by Ella Carey
Again and again, Louisa came back to the same conclusion—marriage to Henry could mean being in a contented, gilded cage, doting on mini Henrys until she realized her moment for action and activism had passed.
What if she were to refuse him? The wheels of society turned like cogs in a machine. A decision to refuse Henry would haunt her forever—in Boston, in London, everywhere. The English aristocracy were the most powerful in the world. There were fewer of them than there were on the Continent, and their value as potential marriage partners was the highest in the world. The British Empire was on the rise, and the son of a duke was as close to royalty as one could get.
Louisa frowned and moved up the grand staircase.
She had thought about returning to America to seek work as a teacher. She had pondered joining Mrs. Pankhurst in London in her efforts to secure women’s right to vote. Her mother would disown her if she did either of these things—cut her off—she knew that.
When she weighed this up with a marriage to Henry, there seemed to be no answer. No answer at all. But at lunchtime, she couldn’t help but smile when Henry appeared on the vast staircase that led to the salon with a little dog in his arms.
“I thought you might enjoy her company for the afternoon,” he said, holding the little spaniel out to Louisa. Henry was clever, she would give him that. She took the dog in her arms and caressed her long, soft ears. Suddenly, she was hit with a sense of homesickness, for Samuel, for her father. Not for her mother and her rigid sense of propriety, but for everything else. For her lost governess, for the old Meg.
“Cheer up,” Henry said, taking her arm and leading her out to the driveway. “It’s stunning weather.”
Louisa found herself laughing. “You are correct about that.”
“I want to show you my favorite folly. I don’t take houseguests there as a rule. I like having a secret place where I can truly be myself, with no one watching,” Henry said, leading her down the driveway and taking a turn to the right. He walked toward the stables, then turned left, away from them into a woodland walk, following a path that was narrow and shaded. Louisa placed the little dog on the ground. A leash had been tied around her neck, and she trotted on next to them as if there was nothing to worry about at all.
“You have so many beautiful walks here,” Louisa said. “It is hard to know where to start.”
“You could spend a lifetime here exploring them,” he said, his voice a little lower than usual. And then he chuckled, a sort of nonchalant aside. More like his usual self, Louisa thought as she kept pace beside him.
Soon the path took a turn to the right, going still deeper into the woods. “I hope you are not going to kidnap me and the dog,” Louisa laughed.
“If only,” he said.
Her thoughts were awhirl again. Perhaps she should ignore that niggling voice inside her that was telling her he was charming—was he too charming by far? Perhaps she should listen to the voice that was telling her that marrying Henry, should it be, indeed, an option, was probably her most sensible choice.
A real idea had begun to form in her head that morning while she walked, as ideas often did. What if she were to use her role here at Ashworth to promote women’s rights? She agreed with Mrs. Pankhurst that the vote for women was the first step toward eventual equality. Wouldn’t Emmeline Pankhurst be glad of a woman who would eventually have the rank and standing of a duchess to help with the cause? Louisa would have far more power as Viscountess Louisa Duval than she would as the unmarried Louisa West. Not to mention access to funds from her father once she married.
Possibilities had begun to open in her mind. Louisa was convinced that she had more chance of making progress here in Britain than she did at home in America. Were she to go home, her mother would put a stop to any activities that she tried to undertake. Were she to join the newly formed National American Woman Suffrage Association in America, she had no doubt that her mother would cut her off entirely from funds. But Louisa could see that this new group had been formed by bringing together women from largely middle-class backgrounds—the very participants in the charity organizations that Louisa would be expected to lead were she to marry Henry. And as his wife, not only would she have influence and power to galvanize women in these groups, but, dare she say it, she would have access to the money they needed.
They had come to a clearing in the forest. Scattered about, in the sudden sunshine, was a veritable collection of follies—tumbling-down replicas of Roman buildings, many of them draped in deep green ivy. Marble columns, some of them lying on their sides, some of them standing tall, caught the sun on their old, narrow bricks.
Louisa let the little dog loose, but watched her as she trotted about.
A picnic table had been set up near an old upturned statue, complete with a white tablecloth strewn with wildflowers, as if some nymph had scattered them there. A plate of cucumber sandwiches was covered with a glass dome. There were silver pitchers of pink lemonade and two chairs were covered in pink brocade.
Louisa couldn’t imagine a more romantic setting in her life. Had she entertained any doubts about Henry’s intentions, they were dissipating fast now. Henry surveyed the scene, as if taking it in with his approval.
“Hungry?” he asked.
Louisa couldn’t tear her eyes away from the charming surroundings. She wandered to one of the fallen statues and ran her hand over the warm old stone.
Henry stood near the table, leaning on the back of a chair. Next to it, a bottle of champagne chilled in a silver vessel on an elaborate stand. Louisa felt her breath quicken again, averted her eyes from it, and instead regarded Henry.
He poured her a glass of pink lemonade, holding it out for her.
“We had better not let the food turn bad in the heat.” Louisa smiled, taking the glass that was decorated with the Ashworth coat of arms—several stag heads lined up in a row.
“I had it delivered five minutes ago,” Henry said. He smiled then, a secretive, powerful sort of smile, as if he enjoyed his ability to command others, the power it gave him. “Shall we sit down?”
Louisa hesitated a moment. She couldn’t help but wonder if his invitation to sit at the table was indeed an invitation to join this power, or was he trying to use it over her?
Louisa moved to the table quickly, determined not to let him sense any confusion on her part. Her shoes sank into the soft green grass and she leaned forward, her hands wanting to play with something on the table. She settled for her fork.
Henry handed her the plate of sandwiches, and she thought how odd it was not to have servants around. It must be the only meal she had ever had at Ashworth where she was alone with a family member and no help.
“I think you would be very capable of running a place like this,” Henry said suddenly.
A breeze picked up, sending the tablecloth into a small flurry. Louisa smoothed it out and focused on her plate of food. Cucumber sandwiches, egg sandwiches. Scones, cakes, and jellies. Did she want to become English, or not?
Apart from all the questions about what she wanted to do, how she was going to do it, and her feelings toward Henry, she had also experienced a strange sense of dislocation in England. For some reason, she seemed to have lost her sense of being American, and yet she felt foreign in Britain at the same time.
“I don’t know that I would be terribly capable,” she said, finally. “I rather think it would be a task that would take a special sort of person.”
“A capable, strong sort of person, like you,” Henry said. He leaned back in his seat. “Would you like some champagne?”
Louisa sensed her shoulders dropping from their tense state. So champagne at this point in the conversation, then. He was clearly not going to propose. “I’d love some,” she said.
“About this ball,” he went on. She sensed that he was trying to get her to relax. And yet she felt about as relaxed as a fox that was being pursued by the hunt.
“It sounds delightful, of course,” she said.
“The salon, obviously. Sometimes we use the smaller ballroom or the theater on the odd occasion for smaller gatherings, but I want this to be big. I want it to be special. Louisa, is there anyone in particular whom you would like to invite?”
Louisa put down her champagne. Her throat seemed to have constricted. “I don’t have anyone special in mind,” she said. The conversation was awkward, stilted. She was having trouble finding words to say.
Henry lifted the lid from the food and was quiet for a few moments while they ate.
He folded his arms after a while and sat back in his seat. “I hope that you will get to make more friends among my acquaintances,” he said. “I hope that you will get to know our neighbors. Have you walked around the village yet?”
Louisa shook her head. She gazed out at the landscape. The field bordered the forest on one side, and on the other led to a farther expanse, where cows grazed below wide cedar trees in the distance. She forced herself to focus on the man sitting opposite her.
And wondered, what would Samuel think of her sitting here like this?
Louisa nodded, but her insides churned. Suddenly, she put her napkin down on the table and stood up.
“I think I might go and have a rest,” she said. The dog had fallen asleep by a statue.
Henry stood up too. “Of course, Louisa. As you wish,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said, her words coming out curter than she intended. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“My pleasure,” he said. He walked around the table, and she stayed where she was, perfectly still. And she found she couldn’t move, although she wanted to. She seemed stuck.
He stopped right in front of her. And he took her hand in his own, reaching it up to his lips and kissing it. Louisa started a little. He had never done that before. She had never seen him kiss another woman’s hand since her arrival at Ashworth. Henry, while ever the attentive host, was all about putting on displays of entertainment rather than doting on individual guests.
Louisa nodded at him now, and she picked up the sleeping dog, and she made her way back to the path that led into the forest. She felt lost out here, for some reason. She wanted to go back to Ashworth, and she wanted, for some strange reason, to feel safe.
CHAPTER SIX
Paris, 2015
Sarah was woken by the sound of rap. The beat belted about the bedroom, sweeping its way around Marthe’s exquisite treasures as if it were taking over everything in the vicinity. If Sarah had started by feeling welcome and at home in the apartment, this noise was having the complete opposite effect on her now. She put her pillow on top of her head. Then she pulled it away again and looked at the clock. Seven in the morning. Darn Laurent! It was her first day in Paris. She was jet-lagged. She would have to confront him and fast.
She climbed out of bed and marched over to the door that connected to Laurent’s room, aware that her black bob would be utterly tousled and her favorite polka-dotted silk pajamas were definitely only for her eyes. Problem was, she quite frankly didn’t care. All she wanted was to go back to sleep.
Laurent was being ridiculous—this kind of music at this volume, especially at this time of day, was certainly inexcusable. What had Loic said Laurent disliked? Garish things, noise? Hardcore rap about bling and guns at the crack of dawn seemed to be up his alley nowadays. Sarah turned the handle and stuck her head around the door.
Nothing. No one in the bedroom. The grand four-poster was unmade. A couple of shirts were strewn across Marthe de Florian’s magnificent old bed. Sarah moved farther into the room. The music was even louder in here; it throbbed through her entire system, causing her tired head to ache.
She turned the next door handle.
Laurent was not in the sitting room, although someone else was. Three someone elses, to be precise—three models, by the looks of it. Sarah felt her shoulders slump. One of the girls was clearly the subject of Laurent’s latest portrait. Her green eyes were lined with black kohl. The other two girls were striking in their own ways. They all lolled about on Marthe de Florian’s chaise longue.
Sarah could not help but gape.
But all three of them simply stared back as if they were appraising something unpleasant in the street.
Sarah wrapped her arms around her annoying, silly pajamas. She should have at least gotten dressed. But right now, all she cared about was turning down the music so she could go back to sleep, or, if not, at least think.
The portrait model beat her to it. The music retreated to a murmur with one flick of the girl’s black-painted nails.
“You look angry,” the girl said in stilted English. “Anger is not good for the complexion.”
If Sarah were honest, right now, she was more focused on feeling like a moggy having an encounter with a clutter of purebred Siamese than on any concerns with her skin.
“I just can’t deal with that volume right now,” she said. “I’m a bit jet-lagged.”
“I am permanently jet-lagged,” the portrait model retorted. “It means nothing.”
Of course.
“No Parisian woman would wear that outfit,” one of the others said, her accent heavy, French, sexy.
Perhaps they were triplets.
Sarah hated to think.
“Laurent told us there was an American in the apartment.” The third one spoke English without much accent at all.
Sarah decided to take things into her own hands.
“I really should take a shower,” she said, smiling. “I’m Sarah, by the way. Thanks for turning the music down.” She turned back toward Laurent’s bedroom, promising herself that she would never step out of her own room again without proper makeup and an outfit that was intended to kill.
“Sarah.”
She closed her eyes and stopped, but did not turn around.
“Sleep well?”
The sound of Laurent’s voice was accompanied by the delicious scent of freshly brewed coffee.
Sarah inhaled.
Heaven.
But she was going back to bed.
“Sarah, have you met Giselle, Suzette, and Adela?” Laurent sounded more than jovial now. The sound of his footsteps resonated through the room. “Sarah’s the other guest in the apartment whom I told you about,” he said.
Caffeine.
Sarah clutched at her wretched sleepwear.
“Would you like a coffee, Sarah?” Laurent sounded fine—relaxed and at ease. “You can have this one, if you like. The girls don’t drink coffee, do you?”
There was a chorus of laughter.
Sarah sighed. She never got caught out like this. Never. She could either walk out of the room and look ridiculous, or turn around and take the coffee and look ridiculous again.
She was gasping for the coffee.
After a few moments, she turned around and walked over to Laurent. “Thank you,” she said, with all the grace and dignity she could muster. “I would love some coffee.”
She ignored the look of amusement on Laurent’s face. He had gone from snicker-in-his-voice to outright I’m-trying-not-to-laugh-out-loud-at-you faster than a flick of his paintbrush on a canvas.
Sarah stood her ground in her pajamas and sipped the coffee.
It was good. Seriously good.
“What are your plans for today, Sarah?” Laurent went on, deadpan.
“This is boring,” the girl who was clearly the subject of the portrait announced. “We are going out for juices. You can drink that hideous stuff. Unless you need us, Laurent? We will take a twenty-minute break?”
Laurent caught Sarah’s eye just then and raised a brow. “Fifteen-minute break,” he said. “Then I’ll do your preliminary sketches, Adela. And Giselle, we are nearly done.”
Sarah wanted to protest. She needed a shower, makeup, and food. The last thing she wanted was a fifteen-minute conversation in her pajamas with a sultry French artist.
But Laurent looked like talking to her was exactly what he wanted to do.
; Sarah sighed. The coffee was giving her the kick start she so desperately needed, but if there was one thing she hated, it was being one step behind. She sipped away at the drink. She needed a plan to evacuate.
“Sarah, I’ve been wondering. What exactly brought you to Paris? And why are you so keen to stay in Marthe de Florian’s apartment that you’re willing to share with me?” Laurent sounded perfectly reasonable.
Sarah cursed herself for talking to him yesterday about Boldini. Why hadn’t she kept quiet? She was in Paris on a mission—it didn’t exactly need to be kept secret, but she was not in the mood to tell him the entire story of Louisa right now. And Laurent was very attractive—the absolute last thing she needed. She had sworn off men, after all. At least for a while longer.
But then, Laurent was an artist. He should know about the Belle Époque. What if she could ask him some questions? He seemed intent on telling her that he wanted answers, but what if she could swing things her way?
She sipped at the coffee. Another idea came into play. Now she was rolling, more like her usual self. Confidence and strategy, whether caffeine induced or not, were always a good idea.
“The truth is,” Sarah said, “I’m here on a personal mission.”
Laurent smoothed out the white shirt that hung loose over his faded jeans. He slipped down onto Marthe de Florian’s chaise longue and sat there, his eyes raking over her like an . . . artist . . . Sarah reminded herself. She stood a little taller, tugged at her own pajama top.
“I can’t imagine many people wanting to share with me,” he went on.
Sarah cleared her throat. What was she supposed to say to that? It hadn’t been her choice. She had just wanted access to Marthe’s letters.
She decided to plow on and not react to him. “My ancestor . . .” She looked at him to check his reaction.
