Moments later, Mr. Carson appeared in the doorway of the drawing room. “A delivery for Miss Ballard.”
Of course, that could mean either Gigi or Lillian, and Lillian swept over to accept the package. “Something from Bart?” she said to no one in particular.
“What a thoughtful young man,” Blanche said in a dreamy voice.
“I’ll say,” Irene agreed.
Gigi returned to fiddling with the ribbons and the posy.
“Oh, it’s addressed to Miss Georgina Ballard,” Lillian pronounced.
Gigi lifted her head. “Who would send me something?” She couldn’t think of a single soul. “What’s the return address?”
Lillian pursed her lips and handed over the package. “You can see for yourself.”
Gigi took the package, her breath already shortened. When she saw the name of Clyde Haskins for the return address, she nearly dropped the package. “Professor Haskins,” she murmured, feeling all eyes upon her. Perhaps she should just throw it in the fire or return it without opening it. But truthfully, her curiosity was burning a hole in her chest.
Besides, her family and guests were waiting in anticipation.
She turned the package and tugged at the brown paper outer wrapping. She tried not to think how, just a short time ago, the professor had been sealing up this package for her. It didn’t weigh much, and she wondered what could weigh so little. Had she forgotten something on the train, and he’d packed it up?
Another box sat inside the first box. This one was covered in cloth and was decidedly foreign, but she couldn’t place the origin.
She glanced at Aunt Rowena, but the wrinkle in her brow indicated that she didn’t have any ideas either.
Lillian leaned forward from where she sat. “Well, hurry up, sister.”
Gigi smirked, if only to cover up the nervous staccato of her heartbeat. She lifted the lid of the second box. There, nestled in tissue paper, was a small teacup. Gigi instantly knew which shop it was from and where exactly in Vienna.
This teacup would be a pretty complement to the one she’d picked out while she and Professor Haskins had been in the toy shop. He must have purchased it on the return trip.
“A single teacup?” Aunt Rowena frowned. “Whatever can the professor mean by that?”
“Goodness,” Blanche said. “It’s quite lovely, for what it’s worth.”
“Who would send anyone a single teacup?” Irene asked.
Gigi had only told Lillian about the teacups she’d decided to start collecting. The experience now seemed like it was another lifetime ago. She lifted the delicate china from its nest and turned it to catch the light. The porcelain was fine, and the painted violet was delicate handiwork.
She loved it.
“Oh, there’s a note,” Lillian said. “Shall we burn it?”
Not many secrets were kept in this household.
“Why would anyone burn a note?” Irene asked.
“Hush,” Blanche said.
Gigi looked down at the box again. Sure enough, a card poked out from beneath the tissue paper. She plucked it out before Lillian could take possession of it.
Gigi.
She blinked. He’d written her first name on the outside. Was this card something he’d written when he’d purchased the teacup? Back when she was Gigi and he was Clyde?
If so, the words inside would have been written before . . . before Olivia had returned and staked her claim once again.
Gigi should burn it, but it seemed the suspense was too great, and her mother, sister, and aunt were all involved now. Not to mention their two guests, Irene and Blanche.
“I’ll read this one,” Gigi declared. She set the teacup back into the box, then opened the note.
The first thing she realized was that the note wasn’t written weeks ago. The professor had dated it—yesterday. The note was short, as to be expected.
Dearest Gigi,
I hoped to give you this teacup under more ideal circumstances. But as you will not see me or reply to my letters, there is no use holding on to it. If you can ever forgive me, I am yours.
Clyde
Everything inside of Gigi stilled. Whatever did he mean by “I am yours”?
“Well, what does it say, dear?” Aunt Rowena asked. “You look as if someone has stepped on your grave.”
“Should we get her some tea?” Blanche said to no one in particular.
Lillian did one better and joined Gigi on the settee. Their mother rose from her chair, her gaze narrowed and focused on Gigi.
“I don’t know.” It was true. Gigi had read the words, but she had no idea what they said.
Lillian leaned close and scanned the letter herself. Then she gasped. “Goodness. He says . . .” She glanced at Gigi.
What could she do but nod? She didn’t want to read the letter aloud, so she gave Lillian permission to do so. When Lillian finished reading, everyone was silent for a few moments.
Mother spoke first. “Maybe you shouldn’t have burned his previous letters.”
Gigi rubbed a hand over her face. “Now what?”
“Now nothing,” Aunt Rowena declared. “If his circumstances have changed, he needs to be clear about it.”
Lillian gave a sad laugh. “You mean in one of those burned letters? How many were there? Three? Four? Perhaps the explanation was in one of them.”
Gigi groaned and covered her face with both hands. She couldn’t take this back-and-forth speculating.
“Georgina, dear,” her mother said, sitting on the other side of her. “I’m sorry for your distress. We could tell the post to not let anything else through from him.”
Lillian’s hand rested on Gigi’s back. “But first we need to get to the bottom of this. I’ll go to his home myself,” she said. “I’ll ask him directly what the meaning of his letter is and what his intentions are.”
Gigi lifted her head and looked at the women in the drawing room. Irene’s owl-like eyes were wider than saucers, and Blanche was gripping the emerald necklace at her throat. Aunt Rowena’s mouth was puckered as she gripped the top of her cane.
“It’s too much,” Gigi said. “I can’t keep fighting against the tidal waves of various emotions. If he truly cared about me and wanted to court me, then a letter from Olivia would have never set him back.”
Aunt Rowena slapped her knee. “You are absolutely correct. His error is completely unforgivable.”
Those words hung in the air between them all, making Gigi’s stomach do a slow twist.
“What if it wasn’t exactly an error?” Lillian said in a tentative voice. “What if this has all been a misunderstanding?”
Gigi looked at her sister. “How could it be that? I told you what he said at the park. He met with her, and he said he was considering a reconciliation.”
No one spoke. No one moved. Irene hiccupped but quickly silenced herself. The only sounds came from the crackling hearth.
“What were his words exactly?” Lillian asked in a soft tone.
Gigi exhaled as she tried to remember the words spoken while they sat together on the park bench. She closed her eyes, remembering that afternoon with a clarity that would probably never be lost. When she opened her eyes, everyone was waiting for her to speak.
“He told me he’d met with her and that she had changed a lot,” she said in a slow tone. “He said that Olivia had apologized and she wanted a reconciliation.”
Her mother grasped her hand, and Aunt Rowena nodded.
“I spoke my mind about that woman,” Gigi said, pride bubbling up inside of her. It had been a moment of clarity, and she hadn’t held back a thing.
“What did you say?” Lillian gently prodded.
“I told him that she had no right to ask for a reconciliation, that she was returning to him only because she was divorced and not n
ecessarily because she still loved him.” Gigi took a breath. “It might have sounded harsh, but it was the truth as far as I could see.”
Her mother squeezed her hand, encouraging Gigi to continue.
“I handed the letter back, then,” Gigi said. “I told him the apology might be flattering, but he shouldn’t forget all she’d put him through. I could see it in his eyes that he was already on his way to forgiving her, how he trusted that she was truly sorry, that he was letting her back into his life again.”
“Did he say all of that?” Lillian asked.
“No.” Gigi’s brow wrinkled. “He didn’t say it. I said it, but he didn’t deny any of it. When I stood to rise, all he said was ‘Miss Ballard.’ If that’s not an indication of his decision, I don’t know what is.”
None of the women spoke for several moments.
Until Aunt Rowena. “He didn’t deny what you told him, but he also didn’t confirm it?”
“It doesn’t sound like he confirmed anything,” Blanche said.
“You ran off too fast,” Irene added.
“Yes.” Gigi’s voice was very, very small.
“And because he called you Miss Ballard,” Aunt Rowena continued, “you decided it was a dismissal?”
“Yes.” Her eyes burned, and she blinked back her pending tears.
“Yet . . .” Lillian said in a slow tone, “he never actually said he was going back to her?”
Gigi closed her eyes, and the tears escaped. “No.”
No one spoke because they didn’t have to.
She opened her eyes. “What if . . . what if he turned her away?” she said in a choked voice. “And I have rejected him too?”
Aunt Rowena sighed. Lillian shook her head. Her mother closed her eyes with an exhale.
“I’ve been a fool,” Gigi whispered. “An absolute fool.” She leapt to her feet. “I must speak to him. I must go to him and find out the truth . . . to know what his note means, to understand what he was trying to tell me when I would not listen.”
Lillian was on her feet too. “I will go with you if only to act as a chaperone.”
Gigi wiped at the tears on her face. “Thank you.”
Their mother and Aunt Rowena joined their circle. “Take my carriage, dear,” Aunt Rowena said. “It will be faster than your mother’s. You and Lillian can drive it. We don’t have time to wait for a hired coachman.”
“All right,” Gigi said, heat buzzing along her skin. Was she really going to do this? Show up at the professor’s home? “Wait. I don’t know where he lives.”
“The address is on the north side near the university,” Aunt Rowena said. At Gigi’s perplexed expression, Aunt Rowena continued, “Oh, all right. I’ll come with you. You won’t have time to ask for directions.”
Gigi had stalled for two long weeks, and now, suddenly, time was of the essence.
“I will come too,” her mother announced. “Someone needs to make sure Rowena doesn’t exert herself.”
“I’m coming as well,” Blanche declared. “I must see this for myself.”
“I can’t be the only one left behind,” Irene added. “Surely there’s room for one more.”
ChapteR Twenty-Two
The sun had nearly set by the time Gigi, her mother, her sister, her aunt, Irene, and Blanche turned onto the final street that Aunt Rowena had claimed to be the address of Professor Haskins’s home. They’d already passed the university, and now the homes were modest but well kept. Lillian kept the horses traveling at a fast clip, but no one complained when a corner was taken too fast.
Gigi’s heart was drumming along with the tempo of the horses’ hooves. A flash of worry shot through her as she wondered if the professor was even at home. What if he was out for the evening, attending some function or other?
It was hard to tell if he was at home when the carriage slowed in front of his house; it wasn’t dark enough for people to have turned on their interior lights.
“Go on,” Aunt Rowena said.
“Do you want us to come with you?” her mother asked.
Lillian reached for her hand and squeezed. “You can do this,” she soothed.
“What if the woman answers—Olivia?” Irene whispered. “What if she’s here?”
“Hush,” Blanche said.
Gigi focused on the door, the windows, the small bushes in front of the house. It was ordinary, yet in its ordinariness, it was also extraordinary to think that she was at Clyde’s home.
She grasped Lillian’s hand as she climbed out of the carriage. All eyes watched Gigi descend and head up the walkway. She paused twice, looking behind her, only to see the encouraging nods of her sister and mother, the wave from Aunt Rowena, the pursed lips of Irene, and the fluttery hands of Blanche.
Gigi took the last few steps to the door, and before she could talk herself out of this entire scenario, she knocked.
Her heart skipped at least one beat, if not more. Did she hear footsteps? Any sound inside? There was nothing. Should she knock again? Leave a note?
“Knock again,” Aunt Rowena called in a not-so-quiet voice.
“Yes, don’t give up now,” Blanche added.
Gigi wanted to disappear into the ground because at that moment, an older couple was strolling along the walkway and had probably heard. But Gigi had come this far, so she took a breath, knocked a second time, and waited again.
Still nothing.
Perhaps it was meant to be. It was a sign. This rushed trip to his home was just that—a rushed trip. A fool’s errand. She turned and walked to the carriage. The disappointment on everyone’s faces mirrored her own.
“Did you hear anything inside?” Aunt Rowena asked.
“No. He must not be home.” Gigi tried to keep her voice subdued because the older couple was much closer now.
All she needed was a neighbor to report to the professor that Gigi had been banging on his door. It would be best if he never knew about this errand. She could write him back—yes, that was what she’d do.
“Are you looking for the professor?” a woman said.
Turning slowly, Gigi looked at the couple. They were only a few paces away. She felt embarrassment climb up her neck.
“Yes, we are,” Aunt Rowena said. “Do you know when he might be home?”
The woman’s aged face lifted into a smile. “Oh, he’s never inside his home this hour of the evening. Isn’t that right, Phillip?”
The man beside her grunted an unintelligible reply.
“That’s right,” the woman continued. “He’s in the backyard. Says the light is the best this time of day for his painting, you know.”
“Painting?” Gigi repeated. Clyde was a painter? How . . . how had she not known?
“The professor’s a painter?” Irene asked.
The man named Phillip grunted something else.
“Yes, yes, dear,” the woman said to her husband in a scolding but affectionate tone. “We’ll keep moving.”
Gigi watched the woman and the man continue ambling along the walkway.
“Well,” her mother said in a hushed voice. “There’s your answer.”
“Go around to the back of the house,” Aunt Rowena added.
“Why didn’t you tell us he was a painter?” Lillian said in a somewhat dreamy voice.
“I didn’t know.” Gigi glanced at Aunt Rowena. Her aunt had researched the man. Had she known?
“I didn’t know either,” Blanche said. “Did you know, Irene?”
“How would I know?” Irene answered in a puzzled tone.
But now wasn’t the time to discuss particulars. If the woman and her husband had been correct, the professor was at home in his backyard.
She brushed her palms against her skirt, then set off toward the side of the house where she’d seen a wooden gate next to the iv
y-covered wall. She lifted the latch and stepped through. Before taking another step, she turned to look at the carriage full of women. Each of them smiled or nodded with encouragement.
“All right, here we go,” Gigi whispered to herself.
She followed a path of flat stones winding through rather thick foliage as if the yard hadn’t been tended to in some time. The scents were heavenly though, coming from the blooming bushes and a long thicket of roses that extended beyond the house.
She slowed her step as she reached the far corner, not knowing what she might see.
At first, she didn’t see anything but wild tangles of vines and bushes, but another few steps and she caught a glimpse of a gazebo. Well, it had no top, and the sides were only about waist high. Then she realized it was sort of like an outside studio.
And in the middle stood a man . . . the professor. His back was to her as he faced an easel. He wasn’t painting, although he had a brush in one hand. His other hand rested on his hip as he gazed at whatever he’d painted. Maybe trying to make a decision on a color?
Perhaps she should leave him to his work. He seemed wholly focused on the canvas, and she would only be interrupting him.
Of course, once she returned to the carriage without having spoken to him, her family would probably march her into the backyard again.
So, Gigi took another step and another. Still he didn’t turn, focused as he seemed to be. When she was about ten paces away, a twig crackled beneath her shoe, and he whirled toward her.
“Hello, Professor,” she said, knowing her voice sounded shaky.
His hazel eyes took the whole of her in, and she gazed right back. He wore no jacket or hat. The sleeves of his off-white shirt were rolled up to the elbows, and bits of paint speckled his forearms and hands. His shirt was open at the collar, and his white-blond hair was more disheveled than she’d ever seen it, making him look like a . . . well, a painter.
How had she not known? How had she not asked?
“I knocked, but no one answered,” she said. “I was about to return home, but one of your neighbors happened to be walking by and mentioned you would be in the backyard painting this time of the evening. So I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous of me to come through the gate.” She was rambling, completely rambling, and she wasn’t sure if she’d ever spoken so fast in her life.
Until Vienna (Romance on the Orient Express) Page 16