by Ella Carey
After she opened them, Sarah stood stock-still. Laurent Chartier was working at his easel. He hadn’t noticed her and was clearly so absorbed in his work that had Sarah danced the cancan in front of him, he probably wouldn’t have looked up. She studied him for a few seconds. He was looking at the canvas, his dark eyes intent on one spot. His hair, which was silky and dark, was splattered with a few tiny spots of paint. His eyebrows were perfect. Sarah had no idea why she was noticing that, and he wore a white T-shirt, which was surprisingly paint-free, along with a pair of faded jeans.
Sarah took a step into the room.
“Bonsoir,” he said, without looking up. “Sorry. I’m stuck,” he went on in English with the only the faintest hint of a French accent—he sounded like Loic. Was there something in the water in Provence? “I’m being rude.” He frowned at his canvas.
“Bonsoir,” Sarah said. She knew that it was always a good idea to say something in French when you were visiting Paris. Even a simple greeting was a fine start.
Laurent ran a hand over his chin. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes!” Sarah almost laughed. “I was out of it for hours.”
“Good. You’ll want dinner.”
“I do.” Sarah moved toward his canvas. “Oh.” The word came out involuntarily.
The painting had changed so much since the morning that Sarah had to do a double take. Somehow, he had captured even more of the sitter’s personality. She looked even more thoughtful, but also more confident. More alive. And there was something in her expression that was whimsical now. Just a hint.
“This is exactly what Boldini did,” Sarah said, taking another step closer. “You’ve captured it. Power and sensuality and poignancy all at the same time. And yet, she’s a modern interpretation of Boldini’s work. She’s of our time, I can see that.”
Laurent turned to her for a moment. He looked as if he were about to say something and then stopped, turned back to the painting, and folded his arms.
Sarah stood next to him. “What’s the problem?”
“Her pose. Boldini emphasized the décolletage. But there’s something about this model—”
“What’s wrong?” She looked perfect.
“The décolletage thing isn’t going to work with her.”
Sarah felt her lips twitching into a smile. “So, don’t paint her like that.”
“But I have to be true to Boldini. Who threw light on his subjects’ décolletage whenever he could.”
“Not all of his portraits are . . . thrusty.”
Laurent turned to her. His eyes twinkled. “Thrusty?”
Sarah felt a blush rise in her cheeks, but she went on. She was so struck by his work. “Think about his portrait of Adelaide Ristori, or The Red Curtain. To me, they are two of Boldini’s most interesting works. No décolletage. I’d like to have known either of those women. He made them both look fascinating.”
“Thrustiness,” Laurent muttered. “You have me intrigued—although this is an intensely odd first conversation. And either you have a serious interest in art, or you’re an expert on Boldini.”
“I think you should be true to the model.” Sarah couldn’t stop staring at the painting. “True to her character. That’s what matters, as well as the fact that it’s your work, not Boldini’s.”
Laurent looked more than amused now. “Okay, then, Sarah. I want you to tell me how you know all this. Loic didn’t tell me much about you. And I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Laurent.” He held out a hand.
Sarah shook it. His fingers were slightly rough with dried paint. “Sarah West.”
“Tell me about the art, Sarah West.”
Sarah tapped her foot on the floor. “You know, I would, but I’m starving. I have to go out and eat. Can you tell me of a place that’s good around here?”
He grinned then, his brown eyes warming too. “Go to Le Bon Georges. It’s your first night in Paris and their menu is very French. It’s a ten-minute walk down Rue la Bruyère, then take your first right and your next left. Have you organized a French SIM card for your phone?”
Sarah nodded. She had sorted that at home. Laurent showed her exactly where the restaurant was, using maps on her phone.
“I’ll ring ahead for you and make a booking at nine. You’d better get going.”
“Thanks.” Sarah smiled at him. He seemed fine. And there was no obvious indication of any wild-boy lifestyle in his behavior right now. Nothing she could see that reminded her of Toulouse-Lautrec, for goodness’ sakes. No bottles of absinthe decorating Marthe’s mantelpiece, no lines of cocaine on the coffee table. His eyes weren’t bloodshot and there were no actresses or models in sight. She moved toward the salon.
“Have you got your key?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
“Yes.” She was going to be sure she held onto that. She had to hold back a giggle. He almost sounded fatherly in his concerns about the phone and the key. Not what she expected. Not what she had been led to believe at all.
“Go and eat. I have more questions for you, though.” He returned to his work.
Sarah felt a smile dance around her lips. Perhaps it was just Paris. But when she stepped out into the street, she felt lighter than she had in an age. It was as if a small part of the burden she had carried for the last twelve months like a deadweight on her back had lifted, just a little.
It had to be Paris.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hampshire, England, 1893
Henry insisted on taking Louisa to Ashworth in his spider phaeton. Louisa could not help but admire the carriage’s elegant construction. There was no doubt that it showed off Henry’s two light, spirited horses to spectacular effect. It was a terribly sporting little thing, but Louisa wondered whether it would make it the entire way to Ashworth.
“I drove it all the way here. It’s really not as far as all that,” Henry said, standing back and admiring the smart carriage. Its wheels were of polished wood, the front two only slightly inferior in size to those at the rear, and it had a great hood that could be pulled up in case of bad weather—not that there would be any need for that today.
Louisa hated to think what her mother’s reaction would be to the idea of her driving across the English countryside in the company of a young man she had only met the day before, in his phaeton, no less.
Last night, Meg had revealed that Henry Duval was a viscount, heir to one of the largest estates in England and quite famous for the fact that he had turned his nose up at all the eligible young women. According to gossip, his house parties could go on for weeks. To be invited to Ashworth was something indeed. Henry was the son of a duke and regarded as a colossal catch. Louisa had decided that she was not going to put herself in such a position that he could turn his nose up at her, at all.
“I like it,” she said, turning back from the carriage to Meg and Guy. “And you tell me that Ashworth is still in Hampshire, so I suppose we’ll make it in one piece.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Guy smiled, taking Meg’s hand as she came down the front steps of the house.
Meg was looking particularly elegant this morning in a deep red dress trimmed with black lace. The outfit was finished with a fashionably high collar and puffed sleeves. But Louisa had chosen to wear one of her favorite simple white shirts and skirts for the journey—white was the only color she could stand in the heat.
Guy took Meg over to his chocolate- and gold-painted brougham, which was loaded up with everyone’s luggage. The coachman and groom were already seated side by side, and a footman was on hand to help Meg into her superbly trimmed leather seat.
Once they had wound their way through several villages and passed the gates of a few enticing estates—Henry seemed to know the owners of them all and was happy to regale Louisa with juicy gossip about the inhabitants—he turned the phaeton off the road onto a raked gravel driveway. He drove for a little while, until they reached an impressive archway that was set over a pair of elaborate black iron gates topp
ed with gold spikes. To either side, a high pale stone wall stretched quite some way in either direction, and set into the wall, charmingly, there seemed to be a little gatehouse on each side.
Louisa’s eyes roamed through the gates to the well-tended lawn that lay to each side of the driveway before it disappeared into a line of overhanging trees. The idea of travelling in the shade was appealing. Even though Louisa had her parasol, they had been jostling along in the sun for over two hours now.
The lodge keeper appeared and greeted Henry.
“Welcome to Ashworth, Louisa,” Henry said. “A group of friends have come up from London—Parliament has closed and they are bored, so I sent word to them all to join us—junior ministers and so on. I must say, we have rather a lot of men.” Henry moved the carriage on through the gate and toward the heavenly trees.
“No doubt they will attract a ton of young ladies then,” Louisa said, not even trying to hide the sarcasm in her voice.
She stole a glance at Henry—a smile passed across his face.
Later, as the driveway tended up to a rise beyond the bank of trees, Louisa could not help but gasp. In front of her stood a palace—there was only one word for it—built entirely of honey-colored stone.
Louisa almost stood up in her seat, she was so entranced by the sight. A turret sat on each of the four corners of a vast, square-shaped building. Small spires and ornate decorations were inlaid into the elegant stone, visible even from the vantage point where they sat. A colossal square tower sat in the middle of the palace, overlooking the wide expanse of park that surrounded it. The contrast to Guy’s elegant but small estate was marked, and while Louisa’s family owned a house in Newport as well as one in Boston, she had not seen anything like Ashworth in her life.
Louisa found herself consumed with questions, some of which she suspected would cause Henry to laugh. How many people would it take to run a place like this? How many bedrooms did it have? And how on earth was she supposed to address his parents?
Henry pushed the horses into a trot. The road took them around the expansive park and through another copse of trees that edged the estate before wending its way to the left, straight toward the main entrance to Ashworth.
The house steward was waiting to greet them, along with Henry’s valet, when they pulled up underneath the stately portico.
“I sent a telegram this morning to my parents. Asked them to get the servants to prepare for dancing over the weekend. And I have some other surprises planned. I do get bored easily, and I like to give the staff a bit of excitement,” Henry said. He handed the reins to the footman who had appeared at his side and jumped down from the carriage.
Another footman appeared to hand Louisa down.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling at the young man. He nodded, but remained poker-faced. Louisa caught Meg’s eye and grinned as her friend made exactly the same mistake. The way the English handled their servants was a little more formal than back at home in Boston.
Henry proved himself to be one of the most exciting and charming hosts Louisa had ever had the fortune to know. The house party that had arrived for the summer’s weekend turned into a moveable feast. Guests seemed to pop up and disappear during the course of the next two weeks. Every day there were different people for dinner, and Henry was tireless in his organization of dances, moonlit punts on the lakes dotting the estate, picnics, and drives to the follies that surrounded the park. Even pillow fights in the early mornings seemed to be de rigueur—Henry’s parents turned a blind eye to any antics that went on in what were apparently more than fifty guest bedrooms. The duke and the duchess seemed to be utterly preoccupied with their own lives. Their appearances were occasional and their manner was formal. If Louisa’s mother knew how lax the chaperoning was, Louisa suspected that she might be called back to Boston straightaway.
When Louisa found herself with any spare time, she would try to explore where she could. Henry had given her and Meg a tour of the staterooms—the vast library, lined with shelves of English oak; the music room, hung with priceless sixteenth-century Italian tapestries; the drawing room, decorated in pale silks by the fourth duchess of Ashworth; and the billiard room, its walls showing off the palace’s collection of Flemish art.
Henry’s stamina for fun was extraordinary. He slept until noon, appearing in his silk dressing gown on the main staircase that filled the central tower when he woke, swishing into the breakfast room, demanding tea laced with brandy and lashings of toast. The servants all obliged him, but Louisa had noticed a few wry looks pass between them behind his back.
When Louisa had returned from her early-morning walk through the park after nearly two weeks at Ashworth, she was surprised to find Henry up, fully dressed and holding court in the dining room, surrounded by several other guests.
“Louisa!” Henry called. “Just the person we need.”
“How so?” Louisa asked, standing in the doorway. She was aware that the thick plait that she had asked the maid to put her hair into that morning was probably disheveled now. She raised a hand up to pat it back into place.
“You look beautiful as you are,” a young man of the party called out, “especially charming as you stand there framed in the doorway.”
Louisa raised a brow. She had become both sick of and used to empty compliments from countless men. Henry, on the other hand, still intrigued her. Several conversations with him had amused her, just as she had been surprised and diverted by him the first time they had met. But she was aware of whispered conversations, that things were being said behind her back. Other girls felt Henry gave her too much attention. She had been careful to keep out of any such talk.
When Meg had taken her aside one evening, just as they were about to go down to the library for drinks, Louisa had known exactly what her friend was going to say.
“There is talk that Henry is growing fond of you,” Meg said in the ladies’ sitting room before they met anyone else.
Louisa had folded her arms, held Meg’s eyes. “I don’t know what I think,” she confessed.
“That is not very you.”
“I know. But you see, Henry is modern, and that interests me, and yet look at his future. He will inherit one of the most important estates in this old country. His role, Meg, will be the antithesis of modernity.”
Meg giggled. “Trust you to analyze it all. Louisa, how do you feel about him? That is all that matters. Could you love him? He is singling you out.”
“I can’t answer that question.” At least with Meg, Louisa knew she could be honest. “The truth is I find him interesting, and fun, and unusual. He is charming and a talented, warm host. But is that enough? You know what my ambitions are. You know what I want. Is that ever going to be compatible with marriage?”
Meg ran her hand down Louisa’s arm. “My dear friend, you will always have your ideas. You were born with opinions planted in your head. But you can keep them—they will evolve. You can work toward helping women, and have love, if you want it. Why not? And, as you say, if Henry is modern . . . Have you spoken with him about your feelings on women’s roles?”
“We have hardly had the opportunity to have such a conversation,” Louisa said. And she didn’t add that she felt he would run away were she to raise the topic. But then, she should not be worried about a man running from her, just because she held opinions that were not the norm. Sometimes she found herself going in circles and becoming confused by her very own ideas. If only the two things were compatible—love and women’s desire to contribute in a proper way to the running of the world.
“Why is it you need me, Henry?” she asked him now, keeping her tone light.
“Because I am having a ball.”
“Oh, how delightful,” Louisa said, hiding her disappointment. She had had enough of balls back in London.
“But I want to take you out today to talk about it. I want you to help me make plans. I suppose you have breakfasted already? I know that you do like your early morning walks. I have
made it my habit to become familiar with your routine.”
Annoyingly, Louisa felt her cheeks redden. She was particularly aware of her status as an American. She hated the assumption that she was here in England only to find a husband, no matter how true it might appear to be.
“Louisa!” Henry was laughing at her now. “You are not hearing a word that I say.”
“I apologize,” Louisa said. “A ball will, of course, be delightful. Charming.”
“I want you to give me the first dance,” Henry said.
Louisa sensed a frisson pass between the ladies at the table.
“Of course,” she said. “I would be honored, Henry. But now, I really must go upstairs and change.” How easy it was to slip into formal politeness, but it worked, even if it meant nothing at all.
“Can you meet me in the salon at noon?”
“Certainly.” Louisa nodded at him. “I will be ready.”
She turned to go back out the door.
“Oh, and Louisa,” Henry called after her, “my younger brother, Charlie, is returning home in time for the ball. He has been working at one of the other estates. But I’d like you to meet him. I think you’ll like him, in fact.”
The guests at the breakfast table took sips of their tea, and several of them cleared their throats in unison.
“Thank you, I would like to meet him very much.” Louisa kept her tone even.
After her conversation with Meg, Louisa’s thoughts had been in a whirl. Somehow, Meg had legitimized Louisa’s trepidation. And she knew she had to consider carefully what she would do if Henry did propose. After all, girls she knew had received offers of marriage after only a few dances, a couple of morning visits in London, and, if they were lucky, a walk in Kensington Gardens. This was exactly what Louisa had always wanted to avoid, and exactly what she feared might happen with Henry.
But then, Louisa knew she would make her family more than happy were she to accept Henry. All social circles would be open to her. Henry could prove to be a fun companion, and his title and land might give Louisa freedom in some sense . . . but there would be social obligations. Even Meg was already caught up in her mother-in-law’s ideas of what was right—endless charity events, volunteer work at the local parish, what one could say in society, whom she could talk to.
