Miss Fortescue's Protector in Paris

by Amanda McCabe

  Emily read it over more slowly and couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Chris had been guarding her, watching where she went! At the behest of her father.

  Shocked, a burning flare of anger rushing over her, she spun around to face Chris. He watched her warily, as if he knew.

  ‘You have been working for my father? Marrying me off for real?’ she choked out.

  ‘Of course not,’ he answered, but he wouldn’t quite look at her. ‘That is—Mr Fortescue did ask me to make sure you were all right. You know that. He was worried after what happened in London. I am worried, too. But I am not working for him.’

  ‘So you would be paying me so much attention even if there was no bargain? Even if no one had been following me?’ She wasn’t so very sure. Chris had his own life after all. A life apart from here, even if she had forgotten that.

  ‘Em, these things cannot just be dismissed! You must be kept safe. And really, his request was only an excuse for me to ask you to the races,’ he protested. ‘How else could I get you to go with me?’

  But Emily could hardly hear him. Her feelings were in a whirl and she hardly knew what to think. She was hurt, angry, confused. She dropped the letter and strode towards the door, unable to look at him any longer. ‘It’s late. I need to return to the hotel.’

  Chris put down the bottle with a thunk. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  She gave a bark of laughter. ‘Because following me is your job?’

  He took a sudden step back, as if she had pushed him. Wounded him. ‘Because I am your friend and want to make sure you’re safe.’ He held up his hands. ‘I won’t say a word. You won’t even know I’m there.’

  Emily wanted nothing more than to be alone, to forget how foolish she had been, letting herself have fun with him. Enjoying being with him. She felt so terribly, terribly silly. But she also knew he was right. She certainly had no wish to be caught alone on the street again and assaulted by some strange villain.

  She nodded and they made their way down the stairs and back out into the night. The edge of the sky was turning a pale grey, dawn was close, and the magical night was ending. She felt as if she would never have such a time again, could never again so forget herself. Chris was as good as his word. He said nothing, walking beside her in silence as they passed shops whose windows were opening, doors letting out the smell of fresh-baked bread. But she could sense him watching her, casting her quick, concerned glances. But she could not look back at him. Not yet. Not in the same way she had earlier and maybe never again.

  He left her outside the hotel and she gave him a brusque nod. In her own suite, she gratefully locked the door behind her, kicked off her shoes and sank down on to one of the satin chaises with an exasperated sigh. She knew her frivolous evenings were over. No more dancing, no more races, just work. She had no more time for Chris Blakely, or the wild, laughing way he made her feel. She had been a fool, but no more. She had been right not to trust.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chris watched the sun rise fully over the Parisian rooftops from his window, dry-eyed from lack of sleep. He hadn’t been able to close his eyes at all after leaving Emily at her hotel and his thoughts were still whirling.

  ‘Fool,’ he muttered.

  He had been an idiotic fool, leaving her father’s letter on the desk and then letting her come to his room. But when she’d grabbed his hand and laughed up at him, her face full of light and fun, he hadn’t been able to do anything else. He had been able only to follow her, as if under a spell.

  He had to explain to her, to make her understand, even if he didn’t fully understand himself. He had to make it up to her. The thought of his life without her in it was shockingly dry and dusty, empty even. He needed her friendship.

  He pushed himself up from his chair and caught a glimpse of himself in the small mirror on the opposite wall. After the long night, he looked quite disreputable. His jaw shadowed with whiskers, his hair rumpled, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes reddened. Emily would never accept an apology from someone who looked like that. He had a huge mountain of work ahead of him, making up to his sharp-edged Emily.

  * * *

  A few hours later, bathed, shaved, dressed in his best suit and brocade waistcoat, he set out for her hotel. The city was buzzing around him, a very different place from the silent streets he had walked down with her, and the sun seemed to make everything look a bit more hopeful. Surely she could not push him away again, not in such a glorious place. He stopped to buy a bouquet at one of the bright flower stands, the biggest bunch of roses and lilies he could find, and he dared to think all might be well.

  ‘I am sorry, monsieur,’ the hotel manager said. ‘Mademoiselle Fortescue left a half-hour ago, she said she had an errand in Chaton sur Mereille and needed to catch an early train from the Gare Saint-Lazare.’

  ‘Chaton sur Mereille?’ Chris asked sharply. Why was she going back there again? Was she in danger there by herself?

  ‘Oui. For her business, I believe.’

  Chris could just imagine what sort of ‘business’. The League and Herr Friedland. He left the flowers for her and made his way towards the train station, determined to keep protecting her—no matter what.

  * * *

  Emily stared out the window as her train gathered speed leaving the city, watching but not really seeing the blur of rooftops and back gardens giving way to fields. She couldn’t stop thinking about last night and her own silly behaviour. The things that happened when she let go of her control.

  She sighed and turned over the file of papers in her lap. She had her life to return to now. No one could make her behave so foolishly as Chris could! With him, she had felt too free, too reckless. She could not account for what had happened last night, getting as giddy as a schoolgirl over dancing in the moonlight. Forgetting the world that existed outside.

  And then to find out that her father was scheming to marry her off for real! It was beyond embarrassing. Emily felt her cheeks burn hot just thinking about it.

  She snapped the folder on her lap open and stared down at the papers Lady Smythe-Tomas had sent her. Work was the answer. Work never failed her, never made her feel like a fool.

  The door between the train carriages opened and then closed, and footsteps sounded on the carpeted corridor. Emily glanced through the little window of her compartment and froze at the sight of the man in the pale grey suit who was making his way past the windows, peering carefully inside. It couldn’t be Chris! Surely she was just imagining things because she had been thinking about him far too much that day.

  She looked again. No, it really was him. He was looking at the next compartment down from hers and she heard a girl giggle as he raised his hat, smiled and moved on.

  ‘There you are at last, Em,’ he said. ‘I thought I would have to search this train from one end to the other!’

  ‘What on earth are you doing here, Christopher?’ she demanded. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘They told me at your hotel, when I called there earlier.’

  Emily folded her arms. ‘Did my father ask you to follow me? To compromise me so I would have to marry you?’

  He glanced down the corridor, looking rather abashed. She wasn’t sure she had ever seen that side of him before. ‘Please, Em. Can I sit down with you? Explain everything? I’ve come all this way to apologise and if I stand here much longer they are sure to toss me off this train.’

  She gave a grudging nod and he slipped into the compartment to sit down on the narrow seat across from her. Emily realised her mistake at once. The compartment was rather small and he was too close to her, so close she could smell his cologne. Feel his warmth, see his smile. But she could hardly toss him out now and cause a scene on the train.

  ‘I am sorry, Em, truly,’ he said softly. ‘I shouldn’t have concealed it from you, shouldn’t have concealed anything from you at all. I was jus
t—well, dash it all, I was worried about you. I could see how concerned your father was and it made me concerned, too. I couldn’t stand it if you were hurt.’

  Emily felt herself start to soften at his gentle words, the look in his eyes, and she tried to steel herself. ‘You, and my father, as well, could have been fully honest with me. I am not a child.’

  ‘Of course not. You are one of the most sensible people I know. I just didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘You didn’t have to waste your time nannying me at the races or the Moulin de la Galette, either.’

  Chris gave a crooked grin. ‘I’m afraid it was all rather an excuse to get away from work and have some fun with you. We did have fun, yes? Even your life can’t be serious all the time, can it?’

  Emily bit her lip to keep from grinning back. His charm was much too dangerous. ‘That is of no account. You still didn’t have to follow me today.’

  ‘I did. I told you—I had to apologise for hiding things from you. I won’t do it again.’

  But Emily wondered if that was true. If he could not help but hide things from the people who cared about him. She glanced at the window to see the red-tiled roof of a farmhouse slide by, the golden ripples of fields of grain. Everything felt so far away again, as if she and Chris were the only people in the world.

  ‘What are you working on?’ he asked, gesturing to the papers on her lap. ‘What takes you all the way to a country village?’

  ‘Oh, just some tasks for the League,’ she answered, wondering how much he really would want to know. Even her father was rather dismissive of the League, which made her even more determined to press on for them. Women had to fight for themselves, for their place in life.

  ‘Isn’t the League for British women’s suffrage?’ Chris said. He looked genuinely curious. ‘Why French meetings?’

  ‘Women everywhere are realising they must fight to realise their true potential in the world,’ Emily answered. ‘We might actually have a German benefactor soon, there have been meetings here in Paris to gauge their interest.’

  ‘German?’ he said with a frown.

  Emily nodded. ‘The man you met at the races. Herr Friedland. I can’t really talk about it yet. Honestly, I don’t know much about it myself at present. It’s all quite new. I do wonder if...’

  The train gave a sudden lurching jolt and Emily glanced out the window, startled. The train was definitely slowing down.

  ‘What could be happening?’ she asked, watching as everything seemed to slide a bit sideways, then came to a stop.

  Chris looked outside. ‘Sheep on the track, maybe? Such things happen when you leave civilisation and go to the back of beyond countryside.’

  ‘We’re only a few miles outside Paris! It’s hardly the Ardennes Forest.’ Yet something was happening. The train gave another hard jolt, nearly knocking her to the floor, and then ground to a halt with a metallic squeal. She heard a wave of cries in the corridor.

  Emily put down the window and peered outside, craning her neck to try to see what was going on there. A puff of greasy smoke blew in her face and she sat back, coughing.

  ‘I can’t see a thing,’ she said. ‘At least we don’t seem to have crashed.’

  ‘I’ll go see,’ Chris said. ‘You stay here.’

  Emily nodded as he left and sat back down, trying not get impatient with the moments ticking by. The nervous chatter in the corridor grew louder, but no one seemed to have any more idea than she did. She tapped her foot, packed and re-packed her case, until at last Chris returned, his lovely suit streaked with smoke.

  ‘Something to do with the engine, they say,’ he said. ‘They’re not sure when we’ll be on the move again. We’re going to be pushed off to a siding.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Emily cried. ‘I’m supposed to meet Madame Renard soon.’

  Chris frowned as he looked out the window. ‘I don’t think we’re very far from Chaton. Shall we leg it?’

  ‘Walk?’

  ‘I could carry your case for you.’ He smiled teasingly. ‘Or carry you, if you’re not up to it.’

  Emily pictured being swept up in his arms and felt her cheeks turn hot. She turned away to stuff her papers in her bag. ‘That would be taking your apology a little too far. But I think we could walk. Better than sitting here twiddling our thumbs for hours.’

  Chris hoisted their cases up and they made their way out of the station and down the lane towards the village. As they crested a hill, she could see the red-tile roofs of the farmhouses amid their green fields, the old tower of the church in the distance. It all looked peaceful, timeless.

  ‘You didn’t have to travel all this way to find me today,’ she said, clambering over a fallen log in the lane. ‘A note saying “sorry” would have sufficed.’

  ‘Of course it wouldn’t. You would have just crumpled up my letter and tossed it in the fire. This way you had to look directly at my contrite face and who could resist my sad eyes?’

  He gave her an exaggerated, wide-eyed, tragic look and she laughed. He was probably right. What lady could resist those eyes?

  ‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘a day in the countryside seemed most alluring. Wouldn’t you agree it was worth the journey?’

  They had reached the top of a hill and Chris gestured to the picture spread before them. The red-tiled roofs of the houses, their old, mellow gold stone walls, an ancient church tower, the vineyards snaking across the hills just beyond in green glory.

  ‘It is certainly lovely, like a painting,’ Emily agreed. The day was turning out to be much more fun than she had planned, thanks to him.

  ‘Paris is beautiful, but who could resist such rustic Gallic charm? Fresh air, little cafés, sunshine...’ A clap of thunder rolled out over the hills and Chris glanced up ruefully at the suddenly darkening sky. ‘Maybe not so much sunshine at the moment. But still, a place to renew the soul.’

  Emily studied his face, as serious as those gathering clouds. ‘You do surprise me, Chris. I would have thought you a man of the city through and through.’

  He gave her a crooked smile. ‘That’s because you don’t know everything about me.’

  Emily was beginning to think that was very true. He changed like the weather, sudden and surprising. But she didn’t have long to contemplate the mystery of Christopher Blakely. A fat raindrop landed on her nose, making her gasp.

  ‘We’d best make a run for it,’ Chris said, tugging his hat lower on his brow. ‘Where are you meant to be?’

  Emily took the letter with instructions from her handbag. ‘The inn, again. Where we met before. It’s just by the church, I think.’

  ‘Come on!’ He grabbed her hand and they ran for the village just as the skies cracked open above them. Emily laughed helplessly, trying to hold on to her hat.

  At last they found the half-timbered old inn, its red window awnings sagging under the sudden downpour, and tumbled through the door, gasping with giggles. The elderly lady behind the desk gave them a stern glance and a loud ‘tsk’.

  ‘Puis-je vous aider?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes on the puddle they brought with them on to the tile floor.

  ‘I am sorry to be so late, we weren’t expecting the storm,’ Emily answered. ‘I am meant to be meeting Madame Renard?’

  ‘The madame is not here, my son tells me the trains are delayed today.’

  ‘Yes, it is why we had to walk,’ Emily said. She wondered if that meant she and Chris were stuck there at the inn for the foreseeable future and if that annoyed her—or made her feel glad for the weather. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t bring much with me for a longer stay.’

  The landlady seemed to have some pity on them then, in their drowned-kitten state, or perhaps she remembered them from the last time they were there. ‘You must have some dejeuner, a warm digestif, non? I’ll have the maid send you to a room, monsieur and madame, and find som
e dry clothes for you to borrow.’

  Before Emily could protest that they were not actually ‘monsieur and madame’, the formidable lady marched off, calling for the maidservant.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Well, I must say that was the finest dejeuner I can remember,’ Chris said, sitting back from the table that was littered with the plates and bottles that were all that remained of their meal. ‘We must contrive to get caught in the rain more often.’

  Emily smiled and realised that she had to agree. Her whole life seemed to be ‘hurry, hurry, do more’—there was seldom time to enjoy a bottle of wine, a good joke. It was—quite nice. Better than nice. She would never have thought a thwarted appointment, fruitless waiting, could be the finest pleasure. And it was all thanks to Chris.

  The landlady had ordered a fine meal of roast chicken and raspberry tarts, local cheeses and wine, and had it laid next to the fire in a private sitting room. The rain pattering at the old, wavy glass of the window, muffled by the heavy velvet curtains, made the space cosy and warm and small, a place outside the cares of the world.

  And Emily’s sides ached from laughing at Chris’s merry tales. He could mimic society matrons and clerks at his office with perfect pitch, making her giggle helplessly.

  ‘It’s been worth the journey out here,’ she said. ‘I feel terribly fat and lazy now. I don’t even care about missing any meetings!’

  Chris leaned back in his chair and gave her a crooked smile, a penetrating glance, as if he searched for something from her. ‘The meeting was for your suffrage work with Lady Smythe-Tomas?’

  Emily couldn’t help but remember that he had called her ‘Laura’ before, as if they knew each other well. ‘Yes, in a way. Important fundraising, things like that. It’s rather dull, but without such help the work can never increase. I’ll do what I can to bring whomever I can to the cause.’

  ‘It’s very important to you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She turned her half-empty wineglass in the firelight, watching the deep ruby-red gleam in its depths. ‘Women are so helpless when they’re thrown on to the mercy of the world. They can’t raise themselves by their own intellect, their own labour, they are helpless to any who would take advantage of them. Victimise them. I never want another woman to feel as I did when I was followed in the street. When I read those notes. I never want that feeling of fear to prevent women from enjoying the world. Life is too full, too wondrous, to miss.’