From a Paris Balcony

by Ella Carey

  “I missed it altogether.” Sarah breathed out the words. It was impossible not to feel even more saddened at the sight of this tiny little gravestone, for Louisa, for what she had given up, in many ways, to marry Henry. And then, her baby had died.

  Frank stayed quiet next to her for a few moments, but when Sarah turned away from the little grave, he didn’t follow her.

  “There’s nothing in the baby’s grave.” His voice seemed to travel through the air behind her, lingering among the headstones.

  She turned to him.

  But the old man moved away. He inclined his head at Sarah and walked back past the church to the gate.

  “We need to have a chat,” he said. “My cottage is right next door.”

  Sarah opened her mouth, then closed it again. Frank had already started walking.

  Sarah took in a long breath.

  Paris, 1895

  Louisa’s stomach tingled and spiraled with anticipation, hope, and dread, were she honest, as she and Henry stepped out of their carriage. Was Charlie really going to follow through this very night? She alighted on the sidewalk outside the house where the party was being held. The house looked elegant and Parisian and smart, but the scene outside in the street was typical Montmartre. The usual scrum of people flocked about vendors, who flogged their wares and hassled passersby in the street.

  Louisa had spent extra time at her toilette, fussing over details, trying to control her thick, wavy hair, patting it into place. She had even experimented with rouge, then removed it. It was not who she wanted to be.

  She hovered outside her carriage. Whenever she was with Charlie, it felt as if everything was possible and there were no limits. But if he wanted to open up discussion with Henry, wouldn’t that ruin everything? Henry left her standing alone while he marched ahead.

  Charlie had said that he wanted to approach his brother in a place where he was certain Henry would behave. If his friends were about, Henry was less likely to make a scene. While this had seemed logical earlier, now Louisa felt sickened at the thought of what might ensue.

  The evening air was sharp on her cheeks as she made her way to the entrance of the corner house. The entire upper floor was lit up—lights beamed out onto the street, half in welcome, Louisa thought, and half showing off. Louisa gave her name to the servant who stood just inside the door.

  The building’s interior was marble and light and tall. A smart staircase wound its way to the top floor, curving in elegant curlicues. A great urn of sickly bright flowers sat at its base. Louisa ran her hand over the banister as she moved upward. Even through her glove, she could feel that the banister was cold.

  But the farther she climbed, the warmer the air in the building became. Voices and the sound of raucous laughter rang down from the apartment upstairs. She paused at the top of the staircase.

  The double doors were thrown open wide. Painted women and men smoking cigarettes in long holders spilled out onto the wide landing. The smell of tobacco was rank, along with a myriad of sweaty perfumes. It was hot, too hot. Louisa’s instinct was to go back downstairs.

  But Charlie would be here. She thought of him and made her way through the crowd, past tittering, chattering groups. No one greeted her, not at all. One woman reached out and stroked her hair. Louisa pulled away from the stench of alcohol that emanated from the other guest’s body.

  Double doors led to the next room, and more to the one after that. A raised platform was set up in one corner and a group of musicians sat on a dais nearby. Maids, their makeup overstated, cheeky smiles hovering on their masklike faces, flounced about under the grand chandeliers. But were they maids, or women of the night dressed up? It was always impossible to tell in Montmartre.

  Louisa accepted a glass of champagne. And reminded herself that all of this, and Henry, and the high-class courtesans who decorated the room, were artifice. None of this was real. She raked the room for Charlie. She clung to the words that he had said. He wanted to live a real life. And so did she. So, dear God, did she.

  The band struck up. Three women dressed in tailored men’s suits appeared on the platform, crooning, while men in tails pushed past Louisa to see.

  Then she spotted them. She spotted them both.

  Charlie stood a good head taller than Henry. Louisa tried to push her way through to them. But she became stuck several times. In the end, she skirted her way around the edge of the crowd, took an undignified swig of her champagne, and placed it down on a side table.

  Then she was right upon them. She stopped just outside their peculiar little circle. Neither of them realized she was there. Their heads—brothers’ heads, both cut from the same cloth—were close.

  Louisa sensed something then, some sort of unity between them, some sort of brotherly conferring. And hope soared into her for a moment, and she dared not interrupt. Could they possibly work this out? Surely, Henry would see sense. Her feelings jumped, darting like sparks from a fire as she watched Charlie’s expression, and then Henry’s.

  She was not part of their discussion.

  Yet it had everything to do with her.

  People pushed past her, constantly elbowing into her side, her back, almost toppling her off her feet several times. She wiped a hand across her forehead and started to feel faint.

  And then it happened.

  “How dare you,” Henry growled. But his growl was not a low snarl. It was not something that only he and Charlie were going to hear. It was loud, and it resonated.

  A hush fell over everyone nearby.

  Someone laughed, a rushed, forced sort of laugh, and the chatter resumed. A few snorts and snickers then. Louisa bit on her lip. Hard.

  She caught Charlie’s eye. The expression on Henry’s face worried her. She took a step toward them both. But Charlie shook his head. He whispered something in Henry’s ear.

  “Go back to Ashworth. Get out,” Henry said.

  “Henry.” She was unable to stand by and wait.

  Henry turned toward her, swift as a snake, and his eyes looked like a snake’s eyes too. He looked startled, though, as if he was in shock.

  Louisa shot a side-glance at Charlie, and he caught her eye. That tiny motion told Louisa everything. It wasn’t going to work. She had to become involved.

  This was her life, her future.

  And, quite frankly, she had had enough.

  “Is there somewhere quiet we can go and talk?” Louisa addressed her words to Charlie. Her hands were damp.

  Henry ran his own hand over his chin, leaving it there for a moment and closing his dark eyes. For an inexplicable, odd second, Louisa felt a wave of compassion toward him. And she knew she had to take advantage of that very moment, that second of vulnerability, because goodness only knew it was not going to last. Louisa leaned forward, took Henry’s arm, and kept her voice whisper-soft.

  “Let’s go somewhere and talk this through. We can’t leave things as they are. You know that. I know you do. Please, can we just talk?”

  Henry looked at her as if she were someone he hardly knew. He looked like a hunted animal. He looked scared. And suddenly, Louisa understood. For the first time, she saw him for who he was.

  He ran away from everything.

  He wasn’t strong.

  But she was. Charlie was.

  “Staircase. Go upstairs, Louisa.” Charlie’s voice came from right behind her. She loved the way he pronounced her name—there was such respect for her in his tone. It was something that she had never had from Henry.

  Henry was so close to her that she sensed his tension, felt it herself as they made their way through the crowd. He opened his mouth a couple of times and pushed at her impatiently, like a child. And as she looked at him, she realized that his expression was childlike too—callow, obstinate, petulant. He had never had the chance to grow up. He was still, for all intents and purposes, a boy rather than a man.

  Charlie was ahead of them now. Once they reached the top floor, he strode up a hallway that was lined wit
h a series of firmly closed doors.

  It was a little quieter up here, but it was still stifling hot. Louisa needed fresh air.

  Elegant urns lined the hallway, all filled with miniature versions of the hideous bouquet that graced the entrance hall below. The parquet floor was covered with a dark runner, and the walls were lined with gaudy, vivid art. This was all part of the new world. The problem was that it clashed, violently, with the old.

  Henry was caught between them both.

  Charlie looked at her, a question in his eye. She nodded. They had become complicit now. It was as if they worked as a team. And this gave Louisa confidence, such confidence in the future and in his maturity and in their combined strength. She could see them, together, no matter what work they did. Charlie held open the door to an empty room.

  It was a bedroom—tasteful, for this house. But a vase of wretchedly vivid flowers sat by the bed. Henry stood in the doorway, his arms folded, his feet spread wide apart.

  Louisa moved across to the window.

  “I need air,” she told Charlie.

  He nodded.

  Henry glowered from where he stood.

  She pulled the curtains open. French doors sat behind them. There was a small balcony outside with a balustrade—low decorative iron—such a pretty thing. Louisa threw the doors open. And she stood outside and breathed.

  She lifted her face up to the clear sky. Fresh air embraced her, as if it were some sort of cool, blessed shroud. Noises drifted up from the street. Laughter. Sounds of an accordion filtered into the air. Some old French tune.

  Henry stood just inside the wide open doors.

  Charlie was a little farther into the room.

  When Henry spoke, his voice emerged like a snarl. “I was always expected to be the sensible one, the damned heir. Paraded around the countryside as if I were some sort of half-cocked hero. And then, women were paraded for me.”

  “Henry.” Charlie’s word was a warning.

  “You had everything.” Henry spat out the words. “Freedom, a life.”

  Louisa closed her eyes. Henry’s words hit her like punches to her soul. Charlie had taken over Henry’s role—he was covering for him. Why couldn’t Henry see that?

  “I know that our parents wished that you had been born first. I’m not stupid. I can see that.”

  Louisa shook her head. “I want to set you free, Henry. Charlie and I both want that. Can’t you see?” She fought to control the tremors in her voice.

  But Henry turned to her. His mouth was set in a fatal sneer. “You are tied to me until we are both dead and buried. And that, Louisa, is that.”

  Louisa gasped.

  Charlie looked down at the floor.

  “But forgive me,” Henry said, adopting the light tone of a comic, changing tack, it seemed, faster than a tiger on the hunt. “Forgive me if I want Paris before I come back to my slow death. My father’s death will be my own death, you see. Only then will I return to Ashworth. I’ll assume the cloak that I damn well have no choice but to wear. But I swear, Louisa, I will not divorce you. I won’t do that to the family. I have no idea how you could think I ever would. Are you fools? I’m going to be a duke, God damn it. You are both socially naïve.”

  Someone shouted in the street.

  Louisa turned and leaned against the railing, her arms spread wide on the delicate wrought iron.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Ashworth, 2015

  Frank Moore’s front garden was resplendent with life. Tomatoes clung, lush and red and ripe, to wooden stakes in neat rows alongside lettuce, onions, and young carrot plants. Everything was orderly, everything looked to be in its place.

  Sarah followed Frank up the pathway to his cottage, sensing that there was nothing she could say that was going to hurry him up. But she could not help conjuring up visions. Had someone dug up the baby’s grave, Heathcliff and Cathy–like? What had happened to it?

  Frank stopped on the narrow path that led to his house and Sarah nearly fell into him. “This garden gives me such joy. One of the young under-gardeners comes and does most of the work these days. I work alongside him as much as I can.”

  Sarah forced herself to concentrate on the new turn the old man’s conversation appeared to have taken, while glancing at the roses that had been planted close to the cottage, the white petunias that tumbled out of terra-cotta pots. She stopped right behind him at the green-painted front door.

  He turned the brass handle and led her through the small entrance into a tiny sitting room. She had to bend her neck so as not to hit her head on the top of the old wooden frame.

  Exposed wooden beams lined the ceiling. Two small sofas were set up in front of a simple fireplace—a thick piece of wood did duty as a mantelpiece. Sarah could not help but think how cozy this all was compared to Ashworth and its sense of grandeur, and she could not help but appreciate it after the iciness that nipped at her when she saw the graves.

  “I’ll put the kettle on. Do come with me into the kitchen, if you like.”

  Sarah followed him. Floral curtains made do for cupboard fronts. Frank took the kettle to the old sink and filled it before placing it on his Aga.

  “This is lovely,” Sarah said.

  Frank busied himself with a pot, filling it with tea leaves, watching his kettle until it bubbled and steamed on the stove top. He seemed intent on his task.

  After Frank had given Sarah an old, thick mug, he led her back into the sitting room, opened the window wide, and secured the glass pane with a hook to the thick window frame. It was far cooler in the cottage than outside. Sarah sat down and sipped at the tea. Strong tea. And waited.

  He regarded her for a moment. Then put down his mug.

  Sarah found herself unable to speak.

  Frank blew out an audible breath. “My great-aunt, Jess, was the governess for your ancestor’s husband, Henry, and his younger brother, Charles, until they went off to boarding school. She was supposed to take care of Louisa’s baby too, once she was finished with the nurse.”

  Sarah sat up. “I’m sorry? Did you say she?”

  Frank seemed to chew at his teeth a little. He looked off to the side, and Sarah found herself staring at him, wanting answers. What was he talking about?

  “Sorry—I’m confused, Frank. The family here told me Louisa had a boy.”

  “The Duval family was not going to give up a boy,” Frank said, as if he were telling her an accepted fact.

  “Give up?”

  He looked at her, and sighed. “Sarah, you need to know that the story of the baby’s death was fabricated by the family. Your Louisa’s husband, Henry, was convinced that Louisa’s baby had been fathered by his younger brother, Charles.”

  “What?” She had given up trying to keep up.

  The old man shook his head. “They were in love. Your Louisa, and Henry’s younger brother, Charles.”

  Sarah slumped back in her seat.

  “Louisa’s baby was a girl, Sarah. And she lived. Her name, my dear, was Evelyn.”

  “Then who are the family living here now descended from?”

  “After Louisa’s death, Henry claimed that Evelyn was not his. He refused to have anything to do with the little girl. What’s more, he wanted his brother, Charles, out of Ashworth.”

  “Oh.” Sarah reached forward and picked up her mug. Her hands were shaking now, fluttering. Fast.

  “Charles, who could have turned himself to anything, so the story goes, went to Hong Kong, where he became successful in business in his own right. He took Evelyn with him. He did come back here to visit though. Charlie visited his parents, and he forged some sort of relationship with Henry in the end. But he didn’t live here. Not after Louisa’s death.”

  “Hong Kong?” Sarah shook her head.

  “Henry’s parents desperately wanted him to return home and run the estate. His absence was embarrassing,” Frank said. “Henry was forced to come home. It was Charlie who had to go.”

  “How concerned
they all seemed with appearances.” But the sense Sarah had gotten of Henry and Marthe from their letters was that they were fighting against society’s focus on what looked right all the time.

  “Aye. Henry’s parents knew that Evelyn would remind him of Charles and Louisa’s betrayal, as he saw it. And Charles wasn’t going to leave Louisa’s daughter in the hands of his parents. The duke and duchess, in turn, didn’t want any more of Louisa’s scandal hanging about.”

  “Scandal again,” Sarah murmured. She thought about how far the family had gone to get rid of any sort of taint surrounding Louisa. Sarah began to wonder if she might have become a suffragette herself, had she lived in the late nineteenth century.

  “Henry finally saw that he had to take on his role here.”

  “Was he very good at it?” Sarah couldn’t help but ask.

  “He was fine. He escaped to Paris when he could. But apparently, he resigned himself to his lot. Determination to punish Charles and push him away for trying to take Louisa took over.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Extraordinary,” she whispered.

  Frank nodded. “Samuel, Louisa’s younger brother, came here,” Frank went on, “right after Louisa’s death, and met Charles. Both loved Louisa—apparently they developed something of a bond. Since there was no future here for Charles, he went with Samuel to Hong Kong—and took Evelyn. Charles wanted to give Louisa’s daughter the chances that Louisa never had. He wrote to my great-aunt Jess with regularity. It was much better for the lass than staying here at Ashworth would have been for her. I have no doubt about that.”

  “But Evelyn is even recorded as a boy in the family Bible.” Sarah’s thoughts were in a whirl. And she still had not been told the answer to her question. Did Frank know? Because she was absolutely going to ask.

  “So you have been snooping about!”

  Sarah couldn’t stop her lips from forming a wry smile, but Frank smiled back at her.

  “That entry in the Bible and that headstone in the churchyard are Henry’s fabrications,” he said. “Henry liked theater—part of him always loved to make things up. It sounded more dramatic if he said he’d lost his only son. He changed the family tree once his parents had died, and no one was going to question the Duke of Ashworth.