by Ella Carey
“You make it sound so simple!”
“Yup. I don’t see why it can’t be that way.” He leaned forward. “You have the opportunity to go to Ashworth right now. You might not have the chance again. My sense is that if you don’t go now, you’ll never do it. You said the family hushed it up. I say that could mean there was something to hush.”
Sarah looked across at him. And she had the odd thought that it seemed as if he knew what she really wanted, or needed, with more intensity than she was able to feel herself.
But why?
“You really think I could just contact the Duval family and go to see them?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
Sarah sat back. She didn’t know why the idea of going to Ashworth seemed so hard. Did she fear that this noble family would look down on her? But Laurent was right, they were the people she needed to confront.
She sighed. “You know,” she said, “in some ways, they owe us an explanation. They must have records of it. You’re right.”
Laurent held out his wineglass, and Sarah clinked hers with his right back.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
London, 1894
Louisa sat bolt upright in bed. She had been half-awake, ideas floating about in her head like dreamy phantoms. She knew she should go to sleep, but she couldn’t help forming plans about how to galvanize the local women at Ashworth. At the same time, strange worries nagged at her. Her situation was precarious. Her relationship with Henry had all but broken down in Paris. Henry’s lack of support, his lack of any recognition for her as a person, had overwhelmed her. It was only natural that she would throw herself into her passion for women’s rights—goodness knew she needed something to sustain her. And goodness knew, she wanted so much to give something to society. But now, in the cold, dim hours, doubts struck the same repetitive notes.
What if the duchess and Henry were to find out about her plans to form a branch of the Women’s Franchise League? The fact that her husband and his mother loomed together as some sort of indomitable force was hardly reassuring. They had caused her to feel less welcome in their family than a stray cat. Unless she fit in with them, she was going to be driven out into the cold. If Charlie were not around, quite frankly, she did not know what she would do. She lit the oil lamp by her bed. A clattering had begun downstairs.
Louisa reached for her silk dressing gown and edged her feet over the side of the bed. Her heart hammered. Louisa knew the noises that were coming from below; she had become familiar with the sounds in Paris.
Henry.
A few moments later, Louisa heard him climb the grand staircase. He was coming toward her room.
“Louisa,” he said, from right outside her bedroom door.
The last thing she wanted was for Charlie or the servants to hear them having a row.
But what she also wanted more than anything was for Charlie to appear and get rid of Henry.
“Open the door, for God’s sake,” Henry said. “I’m not going to wake the rest of the house.”
Quietly, she picked up her lamp and went to unlock the door.
“My mother told me that you were here,” he whispered. “I trust you have come up to shop.”
“You know I’m not here to shop,” Louisa said. “You know I take interest in other things.”
He looked at her.
Instinctively, she pushed the door toward him.
He moved closer again, put his foot in the door. And suddenly, bitter thoughts swirled in her head. He was here out of duty. He had come to see her in order to pay lip service to the role he was supposed to play. The fact that he wanted to be an actor was ironic. He could act one part with her, another with Marthe, another with his parents, another with all the houseguests and the friends he must have in Montmartre. But where was the true Henry? Louisa looked at him and thought that he was nowhere to be found. And if he ever was, he was not going to be revealed to Louisa. It would be Marthe who would see the real person.
And for now, what Louisa wished was that he would simply be honest. If only he would stand up to his parents, tell them he did not want the title, and allow Charlie to have it. Then Charlie could do what he was clearly born to do. Henry would be free to go to Paris. Act on the stage.
But life, like the stage, was not as simple as that.
Louisa sighed.
Henry was watching her. Half-bored, half-intent.
She didn’t know which was worse—the fact that he was looking at her as if she were a piece of prey, or the fact that he was also regarding her with boredom. One thing was clear. He didn’t care a jot about her. And most likely, he never would.
“I am tired,” she said. Her voice was strained, almost a collapsed version of itself. She must gather herself together. She never used to be prone to moods. “The hour, Henry.”
“May I remind you of your duty,” Henry whispered. “I have come all the way to London, because you are here. You will have to let me in, Louisa. If not tonight, then sometime. We both have expectations placed upon us. We have no choice but to fulfill them. I will try to make things as easy as I can for you.”
Louisa closed her eyes. In Paris, she had latched onto any slight consideration he might show toward her. Now, she knew better. There was no warmth in his feelings toward her.
“I thank you,” she said. “But I am sleepy now. I also,” she added, “understand what you say.”
Henry nodded. With a slight hop in his gait, he turned around and made his way back down the hallway.
Louisa closed the door. And leaned against it, sliding her body down against the hard wooden frame. And closed her eyes. And thought, not of Henry, but of Charlie.
After a few weeks back at Ashworth, things became at once clearer and far more complex. Snow lay about on the vast lawns the morning after the Duval family doctor had been to visit Louisa in her private rooms; white flakes fell on the raked driveway, and freezing air blew in smoky tendrils from her cold lips as she ran in the only direction that she wanted to go. She rushed, in the early-morning stillness, when she knew no one else would be awake, right toward the stables. Because if she did not see Charlie, if she did not tell him, she did not know what on earth she would do.
“Charlie.” She stopped, almost skidding on the ice in the courtyard.
He was already on his horse, but he swung the strong animal about and dismounted. She could tell instantly that he understood the urgency in her voice.
“What is it?” He took a step toward her and reached out, as if to touch her cheek, but then pulled back again, his eyes darting about the stables.
He glanced around again. “You need to talk. We need to go somewhere private. I know where to take you.”
In one instant, he was down on one knee, making a step with his hands so that she could climb onto the horse. And then she was in the saddle, in front of him. His arms were around her waist. She almost closed her eyes with the sense of his closeness, but he nudged the horse on. The animal was so sensitive to Charlie’s touch that it took off fast onto the wide path that led into the woods.
Gray, skeletal trees sat in silence on either side of the empty track. The air was still and snow covered much of the forest floor.
When Charlie pulled up at Jess’s cottage, Louisa was breathing in great, hard gulps. She turned slightly toward Charlie and he reached out, ran his hand across her temple, down over her cheek, his eyes burning into hers. He jumped off the horse, but still he didn’t speak. He handed Louisa down. She landed right next to him, looking up at his face. Not wanting to move.
He took her hand. With his other hand, he held his horse’s reins. “Jess has a little stable behind the house,” he said, his voice resonating through the silent, still morning. “We’ll leave the horse there. There’s food, warmth for him. I wouldn’t leave a squirrel out in this cold.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” Louisa said.
He held her hand a little tighter. “Once we�
��re inside I want you to promise to talk to me.”
Jess was in her kitchen. A warm tray of freshly baked scones sat on the bench. Charlie had simply entered through the back door and marched straight into the warm room, having waved at Jess through the window as he passed with the horse. Jess turned, seeing the expression on Louisa’s face, and in an instant, Louisa sensed that the older woman had made a quick decision.
“I’m going across to the village now,” she said.
Charlie started to protest, but Jess waved him away. She gathered her cloak. “It is a five-minute walk, Charlie. The road has been cleared this morning.”
Louisa’s hands shook but she smiled. Thank goodness for Jess, for Charlie. It was as if the time spent with them, particularly here in the warmth of Jess’s cottage, was her real life, even though the opposite was true.
Charlie rubbed his hands together. “Louisa, come and stand by the oven. And Jess, promise me you’ll visit with someone.”
“I have errands to run. And yes, there are always women who are keen for a cup of tea,” Jess smiled. Her intelligent eyes passed from Charlie to Louisa. She slipped out into the wintery silence.
“You should eat something,” Charlie said, reaching into a cupboard, pulling out a plate, then finding a knife in one of Jess’s wooden drawers. He buttered a scone, put a dab of jam next to it on the plate, handed it to Louisa.
She dipped the knife into the strawberry jam, running the preserves over the warm scone.
“Have some tea.” He moved past her to the range, and as he did so, his arm brushed hers. She resisted the impulse to lean her head on his shoulder as he passed.
Charlie poured two mugs of hot tea and handed her one in silence.
“Charlie,” she whispered. The tea was strong and hot and good and the sweetness of the scone fortified her.
He was next to her in the flash of a second, standing close, his hand under her chin. “You don’t have to tell me. I know. When is the baby due?”
“June,” she said.
“I see.”
The full stop at the end of his word seemed to resonate through the empty cottage. And suddenly, Louisa felt cold again. She put her tea on the bench and turned away from him.
“You must marry,” Louisa whispered, even though she could hardly contain her impulses as she said the words. It was the hardest thing to say, and yet it was the thing that must be said. As she spoke, every part of her wanted to reach up, to put her arms around his neck, to nestle in and feel safe and secure and yet unutterably alive. But she would never hold him back. She could not do that.
Charlie pulled her close to his chest. He had taken off his greatcoat, and it hung on a chair. If Louisa were to close her eyes, she could almost imagine that they were some simple couple living right here with scones on the table, a warm pot of tea, and a child on the way.
“You must know I have no desire to marry anyone else,” he said. He lifted her chin up, his face so close to hers that she felt as if they were almost breathing the same breath, as if they were more as one than she had ever imagined possible. She closed her eyes.
“I am past hope,” she whispered.
“What if we could persuade Henry to give you a divorce? You could marry me, and to hell with my parents,” Charlie said. “And you know, Louisa, the thing is, they need me. They need me to run the estate. I would love your child as if it were mine. You know that.”
He rested his forehead against her own for a moment. It was as if the thing that had always hovered between them—unsaid, unspoken, unreal—was insisting on being heard. But its kind, loving warmth had its own corollary sin—impossibility.
Louisa shook her head. Determination of a practical sort kicked in, and when she spoke, it was as if she were propelled by something outside of herself. She certainly did not agree with what she was saying. But she did feel that she had no choice but to speak. “Your parents would never accept us. I cannot bear to think of you losing your work, the work that you love, were they to cast you out, or, more likely, were Henry to send you away. Because he could. I couldn’t bear to see you separated from Ashworth.”
“None of them can run the estate without me. And you, you are just what this whole area needs. You would further the education of our local women, usher them into life in the new century. It is happening in London; you are right. I can run the farm, I can modernize and keep Ashworth going—and God knows that is going to be a risky prospect. I can keep jobs for our tenants, help support their families, and you, you can make a real difference. You could work with the schools, run conferences. You have so much potential . . .”
“Henry would stifle all of this,” she murmured.
“No,” Charlie growled. “I have never been scared of him. We would face him together, and he couldn’t stop us.”
Louisa took a tiny step back, but she was still in the circle of his arms. She gazed into his face. “I love you,” she whispered.
He leaned down then, and just before his lips touched hers, he whispered exactly what she wanted to hear, what she knew even if he had never said it in his life, back at her. “We’ll work it out,” he said. “We’ll get there.”
Louisa reached up while he kissed her, and for a moment, she forgot that there was any need to think at all.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ashworth, 2015
Sarah paid the taxi driver and stood at the entrance to Ashworth. Even though she had seen photographs of the palace, even though she had done her research, nothing had prepared her for what was in front of her right now. The fact that her ancestor, a girl from Boston, had lived in such a place was astonishing.
Sarah’s communication with the Duval family had been odd—an email, a brief, uncomfortable phone call. The duchess, Olivia, was polite and formal, but not, Sarah suspected, keen. She sensed that an invitation had been given out of a built-in politeness.
“That old story,” the duchess had half laughed after Sarah had explained herself with great hesitation from a written script. “I don’t know the particulars. Apparently she jumped out of a window. Depression. Terribly sad.”
Sarah had stumbled through the rest of the call.
Now, she stood in front of the palace. Rows of symmetrical grand windows overlooked the immaculate park. Everything spoke of order, of success, perhaps, of intimidation. There had not been an offer to pick her up at the train station. There had been a vague instruction to pick up a cab.
Sarah dragged her suitcase up the wide flight of steps that led to the front door. On one side of it, there was a large brass doorbell. She pressed it, and heard a great ringing throughout the vast house. A few moments passed. Nothing. But, just as she was about to press it a second time, footsteps sounded on hard floors.
The door opened. And there stood Lord Jeremy—Sarah had seen pictures of him on the official palace website. He was the eldest of the current duke and duchess’s three children. She had done her homework. He was around the same age as Sarah.
“Hello,” he said. Jeremy’s dark hair flopped over to one side of his face, and he ran a hand through it as he spoke, his brown eyes appraising her, pleasantly enough. He did not look particularly affected to see her. If Sarah had to sum him up after one glance, she would say he looked like a mild sort of man.
Sarah introduced herself and held out a hand. He shook it; his handshake was limp. She stood there awkwardly for a moment.
“My parents had to go out for the afternoon,” he said, holding the front door open. “They had forgotten that they had plans.”
“You ended up on long-lost-relative duty.” Sarah smiled.
As if on cue, a man with gray hair and a tweed suit appeared and took the suitcase.
“Empress of India room, Burrell,” Jeremy said. “We still keep a butler,” he went on, as if this were some sort of normal conversation that anyone would have. “But these days, there are only fourteen staff in the house. Much of it is closed up. We used to have hundreds of staff living here. In your anc
estor’s day.”
Sarah took in the vast entrance hall, with its endless black-and-white tiles. A hallway led to the left, and to the right, she saw a glimpse of a magnificent room overlooked by high balconies with elaborate balustrades. It seemed to be under the great tower that she had admired from the taxi.
Jeremy was moving toward the vast space. “Come into the salon,” he said.
An elaborate wooden staircase wound its way down into the enormous room. Two large wolfhounds lay in front of a fireplace, and paintings of hunting scenes lined the walls.
“This is a spectacular room,” Sarah said. “It’s very kind of you to have me here.”
Jeremy pulled on an old-fashioned bellpull. “I expect you’d like tea?”
A woman appeared, wearing an A-line skirt, sensible shoes. Jeremy ordered tea, along with cake. He asked Sarah to sit down.
She perched on an enormous velvet sofa and tried her best not to gape. She had seen great wealth in her line of work before, of course she had. But this was something else.
“Your ancestor’s story was very sad. We were surprised, to be honest, that you’d want to come back to Ashworth.”
Sarah had decided to play the part of the interested descendent, just a person who wanted to see where her great-great-aunt had lived. The last thing she wanted to do was get off on the wrong foot. “I wanted to see where she lived. I was in Paris, so—”
“Her suicide was tragic.” He sounded firm.
Sarah bit back obvious questions while the middle-aged woman in sensible shoes returned with a trolley. She poured tea and gave each of them a thin slice of sultana cake. It was buttered, and the butter layer was thin too.
Sarah was glad for the interruption. She tried to think how to play this.
“Must have been jolly hard for all those American girls, coming to a new country, settling in. Impossible to imagine, really.”
“I’m sure they were made to feel welcome.” She stirred her tea.
“Of course.”
“And Louisa had the most beautiful place to live, here.”
