Thomson would make her no promise, but said, “If our schedule allows it.”
He glanced once at Mary but she looked away. The bright River Saône, in its winding approach to the city, had given them such a romantic series of views that when they’d reached the rocky promontories standing as twin sentries to Lyon she had been sure there would be nothing else to rival that magnificence. But this came close. A bridge of several arches linked the two banks of the river like a graceful bow of stone, its reflection cast perfectly down by the glittering light of the sun that had just started slipping behind the high hill that created a picturesque backdrop for the great cathedral.
As her means of escape, the cathedral looked promising and reassuringly near. Something she could attain.
Mary held that thought close while they said their good-byes to the others and turned in the other direction, away from the river. The Scotsman appeared to know where he was going. The streets became a labyrinth but he took every turning in a certain and decided manner, never breaking stride but one time, when a passing horse and chaise went trotting by at speed and pressed them all into what small space they could find against the nearest wall. Frisque barked at the indignity and Mary soothed him with a soft word and a rumple of his ears, then raised her chin and squarely met MacPherson’s eyes as he glanced back. He gave them no encouragement. She merely felt his gaze rest narrowly upon her as though somehow he suspected her of insubordination. Then he turned again and led them on, around a sharp corner and into a street where the houses seemed ancient, all crowded together like gossips, with crooked bare timbers and old mullioned windows.
The roofs hid the sun and the street lay in shadow, and Mary prepared for the worst.
But the middle-aged woman who opened the door to MacPherson, when he finally stopped at a threshold and knocked, had a pleasant and cheerful appearance. She welcomed them in as if they had been family. She had the complexion and hands of a woman who’d never done labor, although from her house she was clearly not noble. More likely, thought Mary, her family belonged to the merchant class.
Inside, the house seemed much larger. The drawing room into which she promptly ushered them had been designed for the comfort of guests. There were several chairs set round the room, two with footstools, a square plush-topped table for playing at cards and a table for writing, set close by the window that faced to the street. A mirror set over the fireplace mantel was flanked by a pair of gilt sconces, each set with three candles, and to either side of the fireplace itself, recessed shelves held small porcelain trinkets. And books.
Mary tried not to stare at the books while the woman moved past them to shutter the window.
MacPherson had not yet stepped into the room, but had planted himself in the doorway, immovable.
Taking no notice, the woman twitched the curtains shut as well, and said in the beautiful English of one who’d been born in that country, “I feared you might have met some misadventure, for we did expect you yesterday.”
Thomson replied, “There was no misadventure. The diligence coming by land was delayed on the road by a problem with one of the horses, and so—”
Cutting over his speech, the tall Scotsman asked, “Where is Mr. Foster?”
If the woman thought him rude, she did not say so. She was poised, even gracious. “My husband has gone to Bordeaux. He departed the day before we had the news of your coming, so sadly you’ve only myself and my son to attend you. Ah, here he is now. Johnny, do show the gentleman where he may put all that baggage.”
Her son was a young man of sixteen or so, slightly built and not tall, barely visible behind MacPherson. His nervous but polite “This way, sir” had no visible effect.
MacPherson did not shift an inch.
The woman, who presumably was Mrs. Foster, stared in some surprise till Mr. Thomson broke the tension with a charming smile, apologizing, “As you see, my friend is very diligent in guarding me. Come, sir,” he told MacPherson. “I’ll accompany you. Then you will be certain of my safety.”
As the footsteps of the men receded up an unseen flight of stairs, Mrs. Foster said to Mary and Madame Roy, “Please, sit down. You must be weary from your travels. Will you have some wine, or water?”
Madame Roy took wine, and Mary, having no great wish for either, asked if Frisque might have some water.
“Yes, of course. A darling little dog,” their hostess called him. When she brought the porcelain bowl, she added, “Put him down and let him run a little, if he likes. This carpet will not mind a bit of hair, nor even soiling. I’ve had two dogs of my own and lost the last just over Christmas, so I’m glad to have yours here awhile.”
Mary obliged and let Frisque have his freedom. “He’s very well trained.”
“Unlike some,” Mrs. Foster said drily, and pointedly glanced where the men had gone. “I was not given your actual names, only those you’d be using for travel, yet I presume señor Montero hails from colder climes than Spain.” She let her eyes dance briefly as she looked at Madame Roy. “As do you, if I am not mistaken. You’ll forgive me, but you do remind me of a woman I knew years ago at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, and she was of the Highlands. She was…” Mrs. Foster stopped, and looked more closely. “Faith, it is you! Euphemia Shaw!” In delight she crossed the carpet. “You’ll not recognize me, after all these years, but I was Barbara Ellis then. You were my sister Ann’s friend, more than mine, but even so…”