“That isn’t—”
“I cannot forgive you for this.” He clasped his hands behind his back and motioned to the side with a jerk of his head. “Now, come along. I’ll deliver you home.”
Of course he did not think she could walk alone. He was no different from her father and grand-mère and Frau Maven and all of them. “I am perfectly capable of finding my own way.” She turned and started away with quick footsteps, not wanting him to see the tears that trailed down her cheeks. But after only a few steps, she spun and came back, knowing if she did not give voice to her feelings now, she would not have another chance.
She stood directly in front of him and wiped her eyes with her gloved fingers. “Luc, I am sorry that I hurt you. But I did not do it . . .” She shook her head, frustrated that she couldn’t find the words. Her tears were flowing full force now, and she sniffed. “I needed you to know that I believe in you, even though you do not believe in yourself.” She wiped her eyes again. “I see greatness in you, and I wanted more than anything for you to know that you are not a failure.”
Luc stood motionless, watching her.
“And I also . . . I wanted a reason to return to Riv.” She wiped at her nose. Her cheeks were burning, and she knew she was making a scene. “To bring back the painting and have a chance to see Gabi and the goats and the Lavender Room again . . .” She looked down, unable to meet his eyes. “But most of all, I wanted an excuse to see you.” The words were practically a whisper.
Julia didn’t raise her gaze to his. She didn’t reach for his hand, didn’t try once more to convince him that what she had done was in his best interest. She was exhausted, and her heart ached. She’d confessed her feelings, explained herself, but knew there were no more words to say.
So she fled into the crowd.
Luc did not call after her or attempt to stop her, and she did not turn back. She rushed across the bridge, through the exhibits, and beneath the Eiffel Tower. A young woman in her path bumped into a man, making him spill a lemonade ice onto her dress. Julia veered around them without stopping, exiting the World Exposition through the elaborately arched entrance, and continued on until she found a quiet bench in a park.
She fell, breathing heavily, onto the bench, not caring that her white dress would likely show dirt marks. As her parasol fell to the ground, sobs erupted, and she felt like they were being pulled out of her chest. Her eyes hurt, and her shoulders shook. This must be what it is to feel one’s heart break. The pain was almost more than she could bear.
And all of it was her fault.
She’d ruined everything—again. But this time, it was so much worse. She hadn’t been trying to prove her competence to her father or to please a teacher. She’d done this all for Luc, but he hadn’t understood.
And now he was lost to her.
Chapter Eighteen
Julia stared out the window of the Orient Express. The night was dark, and she saw nothing but the occasional cluster of lights when they passed by a village or a town. She didn’t wear either of her timepieces, not really caring about which stops the train made or when they would arrive. Her father would tell her.
An attendant passed through the lounge car, offering to refill her tea, but she declined. Hers had already gone cold, but she didn’t care about that either.
Her thoughts traveled back to this same train and the journey she’d taken three weeks earlier. It seemed a lifetime ago. Julia was a different person now from the girl who’d snuck out of her sleeping compartment to buy a cake. She was also a different person from the girl who’d arrived at Gare de l’Est five days later carrying only an evening gown, a wrap, a handbag, and a painting covered in a lavender sheet.
She felt tired and sad and . . . empty. Her heart still ached when memories of Provence and Luc entered her mind. So she worked to keep them out. She’d found if she just stared, she could spend hours this way, with no thoughts at all.
Colonel Weston took the seat on the other side of the table. He still had on the formal suit he’d worn to dinner. Julia hadn’t changed either, but she hadn’t put on the gown she’d worn last time she’d ridden the Orient Express, though it was by far the finer dress. It was another memory. “We are nearing the Igney-Avricourt station,” he said. “Fancy a cake?”
Julia could hear in his voice that he was worried about her, but she shook her head as the memory of that station three weeks earlier punched through her carefully created nothingness with a jolt of pain. “No, thank you.” She put on a happy smile but knew that it looked forced.
“My dear—”
“I am all right, Father. Just tired,” she said for the thousandth time. Seeing that he was not going to be content with that explanation, she turned toward him and made herself engage. “Dinner was very good, wasn’t it?”
“It certainly was. Don’t know if I’ve ever had such tender veal. And the sauce on the potatoes . . .” He made a smacking sound. “Delicious.”
“So delicious,” she said, trying to imitate his enthusiasm. She’d hardly tasted her meal, and if he had asked what was served, she would not have been able to tell him.
Her father indicated another table, the one he’d been at until joining her a few moments earlier. “Nice chaps, those,” he said.
She glanced at the group of men. They were all older—close to her father’s age—and Julia imagined Colonel Weston had been telling them about the Twilight Tour, an art tour of Europe led by one of his friends, Professor Haskins.
Her father leaned back in his chair. “Quite enjoyed playing cards with them.”
A thought struck Julia. “Do you know a man named Nicholas, Father?” she asked, not letting herself think of the other memories associated with the man. “I met him on my way to Paris. He seemed familiar, but I could not quite remember from whence I might recognize him. I thought perhaps he was an acquaintance of yours.”
Her father frowned. “Nicholas? Has he a surname?”
“I don’t know it. He introduced himself as just that.”
Colonel Weston shook his head. “I can think of only one Nicholas. Strange chap, might have been Prussian or perhaps Hungarian. Wore all black. Rather eccentric, I’d say. Met him years ago. On this line, actually. The Orient Express was still a few years from completion.” He leaned back in his seat, his eyes looking distant. “Introduced me to your mother.” The last words were spoken softly.
“You met mother on a train?”
He nodded. “Formally, yes. A rather funny story, actually.”
“You’ve never told it to me.”
His smile was sad. “I apologize, my dear. Sometimes memories . . .” He let out a sigh. “The pain never fully leaves, does it?”
Julia shook her head, feeling tears very near the surface.
“Claire was traveling home from Vienna with your grand-mère, and I from fighting the Ashantis in Africa.” He looked back at the darkened window. “I switched trains at the Igney-Avricourt station, and after living on military rations, Frau Spreitzer’s gugelhupf cake smelled too delicious to pass up. I purchased my cake and found a bench where I could eat it.”
Julia leaned forward.
“A young woman sat on the other end of the bench. She was so beautiful.” He sighed again. “I offered her some cake, apologizing that I had no fork or knife, and fully believed she would decline. She looked extremely proper, you see, hands folded politely . . . I still remember the blue gown she wore. Little flowers on the shoulders and a lacey bit here.” He motioned to his neck.
“Did she eat the cake?” Julia asked. The story enthralled her. Her father had rarely spoken of her mother before, and never in such a romantic manner.
“She certainly did.” He grinned. “Pulled off a white glove and broke off a piece with her fingers, then popped it straight into her mouth.”
“Oh my.” Julia opened her eyes wide. “Grand-mè
re must have been outraged.”
“Your grand-mère had encountered some former acquaintances at the station and was chatting with them. She didn’t even notice, fortunately for me. That woman frightened me more than all the warriors in the Ashanti nation.”
Julia laughed, trying to picture her father, young and handsome in his red-coated uniform offering cake to a refined young woman.
Colonel Weston’s smile softened again. “Claire did have such a mischievous streak.” He stared out the window for a moment before blinking and looking back at Julia. “But it is Nicholas you asked me about. Claire and I parted after our brief meeting, and I boarded the train, thinking I’d never see that lovely young woman again. I’d just entered the dining car when the man approached and introduced me to Claire and her mother. Imagine our surprise at being on the same train.” He looked at Julia, his eyes squinting. “The funniest thing . . . I remember he had an old-fashioned-looking pipe, and I could have sworn the tobacco smelled just like the gugelhupf cake. Funny how memories become muddled over time, isn’t it?”
“What happened then?” Julia asked.
“We took dinner together, the four of us. Then Claire and I corresponded by mail for a few months, and then . . .”
“Then you married.”
“And a year later, she gave me the most wonderful gift.” Her father put his hand over hers. His eyes were wet. “I’d never have endured her loss if I didn’t have you, my dear.”
Julia squeezed his hand. Her father, a military man, rarely showed any kind of emotion. She held on to the moment, treasuring it.
The train whistled, then slowed, and the conductor announced the Igney-Avricourt station.
Her father cleared his throat and stood, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his nose. “Yes, well. I believe I’ll go for some cake.”
“Do you want company?” Julia asked.
He cleared his throat again. “Not necessary, my dear. I’ll return promptly.”
Julia let him go, thinking he perhaps wanted to be alone with his memories. And wishing she wasn’t alone with hers.
She thought of his story and the softness in his eyes. She’d never considered her parents’ relationship to have been romantic. Never thought of them as young people laughing and falling in love. Hearing it brought a bittersweet sorrow that blended right in to her melancholy. She stared through the window, seeing steam and gas lamps and nameless people moving through the gloom.
Colonel Weston returned just as the train left the station. His cheeks were flushed, and his hands were surprisingly empty.
“Where is the cake?” she asked.
“Oh.” He glanced toward the door and scratched his cheek. “I—there was no cake today.”
“Frau Spreitzer had no cake?”
He shrugged, glancing at the door again and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. “Can you believe it?”
“Father, are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” He cleared his throat and sat, drumming his fingers on the table. “Time to turn in for the night, don’t you think? Goodness, I certainly am tired.” He yawned dramatically.
Julia stared, not knowing what had come over her father. Perhaps his strange behavior was an aftereffect of his earlier emotion. Or maybe, having found no cake, he’d sought out a liquor vendor instead. Either way, he was right. They could both use a good night’s sleep.
Julia rose and stood beside the table, waiting for him to accompany her to their compartments in the next car.
But he didn’t stand, just fidgeted with his fingers.
“Are you coming, Father?”
“What? Oh yes. You go ahead, dear. I’ll be along presently.”
“But you said—”
“Think I’ll have one more cup of tea. But you mustn’t wait on my account. Run along; that’s a good girl.”
Julia studied his face for a moment, but her father wouldn’t meet her eye. He caught the attention of an attendant, motioning the man toward him.
Apparently, he wished to be alone. “Good night, Father.”
“Good night, my dear.” His eyes darted to the door.
Still wondering what could have possibly come over her father, Julia left the dining car and stepped into the first-class carriage.
The conductor greeted her with a tip of his hat. “Your compartment is ready, Mademoiselle Weston.” He watched her closely, with a strange expression.
“Thank you.” Julia turned away, wondering what exactly had gotten into everyone. She unlocked her compartment door and stepped inside, removing her hat. And froze, hands on her hair. Her first thought was her compartment had not been prepared for the night. But that concern was only fleeting. She stared at the bench beneath the compartment window.
Three paintings were there, propped up on the seat. And she recognized the artist immediately. Her heart squeezed. She dropped her hat and the hatpin on the bench, moving closer to the canvases.
The pictures were painted in pastel colors, using impressionist style, making them appear as a fleeting wisp of memory. Her breath caught. Each contained the same subject—Julia herself. She studied the first. She was sitting on a bench outside the Rivulet train station in an evening gown with wilted feathers in her hair. Her gaze was cast downward, and she looked completely miserable.
In the second painting, Julia wore peasant’s clothing. She walked in the rain along a gravel path, leaning forward and pulling a rope that led a trio of goats. A chuckle escaped at the memory, sounding loud in the small compartment.
She moved on to study the last painting. In it, she had just awoken in the hayloft. Locks of her hair had come out of their braid, hanging messily around her face, and bits of straw poked out of it. One hand covered her mouth to stifle a yawn, and the other was raised in the air as she stretched.
A footstep sounded behind her.
Julia didn’t turn. She was too afraid to let herself hope.
The footsteps came through the adjoining door from her father’s sleeping compartment, and Luc stood beside her, so close she could feel his heat. “I’ve thought about these moments constantly over the past weeks. These memories. They are . . . they have become precious to me.” His voice was quiet, making Julia’s heart pound.
He pointed at the first painting, the figure of Julia sitting downcast in the rain. “Here, I felt something I didn’t understand. I didn’t know then.” He pointed to the second. “Here, in this moment, I thought what I felt . . . that it was . . . that I might be in love with you. And here . . .” He pointed to the third, his arm brushing hers as he did. “This is when I knew for certain.”
Julia didn’t turn. She could feel herself shaking but didn’t dare believe this was real. Not after what he’d said at the fair. It couldn’t be.
“Juliette.” He reached around her to take her hand, turning her to face him. “I owe you an apology. I know nothing will erase the words I spoke in anger. But I do ask your forgiveness.”
She kept her gaze turned downward, feeling shy and afraid of letting her heart open, afraid to be hurt again.
He touched beneath her chin softly, lifting her face. “I was wrong. I left you at the fair fully intending to take my painting and leave, but when I saw it in the Grand Palais, surrounded by such glorious works, mine among them . . .” He swallowed. “It was overwhelming. I would never have believed . . .”
“Father said your painting was awarded a prize medal.” Julia spoke in a quiet voice, glancing up quickly, then letting her gaze drop again.
“Oui.” He tipped his head to the side, catching her gaze. “You were right, Juliette. The Museé d’Orsay, they are going to sponsor an exhibit of my paintings. I have offers beyond what I could have imagined for works that have not even been seen. You knew it, saw that it was possible, and you risked losing our—our friendship to prove it to m
e.”
She smiled, the walls around her heart softening. “I was so worried, Luc. So afraid I would never see you again.”
“Will you forgive me?” He took her other hand.
Julia glanced at the paintings and looked back at him. A bubble grew inside her chest, making her feel as though she might laugh and cry all at once. “You remember me at very unflattering moments, Luc.”
He smirked, looking relieved that she was teasing. “Juliette, those moments, they mean everything to me.” He lifted her hand, placing it on his shoulder, and wrapped an arm around her waist. He tightened his hold, pulling her against him, and kissed her.
Julia lost herself in the kiss, in the feel of him, in the knowledge that he was here, and let the rest of her worries melt away. She kissed him back, wanting him to know how she’d missed him, how she believed in him and always would.
Hearing footsteps, Julia jumped back, her face flaming as her father stepped into the compartment. Luc kept hold of her hand.
A raise of the colonel’s brow was the only sign he’d seen anything at all.
Julia and Luc scooted farther toward the compartment door, making room for him to pass in the narrow space.
Colonel Weston sat on the bench facing the paintings. He studied the picture of Julia dragging the goats. “Such a talent . . .”
“Father, you knew Luc was here,” Julia said. “That is why you acted so strangely.”
He shrugged. “Went out for a cake, came back with”—he motioned toward Luc—“this bloke asking to marry my daughter.”
Julia gasped.
Her father looked up at her and then at Luc and shook his head. “Beat you to the punchline, did I, old boy? Sorry about that.” His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps if you’d spent more time talking and less—”
“The hour is late,” Luc said, interrupting. He rubbed the back of his neck, his face red. “I should take my leave.” He glanced at Julia’s wrist and then at her neck, where she normally attached the ribbon of her pocket watch, a flash of confusion crossing his features when he didn’t see the timepieces. “Juliette, would—ah, might you see me out?”
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