From a Paris Balcony

by Ella Carey

  Henry sat up then, took up his reins. “That’s exactly it. It’s just what I mean. We should get back, you know.” He sounded moody now. He paused for a moment, holding his horse’s reins, but held off telling him to walk on. “I came to Willowdale because I was bored at home. I’d only been there two days.” He looked at her as if challenging her to react.

  “I imagine that it would not be difficult to become bored easily at home, given where you have just been,” Louisa said, holding his gaze.

  He nodded, as if she had given him the right answer. “I’ve invited Guy to my place, to Ashworth, for a few days, along with Meg. Before they go away. Would you like to come?” he asked, looking urgent, somehow.

  Louisa pushed back the instinct to laugh again. She shrugged. “Ashworth?”

  “As I say. It’s my family’s . . . place.”

  The horse’s breathing had settled, and Louisa moved her forward at a slow walk. “Well, if Guy and Meg accept, then I cannot see any reason for me to stay here, nor can I see good cause to return to London on my own.”

  “I can’t stand the thought of returning to London myself,” he said, all of a sudden.

  That made two of them. “I see. Well, then. I accept your kind invitation, pending everyone else’s agreement, of course.”

  “Shall I firm things up with Guy?”

  Louisa looked ahead. “Why not?” She had to work out what she was going to do without Meg, now she was married. Meg’s governess was returning to Boston once Meg was established in her position. There was no reason for a governess to remain here. Louisa had no idea what she would do with herself in the long run.

  “I’m going to race you back to the forest now.” She urged her horse forward, pushing her legs into the mare’s flank and leaning forward in her sidesaddle.

  Henry was right alongside her. “Wait,” he said. He reached over and took hold of her mare’s halter for a moment.

  The two horses were close, and Louisa resisted the impulse to pull hers away. Both animals were breathing hard as if keen to get moving, and she could smell the heady mix of leather and horse, but she was also aware, right then, of Henry.

  “I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Thank you for letting me join you on your ride,” he said. “I confess, I rose early this morning and came out here to find you. Because Guy had told me that you were not one of the . . . average debutantes.”

  Louisa pressed her lips together and held back a laugh. “Did he?” she asked. “And what exactly did he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know.” Henry grinned. The horses started to jiggle around on the spot.

  Louisa leaned forward and soothed her mare.

  “But when I’m intrigued by something,” he went on, still close.

  Louisa sensed that she should not budge.

  “I always follow it through,” he finished. His voice was softer and frown lines had formed on his forehead.

  “Well,” she said. For some reason, she did not want to be on the back foot in the conversation. “You are certainly different from the other young men I have met. Your views are modern. And that, to me, is refreshing.” She knew she had been bold, and she waited for his response.

  But he chuckled and kicked his horse on. “I’ll race you, Louisa,” he said. “I’m glad I rose early this morning.”

  Louisa urged her own horse forward. Somehow the idea of going to Ashworth was more than appealing. Right now, it sounded like a lifesaver. Right now, it sounded like exactly what she wanted to do.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Paris, 2015

  Sarah felt wide awake once she was in the taxi in Paris, even after her sleepless flight. She couldn’t help but be charmed by the city’s grand old buildings and exquisite boutiques, not to mention the impeccably dressed people seated at sidewalk cafés on those charming wicker chairs.

  Sarah felt a frisson as the taxi moved past the Église de la Sainte-Trinité and onto Rue Blanche. This was the street where Marthe de Florian had lived. It was almost as if Sarah were receiving some sort of jolt from the past. She couldn’t help thinking that over one hundred years ago, Louisa, a young woman just like Sarah, fresh in Paris from Boston, had walked these very streets. And she couldn’t help thinking that over one hundred years ago, Louisa had died very close by.

  A well-dressed man stood outside a building halfway up the street, where it narrowed beyond a couple of restaurants and an old theater. As the taxi slowed to a stop, it became clear that Marthe’s apartment building was out of character with its surroundings—it did not follow Haussmann’s strong, straight lines at all. The courtesan’s building was sensual, flowing. Fancy ironwork adorned its curve-topped windows. A sweeping balcony on the top floor overlooked the street. It was built for the grand Belle Époque, and it wasn’t hard to picture a courtesan living there.

  Sarah paid the taxi driver, thanked him in what she hoped was passable French, and stepped out onto the sidewalk, still staring up at the building in front of her. She waited a few moments.

  Loic looked exactly as Sarah had imagined him: tall, brown hair that curled slightly, warm eyes. He took her suitcase, insisting on carrying it up the short flight of steps to the front entrance.

  “Are you sure you haven’t changed your mind about Laurent?” Loic’s unaccented English was something else. Sarah would have to remember to ask him about it sometime.

  “Not at all. As long as your friend doesn’t keep me awake tonight, we’re all good,” Sarah laughed.

  Loic chuckled too as he turned his key in the solid front door to the building. The entrance foyer was airy and cool and tiled.

  Loic led her to the other side of the lobby. “Oh, a very European elevator—one of my favorite kinds,” Sarah said.

  “I think we can both just fit in.” He hauled her suitcase into the tiny space. “How was your flight?”

  “Fine. No, awful,” she admitted with a smile.

  The elevator came to a standstill and while Loic Archer seemed to be one of the nicest companions a girl could ask for when sharing a lift, Sarah was relieved to step out into the hallway on the top floor of the building. Her sense of anticipation, of actually being here, was heightened as she followed Loic across the floor, and her stomach started to flicker with nerves. She felt so close to Louisa right now that were her ancestor to appear in front of her, Sarah would have simply greeted the mysterious young woman with little surprise at all.

  Loic held the door to the apartment open, and as Sarah stepped into what was clearly the salon, she gasped.

  “We packed all of Marthe’s things up, ready to sell everything, but then, well, Cat and I found we just couldn’t part with any of it,” Loic explained. “It was completely over the top when we found it. We left some of Marthe’s pieces here, the Boldini painting went to auction, and we took the rest of Marthe’s things down to Provence so that we could enjoy them, live with them surrounding us.”

  Sarah paused and looked at him. He simply lived with Marthe’s treasures every day, as part of his life? She had to stop herself from shaking her head. It just wasn’t what she would do—it was certainly not what her family ever did. You left the past where it belonged. Old pieces were for museums. You didn’t live with them—you didn’t integrate family history into your apartment, not at all. And with a baby around? Sarah waited for him to go on.

  “This is Marthe’s dining table, her sideboard.” He led Sarah to the front of the room that looked over Rue Blanche. “We painted the walls, polished the floors.”

  Sarah looked down at the gleaming parquet. She would have to take care of it all. She would do so, as if it were her own.

  “We replaced all the curtains, though. You should have seen them. They were hanging in strips!” He moved off to the left and opened a door into a long, narrow room. “The kitchen is here,” he said, stopping in the doorway. “We are careful about who we rent the apartment out to, but we want it to be lived in, enjoyed. It was locked away for so long. Mostly, it gets rented out to friends.
I’m confident that you’ll treat Marthe’s things with care. Just make yourself at home.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said. “You can be sure I’ll treat Marthe’s treasures with respect.”

  “The kitchen’s all been renovated,” Loic went on. “You should have everything you need.”

  Sarah nodded. A galley kitchen—just as she was used to at home. Atop the gleaming white kitchen counters were round canisters with all manner of cooking utensils. They stood at the ready for the kind of culinary adventures that must follow trips to the local markets. Sarah could already picture herself channeling Julia Child, roasting a capon.

  “There are a couple of old maids’ rooms upstairs beyond the kitchen,” Loic said. “We’ve put a barrier on the old staircase because it’s small and dangerous. Probably, once we come up to Paris with our children, they can sleep up there, but for now, it’s kind of set aside. Probably best not to go up the stairs.”

  “Of course.” Sarah nodded.

  Loic seemed to hesitate for a moment. “Right,” he said. “Let me show you around the rest of the apartment.”

  The salon had been decorated by someone who had a good eye for placing old things in a modern context. The artwork, much of it from the early twentieth century, and original no less, had been chosen to complement the colors in the upholstery on the elegant Louis XV chairs.

  Sarah was impressed.

  Loic led her through an open double doorway into the next room. A large chaise longue sat in front of a set of curve-topped French doors, and a grand piano stood against one wall. An easel was set up in the middle of the space, and next to it was a palette with all manner of tubes and brushes.

  The vast canvas was half-covered with a striking portrait of a young woman, her dress black and modern. The brushstrokes looked as if they had been flicked onto the canvas, flying around the woman’s body and ricocheting away from her dress. Her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders, and she stared out of her portrait, confident. There was none of that half-secret look that so many of Boldini’s subjects seemed to have. This was a modern woman, but the painting style was certainly reminiscent of the Belle Époque artist’s style.

  Sarah moved over to take a closer look.

  “Are you familiar with Boldini’s work?” Loic asked.

  She nodded. “This is stunning,” she breathed. “And I see a lot of art. I’m beginning to think that I’ll forgive your friend’s bad behavior if he can paint like this.”

  Loic laughed. “Good. I’ll let you discuss art with him. Like I said, he’s incredibly talented.” Loic moved toward the next set of double doors, which led in turn to another room. “I’m afraid all the rooms lead off each other,” he said. “It tends to be the way in these old apartments.”

  Sarah stopped in the middle of the next room—a bedroom. A vast four-poster bed sat against one wall, but its deep mattress was modern and it was covered in a tasteful blue-and-white patterned quilt. So, how was this supposed to work? She didn’t want to sound prudish, but she wasn’t keen on having Laurent walk through her room at night. She didn’t want to complain to Loic, not on her very first day. But there was a limit . . .

  “I put Laurent in here,” Loic said. “Thought you’d prefer not to have him walking through your bedroom while you’re asleep. Besides, I think he’ll be back after you at night.”

  “Oh.” Sarah was certain she sounded unconvinced. But when she cast about for thoughts, she couldn’t come up with any alternative sleeping plans at all.

  “He starts work before dawn, like I said, and he’s often up all night. Has done that for years. I really don’t know how he gets by,” Loic said. He tilted his head to one side. “I hope you won’t have to walk past him while he’s asleep in the bed too often.”

  Sarah pressed her lips together. She also had the feeling that this room may have belonged to the courtesan once. That bed . . .

  “The bed belonged to Marthe,” Loic said. “And so did the chaise longue that you just saw in the sitting room. That was where she entertained most of her . . . guests.”

  Exhaustion from her long flight was starting to kick in, but Sarah’s mind was spinning fast at the same time. She needed to sleep before she tackled any further discussions about the arrangements for her stay. And if her room was farther away from Laurent’s and if he didn’t sleep much, maybe it would be just fine. But still, she would reserve judgment, for the moment at the very least.

  “You’d better get some rest. I’ll show you to your room. You have your own dressing room and a bathroom. Laurent won’t come in past this point.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “There’s another bathroom off the kitchen. Laurent is using that,” Loic said, leading her through the next set of doors. These led into a smaller room, furnished with two single beds.

  “This was Marthe’s granddaughter’s room—Isabelle’s,” Loic said.

  “The one who fled.” Sarah’s words came out soft, and once again, she was hit with the sense of lingering ghosts, of other young women. She was not the only one who had sought solace here, perhaps.

  The two beds were modern, covered all in white. White-painted shelves lined one wall, and these were filled with a collection of exquisite porcelain.

  “All Marthe’s,” Loic said. “Gifts from her gentlemen friends.”

  The other walls were decorated with more paintings.

  “Marthe had a keen interest in the arts,” Loic said. “Most of the leading courtesans worked as actresses and dancers too—they were performers by rights, but only in the most exclusive of dance halls.”

  “The Folies Bergère?”

  Loic nodded. “The top courtesans performed there,” he said. “There were only a few who really made it.”

  “I hate to imagine what life was like for the rest of the women, or the ones who lived on the streets.”

  “I know.”

  Sarah had always wondered about Louisa. Family legend had it that Henry had been obsessed with Paris and the Belle Époque, but how had Louisa dealt with Montmartre’s decadence, with the prostitutes and cabarets and wild artists and pimps? Not very well, perhaps.

  Loic showed Sarah the bathroom, with its marble vanity and clean lines. Through this was a dressing room, filled with wardrobes and custom-made shelves.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Sarah breathed. A couple of the wardrobes stood slightly open. Inside, there were tantalizing glimpses of the most exquisite gowns Sarah had ever seen. Beaded silk scarves, parasols, and lace gloves were laid out on some of the shelves, which gleamed to perfection.

  “Cat leaves a couple of wardrobes free for our guests,” Loic said, opening some of them, wheeling Sarah’s suitcase to a halt. “But she loves vintage fashion, so she couldn’t part with most of Marthe’s outfits.”

  Sarah was awestruck by the courtesan’s shoes. She couldn’t help but move closer and stare. They were all perfect examples of high fashion from the 1890s.

  But as Sarah turned toward the back wall of the room, something struck her and she gasped. She had to move closer again. A dressing table, its mirror surrounded by delicate wood carvings, impressed even Sarah’s trained eye. A set of cleaned and polished old perfume bottles sat atop the table, their silk hand pumps draped as if by an artist. Sarah turned to Loic.

  “All Cat.” He smiled, leaning against the door frame now.

  Sarah smiled back at him and she couldn’t help thinking how lucky this Cat was. Loic clearly adored her. And, perhaps, how lucky the apartment was to have ended up in Cat and Loic’s hands.

  “Laurent must have gone out for breakfast,” Loic said. “Are you happy to settle into your rooms and meet him yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  Loic shook her hand. “Just contact me,” he said. “Won’t you? If there’s anything you need.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Your key is by your bed,” Loic said.

  “Actually, I meant to ask,” Sarah said. “You have a baby daughter?”


  A broad grin threw light all over Loic’s handsome face. “A beautiful girl.”

  Sarah waited.

  “Isabelle,” he said, his voice soft. “She’s dark, like my mother, but she has Cat’s heavenly smile.”

  “Oh.” Sarah couldn’t help but smile herself. “How perfect.”

  “Long story,” Loic said. “But yes, it’s sort of perfect.”

  He turned then, and Sarah moved back toward the bathroom. A bath. A hot bath.

  Then sleep.

  Then, Paris.

  Streetlights shone into Isabelle de Florian’s old bedroom when Sarah woke that evening, sending flickering patterns onto the pale walls. She had been too tired to close the curtains before falling into one of the two perfect beds. Now she pulled her robe around her waist and padded over to the window, where she gazed down at the street outside. A few people were on the sidewalk; a scooter swung by, the noise of its buzzing engine reminding Sarah, suddenly, of other trips to Europe. Trips with Steven and, earlier, with her parents.

  She forced thoughts of Steven out of her head as she had become used to doing for months, but she allowed herself to think about her parents for a moment. The fact that they had adored each other so much had been a blessing for Sarah. But she had never been able to forge such a close relationship with her own partner. She shook her head and turned back to the bedroom.

  It was half past eight. Sarah moved into the dressing room and chose a simple black shift dress. Feeling fresh from her bath and her sleep, she dabbed on some perfume and applied light makeup. She would go out and find somewhere local for dinner. But now she stood at the closed doors to the bedroom that Laurent Chartier was using. She would have to knock before opening the door.

  Sarah waited a few seconds, then tapped tentatively. Stood there. Nothing. Turned the handle. The room was empty, the bed made up. She couldn’t hear any noises coming from the next room. So she moved toward the following set of doors.