The Secret Lover

by Julia London

  She had tried to explain that the poor were hardly in a position to wear such colorful bonnets.

  “Pourquoi?” Honorine had insisted.

  “Well, because they aren’t!” Sophie had responded, flustered.

  Honorine shrugged and fidgeted with a long green ribbon dangling from a yellow bonnet. “Les femmes, they all want for fine bonnets!” she said. “They will want them, of course they will want them!”

  Oui, the women of Dieppe did want them.

  Much to Sophie’s great surprise, women from all walks pounced on the bonnets with glee, and soon it was not an uncommon sight to see bonnets of mind-boggling hues bobbing along the crowded streets of Dieppe.

  Honorine kept coming to the church. She and Sophie forged a fast friendship that summer, so strong that by the end of that summer, Honorine had convinced Sophie that she would make her a wonderful companion.

  Not that it was particularly hard to convince her—after what she had been through in England, the talk of travel and adventure in exotic places had excited her. The moment Honorine saw that Sophie was seriously considering her offer, she took the liberty of speaking to Louis Renault.

  Naturally, Louis was reluctant—he knew Madame Fortier by reputation, and her odd appearance did not exactly inspire his confidence. But Eugenie thought the idea a splendid one and exactly what Sophie needed. Moreover, she was amused by Honorine’s uncommon manner and impressed with her impeccable credentials, a fact that she pointed out with great verve to Louis. Honorine’s husband had been a member of one of the oldest and most revered French families, one of the few names among the aristocracy to have escaped the carnage of the last century. Monsieur Fortier had been quite a lot older than Honorine, had lived an austere life, his wife a dutiful shadow of himself. But when he died, Honorine had emerged like a butterfly, colorful and free. It was a well-known fact that Honorine Fortier now did as she pleased, society be damned.

  And that pleased Eugenie enormously.

  It frightened Louis tremendously.

  He had, at first, valiantly resisted the suggestion that Sophie trot off to lands unknown with a woman who thought nothing of wearing bright pink, puce, and red in the morning. But as he had never been able to deny Eugenie a blasted thing, he was soon convincing Julian that companion to Madame Honorine Fortier was indeed a worthy occupation.

  With Julian’s eventual consent—another surprise, seeing as how her brother had always been so bloody strict and protective of her—Honorine did not waste a moment, and very soon thereafter, whisked Sophie off to Italy in search of olive oil, which she maintained would keep her skin looking as smooth and firm as a girl of twenty years.

  In Venice, Honorine set up an elaborate house, but it wasn’t long before Sophie understood that while Honorine provided the house, her true method of survival was to live off the kindness of gentlemen. Which left Sophie, Fabrice, and Roland in search of the basic necessities of life.

  Sophie quickly took up cooking as her primary hobby.

  Fabrice and Roland eagerly served as her guinea pigs, enthusiastically trying her many dishes, embellishing their praise when they thought something delicious, but making no effort to soften the blow when they disliked the food. By some miracle, Sophie actually developed quite a knack for cooking, and before too long, she was routinely preparing dishes that had both Frenchmen swooning.

  In the midst of her learning to prepare sumptuous dishes, a fawning gentleman from Portugal captured Honorine’s fancy, and one morning, over poached eggs and fresh tomatoes, she announced they were to Lisbon. There was no time to protest or offer an opinion of any sort, as they left the very next afternoon. Their belongings trailed a few days behind them.

  In Lisbon, they had scarcely settled into a household when Honorine lost interest in Marcelo in favor of the very dashing Ernesto, the Spanish diplomat. Within a matter of weeks, they had up and left for Spain and Ernesto. When Ernesto turned out to be quite married, it was on to Vienna, then Rome, then Brussels, and from there to the remote city of Stockholm, where Honorine was determined to rest in the city where the sun never set. But Alrik, a Swedish prince with a passion for Frenchwomen, saw to it that she did not rest at all.

  It took Balder, a Norwegian aristocrat in the Swedish court to rid Honorine of the pesky Alrik. So captivated by her Nordic prince was she that Honorine next whisked her entourage to Christiania, Norway.

  Even now, on the banks of the placid river that ran below Château la Claire, it was exhausting just thinking of it all. With a small shake of her head, Sophie continued walking through the daisy-dotted grass that covered the riverbanks.

  In spite of the helter-skelter way of her life, Sophie had learned a lot from Honorine in the last seven years. Not that she couldn’t be terribly exasperating at times, and her penchant for indoor picnics and evening dances was enough to put a person in Bedlam. That, and her incessant remarks about Sophie’s love life—or lack of one. “These pantaloons!” she had exclaimed one day as she rummaged through the clean clothes a maid had brought to Sophie’s rooms. “They are very old! Ah, but this matters very little, as no one shall see them, non?”

  Or her penchant for tapping Sophie just above her left breast. “Le coeur, it will dry to a peanut with no l’amour!”

  Yes, well, Sophie had long ago resigned herself to her fate, and she really didn’t need Honorine reminding her how empty she was.

  But in spite of that, Sophie adored Honorine immensely for her unconquerable attitude toward life. She admired the fact that Honorine was a woman of independent means who marched to the beat of her own drummer. The woman simply did not care a whit for what French society thought of her, much less the inhabitants of the world at large, and least of all, her whimpering son, Pierre, who was among her greatest critics. As she often recited to Pierre, she had but one life to live, and she would be damned if she wouldn’t live it very well indeed.

  No one could dispute that she didn’t do just that.

  And while Honorine was busy living these last seven years, Sophie had quietly tapped down the chaos in her. There was a silent but tenacious desperation growing in her, a need for something she could not name. But she pushed that desperation down, stomped out the little fires that blossomed with long walks, cooking, and when she could, charitable endeavors.

  Charity was one thing she was determined to continue, as it was the only way she knew to repay the kindness of the women at the Upper Moreland Street house in London. That was where Claudia had taken her the day she had fled William; to a secret house full of women in need of refuge, just like her. Those women had seen the worst life had to offer, yet they had showed her strength, had given her the courage she needed to continue her flight to France. Sophie would never forget them.

  But certainly she never thought she would see that little house again—wasn’t certain she even wanted to see that house again. It was all so confusing! She felt quite literally torn in half between a longing so deep and a fear so impossibly wide. How would she ever face so many demons?

  Nevertheless, Sophie found herself sailing for England in the late spring, with Julian, Honorine, and naturally, Fabrice and Roland, who sported identical beaver hats.

  They landed on England’s eastern shore at dawn, where they were met by two traveling chaises brought down from Kettering House. They drove through a heavy fog for most of the morning, but by early afternoon, the fog had begun to lift, leaving the countryside wet and fresh beneath a slate-gray sky and drizzling rain that accompanied them all the way to London.

  The sights and sounds of that bustling city assaulted their collective senses, particularly after the serene lifestyle they had enjoyed in Norway.

  It all felt very foreign to Sophie—she had forgotten this London. She had forgotten the unbearably congested streets where carts, horses, and carriages all vied for space in the thoroughfare. She had forgotten the din of dozens of drivers shouting at one another, and the pungent smell of horse manure mixed with smoke.

>   It seemed to take them hours to push through the crush and press of humanity in the narrow lanes to the old Fortier house on Bedford Square.

  As usual, Honorine was unabashed by the journey. “Lovely!” she cried as she bounced out of the coach and looked around the old courtyard. “Sofia, we shall have a dog!” she announced, and marched up the steps to the massive town home that had once been her husband’s foreign residence.

  Sophie exchanged a weary look with Julian. “She is fond of animals.”

  “Let us hope she is not quite as fond of animals as she is of ale. I was beginning to think we’d be forced to seek permanent quarters at the public house in Bruhaven. Well, all right then, darling,” he said, brightening noticeably, “I shall leave you to get settled. Your sister Ann is quite excited to have you home and will undoubtedly call at the day’s first light. I imagine Claudia will be close behind her. We’ll supper at Kettering House on the morrow if it pleases you and Madame Fortier.”

  Out of ancient habit, Sophie nodded obediently to Julian’s suggestion. When he had seen to it that her things had been unloaded from his coach, he bid her a good evening with a warm hug and a promise to see her on the morrow.

  “Bonne nuit!” Honorine called after him from the door of her home, and hurried down the steps as the coach rolled out of the courtyard. “Come, Sofia, you must see!” she exclaimed delightedly, and grabbing Sophie’s hand, dragged her inside for a tour of the house.

  It was clear that the house had been a home of some grandeur at one point in time. Paintings and portraits lined the corridor walls. Elaborate papier-mâché friezes adorned the ceilings of the dining hall and ballroom; thick tapestries from a bygone era hung in the sitting rooms.

  But much of the furniture had been covered with muslin sheets and there was a choking layer of dust throughout the house. Honorine clucked and muttered to herself as they moved through each room. When they agreed they had done as much as they could for one evening, they pulled the muslin sheets from the beds in the bedroom suites and said good night.

  Sophie lay down on the bed in the suite of rooms that would be hers and immediately sank into the down, unconscious of the moment she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. It seemed only moments had passed before her sleep was rudely interrupted by a clattering and banging below, as if someone had dumped the entire contents of a trunk onto the tiled foyer. Sophie bolted upright, struggling in the fog of a deep sleep to remember where she was. The room was dark—the shutters had not been opened. Then it slowly came to her—this was the house on Bedford Square.

  This was London.

  With a groan, she pushed out of bed and padded across to the first window, struggling with the latch before managing to shove the heavy shutters aside.

  Bright daylight streamed into the room, blinding her. Blinking and sneezing all at once, she stepped back and looked around her. In the dusty light, the room was magnificent, painted in soft blue and gold. The canopy bed was draped in blue china silk; the settee and daybed were covered in matching fabric. Sophie opened the second set of shutters and leaned against the thick panes of glass. Below were manicured gardens, edged on one end by a crowded cluster of dwellings. This was indeed a beautiful home, sitting peacefully and serene in the midst of the chaos of London.

  It reminded her of Kettering House on St. James Square and a faint glimmer of pain flitted across her chest.

  The banging started again. With a groan of exasperation, Sophie turned from the window to rummage in her things for a dressing gown, stubbing her toe in the process.

  Chapter Three

  SHE FOUND HONORINE in the sunroom, wearing a pink, black, and orange silk caftan, her hair piled directly on top of her head. She whirled when Sophie entered, thrust the halves of a broken porcelain pot into her hands, which Sophie barely caught. “Do you see?” she exclaimed, and whirled around again, staring down at the mess of broken pottery. “Mon dieu! So much work there is to be done, Sofia!” She sighed, arched her back in a stretch, then tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Eat. Eat now, then we take our rags and our buckets and voilà, Maison de Fortier will sparkle like stars again, non?”

  Well, non.

  As the house had been inhabited only sporadically in the last fifteen years, the dust and decay was thick. Honorine, Sophie, and Fabrice and Roland of course, began the cleaning in rooms gone unused for fifteen years. The intensity of the cleaning was matched only by the intensity of the bickering between Fabrice and Roland. They were an odd pair, those two, seemingly inseparable yet constantly arguing. The one time Sophie had tried to make Honorine explain them, she had smiled enigmatically. “Old friends” was all she would say.

  As usual, their bickering was far more trying to Sophie’s nerves than Honorine’s, who ignored them as she hummed and flitted from one room to the next. By noon, the temperamental Frenchmen were so at odds over something so incomprehensible that Sophie banished them to different floors and opposite ends of the house.

  And she retreated, alone, to the filthiest of all rooms. The kitchen.

  Sophie wrinkled her nose, and with thumb and finger, lifted an upended cup. The rancid smell made her eyes water. This would not do, not do at all, but as there was nothing to be done for it, she took a large gulp of air and plunged into the mess that was the kitchen.

  Her relief from the nasty task came with the exuberant arrival of her sister Ann.

  Ann hugged her tightly, oblivious to the stench. “What are you doing in here?” she asked, incredulous, then pulled Sophie away and into the main salon, where her son, Vincent—who was seven years old and the spitting image of his father, Victor—and Sophie’s aging Aunt Violet were waiting. Claudia—Julian’s wife and Sophie’s savior those many years ago—was not far behind with her two young daughters, Beth and Bridget. The children were delightful little terrors, upsetting the Frenchmen, who, having been in Honorine’s employ for several years and therefore wholly unaccustomed to youth, cringed at the mere sight of the rambunctious little darlings.

  But Sophie was absolutely delighted in the play of her nieces and nephew, found their every utterance adorable, and was thrilled when Claudia announced she was expecting her third child in the autumn.

  She quietly pushed down the secret desire for children that had burned so long within her.

  Claudia’s pregnancy was proving to be a difficult one, however, so it was Ann who called almost every day. Four years her junior, Sophie had always looked up to Ann. They resembled each other somewhat, Sophie thought—both had the long legs, a trait of the Dane family, and dark hair and eyes. But Ann’s eyes were beautifully shaped, and her hair thick with a healthy sheen. Standing next to her, Sophie had always felt drab and pale. That had not changed in eight years; Ann was still a beauty.

  What had changed was Ann’s apparent determination to take Sophie under her wing. “Things will be different this time, you will see,” she confided one morning, then looked thoughtfully at Sophie’s dark blue gown. “You don’t intend to wear that dark thing all day, do you?”

  And so went the reacquaintance with her family.

  While Sophie was occupied with her reunion, Honorine was in search of a decent meal—something that was always a very important issue for her. Finding nothing edible in the house, she ventured out alone that day, leaving Roland and Fabrice behind in something of a snit over their accommodations—Roland was disturbed with the way the morning light protruded into his room, and Fabrice found the green walls in his room quite objectionable. Honorine was not of a mind to hear any of it, and marched out of Maison de Fortier in what she considered one of her best ensembles—a blue-and-white striped skirt over stiff petticoats, an orange bodice with sage-green trim, and a bright yellow shawl.

  She marched across Bedford Square, smiling and nodding at those who turned to gape at her, across a crowded thoroughfare, and into another, larger park. There, she continued marching along, wondering exactly where one found a plate of fromage et jambon in this town. But the longer
she walked, the farther away from civilization she seemed to be going. With a great sigh of exasperation and her belly growling its discontent, Honorine paused at a crosswalk, shaded her eyes with her hand, and scoured the land around her. Greenery and more greenery. Muttering with exasperation, Honorine punched her fists to her hips and glared up one direction of the walkway, then in the opposite direction. Aha…not thirty feet away was a man sitting on a wrought iron bench.

  She began marching in his direction.

  He looked up as she approached, and she could scarcely help noticing that he was indeed a handsome man with a kind smile and dancing eyes. As she neared him, he casually took in the length of her, smiling his appreciation.

  Honorine smiled her appreciation, too. “Bonjour!”

  His polite nod belied his wolfish smile.

  “Please, you will help me, non?” she asked sweetly.

  “M-my pleasure, if I c-can.”

  A stutterer. Her son, Pierre, stuttered, too, the poor darling. She moved closer to the man, still smiling. “I am come new to this town,” she informed him.

  His smile brightened. “N-no wonder y-you are so ch-charming,” he said. “V-very bright and f-festive.” With his head, he indicated her ensemble.

  “Ooh, how kind,” Honorine gushed with pleasure, and plopped herself down on the bench next to him.

  “N-new, are y-you? I d-do n-not think I have seen you in the p-park b-before today.”

  “Oh no, I come here only on this day,” she clarified. “We arrive to London yesterday. From France. And now, my belly, it is very empty!” she exclaimed. “There is no food!”

  “N-no f-food?” he asked, his eyes shining with amusement, and Honorine was struck again with the notion that he was indeed a very handsome man. “Why of c-course we have f-food. We c-cannot have such a ch-charming guest go hungry.”

  Before Honorine could agree, something behind her caught the gentleman’s eye, and he lifted his chin, seemed to acknowledge someone. Honorine looked around; a man was approaching them, pushing a wheeled chair. That surprised her; she glanced at the gentleman again, noticing for the first time that he was sitting with a lap rug covering his legs. She looked at the wheeled chair as the man stopped it in front of them, then at the gentleman’s lap, and lifted a curious gaze to him.