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Chapter 13
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Jonathan stepped through the main doors of the Sorbonne and out into the bright afternoon sunshine. Slowly he descended the steps past students in their nearly uniform dress of dark-blue trousers and black jackets, toward the streets filled with low-income workers, aspiring artists and writers, and elegant gentlemen in plaid trousers and beautifully embroidered waistcoats as they sauntered along the boulevards with carefree distinction.
The political climate throughout Europe was becoming increasingly unsettled. There were grave economic problems in his own country as well as on the Continent. Paris itself was a mass of unrest—talk of revolution and reform during both private and public meetings between the Legitimists, Radicals, Republicans; between peasants and artisans; and of course among those of the middle class. Tensions continued to mount in the city, which was the sole reason Jonathan had found them lodgings outside of it, much to Natalie's irritation, a woman who adored the excitement of it at any time.
His first stop had been to the office of the French National Guard, which had turned up little information regarding Paul Simard and his family. The Guard had its own degree of problems, having been neglected by Louis Philippe for seven full years now. Louis Philippe was king of the French—the Citizen King—not king of France, and as a man he loathed conflict to the point of ignoring those who would protect his throne should unrest grow to actual rebellion. Jonathan didn't know if this was good or bad. Indeed, he really had no opinion on the matter, except to understand how such insistence on peace at any cost could undermine the man's power in a country that reveled in demonstrations and reform. Louis Philippe had allies in England, of course, as their own Queen Victoria approved of him in general, if one could ignore the scandal only last year when he insisted on the marriage of his son to the sister of the queen of Spain, and she had once welcomed him to Windsor, bestowing on him the Order of the Garter. Now there were scandals anew of a domestic nature, regarding France's electoral mismanagement and the bribery of Louis Philippe's minister of war.
Things were progressing toward a negative end. It could be felt in the air. The French people of nearly all classes were restless, and the opposition was beginning to organize, each group espousing its individual cause through angry speeches given during banquets devoted to that purpose, arranged by various political groups. Sir Guy had been correct. The current king was losing the battle, and in Jonathan's opinion it would only be a matter of time before civil unrest turned to violence and Louis Philippe stepped down to certain exile or was assassinated by those with influence like Henri Lemire.
Jonathan stood on the crowded street corner, dressed in the same business attire he wore the day he'd met with Madeleine, only mildly uncomfortable in the mid-July heat. Luck had been with them on their rather uneventful journey to the capital city, as the last week had remained overcast and unusually cool for the middle of summer, the sun making its first appearance in days just two hours ago.
He watched the movement on the city street for several minutes, only vaguely aware of the congestion of people, the shouting and traffic noise, of the smell of unwashed bodies and horse manure commingling with those from street vendor carts overflowing with roasted chicken and lamb, baked breads, and freshly picked flowers.
Jonathan had to admit he was now deeply troubled—not so much by what he'd learned during his thirty minutes in the university, which was disturbing enough, but by his conscience. Three days of investigation in Paris had brought him little word on Robert Simard. He had started at the National Guard, hoping to gain information about the man's father as a former officer, only to learn almost nothing except that his son, Robert, had once been a professor of letters at the Sorbonne. And so he had journeyed there with high hopes this afternoon, the soonest he was able to secure an appointment with the chair, but his hopes had consequently been cut to pieces when he learned Robert Simard had been living quite happily as a well-respected teacher, devoted husband, and loving father of six in Switzerland for the last five years. This, then, could only mean one of two things: Natalie was mistaken about the love letters—where or who they were coming from—or she had lied to him.
Jonathan thrust his hands in his pockets, turned, and slowly began to walk the street—south, he thought, but he wasn't really paying attention. He would need to hire transportation back to the inn where they were staying now, and that was several miles out of the city, but first he wanted to think.
The last few days with Natalie had been difficult for him. His feelings for her were confusing, and, if he considered them honestly, starting to run very deep. Yet he was unsure of the reason for this, or what exactly it would mean for his future. Their attraction to each other only seemed to intensify by the hour, and Jonathan was fairly certain this would not be quenched by a simple bedding. He'd all but concluded they would be lovers, and he also knew that deep inside of her she realized this as well, regardless of whether she chose to acknowledge it.
Yet what tore at his gut was knowing just how adamantly opposed she was to even the thought of being married to him. Her convictions were involved, and to Jonathan's growing concern, he was starting to think that even if he seduced her, which he was nearly convinced he could do, she would still not consent to becoming his wife. He could force the issue, but that would likely only produce an irreparable rift between them, and from that she would never learn to trust him, nor to love him as a man. She liked him, enjoyed him, desired him passionately, but that was as far as she allowed her feelings to go. He now had to admit it would please him tremendously if Natalie actually fell in love with him, and he assumed he felt that way because she was the first woman he'd ever known who was so thoroughly opposed to it. If she loved him, and admitted it to herself, she would probably give in and marry him, which was the outcome he desired. But he didn't know how to argue her stubbornness, and her firm assumption that he would ultimately hurt her. She didn't trust him with her feelings, and he had no idea what to do about that.
Jonathan groaned uncomfortably, stopping in mid-stride, which almost caused a rotund woman with a child in each hand to collide with him, though he hardly noticed this as he rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, deep in thought.
It all would have been so simple if Robert Simard still lived in Paris and had been blackmailing her mother as Natalie had concluded. The letters themselves would have been easy to steal. What bothered him most about this, however, was the idea that she might have fabricated the entire story. But for what purpose? To get him to take her to Paris? Even if she had political ties and a desire to see the fall of the current king, why would she need to be here amid the unrest to witness it directly? Why would she resort to prevarication and bribery when he would so soon discover the story of her mother's adulterous affair to be untrue? She wasn't dim-witted, and just the idea of her going to such trouble seemed far-fetched, even ridiculous to him.
No, Jonathan was certain, after careful consideration, that she had told him the truth as she believed it. And she hadn't invented the tender display of emotion that had so sharply affected him their last night in Marseilles. She was pained by the entire matter, of that he was sure, and even without her own attempt at deception and blackmail he would have helped her. The necklace she now kept hidden in the bottom of a trunk was meaningless to him. It was her innocence, her respect and admiration, her soul that he prized.
So, standing in the middle of a busy sidewalk in the center of Paris, the late sun gradually falling behind tall buildings, the sounds and smells of clopping horses and bustling pedestrians filling the air, Jonathan found himself despondent, feeling helplessly alone, and unsure what to do next. Mostly, he realized, he was consumed with the discomfiting notion that he would soon have to inform Natalie that he had failed her. That's where the weight of his conscience kicked in.
He had no idea what to tell her. Robert Simard was a married teacher living in Switzerland, making a decent living and raisin
g a family. The chance that he was the blackmailer was remote. The man would have very little to gain and much to lose if he were discovered or arrested. That meant someone else had the letters, or said he did, and was using Robert Simard's name precisely because he knew the Frenchman was living quietly in another country. This scenario made far more sense. But who? He would likely never discover this. The only way he could possibly gain more information would be to talk to Natalie's mother himself, and he absolutely dreaded that idea. It was also possible this was all contained in England, that someone unknown to Natalie's mother had learned of the affair—and the subsequent correspondence—and was blackmailing her from the comfort of his or her quaint English parlor. But again, there were too many questions, not enough leads, and nothing he could do in Paris without more details.
Jonathan vacantly stared down the street, stalling. Natalie awaited him, hopeful that his day in the city would prove to be productive, and she would be crushed to learn he didn't have the letters in his possession. What unsettled him most, though, was the concern that when she learned he had nothing to give her, she would become angered at his incompetence, consider him a liar, or worse a fool, pack her bags, and return to England without him. He had enough of an ego to realize he wouldn't take that chance. In France he was essentially in charge of her; she was dependent upon him. In England, if she wasn't his wife, she could refuse to see him altogether, and that would be the end of everything.
His only other option, and of course the delicious, gratifying one, would be purposely to deceive her, then take her virginity as she'd offered him in Marseilles. But Jonathan, even reflecting on his sometimes unscrupulous past, had never been so devious as to take a woman's innocence with an outright lie. He now faced a huge moral decision—a test of his character as a man. Yes, he would marry her. Her reputation would remain intact. That was not the issue. But could he mislead her so blatantly that she willingly gave herself to him in exchange for a falsehood? He didn't know, but he didn't think he could. And yet the alternative was to lose her.
Jonathan turned around and started retracing his steps. A gust of wind picked up to blow old newspaper and leaves from the street against his legs. It was getting late. She would be waiting for him, and he would need to make his decision on the ride to the inn.
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Chapter 14
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Natalie hated waiting for anything. It made her feel nervous and agitated, and when she had to wait for something as important as the love letters that would keep her father from ever having to succumb to a lifetime of shame and social pity, she could hardly sit still. Jonathan had told her flatly that he wouldn't pursue this delicate issue if she insisted on going to the city with him, and she'd relented because, when put like that, she had no choice. But now, as she sat on a cushioned wrought-iron bench in the plush rose garden behind the Auberge de la Cascade, she felt growing aggravation. It was already dusk, and he had yet to return with news. He was the most exasperating man she'd ever known, and when she didn't impulsively want to wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him desperately, she wanted to strangle him. Like right now.
Leaning back completely against the soft yellow cushion, Natalie closed her eyes, placed her hands in her lap, tapped her fingers together, and tried to think of something else.
She had no idea why the owners called this the Inn of the Waterfall. There wasn't one anywhere near it. It was, though, a perfectly enchanting place to stay, being fairly isolated in a country meadow, surrounded by lush, well-tended gardens containing mostly roses but also other seemingly exotic vegetation—flowers and plants she'd never seen before. They weren't all that far from the city, but one would never know it to wake up to the sound of birdsong and the scent of moist roses drifting in through open windows.
The two-story inn had only six sleeping rooms besides the kitchen, dining room, and a centralized salon, which was decorated in burgundy and various shades of green. Their own room, overlooking the rose garden in back, was delicately feminine in design, trimmed in plum, teal, and soft yellows, and contained only a small, comfortable bed, two reading chairs, a bedside table, and a fireplace. They'd been staying there for days now, and although she found it peaceful and lovely to look at, Natalie was becoming quite bored. Jonathan had deduced this readily enough, and had this morning mentioned that he'd attempt to confiscate the letters today if Robert Simard could be found. Then they could at last move on. But to what?
The thought of returning home depressed her. For the last few weeks she'd been living a sort of fairytale existence. She adored France, its people and relaxed culture. And being there with such an enjoyable escort made it all the more delightful. That was the sad part, really. The adventure had been thrilling, but it wouldn't have been nearly so if she'd come with anyone other than Jonathan. Returning home, mission completed, with the knowledge that she would no longer be spending her days in his presence, filled her with an unusual sense of regret and an agitation of its own kind.
She was growing to care too deeply for him. She realized this now but hadn't the vaguest notion of what to do about it—other than get away from him, which was impractical while they remained on the Continent. If she acted on her feelings, they would only cause her pain in the end. Jonathan was a social charmer, a man who flirted unconditionally and took mistresses at his leisure. He could never be faithful to one woman, and that would be the only way she'd have him. She'd tried to make that clear in Marseilles, stating her convictions reasonably and without pretense.
She refused to be his lover and had certainly said as much, but naturally, abiding by his reputation and character, he'd promptly touched her on an intimate part of her body, bringing all the hunger she felt within up front for exposure to his ego. He wanted her physically, and even now, shivering inside at the thought of unknown pleasures, she realized she wanted him, too, and that's what she had to fight. She was losing her heart to him already—which made her terribly mad at herself—and that was enough. She'd get over the romantic dreams eventually. But if she gave him her body she would lose a part of herself forever.
Natalie slipped off her shoes and pulled her bare feet up and under her gown, hugging her knees against her chest, trying to push the indecent thoughts from her mind. She'd taken a long bath that afternoon—for lack of something better to do, really. She decided that because they were still in the country, she would dress casually, donning a simple, white silk blouse and a rose-colored muslin skirt without stays. She'd also decided to forgo plaits and ribbons, instead wearing her hair down to dry in the warm, light evening breeze. Her mother would faint dead if she had even the slightest idea of where she was right now, what she wore—or didn't wear as in the case of a corset and stockings—that her unruly curls were hanging loosely down her back, in the open air where anyone could see. Fashionable English ladies wore binding layers to cover them nearly head to foot, even for a casual stroll through the park on the hottest of summer days. This was stupid and unnecessary, in her opinion, but then her opinions never had the least effect on her mother. She would call it loose; Natalie called it freedom.
Smiling in satisfaction, she turned her face to the last of the setting sun. She could do what she wanted here, and was utterly contented to know Jonathan didn't care as many gentlemen would. He was refined though not at all stuffy, proper yet playful, concerned for her safety yet he allowed her the relative freedom to do as she liked. He was engaging and exciting and smart, and one of the closest friends she'd ever had, accepting her exactly as she was, applying no conditions. With any hope at all, he'd want to remain her friend for years to come.
It would, of course, be sad to leave the comfort of his daily presence, and she had to concede she had unusually mixed feelings about how their relationship would continue once he married, which, oddly enough, he seemed desirous of doing suddenly. She also had a little trouble envisioning him kissing another woman with the same intensity with which he kissed her, although she tried not to think a
bout that. She adored his kisses herself, and in truth would miss those intimate moments most of all.
Natalie sighed and gradually opened her eyes to a vivid floral array of all colors, and striking gray-blue eyes as they gazed down at her from only three feet away.
She blinked, somewhat startled to see his handsome form towering over her, hands on hips, features unreadable. Immediately she succumbed to embarrassment, as if he were intruding on her very private thoughts. Knowing he witnessed the blush in her cheeks but attempting to ignore it herself, she smiled into his eyes. "I didn't hear you."
His brows rose. "Obviously."
When he added nothing, she carefully asked, "How long have you been standing there?"
"What exactly were you thinking?"
The blunt question intimidated her a little, but she refused to let him see it. And because she didn't want him to know she thought about almost nothing but him, which was precisely what he was thinking, she turned it around to her advantage.
"I was thinking about you, Jonathan," she admitted, eyes large, expression shining with exaggerated innocence. "I was thinking how enjoyable our time has been together in France, how romantic you are, especially when choosing lodgings, how I shall miss the tender kisses between us once we return to England." She paused, then smiled again mischievously. "And other things."
That answer thoroughly confused him. He had no idea whether to believe her, which was naturally what she wanted. For seconds he just looked at her, considering the truth behind her words.
"Other things? What more could there be?"
She lifted her shoulders negligibly. "Trivialities."
"Ahh…" He strode to the bench with that evasion, turned and sat heavily beside her, blocking what remained of the sun with his large body as he leaned forward, feet spread apart, elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of him. "Were you really thinking of kissing me?"
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