“Come now,” he said, taking a sip of his wine and leaning back. “Tell me. Your father, your mother, it is normal to miss them. But the weight you carry in those beautiful blue eyes…” He shook his head as if he could feel my pain. “Cora, is there not yet more you are mourning?”
I considered his words and glanced back to the front window. I imagined others there, joining Papa and Mama, staring in at me like a window to my soul. “I left more than my parents. When Mr. Kensington…when he came to collect me, we were on the verge of losing our farm…”
I shook my head, feeling embarrassment flood my face. What would Pierre care of such mundane matters? How could he even begin to understand? His world was so different. But his eyes were warm, compassionate. As if he understood me already. As if he wanted to know me better. “It may sound silly to you, Pierre. But I am missing a bit of myself…” I searched his face, wondering if I’d completely lost him in those last statements. “The girl who wore far simpler dresses, who enjoyed a certain comfort in her naïveté…” I paused and studied him, trying again. “Wallace Kensington made a way for me to come here.” I waved about the fancy restaurant. “On this tour. But he also made it impossible for me and my folks to ever return home,” I said bitterly, “to ever resume our former life.”
“And why did he do that?”
Why did he do that? I thought. He could’ve paid the debt and allowed us to maintain ownership so we’d have a place to come back to once Papa was well again. But he hadn’t. The thought niggled at me.
I shrugged a little and wound my cloth napkin into a knot beneath the table. “The farm was failing. My father was ailing. Perhaps he just wanted to force us all forward.”
Pierre played with the stem of his crystal glass and eyed me carefully. “It sounds as if he was doing you a favor, no?”
“Yes. No!” I shook my head. “I don’t know.”
“Oh, mon amie, I think you do. He was pushing you out of a nest,” he said.
“A nest in a dying tree,” I muttered, looking to the window again. “But it was all so sudden…and it left me feeling torn between grief and anger…and relief, really.”
“Ahh,” he said, leaning forward on the table as the waiter took away his empty plate. “And there it is. So your Monsieur Kensington was the storm that forced you to a new nest. And you are not entirely sure it is a nest you want. This is what divides us, yes? I am but a symbol of more—more of what you’re not sure you want.” He tucked his chin, staring at me, waiting, as if for me to strike him.
“In part,” I said with a slight nod. “But, Pierre, Mr. Kensington has promised me only this summer of the tour, and after it, the completion of my education, so that I might teach. I have no inheritance, no funds of my own to speak of. Does that not make me the most pathetic sort of woman you might ever pursue?” I smiled at him. “I attended your ball. That hall was filled with women of refinement, women far beyond my station. Women born to hold your attention.”
He shrugged and leaned back in that languid, suave manner of the French, smiling. “Cora, perhaps it is because you are so utterly different from any woman I’ve ever known—or will likely come to know—that I find you so compelling.”
I gave him a little laugh. “I’m a novelty to you, then. Not more. Let’s not get confused.”
“Non,” he said, frowning and stretching his hand out, just barely touching mine with the tips of his long, elegant fingers. His eyes were deadly still. “You’re far more than mere novelty.”
His words left me breathless. Frightened me by their intensity. And quietly, I pulled my fingers from his.
He smiled, compassion in his eyes. “It is all right, ma chérie. There is time. Ample time for us to let whatever this is,” he said, waving back and forth between us, “unfold.”
Pierre put me in a horse-drawn Richelieu carriage beside Antonio and, with a kiss to my knuckles, bid me adieu. He was reluctantly off to a political function for the evening. With a quick word from him, the driver pulled away into the swell of Parisian traffic.
“You enjoyed a fine meal, Cora?” Antonio asked.
“I did,” I agreed simply. I did not feel like talking, and he seemed to sense my mood and left me to my silence, him looking out one side of the carriage, me the other. The genteel evening crowd was just now emerging, glancing my way, nodding at us as if we were one with them. In my finery, and in Pierre’s carriage, I felt like an actress on a perfectly set stage. Pierre’s words echoed through my mind. Could I ever truly be at ease in society? Or would I forever feel like a fraud, a girl playing dress-up?
And what did I care? I was me.
It was Pierre who made me care. My mind went over our conversation, and it warmed me to think that he had so clearly seen the sorrow in my eyes, that he cared enough to draw it out of me.
The driver took the road that followed the Seine, and I stared at the water glimmering with the reflections of streetlamps and buildings. I tried to think through all that had transpired through the afternoon and eve. From those last moments with Pierre back to the near accident at the Eiffel Tower.
My mind was swirling, and I needed some time to let the events settle in my heart. No matter what kind of cad Hugh was, he was a part of us, our group. And none of us wanted to see him dead. But today, we’d come perilously close to watching him fall to his death.
I shivered, thinking of seeing him go over the rail.
“Avez-vous froid, mademoiselle?” The driver held up a wool lap blanket, his eyebrows lifted.
“He wonders if you are cold,” Antonio translated.
But I wasn’t. It was a beautiful evening, the heat of the afternoon still lingering, radiating up from the cobblestones and bricks as darkness set in. “Non, merci,” I said with a grateful smile and a shake of my head. Pierre’s servants were terribly attentive. If I stayed much longer, I’d become nothing but a spoiled, fat brat of a girl, I was sure of it. No better than my sisters. But I couldn’t deny the flicker of desire it lit within me—the thought of nevermore having to strive for anything. That it all might be simply provided…
And yet that didn’t set well either. You can take the Montana farm girl off the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the girl, I thought. I considered my long years of chores from sunup to sundown. And then I considered Mr. Kensington and what he did to reach his goals. No, the life of luxury was in neither my blood nor my upbringing. I let a small smile curl the corners of my lips. This was an adventure, a grand adventure, to be sure. I was eager to see the coming days and weeks unfold.
But it clearly felt as but a chapter in my life story. Not the entire book.
What might occupy the evening for me? Perhaps a turn around Pierre’s beautiful gardens and fountains. I bade Antonio good evening but then vacillated at the front foyer for a good while. The butler frowned at me in confusion before I finally settled on the idea of donning a comfortable, threadbare nightgown stashed at the bottom of my trunk and curling up with a book.
I was on my way up the curving staircase when I met Will, who was coming down.
“Will,” I said when he didn’t seem to notice me.
“Oh! Cora. Sorry. I was just on my way out.”
“I see that,” I said wryly. He’d almost walked right over me. “Where are you off to?”
He studied me a moment and then checked his pocket watch. “If I can make it, a Compline service at a church in the city. Figured I needed something to calm me if I am to sleep tonight.”
“An excellent idea,” I said, hesitating as an idea took hold in my mind. “Might I join you?”
He paused, and I sensed he had really wanted to go alone. But I waited him out, growing surer by the second that attending an evening prayer service might bring me just the measure of peace that I needed.
“If you’d like,” he finally said politely.
“Wonderful. I’ll change quickly and meet you outside?”
He nodded once, and we passed on the stairs. But his manne
r was polite, distant. There was none of the heat that I’d felt between us on the ship.
I puzzled over the memory as I pulled the feather from my hair and changed. Had I imagined the whole thing? His eyes bright with interest. The pause when he nearly fell on top of me. Our lips, so near. But ever since, it was as if he had shut that door, never looking back.
Which was all right by me, I thought, pinning a massive hat to my head with one eight-inch pin and then another. The hat matched a light-blue jacket and skirt that would be warm enough for evening temperatures and demure enough for a church service. My thoughts returned to Will. I had enough to contend with, considering Pierre. And my goal was to complete the tour and get back to Normal School, not to get romantically involved. I didn’t belong with any of these people. Any of them.
Right? I silently asked myself, staring into the mirror.
But my reflection kept me spellbound for a moment. I looked like one of them.
I thought back to the people in the city, how they’d nodded in my direction, accepting me.
Pierre, unperturbed by my story of loss and lack of resources.
As I stared into my own reflection, I searched for the girl beneath. The farm girl I could not escape—nor wished to. And for the moment, I longed for my old nightgown that smelled of home—of hay and dirt and harsh lye soap with the hint of lemon peel Mama threw in. I thought of pulling the heavy hat from my head and braiding my long hair, feeling the comforting rope of it in my hand.
The grandfather clock in the hallway began to toll, and I awakened from my reverie. I’d committed to Will and had probably made him late by now. It would be most rude to back out.
I hurried down the hall and the stairs again, wondering if Will would be agitated over my tardiness. He didn’t seem in the mood to accommodate any inconveniences. The somber butler opened the massive front door for me, nodding as I passed, probably pleased that I wasn’t still tarrying in his foyer. Outside waited a small buggy and one horse.
Will gave me a smile when my eyes met his, no doubt reading the surprise I felt. Until tonight, we’d ridden only in motor carriages as a party. He opened the short door and held out his hand to assist me up.
“I wasn’t in the mood for a loud motor carriage this evening,” he murmured in explanation.
“That’s quite all right,” I said, settling my long skirts. “Neither am I.” Two horse-drawn carriage rides in one evening… I found it soothing. A reminder of my not-so-distant past.
“Good,” he said, shutting the door and going around. He climbed in, sitting beside me, and lifted the reins. Without another word, we set off at a quick pace and indeed said little most of the way into Paris. He seemed deep in thought, and I was enjoying the relative quiet, the lack of demands on me, as much as I had my ride aboard Pierre’s elaborate boat at Versailles. I closed my eyes and listened to the clop, clop, clop of the horse’s hooves, the scrape of the wheels as they turned on their well-oiled axles, the sound as we clambered over the ancient cobblestones.
Gradually, the houses became smaller and closer together, the smells now more of city and sewage than of grass and sweet hay. Traffic increased—mostly buggies and wagons, with the occasional motor carriage. Will turned the buggy one way and then the next with confidence until we reached a fine section of the city where beautiful buildings climbed four stories high—most with ironwork in front of tiny corner gardens on the fourth floor.
“One of the better neighborhoods,” he said, gesturing around when he noted my interest.
“You have spent a great deal of time in Paris,” I stated.
He glanced over at me in surprise, then back to the road. “A good amount, yes. It was here that I came to join my uncle when I was but a boy.”
“A boy?” I asked in surprise. “Your parents let you go so early?”
“My parents had little choice,” he said gently. “They were dead.”
I lost my breath for a moment and gradually had the courage to look up at him, studying his fine profile. “I’m sorry, Will. I had no right to pry.”
“That isn’t prying,” he said, meeting my gaze for a second. “That’s merely friendly conversation.”
Curious now, I dared, “They died at the same time? Together?”
He nodded and paused a moment. “It was an accident. We were living outside of Minneapolis, and driving home one night, it was raining like I’d never seen. We were halfway across a creek—one we’d crossed without incident on other rainy nights—before my dad knew we were in trouble. It was deeper than before. And in seconds, water was coming into the carriage, then pushing us over. The horse tried to run, which made it worse…”
I held my breath, waiting for him to continue.
“My dad fished me out of the backseat and set me on top of the buggy, but my mom had disappeared in the stream. He told me to stay where I was while he went after her. I never saw him again. I never saw either of them again.”
I paused. “How old were you?”
“Eight. Stayed there all night on the side of that buggy, in the rain, with our dead horse, my parents gone. I wanted to jump in, die with them.” He shook his head. “I was so scared. So…bereft.”
“Eight,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry, Will.”
He pulled up, and I saw with some surprise that we’d reached the cathedral. He was staring at me—I could feel the warmth of his gaze—and abruptly, I realized that I’d wound my hand around the crook of his arm as he’d been speaking, as if to encourage him, support him. I swiftly pulled it away, but he gently took it again and looked into my eyes, giving me a tender smile. It was the smile of someone who understood the searing pain of loss, the dull ache of grief.
And in that moment, I felt more known and understood than I had in many months. Even more than I had with Pierre over supper. “I am grateful for your friendship, Will.”
He lifted his chin, just a bit, and his warm eyes assessed me. “And I am grateful for yours, Cora.”
The bells in the tower tolled, a sound that reminded me of the grandfather clock in the chateau, except a thousand times richer. These bells seemed to penetrate my rib cage and ring right inside me. But still we sat there, staring at each other. A shiver ran down my back, the memory of our moment on the boat returning, again and again, with each toll of the bell. I shifted, feeling somewhat awkward. “Shall we go inside?”
He nodded slowly and slipped his hand from mine, going around the buggy to open the door and help me step down. I was careful not to look into his eyes again. Did I not have enough to deal with in allowing Pierre’s advances? Getting involved with Will would be far more complicated—especially since we were to be together for weeks upon weeks yet. No, it was best we remain friends and nothing more.
He did not offer me his arm again, electing to walk beside me, hands folded behind his back. We joined a queue of people hustling to make their way inside—mostly older women and a few men, bent over and shuffling past the crooked-nosed priest, who was chagrined at our late entry.
We slipped inside one of the last pews, which were marred by a hundred years or more of use. But the wood held a rich brown patina, burnished by countless skirts brushing by, oiled with the touch of a thousand hands. The sanctuary smelled of beeswax, and I spied massive, dripping candles on iron fixtures, all the way down either side. I glanced up and sucked in my breath, loving the colors in the grand old stained-glass windows.
The cathedral walls were perhaps seventy-five feet high, built in the Gothic style. There were twenty sweeping arches lending their support all the way down to the front. There, a massive altar rose atop a cascading series of steps, and behind it was a gold-inlaid altarpiece, a Renaissance-era painting of the Madonna and Christ child inside. Priests in black robes processed down the aisle, sending a tangy trail of incense heavenward behind them.
The priests began their liturgy, the congregation answering by memory or consulting small prayer books. Will and I only sat there, absorbing the cadence of call-a
nd-response as the soothing balm I knew we both sought. Then came a choir of young boys, all about six to ten years old, dressed in red-and-white robes, marching forward and singing an ancient hymn in Latin a cappella. The priest at the front sang a lead in Latin, and the boys responded, gathering behind him.
Will bent and whispered in my ear. “Do you know Latin?”
I shook my head.
“Would you care for me to translate?”
There was no judgment in his tone, only warmth. “Very much,” I whispered back.
He wrapped his arm around the back of the pew, behind me, so he could edge closer. I felt the tinge of blush at my cheeks, wondering what the old women around us would think. But I closed my eyes, preferring to concentrate on the gentle, low timbre of Will’s voice, the comforting warmth of his presence beside me. I was so dreadfully weary of worrying over what people thought.
“When I called out, He heard me, the God of righteousness,” Will said, pausing to listen to the next phrase. “When I was in trouble, You gave me freedom: now, take pity on me and listen to my prayer.”
The priest’s voice droned on in Latin, but all I could hear was Will’s voice, strong, true, steady. “Sons of men, how long will your hearts be heavy? Why do you seek after vain things? Why do you run after illusions? Know that the Lord has done marvelous things for those He has chosen. When I call upon the Lord, He will hear me.”
My thoughts immediately went to my traveling companions, the Kensingtons and Morgans. But then I was filled with guilt. Was it I who was running after illusions? After vain things? Or was I resisting the marvelous gifts that God had given me?
“Be vigorous, but do not sin,” Will went on. “Speak in the silence of your heart; in your bed, be at rest. Offer righteousness as a sacrifice, and put your trust in the Lord. Many are saying, Who will give us good things? Let Your face shine on us, Lord, let the light of Your face be a sign. You have given me a greater joy than others receive from abundance of wheat and of wine. In peace shall I sleep, Lord, in peace shall I rest: firm in the hope You have given me.”
Glamorous Illusions Page 28
