not the younger son whom Thomas teaches. I don’t suppose there is a pressing need for the son, who is twelve, to be here at the moment Parliament opens.”
She looks distinctly unconvinced.
The lion in the nearest cage roars. It’s nothing like the rattling growls that have sounded through the room since we stepped inside the lion house. It is louder, angrier, far more savage. The fury of the beast makes something stir inside me.
“Evelyn, it’s wrong and it’s unfair for you to question Thomas’ actions,” I say. “He is loyal to England – he shouldn’t be blamed because his name appears in a letter he had nothing to do with.”
My taking offence only pushes Evelyn to take a harder tone.
“Genevieve, this is an unofficial line of enquiry, based on our friendship. It could be otherwise. Do you want to have Thomas summoned to Westminster to appear before my husband and his colleagues, answer for his name being written in invisible ink by the French ambassador? I don’t think that the Earl of Sandwich would be pleased by such a development either.”
“No,” I say, much more quietly. “No one wants that.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, touching my arm tentatively. “This is difficult for me too. But nonetheless, we need you to speak with Thomas when he returns to London, ask if he’s been approached, and then…” her voice trails away. “Genevieve, just keep your eyes and ears open.”
Before I can say anything to that, Diana runs to her mother, crying, the nurse behind her.
“My darling, what is it?” exclaims Evelyn, sweeping down to embrace her daughter.
“He’s dead, he’s dead!” her daughter wails.
