From a Paris Balcony

by Ella Carey

  “Of course,” she said, as he tucked her hand into his arm.

  She walked with him through the salon, out into the wide entrance hall, and into the empty library. Sounds from the party drifted into the room.

  If there was anywhere in the palace that conveyed a sense of timelessness and serenity, then the library, with its hundreds of well-dusted volumes, their dark navy and red leather bindings decorated with gold leaf, was the place. It was a room for tea in front of a roaring fire, an afternoon spent curled up reading. It was Louisa’s favorite room in the palace.

  Henry leaned against one of the velvet sofas in front of the fireplace. “I always think of this as rather a musty, old-fashioned room. All these old tomes. But it is the only place where I knew we could be alone.” He ran a hand over his still-perfect hair and looked down at the floor.

  “I see,” Louisa said. She glanced at the beautiful old volumes, rows and rows of gold leaf books, their spines holding treasures, she knew. Ladders were positioned around the room, up against the floor-to-ceiling shelves. How she would love to spend a day reading in here. Something stirred in her, something triggered again. That sense. It was as if someone had thrown a very small stone into a lake and it had pierced the soft sand at the bottom, and it told her, He’s not right. Yet her rational self replied, What other option do you have, Louisa?

  “You must know that I have come to regard you with some esteem,” Henry said, his words coming out slowly, as if they were planned. Then he took her hand and knelt down in front of her. “I have corresponded with your father. I don’t anticipate a problem, and therefore, I’m asking you to marry me. There’s no point in delaying it.”

  Louisa looked down at the man in front of her.

  Here it was.

  She did care for Henry but she was certainly not in love. Was it better this way? She had heard countless women say it was. She looked down at the Turkish carpet, its patterns neat and structured. And thought about being a viscountess, then a duchess. Was this the way to gain control of her life?

  Henry stood up, took her hand, raised it to his lips.

  Louisa pushed away the strong instinct, almost violent this time, that this was all wrong.

  She simply nodded, in the end. Forced herself to be calm about it. It was the best outcome, she thought. “If my parents consent, then, why not?” she said, her words coming out rather hoarse. All her thoughts tumbled about and the conclusion she had come to was that this was the right thing to do. It made sense. It just made every sense in the world.

  Henry dropped a light kiss on her forehead. She leaned up, allowing him to brush his lips onto hers. Then pulled away. That was quite enough.

  She walked with him back out into the ball.

  “Mama and Papa approve, by the way,” he said.

  “Oh, good.” Louisa focused her eyes on the swirling scene in front of her, satin and taffeta ball gowns and handsome young men in formal attire. So, it was as easy as that. Her entire life decided in a second. In the swish of a conversation in a pink dress at a ball. She pressed her lips together and pushed down the feeling of trepidation that was mounting in her heart.

  And stopped just on the edge of the dancers. Henry’s brother appeared right between them. Louisa found herself reddening.

  Henry spoke. “Charlie, I’d like you to meet Louisa. I’m going to get myself a drink.”

  Charlie folded his arms and didn’t move an inch. “What an introduction! ‘This is Charlie—I’m going to get a drink!’ Hello, Louisa.” Charlie held out a hand.

  Louisa took it and looked up at him. He kissed her hand, but he was frowning, just as he had been when she first noticed him. Vulnerability fell all over her suddenly. She did not know where to look. Henry had disappeared into the crowd.

  “Louisa,” Charlie said, “may I talk to you please?” His voice was far deeper than Henry’s. Louisa chewed on her lip.

  “Certainly,” she said, and took in a breath.

  Charlie took her arm and led her around the edge of the dancers. The sounds of laughter, the orchestra, all these things seemed to mingle in her head. The room felt quite hot all of a sudden.

  “I want to ask you some questions. Let’s go this way.” He led her out of the room. They were standing in the hallway that led to the library.

  And then he turned. “Come with me,” he said.

  He led her past the library and the sitting room, stopping at the entrance to the smoking room, waiting while Louisa entered first, then striding inside after her and closing the door. Louisa folded her arms and stood still. She forced herself to focus on the patterned rug and the hunting prints that decorated the walls.

  “I brought you here because no one will disturb us,” Charlie said. His tone was gentler now, in fact, his voice was quite soft.

  Louisa nodded. She felt as nervous as if she were at an interview with a . . . duke.

  “It’s my father’s domain. He doesn’t tend to bring groups in here—there is another more formal billiards room for that.”

  Louisa nodded. Yes, that was right. Henry had shown her the formal billiards room. She focused on Charlie and frowned.

  Charlie kept his voice low and soft as he spoke. “Henry will be telling our parents that you have accepted him as we speak. He nodded at me just then—so I understand what’s happened tonight. I know you’re engaged. It’s a done deal, as far as Henry’s concerned. He just needs confirmation from your parents, which I doubt will be a problem.” He moved toward the fireplace, leaned against it, and ran a hand over his chin. “But Louisa, did Henry explain the implications of your acceptance?”

  Louisa moved farther into the room herself. She moved, instinctively, perhaps, to a side table that held family photographs in silver frames. She ran her finger over the top of one of Henry standing on the lawn with a tennis racket. “I’m aware of the implications, of the responsibilities,” she said. But she knew her voice sounded dull. And somehow, she couldn’t help that.

  “Do you know him?”

  Louisa sensed a chuckle rising in her throat, but she pushed it back down again. Held it in check. “As far as anyone knows anyone when they are about to marry,” she said.

  “Do you love him?”

  Louisa startled like a pony that had come across an aggressive dog. “You ask too many questions.” She could not keep the annoyance out of her tone. Charlie, she sensed, was the sort of man who came right to the point. She squared her shoulders.

  “I have more things I want to ask.” He didn’t seem embarrassed at his own forthright manner at all, and this bothered Louisa. Her nervousness was suddenly replaced with . . . anger, almost.

  And as it rose up in her, she did not even try to hold it back. “If you think, if you think for one moment that I am some sort of aspiring American, then you have no idea who I am.”

  Charlie’s voice was even more authoritative. He sounded more serious than before. “From what I’ve heard, I think an aspiring American, as you so delightfully put it, is the last thing you are. But you’re confused.”

  Louisa felt heat flush in her cheeks. What was this? Where was Henry? But then, she reminded herself, she was perfectly capable of settling her own arguments. She reminded herself of the way she had always sparred with Samuel and braced herself some more.

  “I noticed you this morning when you were walking around the park. You looked agitated. No one walks in circles unless they don’t know what they’re about.” Charlie moved toward the fireplace and leaned against it in a most proprietary manner. “I’d hate to see you making a shocking mistake. And no matter what I think of Henry’s actions with regard to you, I don’t want to see him make the wrong decision either.”

  “We are perfectly happy. Thank you.” Louisa lifted her chin. And knew she was lying. But she did not want, for some reason, to give an inch.

  Charlie let out a laugh and regarded her with a smile on his lips. “Louisa, Henry isn’t any ordinary heir. Henry has dreams and desires other than the role
that was set out for him at birth. This might shock you, but he’d rather be an actor on the stage.”

  “I’m aware of that,” Louisa said. “He told me. And furthermore, I sensed he was . . . different . . . the first time we met.”

  Charlie broke into a full blown laugh now. “Did he tell you that he spends most of his time in Paris, frequenting the Moulin Rouge? I won’t go into specifics, but—is that a life that appeals to you, Louisa? It’s hardly the right milieu for a new husband and wife. I’d hate to think what it would do to you were you to accompany him on his . . . escapades. Because, quite frankly, if you are not interested in courtesans and the theater and dance halls, then you’ll be spending most of your time at Ashworth by yourself. Don’t underestimate his interests in Paris.”

  “Henry will have to be here to run the estate,” Louisa pointed out. “He can hardly spend all his time in Paris. And if he finds it modern, and different from all this, then what is the harm in that? He might gain ideas on how to update things at Ashworth from his time in Paris.” She was becoming quite agitated, but, she had to admit, stimulated and excited as well.

  “I run all the estates. Henry doesn’t do a thing.” Charlie was not going to budge.

  Louisa closed her eyes. Of course. Of course he did. Was Charlie, then, worried that her arrival would do him out of a job? That Henry might want to spend more time at Ashworth if he were married? That she might be a force for change within the family dynamic?

  “I want you to understand what you are getting into, and I want you to promise me that you won’t have any expectation that Henry will be here, that he will be a regular husband.” His tone was darker again, more serious.

  “Perhaps,” Louisa said, her words coming out like bullets fired from a hunting rifle. “I never wanted a regular husband. Perhaps I was never interested in playing the role of a regular wife.”

  Charlie dropped his voice an octave. “I know that. I know you have your own inclinations. And I think that’s a good thing.”

  As quick as a fox, Louisa glanced up at him.

  He went on, and his voice was so soothing that she felt as if she were almost listening to a snake charmer casting a spell. “You must make sure that you don’t get bored, in that case. You must make provisions for yourself to have an independent life once you marry Henry. Start making plans. Get yourself organized and make things clear from the word go.”

  “It’s exactly what I want,” she said, and it was as if she were in accordance with him now. It seemed that the conversation had shifted from a potential disaster into a duet that somehow worked. And she wasn’t sure who had turned it. It bothered her that it just might have been Charlie.

  “Very well then.” Charlie pulled his hand down from where it had been leaning against the mantelpiece, adjusted his white sleeve.

  “I have thought things through,” she said, but she suspected she sounded more resolute than she felt.

  Charlie moved toward the doorway.

  A pang of disappointment hit Louisa. She wasn’t sure why. But she wanted this seeming closeness that she felt to Charlie to linger longer than it had. He had one hand on the door.

  “Meet me in the morning at the front entrance, at nine. I hear you are fond of riding. I am too. We’ll go out together and I’ll show you the estate. You should see it,” he said.

  Louisa felt a smile form on her lips, and something lightened in her entire system. “Do you always give unsolicited advice?” she asked.

  He stayed silent, just looked at her.

  “Very well.” She still kept her tone light, but he had unsettled her, again. “I’ll meet you tomorrow. And thank you, it would be wonderful to learn something of the estate. I am interested, you know.”

  He held the door open. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He sounded firm. As if she were being dismissed.

  “I do like to ride,” Louisa said, moving toward him and through the door. Her shoulder brushed against his chest as she passed him, and she pulled away suddenly.

  Charlie stayed where he was.

  “You should have told Henry about your riding,” Charlie muttered. “You could have gone out every morning. Would have saved you walking in circles. The horses won’t let you do that.”

  Louisa stood still on the spot. Henry knew how much she loved to ride. He had never offered to lend her a horse.

  Charlie nodded at her and followed her back out to the ball.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Paris, 2015

  Once Laurent had gone, Sarah continued on down Rue Blanche, past a theater. Large billboards advertised the next performance. And then there was a school, the French flag hanging proudly outside its old stone facade. What a mix, what a blend of life every street in Paris was. Sarah continued walking toward the Seine and pulled out her phone. Her next stop had to be Loic. Her next stop had to be Marthe de Florian’s letters.

  But when she reached the end of Rue Blanche, where the street opened out into another square, altogether a far grander affair than Place Blanche, she stopped. Memories flooded back. She had been to this very place with Steven. Walked right here with him on a trip they had taken to Paris years ago.

  Sarah turned left and walked along the sidewalk that surrounded the square. She stopped, unable to help herself, outside the chocolatier they had visited on that vacation, running into the sweet little shop after they had been on a tour of the Palais Garnier nearby. It had been raining.

  But perhaps that afternoon had been an anomaly for Steven, who never did anything impulsive. He had pulled her into the chocolatier, bought her a cellophane bag of delectable truffles. Then, when they had left the shop, once the rain had stopped and he had charmed the assistant with his particular brand of self-confidence, he had taken her hand and led her into the center of the square, where there was a small park, with benches and a playground.

  Sarah walked across the road, circling the park, not looking at it, her eyes straight ahead. Trying to push the memory out of her mind. She had thought Steven would never let her down.

  She thought he would always be there.

  As she went toward the river down another, narrower street, crowded with buses and cars and restaurants, more restaurants, she dialed Loic’s number.

  “Sarah,” he said, “how are you settling in?”

  “Fine, thank you, Loic.” She smiled. Someone from her new life—there was, she had to remind herself, always a new life to be had.

  She chatted with him about the apartment and moved past the Palais Garnier, past rows and rows of grand buildings now. Classic Haussmann territory. Then a hotel, marble steps, fancy black cars parked opposite a wide red carpet that was laid out on the sidewalk as if for celebrities.

  If she kept going straight ahead, she would hit the Seine.

  Loic asked about her plans, asked how her search was coming along.

  He was going to make things easy for her. Sarah sent a sigh of thanks.

  “I don’t want to impose, but I mentioned Marthe’s letters when we spoke on the phone.”

  Loic chuckled. “You are so very polite. I know you did. I’ve talked to Cat.”

  Sarah kept walking. She turned down Rue Cambon. It was quieter here. A man in a tuxedo walked past, looking as if he were going to a ball. She passed fashion shops, their sparkling windows decorated with alluring clothes, scarves, and high-heeled shoes. Rue Cambon ended at the Tuileries Garden. She walked straight through the first set of gates that she came to and traversed the paths. No one was allowed to walk on the perfect lawns, no matter how enticing they were in the heat.

  “So you’re thinking that your ancestor’s husband could have been one of Marthe’s clients?”

  “It seems likely,” she said. “They obviously had some sort of relationship, but I just don’t know what. And I don’t know what the implications of that could have been for my ancestor—for Louisa.”

  Sarah walked straight through the park, past the Orangerie. She had visited there with Steven too.

/>   She focused again, left the park, crossed the Quay des Tuileries and walked right over to the stone wall that bounded the Seine, listening to Loic chatting about how he and Cat had found the letters. She leaned against the old wall under the shade of one of the trees that lined the river.

  “Of course you can look at the letters,” Loic said. There was real warmth in his voice. “When Cat and I read them, I had to translate them all. Hopefully you will be okay on your own. How’s your French?”

  “Interesting.” She could probably manage to decipher the gist of it with a dictionary.

  “Ask Laurent to help you if you get stuck,” Loic said. “Just make sense of the flow of things. It’s the best way to go when you’re reading a foreign language.”

  “Loic, can you tell me something? I’m intrigued that you speak perfect English. Have you always lived in France?” She simply had to ask.

  “English father, French mother,” Loic explained. “My father insisted on speaking English to my sister and me at home.”

  “I see. I guess that has paid off for you in the end. I suppose you didn’t come across a Henry Duval or a Louisa West when you were reading Marthe’s letters with Cat?”

  “When you see how many love letters Marthe collected, you’ll realize how impossible it is for me to remember those sorts of details. It’s hard to explain, but to remember one single name—”

  “Yes. Of course.” How many times had she searched people’s estates herself with an eye out for that one elusive item? That one thing that might be of value to the museum. The piece that could be the star of a collection.

  “The letters are in a safe in the dressing room. If I come to the apartment in a couple of hours, could I meet you there? Would that work?”

  “Yes.” Sarah nodded. She felt more in control now. “Thank you.”