Jane and the Barque of Frailty by Stephanie Barron Page A

peace?”
    “Not at all. I was just considering of my toast.”
    “Monsieur is already in the breakfast parlour. Madame Henri takes her tea in bed today.”
    “Thank you, Manon.”
    She glanced over her shoulder, then shut the book room door very quietly behind her so that we should not be disturbed. “While the house was yet asleep, I walked in Cadogan Square for nearly half an hour. The maid Druschka was there.”
    “Indeed?”
    “She would not at first discuss the Princess or her death. But after a little—a period of quiet sympathy— she chose to confide.”
    I waited for what would come.
    “Druschka would have it that the Princess Tscholikova would never se suicider,” Manon said firmly. “She insists that her mistress was killed by another.”
    “Deliberate murder?”
    “The most deliberate, but yes. Druschka vows she will not rest until justice is done.”
    I thrust aside the small table on which I had been writing and rose from my chair. “This might be the loyalty of a devoted servant, Manon—one who cannot bear the Princess to be dragged through the mud.”
    “A servant so devoted, mademoiselle, that she was admitted to her mistress’s confidence.”
    “We cannot know that! The woman might claim anything in her grief!”
    “One truth Druschka holds as absolute, look you: that Princess Tscholikova knew milord Castlereagh not at all.”
    I stared. “But the Princess’s intimate correspondence with that gentleman was published in the Post!”
    Manon shrugged. “Simply because a thing is printed, it must be true? In France we know better than to believe this. The principals were never named, in any case. A matter of initials only.”
    I revolved the maid’s words in my mind. All lies. Not just the manner of her lady’s death, but the scandal that led up to it: a fabrication entire. Impossible to say whether the scandal was invented to pave the way for murder—or whether murder was the inadvertent result of a botched attempt at scandal. Certainly the notion of the lady’s suicide— and the plausibility of its occurring on Castlereagh’s doorstep—were accepted solely because of those damning letters. But if Evgenia Tscholikova had never known the minister … ?
    Why was it necessary for a Russian princess to die in so sordid a way? And whose hand had held the knife that cut her throat?
    “What you say interests me greatly,” I told Manon.
    “Like a vignette from a novel, is it not?” she said.
    I WAS COLLECTED FROM THE BREAKFAST PARLOUR BY a sister so divinely habited as to appear every inch the Countess, from her spencer of willow green embroidered with cream knots, to her upturned poke bonnet. Gloves were on her hands, half-boots on her feet, and a reticule dangled from one arm. Eliza held a square package wrapped in brown paper; she did not quite meet Henry’s gaze as she said, “I cannot waste another moment, my love, before returning this wretched soup tureen to Mr. Wedgwood’s establishment; I declare I was miserable last evening, for being unable to place it in a position of honour on the supper table. It must and shall be repaired.”
    “Eh?” Henry replied, glancing up from his morning newspaper. “Ah, yes—the tureen. Very proper you should attend to it yourself, Eliza; I daresay Madame Bigeon has much to do this morning, in clearing the household of last evening’s effects. But is your cold improved enough to permit of going out? Are you wise to expose yourself to the ill-effects of this spring wind? I had expected you to keep to your room this morning, and had quite resolved to dine at my club, rather than incommode the weary household.”
    “Dine at your club by all means,” Eliza said hurriedly. “Jane and I shall step round to Ludgate Hill, and feel no compunction as to the hour of our return. We may content ourselves with the remains of last evening’s supper, and perhaps some cold chicken.”
    “But does Mr. Wedgwood’s shop lie in Ludgate Hill?” Henry