by Ella Carey
Mrs. Pankhurst’s house in Russell Square was the center of this movement. Louisa agreed with the League’s view that the vote for women was the first fundamental step toward an equal world. And she planned to visit London as soon as she possibly could. She wanted to talk with Mrs. Pankhurst, to establish what could be done to help.
Louisa took one last look at her reflection and made her way out of her bedroom and down to the library, where the family and their dinner guests were assembled for drinks.
The duchess, Helena, whose legendary beauty was complemented by her gown of pale blue silk, stood near the fireplace alongside her husband, the Duke of Ashworth, who smiled when he saw Louisa enter the room, his dark eyes lighting up at the sight of her no doubt suitable and elegant appearance. Louisa pushed away the unkind thought that he was only interested in her appearance, and probably her ability to bear a child. He had never smiled at her until now, never.
The room was filled with nearly forty guests—close friends and neighbors and people with whom the family felt it was important to share the official announcement of Henry’s engagement.
When Henry came to stand by Louisa’s side, and his father made the announcement, it was as if wheels had been set in motion. Louisa knew that were she a different type of girl, she could simply let everything happen from here on out and not do a thing, save be at the center of everyone’s attention and be delightful. She suspected that this was what everyone expected her to do. She was going to do the opposite, and she was determined to stay on her own path.
Charlie came and stood with her once the champagne toast was done. Henry moved across to stand with his father, who patted him on the back as if he were the prodigal son.
“Are you sure?” Charlie asked, all of a sudden, his voice so close that if she had moved one inch she would have made contact with his cheek.
She jumped a little at this, but he held her gaze and his brown eyes looked serious, just as they had the first time she had met him.
“What an odd question,” she murmured back.
“It’s not odd.” Charlie sounded as if he were the only person in the room.
Louisa lifted her chin. When she spoke, she felt as if her words were coming out automatically. “I love Henry and I am looking forward to a perfectly thrilling future.” She frowned and gathered her skirts. The second part of her sentence was true. She had thought everything out. She must not let Charlie get under her skin. He seemed to have the ability to read her like a poem. Louisa frowned again.
“I see,” Charlie said.
“I’m pleased,” Louisa spoke through gritted teeth.
But she glanced up at Charlie, and he was looking utterly intent.
The sound of Henry’s laughter rang through the room. He had moved away from his father and was entertaining a group of friends, who looked a little perplexed at his antics, but Louisa nodded at Charlie and went to stand by her fiancé.
She liked Henry.
Love would grow out of it.
Wouldn’t it?
CHAPTER TEN
Paris, 2015
Sarah spent the afternoon wandering along the Seine, wanting to soak up every bit of Paris that she could, but half-distracted by predictions of what she would find when she read Marthe’s letters. She stopped for coffee in a café that overlooked Notre Dame, gazing at its famous flying buttresses before asking for her bill in half-English half-French and then wandering back to the apartment.
Loic and Laurent were in Marthe’s sitting room, frowning at Laurent’s painting of Giselle.
“Sarah,” Loic said. Neither of the men turned around. Laurent held a large sheet of Bubble Wrap, while Loic ran a hand across his chin. Both men were clearly concentrating hard on some problem. Sarah wasn’t sure whether to interrupt them to ask if she could help.
So she stood there for a moment, a smile forming on her face at the sight of these two handsome Frenchmen in a courtesan’s apartment, both dressed in faded designer jeans. Sarah was sure they were designer jeans—no Frenchman would be seen in anything less. The long sleeves of their shirts were rolled halfway up their forearms to almost exactly the same spot. How did the French do this so well? How did they just know what looked good, what worked?
At least, Sarah thought, she was not in her pajamas. She was intrigued by what was going on, so she decided to probe a little. “You both look very focused,” she said.
“Sarah.” Laurent spoke this time.
“I believe that’s my name,” Sarah chuckled. She saw amusement pass across both men’s faces.
“We want to know if you can you drive a truck.” Loic looked perfectly serious.
Sarah had to hold back her snicker. “I had a boyfriend who drove a truck when I was eighteen,” she said, her lips twitching.
But Laurent and Loic were looking at each other as if they were cooking up a plan.
“Have you got a driver’s license that you can use here in France?” Loic said, turning to face her.
Why did she feel as if she were about to enter into an escapade? She wasn’t used to men who did Bonnie and Clyde.
“Yes . . .” The word dripped with suspicion, but both men looked more earnest than two boys planning a fishing trip.
“Okay. Sarah.” Laurent started unrolling the Bubble Wrap. “Loic’s truck is parked down the street. Could you drive it up to the entrance of the building, while Loic and I load the painting of Giselle in the back? You shouldn’t be picked up by the police if you’re lucky. Just talk to them in French, keep them chatting while we bring down the painting, if that happens.”
“Really?” Sarah couldn’t help but roll her eyes.
“Yup.” Laurent began wrapping the painting in earnest now. “Try to stay put. Don’t let them move you on. Be French.”
“It looks like rain,” Loic said, catching Sarah’s eye. “We just need to load this up. I’ll take it to Condé Nast—it’s not far, should only take me about half an hour, and then I’ll be back. We can sort out Marthe’s letters then.”
“Right.” Sarah nodded. “So where are the keys to this truck?”
Loic handed her an elegant little leather key ring. Sarah took it. She had no idea why she was doing this. She was always reluctant to drive her friends’ cars back home. Steven had been so risk averse that Sarah often found herself calculating the likelihood of disaster in her head whenever anyone asked her to do something out of the ordinary. But now, she dismissed the concerns that were forming out of habit. Somehow, she wanted to drive a truck in Paris. Why not? a little voice in her mind said.
“Thanks, Sarah.” Laurent grinned. “We’ll see you in front in about ten minutes.”
“The truck is green,” Loic said. “It’s more of a van, really. When you get out of the apartment, just turn right and walk down Rue Blanche. It’s parked outside the old school. It’s pretty straightforward—you should be fine.”
“I will be fine!” Sarah trilled, utterly unlike her. But she pushed the old cautions away and trotted out of the apartment, taking the stairs rather than the elevator, and feeling quite light.
In some ways, Loic and Laurent’s confidence in her was also reassuring. Neither of them had lectured her about what she should and shouldn’t do. As she reached the front door, pushing it open and stepping out into the pretty street, Sarah felt something lift. She hadn’t always been cautious. How her partner’s concerns had infiltrated themselves into her way of living—she frowned and made her way up the street. She must not let that happen again.
The truck was exactly where Loic had said it was. And it was easy enough to work out. Sarah pulled out into the traffic and chugged up the narrow street, enjoying the sense of being on the road in Paris, behind the wheel. She pulled up outside Marthe’s building, and Loic and Laurent loaded the painting in the back. Then Laurent held the door open for her, and Loic climbed in after she stepped out.
“Thanks, Sarah.” Laurent smiled. Loic drove off, and they turned back toward the building. Laurent stop
ped for a moment. “Would you like to go for a coffee while we wait for Loic to come back?”
Sarah looked up at him. “Sure,” she said.
He led her down the street, stopping at a little café. “Shall we go inside?” he asked. “I’d love to give you the classic Paris experience of chairs outside on the sidewalk, but I think Loic’s right. I think we’re going to get some rain.”
Sarah looked at the cozy interior. Wicker chairs were lined up against a long bench by the window. Several people sat inside, reading the newspaper, chatting, looking out at the street. She had no doubt some were probably looking at Laurent. He was so effortlessly cool that even in Paris, he looked chic.
“Inside sounds like a good idea,” she said.
He held the door open for her and chose a table for two in the corner. The coffee, when it came, was delectably good. It woke Sarah up further. She had questions that she wanted to ask. But Laurent, it seemed, had exactly the same plan.
“Okay,” he said, putting his coffee cup down on the table and leaning forward a little. “Tell me how you know so much about art.”
Sarah raised a brow.
“Not many people know about Boldini,” he went on. “Let alone do they have knowledge about his specific works. Did you research him before you came to Paris, given his connections with the apartment, or is it something else? Because I suspect the latter. And I admit, you’ve got me intrigued.”
Sarah sat back in her seat. She sipped at her coffee. “You see, the way I was brought up, it was inevitable that I was going to develop an interest in art.”
“Tell me,” Laurent said. “I’m interested.”
Sarah sighed. Steven had never been interested in culture. It was funny, the more she thought about her relationship with him from a distance—from the perspective of Paris—the more she wondered whether it had been inevitable that it wouldn’t work out.
“Are you okay?” Laurent asked, leaning forward, reaching a hand out to touch her arm.
Sarah jolted a little at the feel of his hand brushing her bare arm, but she shook this away. He was French. European. Men kissed people on the cheek all the time. Personal space wasn’t the same as in Boston. She must stay focused, not allow her thoughts to drift to the past in a constant swirl of memories. But then, she was, in a way, half in the past, half reaching tentative tendrils out to make a new life, not sure whether she was ready to let go, knowing that she must. She took in a breath. “Well,” she said, “with my mother, it was inevitable that I was going to have a good knowledge of art.”
“Go on,” Laurent said. He sounded close now, and Sarah, suddenly, simply wanted to talk.
“My mother was a lecturer in art history,” she said. “So, she’s the culprit for my interest. Instead of taking me to the beach for vacations, we went to New York. She took me to every exhibition that she could. I think, while she was indulging her own passion, she definitely was instilling a love for culture in me too. I’m sure, had I told her that I didn’t want to be taken to such things, she would have stopped.”
“But you loved art, just like she did?”
His use of the word love also made Sarah smile. Again, it just seemed so French, so natural. She felt that the French were not uncomfortable talking about such things—passion, love, art. They surrounded themselves with beauty every day. Paris was replete with elegance and romance. “I did. I do. I admit that I didn’t have to grow to love it. But I think I wanted to do something different than what my mother did. Her knowledge of the subject was prolific. There was no way I was going to try to compete.”
“So what career did you take up?”
“Fine arts. My main interest is in jewelry, but my job is to visit people who want to donate family heirlooms to Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts. I look through their collections and sort out what the museum will accept, and what it won’t. I also help curate some exhibitions. I have a special fascination for the nineteenth century. So when Marthe’s apartment was available to rent, it was a double hit for me, I have to say. I wanted somehow to connect with family; I had this real need, since my parents both died at the same time as . . . well, never mind. But I was also fascinated, from a professional point of view as well as indulging my—”
“Passion.” Laurent was firm. A slight French accent had slipped into his otherwise immaculate English.
Sarah sensed something in him that she had not picked up before. Something, somehow, had shifted. She found herself biting on her bottom lip. “Yes, I suppose it is a passion.”
“And this quest to find out about Louisa is also a passion for you. She is your ancestor, of your blood. You have to find out.”
“Yes,” Sarah said. “I suppose I do.” And she couldn’t help thinking what an honest, direct conversation this was. Laurent seemed to be talking in such a direct manner that she almost felt as if she were in a tiny bubble with him right now. She felt, she had to admit it, drawn to him. Was it Paris? Was it just France?
She was well aware that European men were charming. She was well aware that she was possibly in a vulnerable state. But she was attracted to the way that he seemed interested in her—in her as a person, in her interests, in her past.
“Tell me about your father,” he said.
“He adored my mother,” she said. “And she adored him right back. He was a cellist.”
“What a combination,” Laurent said. His eyes had crinkled up at the corners, in genuine warmth. “You were lucky. And you have a fascinating career, and one that you love.”
“Yes, yes I do,” she said. And her voice dropped a little. “And so, it seems, do you.”
Laurent tapped his fingers on the table. His skin was olive toned, and his hands were beautiful. Artist’s hands, Sarah thought suddenly, then felt her heart dance a little. She really should not be thinking like that about a man she hardly knew. And yet, Laurent had been kind to her this morning. She was intrigued, she had to admit.
And she wanted to know more about him. She wondered if he would be open to talk. She wouldn’t push whatever secret he had, what was upsetting him, not that, not now—although, she admitted to herself, she did want to know about that. But she would start, like he had, with his childhood.
By the time they were strolling back to the apartment, she had learned a little of his life. His father owned an art gallery in Aix-en-Provence, and Laurent was the eldest of three children. He had been to school with Loic, and they had been friends since they were eight. Laurent had always loved drawing, had spent hours on his own, away from his rambunctious, busy, social family, who lived in a mas, or farmhouse, just out of Aix. When he was little, he had gone off and found a quiet tree in the garden, climbed it, opened a book and his painting materials, and drawn in the warm climate for hours until his parents had called him in for dinner.
His mother had her boutique in Aix, so both his parents were busy, and his younger sisters both worked in the fashion industry. One had moved to Carmel-by-the-Sea, and the other lived in Reims, where she was newly married to an advertising executive. His parents were still very much wrapped up in their careers, but he saw them when he went down to Provence, usually staying with Loic and Cat.
Loic was waiting in the salon when they wandered inside. Sarah was quite lost in Laurent’s imaginative and dreamy childhood—she couldn’t help but picture his glamorous sisters, and his mother, the owner of a smart boutique. She wondered if any of them had been much support for Laurent now, in what he was going through, whatever it was.
Loic stood up from where he had been waiting on one of Marthe de Florian’s restored Louis XV chairs. “Sarah—do you want me to help you with the letters now?”
Sarah nodded. Laurent’s eyes caught hers and they twinkled a little at her. She followed Loic through her bedroom to the dressing room and forced herself to focus on Marthe’s letters.
Loic opened a drawer, one of the many drawers that had held shoes once, Sarah guessed. Inside it, there was a safe. This was back to her comfort zone.
Sarah did this all the time. It was her job. But she couldn’t help feeling, in some ways, that she was intruding here, searching for the truth about Louisa’s past. She couldn’t help wondering what Marthe and Louisa would make of her, delving a hundred years later into this tragedy in Paris, wanting to know what had really happened that night in Montmartre. But she wanted to find out, and that was it. She must push her doubts about feeling nosy aside. Sarah would assume her familiar, professional role of researcher.
“We haven’t worked out where Marthe’s letters are going to be stored yet. So, they’re still here.”
Sarah’s resolve took another nosedive as Loic placed bundles of crisp, yellowing paper on the dressing table. Each pile was tied with a different-colored silk ribbon, many of them faded, fraying at their old edges. Gently, he moved Marthe de Florian’s silver-backed brushes aside, lining them up on the polished wood to make room for the papers.
Sarah dealt with objects—works of art, jewelry, old porcelain things. Not words. Not feelings.
“Sarah,” Loic said. “There’s nothing else in the safe. I’m going to leave you the key, so would you make sure the letters are locked away when you’re not here? I know it’s a funny thing to ask, given that they sat here undisturbed for over seventy years. But I would hate to lose any of them now. I think they could be quite important. They are history—albeit a secret one.”
Sarah held back from saying outright that she hoped they would be important to her. “Of course,” she said instead.
Loic leaned across, rested a hand on her shoulder. “Good luck.”
Sarah gathered up the little collection and took it into her bedroom. Into the bedroom that she knew had belonged to Isabelle de Florian, to Marthe’s granddaughter, who had left the apartment for good when she was in her early twenties, never to return. And no one, not a soul, knew why she had done it.
She could understand parts of the letters—names, dates, and the gist. She had her phone on next to her and looked up words whenever she needed to. She became entranced with Marthe de Florian’s secret history. The men who wrote to her chronicled a Paris of velvets and satin and corsets so clearly that Sarah began to form pictures in her head, of the old Paris, the Paris of the Belle Époque, the Paris that had existed right in these streets, all that time ago. But she also found herself wondering about Marthe. The letters never spoke of the real courtesan hidden beneath the facade. Instead, there were carriage rides in the Bois de Boulogne, men offering her trips to the races, assignations in quiet Parisian cafés, soirees in grand people’s homes, lavish dinners in famous restaurants and bars—Maxim’s, Lapérouse, Café Riche Plume. Countless powerful men wanted secret, private afternoons with the famous courtesan.
