by Ella Carey
But I fear that our kings who rule with the scepter of religion could only be replaced with much worse. I fear that the uprising that is going to have to happen, that is bounding around underground in politics, will only be pushed down by stronger forces of convention in the name of something else once we are done with our protesting. I have no doubt that we humans will find yet another form of repression to which we will expect those souls who do not fit in to submit to, because ultimately most of our species are scared of what might happen should those with too much independent thought rise up.
My dear Marthe, I cannot talk to anyone else of such matters, because you alone know who I am, and I, in turn, know you. The problem is, what is one supposed to do?
For me, Paris is the answer. And for me, you are the inspiration. If there is a real world, and a fantasy of my own creation, then I prefer the latter. And I prefer to share it with you.
For me, you hold the answer.
Au revoir, until I am in Paris,
Henry
Sarah laid the letter aside on her unmade bed. She had read Henry Duval’s words over and over again before falling asleep sometime in the wee hours, the sense of warmth after her evening with Laurent and his friends distilling itself through her system. Was this how Henry felt when he was with Marthe de Florian? Clearly, he had a sense of being his true self and of freedom and encouragement when he was around her. Sarah, in turn, had not wanted to let go of the evening she had spent with Laurent. She had not wanted to fall asleep, because the night had been delicious—perfect. And being in Paris had made it seem even more magical.
She had woken with the light still on in her room. Now, the sun streamed into Isabelle de Florian’s old bedroom, and here she was with a letter written to Isabelle’s grandmother, a letter that said much, and nothing, about Louisa, Henry, and Marthe de Florian.
Sarah stood up, went over to the bookshelf where she had picked up the copy of Tender Is the Night, wondered how lacking in tenderness Louisa’s life had been, and ran her fingers over the other novels. Their cardboard spines etched with gilt contained the words of those writers, of Hemingway and Proust and Stein and Pound.
Sarah turned away from the shelf. She had to decide what to do next.
Laurent was making sounds in the room next door. Sarah was used to hearing him in the mornings—it was companionable having him, in many ways, so close. When he knocked on her own door, Sarah went over to it, wrapping her white bathrobe around her waist.
Laurent stood in a blue-and-white striped shirt and jeans. He handed her a cup of coffee. He had been painting. The scent of oil paint drifted through the open door, and his hands were dabbed with spots of color. Even though his chin was lined again with a telltale shadow of stubble—had he slept at all?—his face was animated and awake.
Sarah thanked him for the coffee.
And, silently, handed him Henry’s letter.
A frown ran across Laurent’s face as he took the old paper, but when he read, it was clear that he was utterly absorbed.
“I can’t imagine it,” he said.
He had understood.
“It is hard.”
“It’s only raised more questions.”
“Yes.”
“To live like that, at every level of your life, a lie . . .” his words trailed off.
Sarah moved over to the bookshelf. “It’s funny. Being here, talking to you last night . . .” She didn’t steal a glance at him, but plowed on instead. “All of this has made me realize how you have to find your own truth. I know it sounds old-fashioned, but you have to be true to yourself. Henry and Louisa were trying to do that, I think. I have conflicted feelings about Marthe!”
Laurent was behind her. “You do have to find your own truth. Marthe was just trying to survive, I suspect,” he said, his words soft.
“You’re right,” she said. “Of course she was. It’s just that . . .” She turned to Laurent. “I don’t know what her role was in relation to Henry and Louisa. I don’t want to sound like an awful judge . . .” Sarah picked up a copy of Brave New World, searching its pages, but gently, with respect.
“You’re not sounding judgmental.” Laurent had wandered over to the books. “You found the letter in the bookshelf.”
She turned back to him. “I was looking for something to read.”
“Of course you were. And you chose Fitzgerald.” He picked up the book that lay on her bed.
“The letter just fell out.”
“As things like that do.”
She chuckled and picked up the coffee. Sipped it. It was good.
“I take it you’re going to search the rest of the shelf, right here, right now?” A twinkle appeared in his eyes.
“Yes,” she laughed.
“Do you want me to help?”
She nodded. “Yes. That too.”
He caught her eye and smiled.
“And let’s not do it in order,” Sarah said. The wonderful coffee was waking her up.
“Let’s definitely not do anything in order, Sarah. In fact, I have been thinking about the merits of doing things backward most of the night.”
Sarah sensed Laurent’s eyes on her. She focused on the bookshelf. It was a safe bet. Tentatively, she reached for The Sun Also Rises. The book’s pages were bound tight, almost as if they were stuck to each other, as if they had been that way for a long time. But there were no letters tucked inside Hemingway’s song to the lost generation.
Laurent pulled a book out of the middle of the shelf.
An hour later, they were done. Piles of books sat on the pretty antique table in the corner of the room. Not one of them held another letter from Henry.
And yet, they had found these things: a list from 1934 about a trip to Lake Geneva in what Sarah now recognized as Marthe’s confident handwriting—what to take, what to do, where to stay—a note from Isabelle de Florian to her grandmother, informing her that she was going shopping for the afternoon in Galeries Lafayette, and a ticket to the opera. All of these were from the 1930s. There was nothing from the Belle Époque.
Sarah surveyed the empty shelves. Dark marks ran across the wood where the books had been removed, but there were no other pieces of paper to be seen.
“Thoughts?” Laurent asked, his head tilted to one side.
Sarah looked at the stacks of books. “It’s just getting more complicated, as things tend to.”
“But Henry’s confirmed that Louisa had other interests outside the marriage,” Laurent said. “If Henry’s relationship with Marthe was deeper than mere friendship, then that could have rattled Louisa, of course. But enough to drive her to commit suicide? Enough to take her own life?”
Sarah nodded. “Exactly. I need a time machine, Laurent. If only I could get inside Louisa’s head. I do think Louisa could well have felt left out of what was clearly a sort of close, understanding, and instinctive relationship between Marthe and Henry, that would be reasonable enough.”
Laurent caught her eye. “A kindred spirit bond. She could have well felt very left out.”
Sarah didn’t look away. She nodded. For some reason, it was hard to know what to say.
After a few moments, Laurent took a step toward the door. “I better get back to work. And you just need to keep going. That’s all you have to do right now. We just have to work out the next step. That’s all.”
Sarah nodded. “I’ll call Loic, and tell him about the letter.”
Laurent paused in the doorway, looked as if he were considering what to say. “I enjoyed talking to you last night,” he said after a while. “No matter what the outcome, no matter what your family story turns out to be, no matter what your stupid ex-husband did, you have your own choices now. You make your own decisions from here on, Sarah, decisions that are best for you.”
She nodded. She agreed. If that path sounded a little lonely, she was not going to mention that now.
He spoke in that hushed voice again. “If Henry and Marthe did have a soul mate connec
tion, then they were lucky, weren’t they?” he asked.
Sarah felt her mouth curve into a smile.
Laurent turned then, and went back out of the room.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ashworth, 1894
Yellow autumn leaves were strewed along the driveway to Ashworth. Mist hung about, and the air was pregnant with earthy freshness. Louisa leaned out the window a little way, allowing the country air to revive her. The journey from Paris had been long, but peaceful. The stillness of the countryside seeped into her bones, and she closed her eyes as the carriage rolled toward the palace.
Two people had propelled her back to England: Charlie—she had allowed herself to think hopeful thoughts about the prospect of talking with her brother-in-law again—and Emmeline Pankhurst. Louisa was determined to make arrangements to visit the woman in Russell Square.
It was Charlie who greeted her at the entrance to the great house. There was no formal arrival party from the servants, and for this, Louisa was thankful. Charlie helped her out of the carriage, issuing orders to the footmen about how to deal with her luggage.
“My parents are out for the afternoon,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “I’m afraid you will have to be content with me. But they will be home for dinner. They will want to talk to you about what you are doing back here.”
“That sounds like a warning.”
“Not at all.” Charlie let go of her hand. He stood still and looked at her. “It all went wrong, didn’t it?”
Louisa laughed. “Hello—it all went wrong? What a wonderful greeting.”
But Charlie didn’t budge. “You’re going to have to tell me.”
Louisa watched the carriage move back toward the coach house. They stood just inside the open front door of the palace. The mist falling outside seemed to create a feeling of closeness in the air. Charlie felt close too. And she felt safe, and more full of possibilities than she should, she realized, given everything.
“Nothing is wrong,” she said, softer now. “Nothing you can fix.” And regretted her last words.
“Something has affected your spirit.”
“I’m just tired.”
“Would you like to rest?”
She knew she had not fooled Charlie. She knew that putting on the famous English stiff upper lip would not work with him.
“I have been sitting in carriages and on trains for hours, having been confined in a boat before that. I’d like to go for a walk.”
“Of course you would,” he laughed lightly. He was quiet for a moment. “Would you like some company?”
Louisa nodded. She had tired of her own presence and her own interminable thoughts. She didn’t want to admit to the quickening of her heart at the thought of walking with Charlie. After a refresh upstairs, Louisa met him on the front steps. She gathered her favorite green cloak about her, pulling up its hood against the mist as they stepped out onto the driveway.
Charlie paused for a moment, reaching forward and tucking a tendril of hair behind her ear. “You do look tired.”
“Fresh air solves more ills than anything else,” Louisa said, attempting to put brightness into her voice. Aware that she sounded like her mother and had failed to convince herself of the veracity of her own words.
They walked away from the house in silence.
Charlie was the one to break it. “How bad was it?”
They turned right, following the driveway to the edge of the park, until they came to a path that was sheltered on one side by the forest, while affording a view of the serenity of the park.
“It was interesting.”
“Interesting is a useful word. It covers everything and nothing.”
“It is the word of diplomats.”
“You found yourself in a position where you needed to be diplomatic?” His tone held a mixture of resignation and irritation.
They came to a fork in the path. One trail led directly into the forest. Damp yellow leaves were set into the rich earth. Louisa wanted the coolness of the forest.
“I suppose you can imagine what happened in Paris. And do not tell me you warned me—I cannot stand to hear that now.” She marched into the denseness of the forest, her boots sinking occasionally into the soft bed of leaves. “I was not going to listen. I do not blame anyone except myself. It is what it is.”
She was hardly the first woman to find herself in such a predicament, but still . . .
“Henry spent his entire time in the company of those people in Montmartre, didn’t he? On your honeymoon. Excellent.”
“I don’t suppose he can help it,” Louisa said, her words half-sincere. She felt exhausted all of a sudden.
“Oh, he can help it. Anyone can help it. It’s a matter of doing the right thing. It’s called marriage. But Henry chooses the opposite.” Charlie stopped, picked up a stray stick from among the sodden leaves on the edge of the path, and then broke it in two, throwing half away into the forest and frowning at the other half as if it were the cause of all ills.
“I thought, the first time that I met him, that he and I might have something in common,” Louisa said, her voice tight and drained. “And then, I admit, I enjoyed his company. I was flattered when he afforded me such special attention. Then, when it looked as if he were about to propose, I knew that I would be mad to turn him down. I’m afraid that I thought I didn’t have any choice. And I thought I could play a role here at Ashworth, make some sort of difference. Now, I’m not sure what to do.”
Charlie stopped again, turned on the spot so that he was facing her. His dark hair was dampened by the mist that fell through the canopy of trees. “I know him,” Charlie almost growled. “He can be extremely charming. I don’t know how to say this without sounding cruel, but he saw you as a willing supplicant, Louisa. It’s all about pleasing the parents on the one hand, while doing exactly as he pleases on the other. He knows they will turn a blind eye to his antics. He knows they will do anything to avoid having a scandalous son. That’s partly why he goes to Paris, rather than London, to play up.”
“That, and the fact that there is a certain courtesan there,” Louisa said.
Charlie reached out, touched her arm. “I know. Marthe de Florian.” His tone was whisper-soft, and his words seemed to float in the forest.
“I’m sorry, this is a mess,” she whispered. “I can sort it. There’s no need for the family to become involved.”
Charlie took her hand, placing it in his own and holding it for a moment before he spoke. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry, Louisa. You can file for divorce, if you can’t stand it. But you’d have to prove cruelty as well as adultery.”
Louisa nodded. “I know. I’m aware of the law.”
He was quiet for a moment. “You’re not sure that you want a divorce, are you?”
Louisa had to force herself to stop the wry smile that was forming on her lips. A divorce? Of course the possibility had crossed her mind. But there were a million other complications churning in her head, and right at the front of her thoughts was this: She did not want to abandon her burgeoning friendship with Charlie. Something almost beyond her control pulled her toward him. She knew that was irrational, and completely ridiculous under the circumstances. But there it was. She had wanted to come back to Ashworth because she wanted to see him, although she did want to go to London as well.
How could she abandon the opportunities that she might have as part of the powerful Duval family, no matter what Henry said? She knew that Charlie would support her aims for women’s rights.
She had married the wrong brother.
She had the sinking feeling that she was falling in love, but it was too late. Charlie treated her as an individual. Henry treated her as something to suit him.
Charlie was looking at her directly, his brown eyes honest—dark, but clear.
A bird called. It was close. Then the sound of wings flapped away through the trees.
“I’m here for you,” he said. “Always.”
Louisa wrapped her cloak tighter around her body. “I don’t want to burden you.”
“Believe me, you’re not.” Charlie turned then, started striding back to the path that edged the forest. His voice was clear in the silence. “We just have to take it step-by-step. But you need support.”
They came to the entrance to the forest. A slight breeze had stirred—leaves fell, yellow, random, onto the wide path that edged it. Ashworth came into view. A smart carriage made its way around toward the main entrance of the house.
“My parents are back. Just carry on a normal conversation with them—don’t give anything away. We need to sort things out, but we need to use our heads.”
Louisa closed her eyes. The irony was that she had thought she was using her head when she married Henry. It had seemed the best idea. And yet, while they walked, one question kept repeating itself in her head. How could she have gotten every fundamental thing about her decision to marry him so hopelessly, utterly wrong?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ashworth, 1894
Three hours later, Louisa sat in the great dining room with the duke, the duchess, and Charlie. Flowers spilled over the tops of silver vases on the vast mahogany table. Ancestral portraits looked down from the deep red walls, and the heavy velvet curtains that lined the great windows were closed against the darkness outside.
Louisa had chosen dark green silk. She wore a diamond necklace that the duchess, Helena, had given her the day she had become engaged—she didn’t know whether she had chosen to wear the piece tonight out of guilt or out of some last-ditch desire to please. And yet what was alluring was the way Charlie had looked at both the necklace and her tonight.
She was having trouble managing her own odd thoughts.
“I think you should take Louisa to the village fair tomorrow, Charlie. She needs to familiarize herself with how things work.” Helena had carried on a round of practical conversations since they had met for drinks in the library. For this, Louisa had been grateful. The woman did not appear to want to dissect Louisa’s reasons for returning to Ashworth, and Louisa did not want to be dissected in any way at all.
