Page 1 of Grave Expectations
Chapter 1
Paris, autumn 1889
"Ah, Mademoiselle Holloway, Monsieur Fitzroy. I have been expecting you. Please come in. Sit." The matron's accent sounded like a cat's purr with its rolling Rs and softly tumbling consonants. Her kind smile rippled across her face and reached her gray eyes. Eyes that looked at me with as much wonder as I had looked at Paris through the coach window.
"Thank you for seeing us," Lincoln said, holding a chair out for me.
"Would you mind continuing to speak in English," I said. "I'm afraid I know very little French." Since docking at Calais several hours ago, I'd learned the words for yes, no, thank you, please and hat, after it blew off in the wind. I'd also discovered that apâtisseriewas heaven in a shop.
"Not at all." The matron clasped her knotty hands on the desk in front of her. "You look like her. Your face, your chin, nose, hair. So pretty."
A blush crept up my throat and threatened to engulf my cheeks. I was acutely aware of Lincoln sitting beside me. I didn't need to see him to know that he watched me. His warm gaze made my skin tingle.
"Thank you." In an effort to shift the focus off me, I leaned forward. "Please tell me about her, Matron."
"I will try."
The matron of the St. Madeleine orphanage in Paris had sent Lincoln a letter after he'd learned that I'd been adopted from that institution as a baby. She had provided him with brief details about my mother, and she now repeated these facts. Ellen Mercier had been unwed when she gave birth to me. She was educated and most likely from a good family but had perhaps been cast out when she became pregnant. She'd been gravely ill and had given me to the orphanage in desperation. She'd asked them to find me a nice home, so when the English vicar and his wife inquired about a child to raise as their own, I'd been handed over to them and whisked away to London. The woman I'd grown up believing was my mother was now dead, buried in Highgate Cemetery, and the man I'd called Father had disowned me when I'd raised her spirit at the age of the thirteen. Despite calling myself Charlotte Holloway, I was not a Holloway. Nor was I really a Frankenstein, after my real father. I was Charlie. Just Charlie. That was enough—for now.
"I would like to have known her in happier times," the matron concluded. "She had a quick…what do you English say? Witty?"
"Wit," I said. "A quick mind."
"A quick mind, yes, and a good heart. She had two pair of shoes, and gave her spare to a girl here. A poor girl, so thin and cold with no shoes. Ellen, your mother, insist. She was kind." But instead of smiling at the thought of my mother's kindness, she frowned and shook her head. "Perhaps that is why she find herself in trouble."
"Did she tell you anything about my father?"
"No. We begged her to tell us. We would write to him, you see, and ask that he give you his name, or money if he had any. But she refuse, most strongly. I do not think he was a good man."
"I met him," I told her. "He's dead. And you're correct—he wasn't a good man."
Her eyebrow inched up her forehead, but I didn't elaborate. Victor Frankenstein was dead, and I didn't want to waste my breath on him. He may have been my real father but he didn't care for me as a father ought. He only wanted me for my necromancy and to fulfil his mad medical dreams.
"Is there anything else you can tell me about her, Matron?"
She sighed. "That is all, I am sorry to say. But!" Her face folded into a map of crinkles. "I have something for you. Something she wanted you to have."
"Your letter to Linc—Mr. Fitzroy—mentioned it." I felt myself rising from the chair in anticipation and firmly clasped the chair arms to ground myself. "What is it?"
She flattened her hands on the desk, and that's when I noticed an envelope sealed with a plain red wax seal. She handed it to me.
The envelope bulged in one corner. "Thank you," I heard myself murmur. I stared at the envelope. It was the first thing I'd held that my mother's hands—myrealmother—had also touched. It was such a small thing, so insignificant, but it felt more wondrous than all the artifacts in the British Museum.
Lincoln touched my arm. "Charlie?"
"I'll open it at the hotel." I clasped the envelope tightly in my gloved hand and rose. My legs felt unsteady but I stood without assistance. Lincoln moved closer, as if to support me if I stumbled. "Thank you, Matron," I said. "You've been very kind. Thank you for your care all those years ago, of both my mother and myself. It is very much appreciated."
She came around the desk and took my hand. "You are welcome,mademoiselle. It is a joy to see you grown and in good health. It fills my heart to know that we gave you to a good family."
I didn't correct her. She didn't need to know about the cruel words Anselm Holloway had flung at me as he forced me out of the house I'd called home. She didn't need to hear how he'd almost killed me in an attempt to 'cure' me of my necromancy. Besides, my adopted mother had been good to me. She, at least, had loved me. Of course, she hadn't learned of my strangeness during her lifetime.
"We will be in Paris for a few more days," Lincoln said in his brisk but bland tone. "Would you mind drafting a letter stating that Charlotte Holloway, now of London, was left here as a baby eighteen years ago by Ellen Mercier and given to Mr. and Mrs. Holloway."
"Whatever for?" I asked.
"It may be required for legal reasons."
"What legal reasons?"
