“I’m glad for you,” she said sincerely, and as she went to start packing, she thought about John Carson’s proposal only a week before, but she didn’t regret her refusal. It wasn’t what she wanted, no matter how upset he was, and she wondered if she would run into him in New York. But she was sure of her decision. If she ever married, she knew it had to be for love.
Thomas came back to see her that afternoon when she returned from the shipping line with her ticket, and he said Dumas’s confession had gone as expected. He was in jail and would remain there while he awaited trial. No one had questioned the story he told them, and the subject of Le Boudoir never came up. Thomas had saved them from scandal, and orchestrated the aftermath perfectly. And then he asked her when she was leaving.
“In four days,” she said looking tragic. She was leaving behind women she had come to love, the life they had created there, a thriving business, however improper, and a dear friend in him. He had been unfailingly kind and respectful of her since they’d met, and he felt the impending loss as acutely as she did. And he looked as devastated as she did when he left a little while later. He was relieved that she was leaving, but he knew he would never meet another woman like her. As beautiful and exceptional as she was, he suspected she would meet a man in New York and never return to France.
—
In two days, as hastily as they could arrange it, the girls all left for their destinations. Some stayed in Paris, some went to the cities they came from, and a few of the girls moved in together. And all of them said, as they bade her tearful farewells, that they would wait for her return and come back to work for her. It made Angélique’s heart ache to say goodbye, and disband the family of loving sisters they had become.
By the third day after the murder, the house was empty. She and Fabienne cried as they said goodbye that morning, when she and Jacques left for Provence, and Angélique wished them well. She was happy that Fabienne was going to a better life, of marriage and babies.
Angélique walked around the house one last time before she left it. They had had good times there and done well, beyond her imagination. It had been a glittering dream for a moment, but now it was over. She went to the hotel with her mountains of trunks, and the maid who had agreed to join her, Claire. She was staying at the Meurice, which would have been impossible for her when she came to Paris. Now she could afford it with ease, without touching her father’s money. She was taking all her clothes with her, and after sending Thomas a message, he came to see her there the night before she left.
“You’re leaving tomorrow?” he asked softly when he came to her suite, and she nodded sadly. “I hope it’s a smooth passage. And I hope you come back one day. I have the feeling that you won’t.”
“Where else would I go?” she asked simply.
“Anywhere. Argentina. Brazil. Rome, Florence, back to England. There are a lot of possibilities you haven’t explored.” She hadn’t even thought of them, and didn’t want to. She didn’t want to leave at all, but knew she had to. He was right about that.
“I want to come back here and start again,” she said firmly, with her strength and spirit in her eyes.
“Sometimes that’s not as easy as we think. But I hope you do,” he said, and meant it, with a tender look. And then, without a sound, he bent to kiss her, and she wished that things had been different, that he wasn’t married, and she wasn’t leaving, and he wasn’t who he was. It could never work between them, and she had always known that, but he had been a remarkable friend, the best one she’d ever had. And he had cleaned up a disaster for her, and given her excellent advice. She knew that if she stayed, somehow, sometime, somewhere, the truth of what happened would come out, of who had done it, and where, and that Le Boudoir was hers. But thanks to him, for now it had been silenced. She couldn’t have asked for more. “Will you write to me?” he asked her. She nodded, but he wasn’t sure he believed her. It would be delicate writing to him. And who knew what life had in store for her in New York? He wished her only good things and hated to see her go. If life had been different and more fair, he knew he would have married her. He had never known a woman like her or loved anyone as much.
“Thank you,” she said before he left her. The words were much too small for what he’d done.
“Don’t thank me, Angélique. Just come back. I hope I see you again.” She nodded as tears ran down her cheeks. She felt like she was leaving home again, without her friends, with no parents and no plan. She was stepping out into empty space into thin air, bereft and alone again, without the people she loved. And all she could hope was that once again, she would land on her feet. Thomas hoped so too, and was sure she would, as he kissed her for the last time, whispered, “Au revoir, mon amour,” and hurried down the stairs of her hotel and sped off in his carriage. Angélique stood at the window and watched him go, crying silently, and la Duchesse of Le Boudoir disappeared with him.
Chapter 17
The morning Angélique left, after a year and a half in Paris, she rose at dawn to get ready, after a sleepless night, and wondered if she’d ever see Paris again. She wore a very elegant dark gray silk suit with a huge hat and a veil that concealed her face, as she got in the carriage for the ride to Le Havre with Claire, who was to become her lady’s maid. Their other maid had gone home to her parents in the South.
Angélique was thinking of Thomas, as they rode along. He couldn’t come to see her off, it would have been much too visible, and awkward if he were recognized. They had said all they needed to say the day before. There were no words left, only memories between them.
She watched Paris and the outskirts slip away as they traveled into the countryside toward the port. The journey took many hours, and the packet boat looked large to her as she boarded, and was painted black. She had never traveled so far before, and she had adopted the story of being a young widow once again. It still seemed more respectable than being a very young woman traveling alone, even with a maid. Claire was excited to board the ship too and to go to America with her. It seemed like an adventure to her, but Angélique had a heavy heart as she looked around her cabin. It was spacious, well-lit, and airy, and the mattress seemed comfortable. Well-wishers had come to see the other passengers off. It was still hard for her to believe that a whole new life had ended with a single bullet five days before. She and Fabienne had burned her dress and the towels, and she was sure that, just as Thomas said, none of the men who had seen the murder would talk. They had far more at risk than she did. But she had paid a high price for one client’s hot temper and a disagreement about politics. One man had lost his life, and now she was losing hers.
She watched the ship slip away from the dock with her hat pulled low, and her veil over her face, and felt the pleasant sea breeze as they set sail. Several people had already noticed her, a small, elegant, fashionable woman, who looked mysterious, and was traveling alone. She took a short walk around the deck after they were under way. There were pens for sheep and goats, a cow house, and a space for hens, chickens, ducks, and geese. Then she went back to her cabin, and read for a while. She had written to Mrs. White from the hotel, and told her that the family she worked for was moving to New York, and she was going with them to settle them in, she didn’t know for how long. She hoped not too long. And she promised to let her know where she was. She wondered if the old housekeeper would believe her, but there was no reason why she shouldn’t. Angélique hated lying to her, but there was no way to tell her the truth about her reason for leaving France. She was sure that in her wildest dreams Mrs. White couldn’t possibly imagine that Angélique had run the best brothel in Paris for the last sixteen months. Nor could anyone watching her on the ship. She looked like a distinguished, well-born lady, and the young widow she claimed to be.
She had dinner in her cabin, and then took a long walk around the deck, and explored the ship. There was a handsome saloon with wood paneling and gilt decoration. Her fellow passengers passed the time reading and playing cards. And sh
e’d been told that tea was served in the afternoon. The luxury of the appointments made her think of the Fergusons. She thought wistfully of Emma and wished she could see her again. She remembered then too seeing Harry Ferguson at Le Boudoir, and wondered what other lascivious mischief he was up to, and whether his wife was almost as busy as he was, pursuing other men.
Angélique had learned a great deal about the human race during her time in Paris: the people who were unexpectedly far nicer than you expected, those who pretended to be and weren’t, the strength, values, and principles of the women who had worked for her despite what they did for a living, and the lack of those same values in others who claimed to have them, how easily people betrayed each other, and how strong one had to become to survive. She had been learning that lesson for three years since her father’s death. It was impossible to imagine what his reaction would be to what her life had become, and if he would be proud of her for surviving, or deeply ashamed. She hoped more of the former, but there were things she wasn’t proud of either. She had done the best she could in the circumstances she had, and hoped that if he was watching over her, he’d understand.
She was thinking about it with a look of longing and regret as she stared out to sea under the billowing sails, and then closed her eyes, and a moment later she heard a voice beside her and glanced up. It was a tall man with a pleasant face.
“It can’t be as bad as all that,” he said sympathetically.
“Sorry, I was just thinking.” She smiled shyly at him through her veil.
“Of something not very happy, I’m afraid.” He had seen her twice on deck, and didn’t intend to speak to her, but she had looked so heartbroken, as she gazed out to sea, that he felt he must. No one deserved to be that sad.
“I’ve lost my husband, and I’m leaving home,” she said, grasping at a rapid explanation for her situation and grief. It seemed the right thing to say and all she could think of just then.
“Which proves that there is always someone with worse troubles than one’s own. I just lost my fiancée. To another man,” he added openly. “I came to Europe for a change of scene, from all the gossip in New York. It turns out that running away doesn’t really work. So I’m going home, after a month of solitary pursuits and feeling sorry for myself,” he said ruefully, and smiled. She wondered what he’d say if she told him she had lost the brothel she’d built and was grieving for her business and clients and the wonderful women who worked for her. It made her smile to think of it. Her honesty would have been so absurd and would have shocked him profoundly.
“I’m sorry to hear about your fiancée,” she said sympathetically, surprised and touched by how honest he had been, which was very different from the European men she knew, who were always more hidden about their feelings.
“And I about your husband. Do you have children?” He hadn’t seen any when she boarded the ship, and he had first noticed her then. He had seen her only with a maid. Their cabins weren’t far apart, on the same deck, although hers was larger—he could tell from where it was placed. But his was pleasant too. She shook her head in answer to his question.
“No, I don’t.” And probably never will, she almost added. She would never have children now. Who would marry her if she was honest with him? She had chosen her destiny in Paris when she opened Le Boudoir. Some of the girls might marry eventually, like Fabienne, but in her world she couldn’t. The man she was talking to on the deck of the ship had no idea what she was or where she’d been. She was sure he wouldn’t have spoken to her publicly if he did—only in a house like the one she’d run, if he was inclined to those pursuits. And the fact that she’d never engaged upstairs with her clients made no difference. She was tainted forever, and she knew it. All she could do now would be the same thing again when the time was right, and open another, similar house. All the girls were hoping she would. And her clients would be delighted to return, and grateful for her having spared them from the scandal of the murder. And in the meantime, she had enhanced the gift from her father by a healthy amount. She and the girls had benefited handsomely from the success of Le Boudoir.
“Will you be visiting New York for long?” he asked politely, and she looked vague.
“I don’t know. A few months, perhaps a year. I have no reason to hurry back.” He had realized by then that she wasn’t French, but English, although he had heard her speak French to the deck stewards when she declined a deck chair and a blanket they had offered, and said she didn’t need them. He spoke enough French to understand, and she sounded fluent to him.
“Do you live in England, or Paris?” he asked, curious about her, and the correct answer was “nowhere,” which was why she looked so sad.
“We moved to Paris from England a year ago, and then my husband died. I thought I’d go to New York while I decide what to do now. It’s all rather a big change.” He liked the aristocratic sound of her voice, and she was friendlier and more accessible than most of the English women he’d met, and she seemed comfortable speaking to a man, which wasn’t always the case for a woman of high rank alone. It was a practiced art she’d learned, and had overcome most of her initial shyness in Paris, which he had no way to know.
“Do you have friends in New York?” he asked her.
She hesitated before she answered. “Not many.” And those she did know, she couldn’t look up and wouldn’t have known how to find them anyway. It would have been most inappropriate to contact them, given where they’d met. They’d had several American clients in the past year, mostly from New York, and a few from Boston. His question made her think of John Carson, and their difficult final exchange, when he’d been so unhappy over her turning down his proposal. She had no regrets about it, even now. She wasn’t going to marry a man she didn’t love, for money. She simply didn’t love him and was sure she never could. There was something about him that was wrong for her, despite his generous offers, first to be his mistress, then his wife, after his previous wife died. She still remembered something hard in him, and anger when he didn’t get his way.
The man Angélique was speaking to thought she was brave to go to New York, with few friends. It was an unusual thing for a woman to do, and he admired the courage it showed.
“My name is Andrew Hanson, by the way,” he said, extending a hand, which she shook with her delicate black-gloved one. He noticed how small her hands were, and she had tiny feet in elegant black shoes.
“Angélique Latham,” she introduced herself, praying he didn’t know her brother Tristan or who he was, or even worse, Edward. He had been as repulsive as ever when she saw him in Paris.
“That’s a very pretty name,” Andrew commented, and she was a beautiful woman. And he liked talking to her. They stood in silence for a while, looking out to sea, each lost in their own thoughts, and then she made a move as though to leave.
“I’m going to read in my cabin for a while,” she said quietly, and he smiled at her. He was a great deal taller than she, and appeared to be about ten years older. He had guessed her age to be about twenty-four or -five—she seemed older than she was because of the elegant wardrobe, which was her intention. She loved pretty clothes, and had developed a taste for them in Paris, and indulged it whenever possible. He didn’t ask to see her again. There was no need to. They would meet often on the ship in the next weeks. It was a long trip. They had the luxury of time to get to know each other better, if they chose. They might make it to New York in three weeks in good weather, or four if conditions were less favorable or the wind was poor.
He didn’t want to intrude on her mourning, particularly not knowing how recently her husband had died, and he didn’t want to ask. He had been jilted nearly at the altar, two days before the wedding, in early August. And the wound inflicted by his fiancée had finally begun to heal six weeks later, enough so to be content talking to a pretty woman on a ship. As she walked away he smiled and then he went for a long walk alone on the deck.
Angélique fell asleep on her bed reading h
er book, in the gentle movement of the ship, and never appeared for tea. Claire came to check on her, found her asleep, and left her alone. She woke in time for supper, but decided to eat in her stateroom. She didn’t emerge again until the next day in a striking white wool suit and another enormous hat, which this time showed more of her face. She noticed Andrew again when she came onto the deck, and he looked pleased to see her as he approached. She was far more beautifully dressed than any woman on the ship, and the other women stared in envy at what she wore.
“I didn’t see you at tea or supper yesterday,” he commented. “Were you all right?”
“Yes, just tired. The book I was reading was very boring, and I fell asleep.” She smiled at him, and he laughed.
“I always fall asleep when I read. And that’s not a good thing. I’m a lawyer, and I have to read a lot.” They fell into step together, as they walked along, while others read or dozed, the women under parasols to avoid the sun. He noticed that Angélique didn’t seem to mind the sun and didn’t carry a parasol of her own.
“What sort of law do you practice?” she asked, seeming to care about what he did. She was an expert at drawing men out about themselves—it was second nature to her now, and she enjoyed it. He seemed like an intelligent, interesting man, even though he was young.
“I’ve been practicing general law, and some constitutional law, which is very dull. I want to go into politics. I’m hoping to run for Congress or the Senate in a year or two.”
“Maybe you’ll be president one day,” she teased him, but she had no idea who he was, or what his connections were. Perhaps he really would. America was so different from England, where you had to be born to the ruling class. For Americans, everything was possible, for anyone.
“Maybe,” he said cautiously, “although that is my father’s dream for me more than my own,” he added honestly. “I’d be content to be a congressman or senator. I think that was one of the things that frightened my fiancée. She didn’t like the idea at all. She thought being a politician would be ‘vulgar’ and a very unpleasant life. She tried to talk me out of it several times.” He smiled ruefully at Angélique again and was surprised himself by the things he told her.
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