Page 53 of The Art of Theft
Throughout it all, Mr. Marbleton remained close to her as much as he could. They rarely spoke. One time, when they passed each other in a hallway, she with her arms full of a floral arrangement, he carrying empty baskets in which he’d earlier ferried up garlands of spruce and berries, he asked whether she was all right. Another time, after the servants’ supper, as they were moving endless platters of canapés into place, she’d snuck a miniature quiche she’d stolen from her platter into his pocket, only to have him immediately hand her a tinygougèrehe’d saved for her.
It tasted marvelous.
With the endless labor shoved onto the temporary staff, even though she kept her eyes open, she didn’t see much of anything except services stairs and passages connecting various pantries and storerooms to the gallery where she’d transferred everything. With the exception of the arrival of a mysterious guest in the afternoon, which made her heart thud with excitement and misgivings.
Half an hour before the guests were to arrive everything was in place, towers of glasses sparkling, wines uncorked and breathing. The temporary staff were sent to wash their hands and change into fresh, spotless uniforms. They were then assigned places for the evening.
Livia had longed for the backbreaking portion of the work to finish. But now that she was standing around, almost immediately she began to worry about Charlotte and Lord Ingram. At least Mr. Marbleton would be near her.
“Did you notice anything?” she asked, when she helped him adjust a garland on the mantel.
He nodded. “You?”
She nodded, too, wondering whether he had also seen the black-swaddled figure slipping into the château like a ghost.
“To your stations!” shouted a member of the permanent staff. “To your stations! The guests will be here any minute.”
Livia exhaled, went to her spot, and looked toward the door, waiting for Charlotte to walk in at any moment.
?“You are upset about something,” said the maharani. “What is it, Mrs. Watson?”
Mrs. Watson had no idea now why she hadn’t immediately thought her beautiful at their reunion. If anything she had become even more striking in the intervening years, with an aura of queenliness to her sculpted features.
This evening she wore a white silk sari edged with borders of cool blue. Mostly Mrs. Watson still found her to be a stranger. Yet other times she would catch glimpses of the young woman she’d once known—like now, with her perceptive question that indicated a willingness to listen.
Thus far on Mrs. Watson’s call, they’d already talked about the weather, the maharani’s grandchildren, and even the steel tower almost a thousand feet high that would be constructed right on the Champ de Mars, about to break ground in a matter of days.
What Mrs. Watson really wanted to ask was the maharani’s stance on the British Raj, but she didn’t know how to pose the question gracefully. So she gave her coffee a stir and said, “Two of my companions and I interviewed to be temporary staff at Château Vaudrieu. The young people were selected—they are at the reception now. But I was rejected on the ground of being an old hag, in front of a roomful of people.”
The maharani’s expression immediately darkened but Mrs. Watsonraised a hand to forestall her objection. “The man who said that revealed his own uncouthness than anything else. I know I’m not a young woman anymore. To the sort of men who judge women only on their youth and desirability, I’m about as useful and interesting as a moth to a wolf.
“I was upset not so much for myself, but for the young lady who was with me. She is sensitive. She is afraid of an unsecured old age. And she is facing that dreadful chasm at thirty, beyond which unmarried women become spinsters.
“So what for me was a minor vexation was an ordeal for her. And she’s been avoiding me since because she thinks I must have been ten times as devastated as she was as a bystander. I shall need to corner her soon to let her know that I’ve developed the hide of an elephant over the years and that she mustn’t suffer needlessly on my behalf.”
The maharani gazed at her a moment. Mrs. Watson’s heart thumped. This was the first time they had been alone since the maharani’s unannounced call, when they’d both been formal and awkward.
“You’ve always been wise and perceptive, Mrs. Watson. But what I’ve appreciated most is the compassion behind your perspicacity.” The maharani smiled slightly. “Do you remember when you snuck me around London, to places where my proper escorts would have never allowed me? You understood, without my ever saying it in so many words, that I’d only seen one kind of life and that I longed to know the other facets that had been kept from me.”
Mrs. Watson’s fingers gripped her skirt. “Then—why did you not do the same for me? Why did you not expose me to other points of view? Why did you not let me see the other facets of your life?”
?The château wasn’t on the same scale as Chatsworth House or Blenheim Palace, but it was larger than the manor at Stern Hollow. The interior was suitably grand, with marble pillars, ormolu staircases,and huge murals. Velvet ropes guided the guests up a double-returned staircase and down an echoing corridor with a painted ceiling, much as had been described in the article.
Charlotte took note of the men stationed at regular intervals along the way. They were dressed as footmen, but it must be apparent, even to those without theft in mind, that they served as guards.
The corridor led into a long gallery. A man stood a few steps inside the door and greeted the new arrivals. “You must be Mr. Nariman,” he said to Lieutenant Atwood.
“Monsieur Plantier, I presume?Enchanté.” said Lieutenant Atwood, in lightly accented French. “My travel companion, Monsieur Hurst.”
Monsieur Plantier, a shrewd-looking man in his late thirties, was reputed to be an art connoisseur and the one who curated the private museum at Château Vaudrieu. “We are delighted you could join us tonight. Please have a glass of champagne and savor the beauty of our collection.”
“I was hoping to luxuriate in Madame Desrosiers’s beauty as well. Is she not here tonight?” asked Lieutenant Atwood.
“Alas, my sister is slightly indisposed this evening, but she very much hopes to be well enough to preside over the ball.”
“Our best wishes for her speedy recovery,” said Lieutenant Atwood, as they yielded their places to the next guests in line.
A waiter passed by carrying a tray of champagne flutes. They each took one and started a slow promenade down the gallery. There were no Van Dycks, but here, too, there were strategically placed footmen. They didn’t pour champagne, circulate with trays of nibbles, or rearrange displays at the buffet to make the remaining oysters look more symmetrical. Instead they kept to their spots, interacted not at all with the guests but studied them with alert and suspicious eyes.
