Chapter Thirty-Five

Later that afternoon, Oliver and I set off with a hired horse and buggy for Lycée Sainte-Geneviève. Oliver drove and we sat up behind the horse together, enjoying the view and the warm golden sunshine.

Over the course of the day, I had become increasingly anxious about this trip. How would Oliver and I handle spending time together after what had happened (or almost happened) the day before? Fortunately, Oliver seemed utterly his usual self. Bad-tempered, grumbling, secretly amused by me. I was relieved, after worrying he would be stiff and polite, worrying that I would be too bright, too awkward. Perversely there was also a part of me that was … disappointed? Why had the encounter been so easy for him to brush off when I still felt jangled? I tried to push the feeling aside. It was good that we could be normal. It was good that we could concentrate on what needed to be done. I had promised Sylla, hadn't I? Nothing was going to interfere with the work.

And with that in mind, a giddying sense of freedom descended on me as we rode through the city in the open air, every sight and sound completely new. I managed to keep myself from rhapsodizing aloud again, but clearly I wasn't doing a good job at hiding my excitement completely.

"Bloom…" Oliver sighed, concentrating his attention on the road. "I can feel you quivering."

We drove through the Place de la Concorde, where the towering obelisk covered in ancient hieroglyphs stood tall between two burbling fountains, down on to the Champs-élysées – that wide road fringed with the tall green canopies of horse-chestnut trees marching tidily down the sides. In contrast, the traffic wheeled around, a bustling crowd of carriages of every size, winding about each other with seemingly little order at all. At the end of the road, the Arc de Triomphe loomed over everything around it, more traffic circling round and round it at a frantic pace, like a bizarre carousel.

"But just … look!" I exclaimed, gesturing with my hands at … everything.

Oliver said nothing, but I saw the smile pulling at his lips.

The school was about five miles outside the city in a pleasantly green suburb. It must have once been an old manor house: a large, stoic-looking building hunkered into the landscape, made of white stone with a shining blue-black roof. Girls in neat blue smocks, with short, matching capes tied round their shoulders milled about the grounds, full of happy chatter.

I felt something loosen in Oliver's posture at the sight. I think part of him had feared finding out his sister had been sent away to live in a bleak Dickensian parody of a boarding school, but that was not what this was at all.

We drew up a long, gravelled driveway, and Oliver brought the buggy to a stop, jumping down and handing the reins to a waiting groom while the horse tossed his head. Oliver came round to help me down from the high box, holding his hand out to me.

I placed my fingers in his and felt the warmth of his touch all the way through our gloves. When my feet hit the ground, our hands seemed to cling for a moment longer than was necessary. I looked up at him from beneath the wide brim of my straw hat, and the sunlight gilded the lines of his handsome face. I felt my heart flutter pathetically.

He cleared his throat, then dropped my hand. "Shall we?" He gestured towards the school.

I looked up at the building. "There are answers here," I said. "I know there are."

Oliver exhaled slowly. "Then let us go and find them. I have had quite enough mystery and intrigue."

I smiled. "A little intrigue can be good thing."

"I will agree to a sprinkling of intrigue. No more." With that, he tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and sauntered towards the school, the picture of composure.

Inside, we were greeted by one of the teachers, a woman who introduced herself as Madame Boucher, sweet-faced and smiling. She guided us to the office belonging to the headmistress.

She knocked once, and a voice called, "Entrez donc!"

Madame Boucher pushed the door open for us and then slipped away. Oliver and I entered the office to find an elegant woman in her seventies standing behind a beautifully polished walnut desk.

"Monsieur Lockhart, Madame Lockhart, welcome," she said in delicately accented English. My composure almost slipped at her words, but I remembered that, to simplify matters, Sylla had written that we were a married couple. "I am glad to see you found us without any problems. I am Madame Moreau." She leaned across the desk and shook hands with us both. "Please." She gestured to the pair of chairs. "Sit."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame," I said, sinking into the chair. "You have a beautiful school here."

An affectionate smile lit her face. "Ah, yes, we are certainly proud of it, and of the young ladies who come here for their studies. We hope that the world finds them – how do you say? – a credit to us."

"I'm sure," I murmured.

"Madame," Oliver broke in, and it was clear that he was holding on to his patience by a thread. "Do you know why we are here?"

She nodded. "Your associate wrote to me that you have questions about your sister, that you have reason to believe she was a student here – Helene Lavigne?"

"That is correct," Oliver said. "From what we have been able to piece together, my sister – Ellen – suffered an accident in Le Pecq and lost her memory. She was then taken in by a couple called Lavigne and we believe she was sent here to study."

Madame Moreau tilted her head. "Helene Lavigne was a student here, from 1890 until 1894, and you are quite right that she had suffered a loss of memory in her early childhood. She was a charming girl, bright and engaging. Unfortunately, Monsieur, I do not know where she currently resides. When she left us, I believe she returned to her parents in…" She frowned here, tapping the edge of her desk. "Herblay?" she said finally, then she shrugged. "But whether she remains there or not, I cannot say." She smiled. "I think perhaps not, because Helene was always full of plans. Not all our girls keep in touch, you understand, though I would love to help you." She held up her hands in a gesture of defeat.

I pulled the sketch that Maud had done of Helene from my pocket. It was a good likeness, I thought, even capturing some of Helene's bashfulness. "Madame, does this sketch look like Helene?"

The headmistress took the paper from my hand and then placed a pair of small silver spectacles on her nose. She examined the picture closely, her lips pressed together.

"Hmmm," she said finally. "It could be her, I think. It is hard to say, and of course it has been over four years since I last saw her." Oliver slumped in his seat, and Madame Moreau turned her inquisitive gaze on him. "This sketch. This is your sister?"

"I—" Oliver began, and then hesitated, rubbing a hand across his brow in a weary gesture. "Truly? I don't know. It is complicated."

Madame Moreau looked down at the drawing again, making another thoughtful humming noise. "But, of course, the easiest thing to do would be to show you the photographs, non?"

Oliver and I both froze. "The – the photographs?" I managed finally, squeezing the words out.

She nodded, standing and moving to the bookcase behind her that held a shelf full of fat leather-bound albums. "We take a class photograph of all the girls at the end of the year," she said, pulling on one spine after another until she located the one that she wanted. "The parents like it, and we have been doing it for over twenty years." She smiled at me here, hefting one of the albums from the shelf. "We are a very modern establishment." Again she sounded proud.

She laid the album on the desk and carefully leafed through the pages, each one a thick board separated from the next by a sheet of tissue paper.

"Ah!" she said. "Here. Our most senior class in 1894. This will be the most recent picture that we have of Helene." She laid the photograph out and took a step back, allowing Oliver and myself to lean over, and search the image, scanning the rows of neatly dressed and smiling young women. My heart was thundering in my chest.

Then, as Oliver let out a quiet gasp, I saw her.

"She is here!" I whispered, my finger moving to point. "Helene! She is right here. It really is her."

There in the front row stood a girl who, without question, was Helene, the girl we knew, the girl who had been staying at Lockwood Hall and had travelled with us to Paris. A few years younger, yes, but still her. We had found her. We had really found Oliver's sister. And she had been under our noses the whole time.

Madame Moreau leaned over, looking at where I pointed. "Oh no, my dear," she said. "I'm afraid you are mistaken. That is not Helene Lavigne."

It felt as though all the air was leaving my lungs. "It's – it's not?"

"No, no," Madame Moreau said placidly. "That is Lucy Brown."

I looked over to Oliver, stunned, but he was only staring wordlessly at the photograph. He lifted his hand, and I saw that it was trembling wildly. He pressed his finger gently against the picture, softly touching the face of the girl beside Lucy.

"Ellen," he whispered, and the word was choked with emotion. "It is Ellen."