Inside the office, he cleared space on a rattan chair and sat on the desk next to a dented paperweight, bottles of ink samples and a well-chewed quill. He kept studying her as if she’d disappear if he didn’t memorise every last scrap of her appearance. As though it hadn’t only been a matter of weeks since she’d last made pilgrimage to his office.
‘Here, take a look at this,’ said her father. He passed her a freshly printed sheaf of papers waiting to be bound. ‘It’s the new play.’
‘I didn’t think you’d still be dabbling in the theatre after what happened with the last one.’
He smiled. ‘All press is good press.’
‘I thought it was more like a riot.’
‘A riot that got a lot of press coverage.’
She snorted. ‘The Revolution doesn’t just happen in pamphlets, you know.’
‘L’Ami d’Égalitéis more than a pamphlet. Everything we publish is a voice of truth to the masses.’
‘Yes, Papa.’
He smiled again and reached over to straighten her collar. ‘I miss your conversation, Adalaide, but you must learn to listen politely. The world will never listen to a woman who speaks in angry tones, and certainly not to a—’
‘It’s no Molière,’ she said, dropping the pages back onto the desk. ‘I’m not sure Maman would have published something like this. Propaganda for the Terror.’
He gave a forced laugh. ‘It’s a bit on the nose, I agree, but I think you’re being unfair. The story itself is good, engaging – propaganda is too crude a word. It’s asking questions. What world are we building here? What do we value?’ He picked up the script and tapped on the lines. He spoke passionately. But then her father spoke passionately about everything. She’d heard him lecture on the beauty of a well-milled screw with as much emotion as he preached on the evils of men given too much power. ‘What is today’s suffering in search of tomorrow’s principles?’
Ada’s fingers clenched around the arms of the chair.
‘A lot, Papa. For some people, life will never be anything but today’s suffering. Isn’t that what started the Revolution in the first place?’
‘Not all methods will be pleasant in the pursuit of justice.’
‘Is that a line from your play?’
Her father’s intense expression soured. It was nothing huge, no great change, no scowl or sneer. His azure blue eyes went cold, the set of his mouth hardened. Ada knew the expression well. She sank back in the chair but didn’t drop her gaze.
‘Careful you don’t cut yourself on all that sharpness.’
‘Then don’t ask me what I think,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m not interested in telling you what you want to hear.’
‘I really did want your opinion.’
Her thoughts were interrupted by a printer opening the door to pass in a tray of coffee and bread.
The air festered as her father poured two cups and passed her a slice of bread. He took the chair on the other side of the desk, making Ada feel as though she was back in her schoolroom, just arrived from Martinique and being quizzed on the intricacies of English tenses by her governess. Behind him, two sash windows looked out onto the street where the lamps were only now being lit, illuminating the crumbling stone houses opposite.
‘I don’t suppose you came for conversation?’ he asked, wrapping his hand around his chipped cup.
‘No.’
‘Well, then. How much this time?’
She named a figure. ‘I know it’s a lot, but the assignat notes simply don’t hold their value.’
‘I am well aware.’
A tense silence stretched between them as their coffee cooled.
Her father broke first.
‘Does Camille know it’s me funding her ridiculous lifestyle?’
