Yet with Chris, there always seemed to be fun. Dancing, garden mazes, the races, even a dance became a merry game with him, despite when they quarrelled. He made her laugh as no one else could, made her forget the rest of the world. With him, everything looked different, brighter, lighter. He was like Paris itself. Always changing, always alluring.
But like Paris, there were shadows lurking behind. Secrets.
Emily shook her head. She didn’t understand Chris, yet she longed to know what he was hiding from everyone. Probably she would never even have an idea. She knew what it was to hide behind a mask, how hard it was to lower it once it was fixed in place. How hard it became to even know where the mask ended and real life began.
If he was in some kind of trouble—how she wished she could help him. Yet she knew him well enough to be sure he never would let her. He had Blakely pride, and stubbornness, just like Will. Chris just hid it behind that bright laughter.
Emily sighed, and poured out another cup of tea. She saw that letter left on the tray. Eagerly, she broke the seal and scanned the short message.
Sweetest Em,
I am sorry we quarrelled. It was much too lovely a day for any cross words! Friends still?
Let me make it up to you. Come out with me to the Moulin de la Galette tonight. We can have some of that elderflower liquor and a dance or two.
Send me word, I hope you will come.
Your repentant Chris
Emily bit her lip to keep from smiling like a fool. She knew she should be mad at him still, following her out of the city like that. Yet it seemed like a sign. She had just been thinking she needed more fun,and here was Chris offering it up. She had heard so much about the Moulin de la Galette, the famous pleasure garden in Montmartre, haunt of scandalous artists and can-can dancers. She had secretly been longing to see it.
She knew she shouldn’t go. It would not be sensible at all. But she very much feared—no, she knew—that she could not stay away.
* * *
‘It’s so astonishing,’ Emily whispered, holding tightly on to Chris’s arm as he led her through the gates of the Moulin de la Galette. The moon hung low over the windmill in the background, sparkling along with the fairy lights strung through the trees and around the crowded dance floor. Swarms of people gathered there, waltzing, lounging on the benches as they chatted together, waiting at the bar for their drinks, as music swirled and dipped all around them. The pleasure garden was like a painting come to vivid, noisy, crowded life.
Paris was very different at night, she realised as they dived into the sea of people. Mysterious even as it was noisily merry, shadows and light twined together. The people were different, too, free and full of laughter. It was amazing.
She had left behind her Worth gowns and dressed as she knew the Parisian shop girls did on their free evenings, in a slate-blue skirt and jacket piped in red, with a red scarf tied at her neck and a small, straw boater pinned to her upswept hair. She felt so light, so free—like a different person. Like a real Parisian, even.
She smiled up at Chris in a burst of excitement. He, too, looked very different than he had before. Casual, tousled, yet still so maddeningly elegant in his effortless charm. Of all the many aspects of Chris, she rather liked this one the best. It made something flutter with nervousness inside her just to look at him, so golden and laughing and free in the lantern-light.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked.
‘I love it. What a grand idea to visit! I’ve never been here before.’
‘Never?’
Emily studied the couples swirling around the dance floor, much closer than they would ever be in a ballroom, leaning against each other in laughter. ‘It’s not the sort of place a lady can just wander into, is it?’
‘Especially if that lady is always busy working,’ he teased.
Emily laughed. ‘You sound just like Mary.’
‘Mary?’
‘My maid. She’s been with me since I was tiny, so she is very outspoken. She thinks I am wasting Paris by never having any fun.’
‘Mary sounds like a very wise person. You can assure her that I am here to help correct the matter.’ He tossed a coin to one of the barmaids and took two glasses of bright yellow liquid. ‘Here, try this for a start.’
Emily took a tentative sip and shivered with delight at the sweet-sharp taste of it on her tongue. ‘It’s like—like liquid sunshine!’ She remembered when Lady Smythe-Tomas gave her something very similar and she thought if that was what Parisians drank all the time, she would never want to leave.
Chris threw back his head and laughed, and he, too, seemed like sunshine in that morning. Warm, alluring, full of life. Life Emily craved. ‘Why, Em, that’s quite poetic. I knew you would like St-Germain.’
She drained the small glass. ‘May I have another?’
He shook his head doubtfully. ‘Maybe in a minute. They’re surprisingly strong, as I learned from hard experience.’
Emily could feel what he meant. She suddenly seemed so warm, so tingling, so longing to laugh. ‘Then let’s dance!’
‘Now that I can definitely do.’ Chris swept her into his arms and swung her out among the press of the other dancers. The music, with accordions and violins, seemed to reach deep down into her with its swaying rhythm.
Emily laughed. It was like flying through the air yet held safely in his arms. He felt so strong, twirling her amid the lights and the stars.
The music grew and grew, winding ever higher as everyone danced faster and faster, and Emily couldn’t stop giggling with delight. At last it all crashed down and the music ended with a great crescendo. Laughing, the dancers moved towards the tables and bars, and Chris offered his arm to lead Emily towards a seat.
‘Is that what you do so secretly with your time, Chris?’ she teased. ‘Dance under the stars?’
‘Of course. All the time. Drink, and dance, and eat lobster bisque!’ He gestured for another glass of St-Germain.
Emily rested her chin on her palm, feeling very giddy herself, as if for once she was part of the merriment around her. As if Chris’s light-heartedness became hers, just for a little while. ‘No, I don’t think I actually believe that. You would be all fat and dissipated, with a red nose just like Lord Troxell’s.’
Chris laughed, but before he glanced away Emily glimpsed a serious expression in his eyes. ‘I look very dissipated on the inside, I’m sure. One day it will all come out and lovely ladies like you will never want to be seen with me. I’ll be reduced to sitting around the club, bragging about all the conquests I once had. Remembering brighter days.’
Emily sighed. ‘At least you will have wonderful memories of all the fun you had when you made legions of conquests, right?’
He gave her a puzzled frown. ‘It was hardly as merry as all that.’
‘At least you live,’ she said wistfully.
‘Don’t you, Em?’ he said, squeezing her hand.
‘I just work, really. Everyone is right about that.’
‘I thought you enjoyed your work.’
‘Oh, I do! I love making a difference. Thinking through problems, finding solutions. I’m fortunate to have that in my life, I would go mad sitting at home sewing a fine seam. But maybe, just sometimes, there is more to life. Like music! And dancing. And St-Germain in pretty glasses. And moonlight!’ She gestured to the moon, silver and shimmering, rising above the trees that ringed the dance floor.
‘Maybe we should take advantage of all that, then. Music and moonlight. Just so you have some memories of Paris. Shall we dance again?’ He stood and held out his hand to her.
Emily studied his face, the sharp, elegant angles of it, in the lantern-light, and she suddenly felt such a deep, sad spasm of longing. ‘Yes. I think we should.’
She took his hand and held on to him tightly as he swept her into the dreamlike flow of a wal
tz. The other dancers carried them along like waves and all she had to do was let them buffet her about, cresting and falling. She rested her cheek against Chris’s chest, feeling the rough wool of his coat on her skin, hearing the beat of his heart and the swell of the music blending inside of her. It was all she knew; Chris was all she could hold on to as the world shifted under the bright moon.
Usually her life moved so quickly, so full of noise and colour and busy tasks, that she had no time to stop and just feel. Now the sensation of time pausing was almost overwhelming. She had time to smell the warm air, filled with the flowery scent of the drinks, Chris’s clean, citrus cologne, to hear the music and the laughter of people who were forgetting the outside world just as she was. She almost sobbed with the raw rush of longing.
Chris seemed to sense how she felt, even with no words. His arms tightened around her and he kissed her hair. They were just together in that moment, bound by so much. By Paris and music, and the sense that so much lay just beyond their grasp.
The music ended and suddenly time rushed forward again. Emily blinked hard and made herself smile brightly before she dared to step back and look into his eyes. She knew she couldn’t allow herself to be so very vulnerable.
‘That was lovely,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Chris.’
He just nodded, and for an instant he didn’t look like Chris at all. He looked like someone so much older, sadder. ‘Shall we sit down for a moment?’ he said hoarsely. ‘Maybe have another sip of St-Germain?’
Emily laughed. ‘Sitting down sounds good, though I think I should just have a plain lemonade. I feel rather dizzy.’
He smiled and the old Chris was back again. She wondered if she had imagined anything different. ‘Quite right.’ He took her arm and led her back to one of the tables set up under the light-strewn trees. Another group was nearby, laughing loudly, bringing the world back into close focus.
Emily watched Chris disappear through the crowd back towards one of the bars, his hair shimmering in the lights like rare, ancient gold, and only then did she let out her breath in a great whoosh. Only then could she start to be her non-fanciful, sensible self. When he was near, she felt like a different person entirely. One who could not trust herself.
‘Emily Fortescue? Whatever are you doing here?’
Startled, she turned to see James Hertford standing behind her. She wondered how he managed to appear seemingly everywhere in Paris. But he was a reminder of real life.
‘Much the same as you, I would think, Mr Hertford,’ she answered. ‘Dancing! You seem to be enjoying Paris.’
‘Are you here alone, Miss Fortescue?’
‘I am not quite so daring as all that,’ Emily said. ‘I...’
‘She is here with me,’ Chris said, emerging from the crowd with glasses of frothy lemonade in hand. He watched Hertford with a suspicious narrowing of his bright blue eyes.
James looked startled. ‘Blakely. I wasn’t aware you and Miss Fortescue were so acquainted.’
‘His brother is my best friend’s husband, of course,’ Emily said, feeling suddenly a bit bewildered. She wished she knew what was going on with James Hertford and with Chris.
James glanced between her and Chris, as if trying to read something himself. ‘If you require an escort here in Paris...’
‘I have that quite in hand, Hertford, thank you,’ Chris said brusquely. He took Emily’s hand and drew her close, as if to show off their courtship to everyone.
‘Certainly,’ James answered. He gave Emily a bow, a quick smile. ‘Perhaps I may call on you, while we are both in Paris?’
‘Thank you,’ Emily said. ‘I am the Hotel d’Or.’
James bowed once more and hurried away. Two ladies approached him, laughing up at him, and they vanished into the throng.
Chris handed Emily one of the glasses and sat down beside her, quiet. His expression was remote, unreadable. Different from the usual Chris.
‘How do you know Mr Hertford?’ she asked.
‘From our club,’ Chris answered shortly.
He didn’t seem as if he would say more. He stared at the dancers, his thoughts seemingly far away, and Emily sighed and watched them, too. The kaleidoscope twirl of colours and noise, which she had felt a part of only moments before, now seemed terribly distant. She sipped at her tart drink and watched the swirl of ruffled skirts. The night suddenly seemed dimmed, tired.
‘Shall I take you home, Em?’ Chris asked. ‘I hadn’t realised how late it was.’
Neither had she. For just a little while, she hadn’t noticed anything at all but how she felt. She couldn’t let herself be so distracted. ‘I am rather tired, thank you.’
When she finished her drink, he offered her his arm and she took it to let him lead her past the gates of the pleasure garden and into the silent night beyond. They made their way down the steep streets of Montmartre, the city spread out below them like a sparkling carpet. They walked in silence, as if they were each wrapped tightly in their own thoughts, making their way into the quiet neighbourhoods beyond.
‘There’s my lodgings,’ he said, gesturing to a building on a street corner. Tall and narrow, grey stone, the windows dark, it looked quiet and respectable. ‘Not as grand as your hotel, I’m sure.’
‘It looks quite nice and peaceful,’ she answered honestly. She was rather surprised he didn’t stay in a loud, bright, crowded hotel, somewhere more sparkling, more—temporary. But she had learned Chris was always changing, always surprising. ‘I do sometimes wonder what it would be like to have one’s own room in Paris, not a hotel where one dare not move anything and the staff is always following people about asking to fetch things. Not that everyone at the Hotel d’Or isn’t quite lovely, of course. It just doesn’t feel—homely.’
‘The concierge here is not lovely at all, I’m afraid,’ Chris said with a laugh and just like that his serious, silent self was gone, vanished behind the brightly painted mask. ‘She is always lurking in the shadows, waiting to see if she can catch me with a lady and then yell at me about the rules of the house.’
‘I am sure you are much too wily for her, as you are for everyone else.’ Emily laughed, trying to picture a concierge leaping out to shout at her tenants. She ignored the pang that the image of Chris with various ladies tiptoeing past the office gave her. Had he even been there with the glamorous Lady Smythe-Tomas? ‘Let’s try it, shall we?’
Chris looked startled. ‘What do you mean?’
Emily felt suddenly terribly daring again, as if the fun of the Moulin de la Galette was still there inside of her. ‘Let’s see if we can sneak past her. I am quite sure I could. I was very good at bringing in contraband chocolates at Miss Grantley’s, I was never caught.’
‘Em...’ he said cautiously, and she rather liked being the daring one for once. She grabbed his hand and drew him across the street. Laughing, he gave in, following her, and she loved the feeling of being partners in mischief.
There was no light in the concierge’s room just past the front doors and it was dim on the winding iron staircase just beyond. Chris led her to the second floor, past silent apartments, and opened the door on the landing. Hardly daring to breathe, she tiptoed past him into the apartment beyond, wondering if she stepped into the secrets of Aladdin’s cave.
She had never been in a gentleman’s bachelor home before and she was a bit disappointed at the lack of decoration, though she wasn’t really sure what they might be. Chris’s apartment was small, a corridor leading to a sitting room, the alluring peek of a bedroom beyond. The furnishings were simple, sturdy, plain, a desk, a sofa, a table and chairs, a blue rug, a window shaded by blue curtains.
Emily went many places ladies usually did not—offices, boardrooms, warehouses, but not men’s chambers. She had never wanted to go to such places before. She knew she really should be nervous, ashamed, but with Chris it was impossible to feel that way a
t all. Chris was always different from other men, from anyone else.
She peeked out the small window, expecting to see only night-dark rooftops, and gasped at the view. The lights of the city sparkled and she saw the Eiffel Tower silhouetted against the sky. ‘How ever did you find this place?’
Chris shrugged and tried to surreptitiously shove a pile of laundry under a chair. Emily pretended not to see. ‘Through a friend. I like the location, near the river, easy to get places.’
‘Near cafés and bars, too, I’m sure.’
He laughed and went to a small cabinet where there were glasses and bottles. She wondered if he entertained there often. ‘Of course.’
‘It must be the perfect place to look at this city view, and just—well, think. Be quiet for a while.’
‘I don’t do much of that.’
Emily studied him carefully as he mixed two drinks. His hair fell over his brow and he looked thoughtful, far away. Masked again. ‘You should try it some time. It can be most interesting, if you do it right.’
‘I am sure your thoughts are most interesting, Em. Mine are dull indeed.’ His voice was growing faint behind her.
‘I’m certain that is not true.’ She glimpsed a small desk against the wall in the next room, piled with papers. It looked much used, as if to point out the fact that Chris did use this room for real work. Curious, she drifted closer, glancing over some of the documents. They seemed to be letters to the government office where he worked, requests for favours, appointments.
But one letter, half-tucked in a pigeonhole, caught her eye. The handwriting was rather familiar, bold and black, and she suddenly felt a cold touch of unease. She slowly reached for it and saw that it was indeed from her own father. And it was about her.
Her father urged Chris to make their courtship real—and to not tell her about it. That he would be a ‘generous father-in-law’. Were they really plotting to marry her off without her knowledge? Had she really been so foolish?
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