From a Paris Balcony

by Ella Carey

  After the young Emmeline Goulden’s return from Paris, where she had attended finishing school, she had met Richard Pankhurst—a lawyer, a committed socialist, and a strong advocate of women’s suffrage. He had drafted the married women’s property bill in 1870, and the Pankhursts’ home was a center for gatherings of the Fabian Society as well as the Women’s Franchise League. Louisa couldn’t help but wonder what Mrs. Pankhurst would make of Louisa’s choice.

  But as she was led into the front hallway, Louisa felt the tightness in her upper back release a little when Mrs. Pankhurst appeared, telling her servant kindly that she wanted to take Mrs. Duval, as she called Louisa, into the drawing room herself. Louisa was also immediately drawn to the tall, slender woman, with her unusually beautiful deep blue eyes and her raven-black hair.

  Once they were seated and had exchanged brief formalities, Louisa decided to listen. She was not here to talk.

  “We hope to run conferences all over England under the auspices of the Women’s Franchise League,” Mrs. Pankhurst said. “Our aim is simple, Mrs. Duval. We want to secure the vote for women in local elections all over the country. We want to arrange for speakers to visit each county. I feel that this is the ideal manner in which to inspire local women. I think there is interest, but women in villages may not be aware of our movement here in London. We need to create awareness, open up minds to thought. You would be in an ideal position to help. If you could gather up enthusiasm, then I can send speakers out to talk.”

  Mrs. Pankhurst’s gaze was so direct that Louisa believed she would be convinced of the older woman’s convictions no matter what she had to say.

  “There is no rational reason that women should be denied a say in who makes the laws. We are adult humans just the same as men. Why on earth should we accept being treated as anything less? By accepting the fact that we are not allowed to vote, we are condoning the attitude that we are not equal to men. But I don’t think women think this way. There are two problems: the manner in which we are raised, and the manner in which we are, or, to put it bluntly, are not educated. Everyone else must come before us women—the idea is ingrained in us from when we are too young to question it. Our needs, as women, are to come last. We are not encouraged to speak up, and when we do, we tend to apologize for ourselves.”

  Mrs. Pankhurst placed her elegant hands in her lap and leaned forward in her chair.

  “If we keep our message simple, we can hope to inspire other women to think in a different way. Once women obtain the vote and realize they are worthy of having a say in who runs our country, interest will develop in such matters as funding toward changing our education, not to mention our rights as workers. You will know about the terrible conditions we suffer at present.” Mrs. Pankhurst spoke in a clear, even voice.

  Louisa simply wanted the woman to go on. It was such a relief to hear this sort of common sense. The sorts of words that she had missed since her governess had been sacked by her mother, who had attempted to raise Louisa in exactly the manner that Mrs. Pankhurst was questioning. “Tell me what I can do,” Louisa said. “At a local level, I am determined to rally women together.”

  Mrs. Pankhurst paused before she spoke. “I am fortunate that my husband is not only supportive, but an advocate of women’s rights,” she said.

  Louisa turned and gazed out at Russell Square. The pressure to marry, the sense that she would be isolated, alone, if she did not, had influenced her more than she cared to admit. Now, married or not, she was determined to be true to her feelings about all women.

  “I support your ideas for conferences around the country,” she said. And stopped. Henry’s position was complicated. He was in Paris, but he had made his views quite clear. But, then, he was not a political person. He was a person who did not, it seemed, want politics to interfere with his own freedom or his family. As long as he conducted his life away from them, he seemed to think he was doing no harm. But then, he was, of course, a man. The rules were completely different for him. So, it all came back to that.

  Mrs. Pankhurst remained quiet. Clearly, she was waiting for Louisa to say more.

  When Louisa spoke, her words came out in a rush. “I have been in Paris, in Montmartre with my husband, and what I saw there cemented my views about women’s rights. Montmartre is supposed to be about liberation, or that is what I had been led to believe. And I suppose it is, in a way, but it seems to be about liberation—excuse me if I am shocking you—of men’s flesh, while women are more repressed than ever. They are simply on display. The role of the courtesan, the prostitute, is rife. Women are turning to the streets in droves in desperation in Montmartre. The few who make it to the top turn pleasing men into an art form—they make a business out of selling themselves. And yet, the courtesan is the most powerful trendsetter in Paris.”

  Louisa clasped her hands together in her lap. What she was about to say next was not something she would care to admit to a man, but here, with Mrs. Pankhurst, it was exactly what needed to be said. “It is as if we have some sort of built-in need to please, as women. But why don’t we ever consider taking care of ourselves?”

  Mrs. Pankhurst poured tea. She watched Louisa.

  Suddenly, Louisa wanted to talk. If she was going to work with Mrs. Pankhurst, perhaps, she needed to be frank. There was something about the older woman—intelligence, understanding, wit—that inspired confidence. Something Louisa had never felt with her own mother.

  “I confess,” she said, not stopping the words as they came out, “Paris affected me on a personal level. My husband appears to have some sort of intimate relationship with a courtesan.”

  Mrs. Pankhurst handed Louisa a teacup, still watching her. But she did not look shocked. “I went to school in Paris,” she said. “I am aware of the situation there. I was fortunate, in that the school I attended had a director who believed that women’s education should be quite as thorough as the education of boys. We studied chemistry and bookkeeping. We were also taught to speak up.” She set her teacup down. “Paris had a somewhat different effect on me, Mrs. Duval. I learned to wear my hair and clothes like a Parisian, and I learned to value myself.”

  Louisa almost chuckled. How different had their experiences been in Paris, then! “I admit, even in my case, there is more to the situation than appears at first glance. You see, it is as if Henry values this particular courtesan for more than her attributes as a woman of the night. I have seen them together, only briefly, but they seemed . . . connected somehow. And this, in turn, caused me to see the courtesan a little more objectively, as a real person, if you will forgive me, please. Imagine if Marthe de Florian had been educated, instead of not? Because I sense that she is clever.”

  “Yes. So if she had been fortunate to receive my education, rather than her lack thereof . . . you see, this is where politics enters the fray, Louisa. This is where we need the vote. Not allowing us to vote, to have equal educational rights to men, is akin to treating us like beasts who are only valued for our bodies, not our minds. The demimondaine is an elegant incarnation of this idea. I grant you she is powerful, but look at how she has had to abase herself to gain it. The fact that she is a strong, independent woman is a wonderful thing, but she has gained this by giving her body to countless men.”

  How perfectly the woman put it. Louisa looked out the window again. Frustration at Henry hit her again. Couldn’t he see that he was condoning something destructive?

  Her carriage had pulled up in the street. The Ashworth coat of arms on the carriage door looked beautiful and, at the same time, commanding. Society was full of structures that controlled women. They were going to be almost impossible to break down. But somehow, talking to Mrs. Pankhurst gave one hope. Hope that if enough women felt the same way, there could be an agency for change.

  Spreading the word was of utmost importance. Louisa would get straight to work.

  Her time here had flown. “Please, write to me and tell me how I can become involved.”

  Mrs. Pankhurs
t stood up, her wine-colored dress falling elegantly to the floor. “I will synthesize my ideas and write to you. You will need a meeting place, and a method of attracting women to our cause. You will also need some allies. You will meet great opposition, I suspect, Mrs. Duval.”

  “I am becoming more used to opposition than ever before, now I am married.” Louisa gathered her coat and pulled it on herself.

  “We are in the face of opposition, constantly. It is meant to make us weak, but for many of us, opposition does the reverse. Opposition only gives us strength.” She reached out a hand, took Louisa’s, and held it for a moment.

  Louisa, after a sudden thought, asked Mrs. Pankhurst to address her correspondence to Jess.

  “Please, call me Emmeline,” the older woman said, suddenly. She caught Louisa’s eye then, and smiled at her. If Louisa had shared a common interest before this meeting with Mrs. Pankhurst, she now shared a common spark. “We stand united, but to no attention here.”

  Louisa held the older woman’s gaze for a moment, before turning and moving out to her carriage. Perhaps opposition to fairness for women was only a threat if one viewed it as such.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Paris, 2015

  Sarah stood by the window in Isabelle de Florian’s old bedroom. Sarah’s bedroom for a time. Late-afternoon sunlight flooded the old room and Sarah remained lost in her thoughts. Henry’s letter had done two things. It had helped her see Marthe as a real person, but at the same time it had caused her confusion. Because Sarah knew she hadn’t gotten to the bottom of any of it, not yet. She must reserve judgment about the past for now, and she must keep on searching, but she had to work out where to look for the answers she needed.

  Laurent appeared in the doorway.

  “Would you like to eat in tonight?” he asked. He still held a paintbrush in his hand.

  Sarah looked up at him. If anything, she would say that he seemed a little nervous. She felt her own insides tense.

  “I’d love to.”

  “Would you like to keep me company while I cook?” he asked.

  She just couldn’t brush away the feeling that he seemed a little shy.

  “Sure. I’m happy to help.” She took a few steps toward the doorway. Movement seemed like a good idea.

  Laurent stood aside for her to go through first. She started to thank him, then stopped talking and moving all at once. Now she felt a little shy herself. It was as if there was an allure surrounding him. If she walked close to him, she would be caught in whatever it was. Which was crazy, silly. What was wrong with her?

  She forced herself to step forward. Paris must be getting to her. Sarah focused on where she was going instead.

  But she found herself, almost with surprise, in Laurent’s bedroom, which hardly was the thing to help. She passed the grand four-poster bed. For one absurd moment, she felt a compulsion to make a ridiculous joke. About Marthe. She took in a deep breath. Laurent was right behind her. She was acutely aware how close. Halfway across the room he caught up. It was as if they were doing some odd sort of dance.

  They reached the next door together. “After you,” he said.

  Sarah nodded and frowned.

  It wasn’t until they were in the modern kitchen that she felt the muscles in her shoulders loosen up. Laurent busied himself opening a bottle of wine and offered Sarah a glass.

  She only just managed to avoid gulping the entire contents in one frantic swig.

  Sarah focused on what Laurent was doing. He moved around the kitchen, pulling ingredients out of cupboards. By the time Sarah had found a perch on a bar stool and had attempted and failed to calm herself with a few sips of delicious wine, he was busy forming gnocchi with great care at the kitchen counter. Sarah was enchanted, for some reason, by the way he molded the little morsels into picture-perfect shapes with his hands. Artistic hands, she thought. The results of his efforts looked worthy of a photo in a magazine—Vogue Entertaining and Travel, perhaps?

  “Can I do something?” she asked, wincing at the fact that her voice sounded husky.

  “Do you feel like making a salad?” he said, sounding intimate himself. The awkwardness she had noticed in him earlier had flown away now. She almost sensed amusement in his eyes as he looked up from his work.

  “Sure.” Moving away from him to the fridge seemed a very good plan. Although sensible was not what Sarah felt. She wondered if Paris had turned her crazy. Steven and her life in Boston felt more and more like remnants from the distant past.

  Even Louisa seemed closer than Boston now. Sarah stared at the contents of the fridge. She picked up a strand of small, ruby tomatoes, their green tops intertwined with a slender stem. Several fat bocconcini rounds sat ready in a clear plastic tub next to a bunch of vibrant basil. Sarah clutched at these as if they were the only normal things in the house.

  “Did you go food shopping today?” she asked, holding up the artisanal mozzarella to make sure he was happy for her to use it. It was an expensive ingredient, and not one that she would assume was there for her.

  “Go ahead, use it,” he said. “Yes. I did go to the Marché Anvers today.” He dipped the little shapes into boiling salted water. “I haven’t been to the markets for a while,” he added, and there was something whimsical in his tone.

  “No?”

  “I haven’t cooked in ages either,” he said. “I’m enjoying doing this right now.”

  “That’s good.” Once Sarah had made her tomato salad, she moved a little closer to him, watching over his shoulder while he pulled the gnocchi out of the boiling water, popping them into hot olive oil, rendering them crisp and delicately brown on the outside, then tossing spinach, pine nuts, and broad beans through the morsels.

  “If you like cooking, then just cook,” she said, and he made a tiny sound. She knew, by instinct, that he agreed with her.

  Loic and Cat’s smart designer plates were the perfect backdrop for his final production, over which he grated Parmesan cheese and sprinkled chopped green basil. The artistically presented platter was worthy of a perfect still life.

  “Have you decided what your next step will be?” he asked, as they sat down at the table. “Would you like to help yourself?” He handed her the large plate.

  “Thank you.” Sarah realized she was starving. It seemed like an age since the ham and cheese baguette she had eaten for lunch.

  “I was thinking something this afternoon,” he said.

  Sarah tilted her head to one side.

  “It’s almost as if you have to find beauty again in your life, Sarah. After everything you’ve been through. And you know what?”

  “What?” She looked up at him, and it was as if her eyes wanted to dance. “Tell me,” she said.

  “This just reminds me of Botticelli,” he said, and his words were very soft. “Sorry, but I can’t help but say it.”

  “What?” she said. “Why?”

  But it was as if they were sharing some intimate joke now. The awkwardness turned to tension had turned to fun.

  “Because,” he said, leaning forward in his seat and holding his fork in the air, “like Venus, I think you’ve been covering yourself up.”

  “What?” Sarah was laughing now. “Laurent!”

  “No.” He had a real sparkle in his eye. “Listen. I mean it in the nicest possible way.”

  Sarah had to stop herself from giggling.

  “I know I’m French, but . . .”

  “Stop!” But she couldn’t hold back her mirth.

  Laurent blended his own amusement with sincerity and leaned forward as he spoke. “No. Listen. In the painting, the wind caresses Venus and showers her with roses, giving beauty back to her life. She has been shy until now, not really fulfilled. I sense that Paris is doing exactly that for you, Sarah. And this is good. It’s a good thing. Just let the city’s beauty wake you up. I think that you’re doing a good job of bringing yourself back to life too. Just coming here, getting away, was a positive step to take. It was a good thi
ng to do.”

  Laurent held her gaze. “It’s funny,” he said. “Having gone out for dinner with Loic, and Cat, and . . . you. Seeing Cat and Loic together made me wonder what the hell I’m up to. I don’t know what I’ve been doing. You weren’t alone in being lost, Sarah. It’s just that you need to find something new.”

  He put down his fork for a moment.

  Now, Sarah knew it was she who felt shy. She wasn’t sure whether she was glad of his next question or not, when it came. In some ways, she had to admit that she didn’t want him to change tack.

  “What’s your next plan with your . . . investigations?” he asked.

  Sarah reined her thoughts back to Louisa. “I need to tell Loic and Cat about the letter.”

  “True, but after that?”

  She took the last bite of her gnocchi and wondered if it were the most delicious meal she had ever had. “It’s getting more complex, and that only makes any possible answer more elusive still. Perhaps it’s nothing. Perhaps there is no answer. Perhaps only Louisa, Henry, and Marthe will ever know what happened that night.”

  “You have to promise me that you’re going to follow this through, though.”

  “I’ve done just about everything I can.”

  “In Paris,” he said.

  She frowned.

  “Don’t you see?” Laurent tapped his plate with his fork. “You have to go to Ashworth. They’ll have family archives. It’s the next step. You know that, don’t you?”

  But Sarah shook her head. “I’m hardly going to be welcome back at their family estate. Louisa’s memory was most likely pushed under the Aubusson carpets faster than you could say her name. The way my father told it, they wanted nothing to do with any Wests after Louisa’s ‘suicide.’ The Duvals were paranoid about any media exposure. I’m sure they expressed sympathy, but they weren’t going to go any further than that.”

  “There’s nothing stopping you from giving them a call.”