Cinderella Six Feet Under(97)

Prue sighed. The clock on the mantel—gold flowers and enameled bluebirds—said it was headed towards five o’clock. Which meant she had to twiddle her thumbs in here for seven more hours. Seven!

Dalziel was supposed to keep her company, but he hadn’t shown up yet. Ophelia had gone off for her promenade with the Count de Griffe, and Professor Penrose was to chaperone. Prue would’ve paid a quarter to see that. Penrose was just about as in love with Ophelia as a feller could be before he dissolved into a puddle on the floor.

Which reminded her. Prue got up, dug through a writing desk, and found a sheet of paper, pen and ink, and an envelope. In the past few days, she had realized a couple things. For starters, she had realized that Hansel wasn’t exactly doing the right thing by her. He wouldn’t claim her, and he wouldn’t acknowledge her shaky position in life that didn’t allow for waiting around for gents to make up their minds. But he hadn’t set her loose, either.

Dalziel was right; she need someone to take care of her. So Prue was going to tell Hansel to cut dirt.

She dipped the pen into the bottle of ink and began writing.

Dear Hansel,

I have always wanted for a real family, and for so to find real people who wanted me, dearly. My ma is gone, maybe forever, and in late days I did spend some times with a cluster of nuns who were ever so good to me and took me under their wings. I wanted to tell you, Hansel, that everything between us or that I reckoned was between us, well, I am calling it off and you are free. I wont ever be a fine housewife like I fancied I might learn to be for you, I must face it now. But after all is done here tonight I will join a convent, see, and live amid ladys who want me, without making me wonder if it’s true or not.

Sincerely,

Prudence Bright

A couple tears plopped on the page, but they dried quickly. Prue folded the letter and slid it into an envelope. She’d figure a way to send it first thing in the morning.

Then she took Hansel’s letter to her from her bodice, the one she’d carried from Germany and all over Paris, and burned it.

*

The promenade with Griffe was interminable. Griffe practically wallowed in the pleasure of pointing out to Miss Flax (whom he of course addressed as Miss Stonewall) the beauties of the formal gardens behind Chateau de Roche. The great lout made even tall Miss Flax seem as dainty as a Dresden doll. Gabriel was doomed to slouch behind them at a cousinly distance, hands in trouser pockets and irritation lapping over him in waves.

Gabriel watched as Miss Flax and Griffe bent their heads over a dormant rosebush. Miss Flax said something, and Griffe chortled.

Gabriel realized he must do something about this, once and for all.

Tonight.

*

“Why so grumpy?” Ophelia edged close to the professor. Griffe had been waylaid by two ladies and a gentleman of his acquaintance, who were also enjoying the sunset light in the formal gardens.

“Grumpy?” Penrose straightened his spectacles. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I figured you were getting peckish for dinner.”

“Oh. No. Well, perhaps.”

“I’ve been perishing to speak with you and I haven’t had a chance.” Ophelia glanced at Griffe. Still talking. She lowered her voice. “Did you happen to see Monsieur Malbert’s traveling trunk in the drive?”

“No.”

“Well, it had breathing holes in it.”

“Breathing holes? Whatever do you—”

“And it was big enough for, well, for a person.”

“Good God—but that is preposterous!”

“Henrietta’s still missing. Malbert is mad. I’ve got to check it. I hope I’ve made a mistake, but I can’t rest easy till I see with my own eyes.” Ophelia paused. “So. Will you help me?”

“You mean, help you sneak into Malbert’s chamber?”

“Yes.”

“All right. But you’ve got to disentangle yourself from Griffe. Tell him you’re having one of those fits you ladies have, why don’t you?”

“I’ll leave the fits to the grand ladies of the world. I don’t have the time.”

*

Ten minutes later, Ophelia hid behind a huge, blue-and-white vase in the corridor outside Malbert’s chamber. They had learned the location of Malbert’s chamber easily enough; Penrose had simply greased a footman’s palm.

Penrose rapped on the door. It opened. Penrose and Malbert held a brief exchange in French, and then the door hit home.