From a Paris Balcony

by Ella Carey

  And that was it. Neither Henry, Louisa, nor Marthe, it seemed, had wanted to accept the way that things were run. They had all been young. They had all had ideals, she suspected, hopes for themselves that could not be borne to fruition, and that had sent them spiraling into a tragic triple mess.

  But one thing had changed, and this sat well with Sarah: now she saw Marthe as a person, not a villain. Sarah admitted that she had probably viewed the woman’s life in a judgmental manner. How easy it had been to jump to conclusions. And now, here Sarah was, having to admit that Marthe’s letter to Henry was one of the most moving things she had ever read. Marthe’s letter had tweaked Sarah’s heart. Clearly, their relationship transcended friendship and was born of trust, akin to that of soul mates. Perhaps it held equality and mutual respect that were well in advance of their time.

  Sarah finished the last sip of her strong tea. She moved to the window and lingered next to the tall bookshelves. At least she had shuffled a ladder a bit while she was here. No one had noticed. Or if they had, they hadn’t said anything.

  She looked out at the park and the trees that spread their beautiful branches, resplendent with green leaves, over the grass. As if they were protective. As if everything was somehow right.

  For the past dreadful months, Sarah had fought relentlessly every foul occurrence in her life. Everything, every part of it, seemed utterly wrong. She had wanted the past back, her life back to the way it was, to the way that it should have been.

  But now, as she looked out over the garden that Louisa must have gazed out at too, over one hundred years ago, Sarah asked herself if she would swap the experiences she had in Paris, the time she had spent with Laurent, and the knowledge and understanding she had gained about Marthe and her complex relationship with Henry while staying here at Ashworth for the old life she had lost. Her parents’ tragic deaths aside, would she swap her time in Paris for years spent with Steven, living out their lives in the way they had always done?

  Marthe’s letter had forced her to confront the nature of relationships, even to consider the woman for whom Steven had left her. Sarah realized now that if she did not move on from this, if she did not let go, then she would be allowing her past to control her for the rest of her life.

  While Ashworth had been enlightening in more ways than Sarah had hoped, she still had not found what she came here to find. Was the labyrinth of twisted truths surrounding Louisa’s death going to remain intact? Had Louisa really been both suicidal and strong at the same time? Desperate enough to kill herself, yet capable and motivated in equal measure? It still made no sense at all.

  Sarah’s suitcase sat by the front door in the hallway. Her invitation expired today. Home, her apartment, her job. All these things awaited her. Was there any point in returning to Paris for the rest of the summer as she had planned? She had done all she could there. Boston was where she lived. There was no use running away anymore. She would just have to leave Louisa to rest.

  She moved out of the library, across to the front door. The old man who swept the driveway each morning stopped at the bottom of the front steps. He surveyed his handiwork, looking almost as if he were admiring the neat, circular marks that were left by his soft rake in the pale gravel. He moved toward the small electric cart that he drove around the estate.

  Sarah frowned. Suddenly, as if on some sort of insane impulse, she picked up her phone and dialed Laurent. She wanted to talk to him.

  “This is going to sound crazy,” she said.

  “Fire away.”

  “What do you think about approaching an old servant? Someone who has been working here for years, by the looks of it?”

  Laurent chuckled then. “What are you waiting for? Go on. You’ve only got the morning. Don’t stand there talking to me. It’s an excellent idea.”

  “Thought you’d say that.” Sarah hung up the phone and watched the old man.

  What if she was risking the duke’s wrath at approaching the groundskeeper, an estate employee? As she looked at him, her mind whirled on. He must be in his eighties. That would mean he was born in the 1930s, wouldn’t it?

  Pushing away the logic that told her she was mad, crazy as a snake, Sarah moved down the wide steps to the driveway below.

  She came to a shuddering halt. The old man simply stood there. And looked at her.

  “Hello,” she said. Inane, but what else could she say?

  “Aye.” He nodded.

  Sarah looked at him and considered that odd sort of stepping between two questions—should she reveal herself, or not? Strategy would advise her not. Of course.

  Sarah pushed that right out of her head.

  She felt her shoulders drop a little, as if they were losing some sort of weight. Laurent was right. She should just go ahead. “Look. I know this sounds odd, but I was wondering. I was wondering if you had worked here a long time, and whether, perhaps, you might have heard of Louisa West. And Henry Duval. Whether you might know anything about them. They were members of this family, once.”

  The man stood stock-still, but he didn’t shake his head.

  Sarah went on. “Louisa was my ancestor. I came back here to find out a little more about her. I’m from Boston. My name is Sarah. West. Sarah West. But I’m sorry. You don’t know anything, do you? It was a long shot. And I’m about to leave.”

  Silly. To trust those instincts. She should have known better.

  The old man leaned on his rake. “Miss West, is it,” he said. He cleared his throat and looked out, over toward the forest that bordered the park. And it was as if, Sarah thought, he was staring out at the past. And at that moment, hope sprang in her. And at that moment, he turned back to her and nodded his head.

  “I’m leaving, this morning. I only have a couple of hours,” she said.

  “You are Miss West, you say?”

  Silently, Sarah reached into her handbag, and she held her passport out to him.

  The old man glanced at it. He set his old mouth in a firm line. He was quiet for a few moments before he spoke. “I think it would be worth us having a chat. Miss West, I’ll be finishing up here in ten minutes. But it would be best if you came to my cottage. We could talk there and make sure that you are back here in time for you to leave. My house is only a few minutes’ walk.”

  Sarah’s legs felt about as stable as two pins holding up a bridge, but she listened to the old man’s directions. Walk past the little family chapel, he told her. It is just beyond the woods. He would drive his cart, but it was piled up with all his rakes and tools. She would find it a squeeze sitting next to him. And she would enjoy, he said, the walk that edged the forest. The old gardener made a point of the fact that she must stop and look at the family chapel. His cottage was just beyond that. He told her she would see Louisa’s grave in the old chapel garden.

  Sarah nodded. She started to walk, putting one leg in front of the other, but found it hard to think that anything might come of talking with the gardener. Heat emanated from the gravel underneath her feet. A strip of unwieldy grass divided the path that edged the forest into two. A small lake appeared in the clearing ahead, just beyond the line of trees. Willows hung over the water, their long branches reflected in its depths.

  Beyond this, there was a garden, a strange sort of half-tended thing. It was an old-fashioned garden full of old-fashioned plants. Agapanthus stood upright, their handsome purple heads standing proud against the sky.

  Sarah stopped at another clearing.

  A tiny chapel stood right in the middle of the space, a small, stone building. An old sign was stuck to its wooden front door. Services, it said, were held once a month.

  Sarah pushed on the door—nothing. Next, she tried the handle. It didn’t budge. She rounded the side of the tiny building. Heat shimmered up from the graves that were scattered about on the ramshackle lawn; the graves were ramshackle too, poking out of the ground at odd angles as if they had been placed, Sarah thought, for effect. Some of them were grand, their headstones elab
orate, surrounded by handsome railings. Many were tiny—children, then. Sarah felt a stab to her stomach as she wandered among the old Ashworth stones. Louisa’s grave was separated from the others. She rested by herself in a corner by the old wire fence, under the shade of a gnarled tree.

  The inscription on the headstone was simple. Louisa West, beloved wife of Henry Duval, died in Paris in 1895. Sarah wished that she had some flowers. Anything to place on the grave. Instead, she leaned forward, touched the headstone, and moved away.

  Henry’s tomb rested in the heart of the family plot, right next to that of his brother, Charles.

  Surrounded by the dead, Sarah felt two things. She wanted to move away from this old family site, but at the same time, there was a sense of peace here, peace with the distant past. And what Sarah realized, now, was that perhaps her search for truth about the past was more a search for peace within herself.

  She turned back and looked at the chapel. She realized that the stabbing pain that she had learned to live with during these last hard, hard months was loosening its grip now. Perhaps this had happened gradually, perhaps coming to Europe had sped the process up. But one thing was clear to her. And it was important. She had stopped loving Steven. It had just faded away.

  He had not behaved well toward her. That was the simple truth. It was time for her to move on.

  Sarah smiled to herself because now she had one new problem—if one could call it such a thing—she had certainly developed feelings for Laurent. There was no hiding from the fact. Sarah took one last look at the old graveyard, shook her head, and followed the path back out.

  The sound of slow, uneven footsteps crunched on the gravel around the chapel.

  “Hello,” she said to the old man, who appeared from the opposite direction. She realized that she had been so busy gabbing on about herself that he hadn’t told her his name.

  He leaned heavily on the wooden gate, with its pretty curved archway, at the entrance to the graveyard. As Sarah approached him, he held out his leathery old hand.

  “Frank,” he said. “Frank Moore.” His blue eyes remained clear and he held her gaze. “I never knew that you’d come back here. I never realized that you would be interested, you see. But, I’ve thought it through while I rode back to my house, Miss West. Aye, in fact, it is a good thing that you’ve come.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Paris, 1895

  Louisa had developed a sort of forced routine since her arrival in Paris. The main thing, she decided, was to avoid thinking too much. If her thoughts slipped to Charlie, and Ashworth, and her baby, she would simply make herself change tack. Henry seemed neither pleased nor concerned at her arrival. He carried on just as he desired. Louisa busied herself in Paris, looking at art and walking in the parks.

  Today, though, she had decided to accompany Henry to the Longchamp Racecourse. She had become tired of her own company. She stood next to him on the side of the racetrack in the Bois de Boulogne. The horses thundered past, eyes bulging, sweat flowing down their necks. She hated the races. Hated the way men bet on the animals she loved. But she stood next to her husband as if, for all the world to see, she was the perfect wife.

  After several weeks in London, Louisa had started to feel as if she were hanging about. She met with Mrs. Pankhurst. They arranged a conference at Ashworth by correspondence with Jess. But once that was done, Louisa reached a point where she needed to move on. She sensed that Mrs. Pankhurst was not a woman who approved of lounging about. The idea of returning to Ashworth left her with complicated thoughts. She felt guilt over her relationship with Charlie and missed her baby, although she realized that she was not of much help in that direction just yet. She also had the sense that she should not overdo her work with the local women; she must keep the balance just right. But the awful truth was that she could not bear to be near Charlie when he was so obviously infatuated with someone else.

  She hardly knew what she was thinking now in Paris—did she hope that she and Henry might be able to come to some sort of truce? Perhaps it was the only option left.

  This morning, Louisa smiled and chatted with the group of upper-class friends whom Henry had arranged to bring in a steamboat down the Seine to Longchamp. They had all wandered freely into the Royal Box.

  Louisa had seen the courtesan almost every day these past two weeks. The woman moved freely within Henry’s circle—she was ubiquitous, Louisa felt. Marthe made her entrance late today, in a carriage, resplendent in diamonds and accompanied by her burly bodyguards. It was as if every appearance the courtesan made was to be treated as a special event.

  Henry marched straight over to Marthe, taking her arm and leading her through the Royal Box. Louisa was unsure of what she felt as she stared at Henry and Marthe. Their intimacy stared straight back at her.

  This morning, Henry, like Marthe, wore makeup. It was a foppish custom among his arty set. Louisa stood on the edge of the group. Suddenly, finding standing alone unsupportable, she maneuvered her way out of the box, into the vast crowd that lined the racetrack, working her way through the well-dressed Parisians. She had to get some space.

  Until someone took her elbow. “Louisa.”

  She stopped and stared upward. She would know his voice if she were in a jungle full of screaming apes.

  “Come with me,” Charlie said, gently. “I saw you from a distance. I’d spot you anywhere.”

  “I hate to ask the obvious question,” she said.

  “I heard you were in Paris. I came as soon as I found out.”

  Louisa felt a half-hardened laugh escape from her throat. Her mind darted forward, jumping to the reasons for him to come. He was going to tell her that he was engaged.

  She could sense it.

  She did not want to have the conversation.

  Charlie made his way through the crowds, leading her to a quiet spot behind a grand white marquee. The sounds of laughter and French conversation filtered out into the hot morning. Louisa fanned her face with her free hand.

  “How are you?” he said, but there was an urgency in his voice.

  “Very well.” She steeled herself. Thought about responses. Congratulations? What else was there to say?

  “I don’t want to live a life that is not real.” Charlie turned her toward him and looked straight into her eyes.

  Louisa shook her head, diverting her own glance off to the side, anywhere but toward him. “Of course,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me what I already know. I . . . congratulations, if that is in order.”

  “Marry me, ridiculous girl,” he said, all of a sudden. “Darling, you could do exactly what you want if you were with me. Divorce Henry. I can deal with my parents.”

  She looked up at him, and confusion obfuscated her thoughts. This was not real. What he was saying simply could not be true. “But you are to marry Lady Anne, surely that is what you are here to say,” she said, her voice sounding hoarse.

  “No.” He stood so close to her that Louisa could hardly bear it. But for some reason, she was unable to take in what he said. Surely she wasn’t about to be happy! She had given up on the very thought.

  But Charlie seemed determined, no matter how hard it was to take in what he said. “We have to tell Henry the truth. I think we should do it tonight. We are all adults. We sit down and we talk this through and we tell him that we want to work things out. He doesn’t love you. I’m sorry. But it’s the truth. I adore you. I want to marry you, I love you. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. It doesn’t have to be difficult. Who cares what society thinks? In any case, society will get over it. So will Henry, and so will my parents. But this is our chance. It’s our future. And that’s what matters.”

  Louisa folded her arms around her waist. This was not game playing. If she had accepted Henry in some sort of daze—looking back, she could not understand what she had been thinking at the time of her engagement—now she knew that she needed absolute clarity if she were dealing with Charlie.

 
Because the situation was completely different. She was in love with him. The stakes simply had no end.

  “Promise me you’ll always be honest with me,” she said.

  And he promised.

  Afterward, when he took her hand in his own and kissed her palm, she looked at him, and she told him yes. “I can’t see that Henry will object. He will, after all, be free.”

  And she knew why she loved him. She knew why she loved Charlie. And she took his arm and she walked with him, away from the races, out into the open woodland.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Ashworth, 2015

  A hot breeze picked up in the graveyard, flattening the grass into flowing green waves. Sarah turned to the old man standing at the gate.

  “Did you find her?” Frank Moore asked.

  Sarah gathered herself before she spoke. “Yes,” she said. “I found her.” She thought for a moment. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Moore?”

  “I was born here. I’ve worked here since I was fourteen,” he said, and he started to walk down the path through the garden. And then he stopped, turning to face her instead. “Everybody calls me Frank. Would you like to come into my house for a cup of tea?” As if it were the most common question in the world in circumstances such as these.

  “Thank you.” Sarah’s heart rate scaled up.

  He indicated the direction with a slight incline of his white-haired head. Sarah walked beside him, past those old graves that would sit there, for centuries, after such relatively brief lives.

  But then Frank stopped beside the church.

  “There is another grave,” he said, as if he were making an announcement.

  Sarah was quiet as he started to move back into the graveyard again. The sound of his slow footsteps resonated in the silent morning air. When he stopped at a tiny grave not far from Henry’s, Sarah drew in a breath.

  Evelyn Duval, born 1895, died 1895, she read. Beloved child of Louisa and Henry Duval.