THERE WAS A moment’s silence, broken only by the distant, bustling hum of the house’s domestic staff.
“She is dead.” Beauchamp’s voice was gentle, but Fergus jerked a little, as though stung by a wasp. Beauchamp drew a long, careful breath, then leaned forward.
“You knew her, you said.”
Fergus nodded, once, a jerky movement quite unlike him.
“I knew her by name. I did not know she was my mother.” He caught Roger’s look of surprise from the corner of his eye and turned to face him, turning a shoulder to Beauchamp, the bringer of unwelcome news.
“There are many children born in a brothel, mon frère, despite unceasing attempts to prevent them. Those pretty enough to be salable within a few years are kept.”
“And the others?” Roger asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
“I was pretty enough,” Fergus replied tersely. “And by the time I did not bruise easily, I could take care of myself on the streets.” Looking down, Roger could see that the toes of Fergus’s shoes were dug hard into the carpet.
“Because there are children, there are whores with milk. Those who had—lost a child—would sometimes nurse other bébés. If a whore was called to attend a customer and her child was hungry, she would hand him to another jeune fille. The little ones called any whore ‘Maman,’” he said quietly, looking down at his feet. “Anyone who would feed them.”
He seemed indisposed to say anything else. Roger cleared his throat, and Beauchamp looked at him as though surprised to find him still there.
“How—and when—did Amélie Beauchamp die?” Roger asked politely.
“During an outbreak of the morbid sore throat,” Beauchamp said, in the same tone. “I—we—don’t know exactly when.”
“I see.” Roger glanced at Fergus, who was still staring at the branching pattern of the figured carpet, saying nothing. “And, um, Monsieur le Comte?”
Percival Beauchamp seemed to relax a little at this question.
“We don’t know that, either. Monsieur le Comte has often disappeared from Paris for varying lengths of time: sometimes days, sometimes months—now and then for a year or more, with no hint as to where he has been. But the last time he was seen was more than twenty years ago, and the circumstances of his disappearance so remarkable that the probability that he really is dead this time is sufficient that a magistrate would undoubtedly declare him to be defunct, should a petition to that effect to be filed by his heir.”
Damp with sweat as his hair was, Roger still felt it rise on his neck. Probably so had Fergus, who looked up sharply at this news.
“Unless my understanding of the law in France has changed of late, a bastard cannot inherit property. Or when you say ‘heir,’ are you talking of someone else?”
Beauchamp smiled at him, an evidently genuine smile of happiness, and, picking up a small silver bell from the tray of refreshments, rang it. Within moments, the door opened, letting in a welcome draft of air and light from the hallway, as well as a tall gentleman in a fine gray suit—but a suit of English cut, not French. Roger thought he must be a lawyer; he looked the part, with a leather folder tucked beneath one arm.
“Mr. Beauchamp,” he said, with a nod toward Percival. “And you, sir, must be Claudel, if I may use your original name.”
“You may not, sir.” Fergus was sitting bolt-upright and was getting his feet under him, clearly meaning to walk out. Roger thought that was likely a good idea and began to rise himself, only to be stopped by the newcomer, who held out a quelling hand, and with the other laid down his folder and opened it.
There was only one document inside, old, from its stained and yellowed appearance. It bore a large red-wax seal, though, and multiple signatures, signed with such flourishes that it looked as though a tiny octopus had dipped its legs in ink and walked across the page.
At the top of the document, however, the writing—in French—was clear and clerkish.
Contract of Marriage
Made this Day, the Fourteenth of August, Anno Domini Seventeen-Thirty-Five, between Amélie élise LeVigne Beauchamp, Spinster, and Leopold George Simòn Gervase Racokzì, le Comte St. Germain
“You aren’t a bastard,” Percival Beauchamp said, smiling warmly at Fergus. “Allow me to congratulate you, sir.”
FERGUS KNITTED HIS brows, staring at the document, then flicked a sideways glance at Roger. Roger made a small hem noise in his throat, signifying willingness to follow any lead Fergus chose, but otherwise remained still. He regarded the iced negus; the decanter and glasses were filmed with condensation, and water droplets were beginning to slide down the curved glass. It would have gone down a treat in this steam bath.