The rest of the day was my own, and I had much to do. Anne-Marie brought me several messages, and I spent a few hours writing responses. My letters had to be reviewed by mysir de duke before posting. That was an irritation, but more for him than me since I composed the longest and silliest letters I could imagine.
After sending him the sixth one, he came to where I sat at a desk in the room, his hand overhead, waving my latest letter.
“I do not need my busy day being interrupted by—” He read from my letter in his hand, “—did Margarette really wear that dress sent to her by her lover, or—” The duke shuffled the paper to another letter. “Why ever did Poppy take her dog to the park?”
“You said you wanted to see everything I was writing,” I said sweetly, trying to put on an air of innocence. It was hard to do so, but the duke was in one of his rushing-about moods, and said, “Fine, madame, I will let you write and send off your letters if you promise me, on your honor, not to discuss the king’s business.”
“Of course! Now, may I meet with a few of my clients here?”
“Madame Chalamet, what is the point of having you here, under my eye, if you are going to write letters and meet who you please?”
“Exactly my thoughts and why you should let me go home.”
“No. I need you at hand. Things are moving quickly and your expertise, and silence, could be helpful. Surely you can sit in this golden prison for ten days? I promise no more dinner parties. Occupy yourself in solitary activities. Read a book.”
“You can’t expect me to suspend my business because you think I’m a blabbermouth or because I could identify some random piece of jewelry. You haven’t exactly hidden yourself away from your duties.”
Stephan came into the room with a piece of paper in his hand and stood silently, waiting for the duke to address him. Archambeau shot him an irritated glance. “Madame, who do you want to meet today?”
“Just a handful of old clients. I promise I won’t discuss anything related to you-know-who.”
As a second clerk appeared behind Stephan with a bundle of papers clasped to their chest, he threw up his hands. “Fine. See your clients, but I want their names and if one whisper reaches the news dogs, I know who I will blame.”
“Certainly. I’ll even give you their addresses.”
Before he left, he said, “Please adjourn to the conservatory to meet your clients. My mother prefers to use this room during the day.” He directed the footman to assist me in anything I might need, and after he left, I asked the servant his name.
“Ruben, madame.”
“Good. Now Ruben, I will need these letters posted.” I opened up my portfolio and brought out a stack of letters I had saved back, awaiting either a slackening of the rules, or when I could leave the house. “But this one, I need hand delivered to the café’s owner.”
“Yes, madame.” Looking at the address, he said, “The letters I can post on my way to the café. I can return within the hour if I have your permission to take a quick-cab?”
“Of course.” I fished into my leather wallet that had once been my father’s. Decades of use had discolored the leather, but I would not replace it out of affection. Handing Ruben a handful of coins, including a mix of royals, castles, and knights, I told him, “If this is not enough to post the letters, and for the quick-cab, when you return I shall pay the cab myself.”
“This should be more than enough, madame.”
“Good. If there is any left over, treat yourself from a street vendor or save the coin. Your choice.”
My first client arrived before Ruben returned and it was the servant girl, Georgette, who brought her to me. Madame Smit-Vossen was a widow who believed she was being haunted, but it was only her memory playing tricks. It was longing that made her smell her husband’s cologne on the pillowcases, and her absentmindedness that moved his favorite books and trinkets around their house.
After revealing the truth of her husband’s ‘haunting’ two years ago, she still liked to meet with me to discuss what was happening in her life. With her children grown and with families of their own, she needed someone to listen. Though my expertise was in Ghost Talking, I learned after leaving the Society’s halls that most of my work was comforting the grieving hearts of the living.
Her round face filled with wonder as she gazed around the conservatory. It was a rich man’s confection located on the roof. Over the housetops you could see the distant harbor, and the masts of ships. If you wanted to look closer there was a brass telescope.
“Mysir de Duke de Chambaux’s residence! You could have knocked me over with a feather when your letter told me where to find you. I see you are finally getting the recognition you deserve.”
She wore a white widow’s cap edged in a modest lace over her tight brown curls and a wool day dress in brown with a pattern of tiny white daises. She settled into one of the wicker chairs, causing it to give a small squeak of protest at her matronly bulk.
“Thank you, Madame Smit-Vossen, but this is merely a temporary situation. Soon I’ll be back to my own humble abode at the Crown.”
“Still, to rub elbows with the aristo set! And look at how they are treating you,” she said, indicating the cart of treats that Georgette had brought us. Not only was there a silver teapot that looked to be an antique, but an assortment of desserts that was almost as good as the Crown’s cream tea. I poured out while my guest wavered over a chocolate truffle or a slice of lemon cake.
“The duke has a talented staff, but I prefer Chef Perdersen at the Crown. I was just trying a new confection of his the other day. An incredible mix of flavors.”
“There’s nothing like home, is there? Every time my dear Leo came back from a business trip to Zulskaya. Lou-Lou, he’d say— he always called me that even though my real name is Louisa— there’s nothing like being in front of your own fire and eating your good cooking.”
I was glad to see the mention of her husband produced only a slight misting of her eyes. Helping her to remember him without experiencing crippling grief was my goal for the widow and it had taken us months to get to this stage.
“Tell me what your daughter is doing. Has her baby arrived yet?”
“Oh, yes!”
The next half hour was a pleasant chat about what clothes a baby might need and what would be a gift that Louisa could send that would outshine whatever the in-laws might choose. We talked over the best way to get baby milk out of clothes, the latest model of sewing machine she was considering, and her never-ending quest to find the best grocer in Alenbonné as defined by the best prices with the most variety.
For Madame Smit-Vossen was foremost a woman who enjoyed discussing the richness of her domestic life. She displayed no curiosity about why I was in the duke’s house, and it was easy to keep my promise to Archambeau.
By the time we finished, Ruben had returned from his errands. He escorted Madame Smit-Vossen out, and as they left, I heard him answering her question of whether the rumors of the bathroom taps being gold were true.
My next client, Mysir Joris Jakobsen, was an Alenbonné merchant with a thriving spice trade. This was our third meeting, and he still hadn’t gotten to the point of what he wanted from me. Instead, we had discussed the price of chocolate from Perino (lamentable!) and the time needed to repair a ship in dry dock.
The only thing I knew from gossip was mysir’s business partner had died of a heart attack on the docks of Alenbonné when he was overseeing the unloading of one of their ships.
Jakobsen was a small man, in his fifties, partially bald, and wore wire-rim glasses with round lenses. He rearranged the teacups on the tray, holding up one close to his eyes to examine the fineness of the pattern on the thin porcelain.
He said, in an overly precise voice, chopping his syllables very fine, “You have never asked me, Madame Chalamet, why I have come to you.”
“I have wondered, mysir, but I believed you would approach it in your own time.”
“It’s a troublesome matter. Very difficult.”
“Sometimes an unexpected death leaves behind untidiness.”
“Exactly. I am so relieved you understand. It’s a messy matter.” He shuddered. “It’s the paperwork, you see.”
“Business papers? Contracts? Or a will?”
“Embarrassing. So embarrassing.” His precise voice shook a bit, and whether this was from disgust at things being left messy or anger, I wasn’t sure. Probably a bit of both. “Conrad promised to leave paperwork that would insure I could buy his side of the business if anything happened. As did I. But I cannot find it. I have searched our offices three times and gone through each file folder. There is nothing!”
“And his heirs aren’t being helpful? Are they causing problems?”
“No. I mean, yes, my goodness. They will hound me into my grave with their nonsense!”
“What nonsense?”
He went back to rearranging all the items on the tea cart, sorting them into a row of largest to smallest.
“His wife and son accuse me of being a liar. That I told them Conrad was on a business trip when instead he was in town. Insisting that he worked late in the office when I say he did not. They are driving me mad with their accusations! Worse, my suppliers are taking notice of their slander.”
“What was your relationship in the past with them? Cordial?”
“Certainly. We saw each other in passing. I knew of no problem.”
“Yet, now they proclaim you a liar and want a portion of the business?”
He frowned at the sugar tongs and started polishing them with one of the cloth napkins.
“No. Oddly enough, they have not. They have no interest in the business, for Conrad's son is well established in other work. I have offered to buy out their portion, but before she signs the paper, she wants me to admit that I knew what Conrad was doing—”
“Doing?”
From his inner waistcoat, he pulled out a crisp white handkerchief and, unfolding it, he revealed an oval locket. Jakobsen dangled it by its chain before dropping it into my outstretched hand. “I discovered this in his desk drawer.”
The front of the locket was very ornamental, with an elaborately etched flower. I opened it to find a daguerreotype of a woman in her thirties. She stared back at me with solemn eyes. Framing her portrait were four small, round gems.
From around my neck, I pulled out a chain holding my father’s jewelry loup which I had been wearing since the duke’s expressed an interest in my ability to appraise jewelry. Anne-Marie had brought it with my things.
Standing up, I took the locket and loup to the windows, using the natural light to examine it better under the magnifying glass. Afterward, I closed my eyes, thinking back over what my father had taught me.
Mysir Jakobsen asked eagerly, “What is it? Is Conrad’s ghost talking to you?”
I went back to my seat and, cocking my head, said, “Do you know the language of love, mysir?” My question baffled him. Before he could guess, I continued. “About two decades ago, there was a trend where gems were used to spell out a loved one’s name or a phrase such as ‘adore.’ It is more common with women’s jewelry than a man’s.”
I twisted my hand so he could see inside the locket.
“From the newness of the prongs that hold the four gemstones: emerald, malachite, malachite, and amethyst; is the woman in this locket named Emma?”
He didn't reply.
“Not Conrad’s wife, I presume? She isn’t your wife, by chance?”
“Indeed, not, madame! I am not married! Of course, I recognized her face. She is the wife of one of our sea captains. He died a natural death, fever, and was buried at sea over a year ago.”
The weight of the locket in my hand grew warm; it responded to the name. I gained the feeling of a secret relationship deep with confidences.
“This is my suggestion, mysir: have a private chat with Emma. I feel strongly that she can tell you where this missing paperwork is. Convince her to write a letter to your partner's wife, giving credence to the fact you knew nothing about the affair. If this suffices to convince the widow to sign the papers, I advice you give this captain's wife a finder's fee; perhaps a two percent interest in your company?”
He bristled. “Are you mad? To a captain’s wife? A woman?”
"Without her help, you may find yourself in court, and your business reputation in shambles. Treating fairly with her could be for your benefit."
"But I want nothing to do with this affair!"
If he was going to be like that—! I closed my eyes and held the locket to my forehead, and deepened my breath, summoning what spiritual residue remained attached to the locket in order to capture the resonance of Conrad’s speech pattern.
“Joris, you must take care of her. My spirit will not be at peace until I know my beloved Emma is safe and my sad wife Sophia has her answers.” Ending with my false voice, I opened my eyes, pretending innocence. “Did I say something? I feel as though I went into a trance.”
Mysir Jakobsen’s hand shook as he took back the locket and wrapped it carefully, tying the handkerchief in a knot, before returning it to his pocket. When he cleared his throat, the apple in his throat bobbed up and down with a heavy gulp.
“Most helpful, Madame Chalamet. I do not think I need to see you again.”
“Always glad to be of service, Mysir Jakobsen.”