From a Paris Balcony

by Ella Carey

  Once in there, back among the velvet cushions and the plush gold decorations, locked away with all of Henry’s gilt, she closed her eyes as the door shut on the noise and the debauchery outside. And the carriage, blessedly, started moving forward after some shouted negotiations between the driver and those who were parked in front of him in the crowded, filthy street.

  As they turned, slowly, out of the narrow streets that were Montmartre, back to the chic boulevards of Paris, Louisa rested her hand over her face and did not look out the window.

  Because, now, with the clear dread of certainty, she knew that she had not only made a terrible, impetuous mistake, but had also probably ruined any chance of happiness in her marriage. And that was it. She had done it without any help. She had made the decision. She had chosen to marry Henry. She had been swept up with the romance of Ashworth, with the idea that she could somehow combine love with her own goals, and she had ignored that little voice in her head that had warned her. She had not listened to her own instincts at all.

  She had no one to blame but herself.

  Striped patterns of clear sunlight ran across the floor of Louisa’s bedroom the following morning. She had tossed most of the night, her mind awhirl with what she should do next. She had stood limp while the maid undressed her the evening before, removing her tight corset, setting her jewels on the dressing table with delicate precision. Louisa had turned her head away from their sparkles. She had tried to convince herself that Henry’s distance since their marriage did not matter. But now she knew the opposite was true.

  He was, of course, just a rake. She knew that now. Not a man for marriage. The signs had been there—his sleeping all morning, his endless rounds of entertainment at home. His constant need to be entertained. He was like a child craving constant attention. He would have been perfect for a life on the stage. He could not possibly be an actor. Instead, he surrounded himself with the only theatricality he could find. And he had found a natural place for himself here in Paris.

  But none of this helped her relentless thoughts. Henry was the last person she should have married. What had she been thinking? Had she been so determined to find a life for herself that she had accepted what was clearly not in her best interests just because it was on offer?

  What on earth was she going to do?

  Henry had told her who he was the first time they had met, and she had not listened. She had grabbed onto his life raft before she had thought twice. She had been vulnerable, bereft at losing Samuel to the Orient, Meg to marriage. She had read far more into Henry than it seemed that there was to read. She had thought too much of him. Overassessed him. She had wanted to believe he was more than he was. She had wanted to believe he could be who she needed him to be.

  And for Henry’s part, she understood that now too. She was the perfect foil, and she was there. Available. He didn’t care who or what she was. She was an American heiress, that was all that mattered. Marrying Louisa pleased his parents. He was one step closer to providing an heir.

  The maid appeared with breakfast on a silver tray. A newspaper was folded next to the plate. Louisa reached for the paper. She could not stomach food.

  The news consisted of only four pages. Louisa sighed. Presumably, it was all that the staff thought she, as a woman, could digest. Of course, it was all in French, but Louisa spoke and read French anyway. Not for the first time, she wondered why her mother had bothered to have her educated at all.

  She took in the front page. There was a picture of people strolling along what looked like a wide, tree-lined boulevard. A horse was to their left. A gentleman in a top hat sat astride it. But what was extraordinary was the fact that in the center of the photograph, there was an elephant. A group of people sat atop the great creature, and a man, dressed in white trousers, a black coat, and a black, peaked cap, walked alongside the animal, leading it along the pavement.

  The wide pathway, for that was what it must be, was otherwise filled with pedestrians. Ladies held their parasols up against the sun, and the pavement was dotted with shadows from the trees. Even with the elephant, the scene looked blessedly normal after the abominations of last night.

  Louisa forced herself to eat her breakfast, read the rest of the journal, and put the paper aside.

  But then she returned to the picture. It was taken in the Bois de Boulogne. She knew that was the fashionable place to walk. Louisa needed somewhere to think. She needed a survival plan. The caption on the picture said that the Bois de Boulogne possessed beauty and a charm that made it the perfect place to promenade, whether on foot or on horseback, by bicycle or carriage.

  Louisa rang for the maid.

  The same footman who had attended her last night seemed astounded that Louisa did not wish to ride around the Bois de Boulogne in her carriage. Once they arrived in the park, it took her some time to convince him to wait for her while she walked about on her own.

  The wide road for carriages gave off to several smaller, meandering paths. Louisa put up her silk parasol against the relentless sun and took one of these, passing children with their nannies having picnics on the lawns, a vast pond full of ducks and other waterfowl, and a café, where people sat on iron chairs and sipped coffee. But all the while, Louisa’s thoughts churned on without getting her anywhere at all.

  She stopped at another pond. White swans hassled a woman who threw them chunks of white bread. Louisa watched this for a while, until the unmistakable clatter of carriage wheels rolled to a stop right behind her on the wide road that circled the lake.

  “Bonjour,” a voice called out.

  Louisa turned. She doubted the person in the carriage was addressing her.

  And found herself face-to-face with the bizarre woman whom Henry had been with in Le Chat Noir last night. Her hair was swept back, and her long neck was decorated with the most fantastic array of jewels for a morning tour around the park. The woman wore a dress of pale green silk. Her gloved hand rested on the windowsill of her smart carriage, her long fingers dangling over its edge. She appeared to have no embarrassment when approaching Louisa, just stared at her in the same way she had the evening before when she had been whispering with Henry.

  Something kicked in and Louisa decided that she would show no discomposure herself. “Bonjour,” she replied, meeting the woman’s gaze directly.

  She was extraordinarily beautiful, only a few years older than Louisa.

  But this woman would never be invited to Ashworth, Louisa thought suddenly. And then she tilted her chin. This thought somehow gave her a sense of superiority over the outrageous yet exceptional creature. But, at the same time, the idea of her own preeminence unsettled Louisa. She was judging a woman based on her morality. Furthermore, she had been so sickened by the depravity and the state of things last night that she had run away.

  Wasn’t this the very sort of hypocrisy that she had railed against for years? The dichotomy that divided women into two separate camps: respectable and not? The sort of thing that made her contacting Emmeline Pankhurst seem even more justifiable?

  Louisa sighed and waited for her companion to speak.

  “You were not comfortable at Le Chat Noir last evening?” The woman, whatever she was, spoke English with hardly any French accent at all. Elocution lessons, Louisa thought, then chastised herself again. Was her own idea of good taste merely a method of asserting superiority of rank over others?

  “I don’t think we have been formally introduced,” Louisa said. “I am Louisa Duval.”

  “I am Marthe de Florian,” the woman said. She held out a hand.

  Just then, a man leaned forward in the carriage next to Marthe and peered at Louisa. She had not noticed him in there before. He was well built, tall. His face was pockmarked and although his jacket looked well cut, his appearance was rough.

  Marthe almost pushed the man back into his spot. Who was he? A bodyguard? “Madame Duval, I am pleased to meet you, because I adore Henry,” Marthe announced.

  Louisa almost la
ughed. But then, realization hit her, and she felt her forehead crease into a frown. She had seen posters on her way to the park. They were dotted about everywhere: La Goulue—the dancer who had shocked her so last night—Carolina Otero, Liane de Pougy. Even from the posters one could tell that these women were fashion leaders, women in the smart set, dancers, actresses, and . . . prostitutes. So. This Marthe de Florian looked as if she, too, was in their league. One of the handful who had made it to the top of the world of the night. Louisa shuddered whenever she thought of the rest of them, the poor, starved, dolled-up creatures that she had seen in the streets.

  “Well,” the courtesan said, “I must keep moving. I have a list of engagements as long as my glove.”

  Louisa stood stock-still while the carriage rolled away.

  The woman had done the exact same thing that she had done last night. She had won the round. She had finished the conversation first and taken the upper hand.

  Louisa frowned and turned back along the direct route that would lead her to her own carriage. She had no plans as to how to deal with Henry. And she had absolutely no idea how to handle Marthe de Florian.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Paris, 2015

  Sarah didn’t wake until light crept through the slats in the shutters. Consciousness stirred her slowly out of the deep, deep sleep that she must have enjoyed all night. But it didn’t take her more than one second to remember what had happened, how she had ended up in the sitting room while she should have been in her warm bed. It didn’t take her more than one second for irritation and annoyance to kick in. She sat up and stretched, ran her hand through her tousled hair, and then realized she was not alone.

  Laurent was working away right next to her at his easel.

  Sarah peered at him, still half-asleep, and he looked down at her. And put down his paintbrush.

  “Morning,” he said. “Bonjour,” he added, softly.

  If Sarah had felt vulnerable when she had made her entrée in her pajamas on her first morning in Paris, now she felt like a naked model caught in floodlights on a catwalk with an audience staring at her morning-mussed-up hair.

  But Laurent simply reached down to the table beside him and handed her one of two cups of coffee that were sitting there.

  “I will take that, thank you,” Sarah said, her voice coming out far more husky than she had planned. “But as soon as I’m done with it, and I can think straight, we need to talk.”

  Laurent moved closer. She breathed in the smell of his gorgeous aftershave. She had always had a thing about men’s aftershave, and now she wanted to close her eyes and inhale it along with the freshly brewed coffee. She shook herself a little, sipped at the jolting, delicious warm drink. She had to get her thoughts under control. She had to say something stern to Laurent. She couldn’t let what happened last night occur again.

  But Laurent started to speak first. “Sarah,” he said, “I am so sorry about last night. I really had no idea.”

  No idea? She put her coffee back down, and then picked it up. She was determined to sort this out, but she needed to be able to think. The caffeine was good.

  But then she found herself almost grimacing at the thought that occurred to her. Wasn’t that what Steven had said? That he had no idea—no idea about the impact of his betrayal on her? Was that some sort of stock excuse for this kind of behavior?

  She sipped at the coffee. Laurent still stood there. He looked genuinely concerned. Sarah reminded herself that Laurent was not Steven. She just needed to sort out some fair house rules. Even though, for some reason, if she were honest, she would admit to a pang of disappointment that he had lived down to Loic’s description.

  She took one last sip of her coffee, and took in a breath. “Laurent—”

  “Sarah.” He took a step closer.

  Sarah sat up straight. “I have to have access to my room. I didn’t want to disturb you and your . . . thing last night, but I’m going to have to . . .” Her voice was sleep filled, morning-time sexy. She cleared her throat, folded her arms. She simply had to stay firm.

  Something twitched in Laurent’s cheek. He crouched down next to her now, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, penitent. “I am so sorry. I would never ever do what you thought was happening here last night, ever.” He ran a hand across his chin, which was tickled with stubble, and went on. “I gave my key to a friend when we were out. He left his jacket here before we went out for the evening, and he wanted to come back here to get it. He left the club earlier than I did and I gave him a key.

  “I’m sorry, Sarah, I feel so badly for trusting this friend who didn’t deserve it, for not realizing that it could have been awkward for you if some random man had walked in on you, and for being out so late that it just didn’t occur to me what could go wrong. And, I’m sorry for ditching you last night for dinner.

  “By the time I came home—and I admit it was late—you were asleep, and I was locked out of my room too. So I’ve just been working.”

  Sarah frowned. Images of him working here next to her while she was fast asleep rushed into her head. She was startled that she felt comforted at the thought of his quiet companionship and protectiveness. But embarrassment crept in. Had she talked in her sleep? The thought of a handsome Frenchman beside her all night, painting while she slept, stirred some feelings she would rather not acknowledge. She was not, she thought firmly, going down that path.

  She folded her arms and frowned. “So, hang on.”

  Something twinkled in Laurent’s eyes now. His hand rested right near her knee.

  “You’re telling me that your friend was locked in your bedroom, and you were locked out too?”

  Laurent nodded, and the amused expression on his face morphed into something a little more serious. “It was not fair to you. I shouldn’t have lent him the key. I don’t know what I’m doing . . .” He stood up, moved back to his easel, picked up his brush, then put it back down.

  He stood there, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. And suddenly, Sarah wanted to listen. Why was he spending time with this sort of people? People who she suspected were absolutely not right for him. She sensed that he was not a European playboy, and she wanted to understand what was wrong to make him surround himself with that type. He moved then, over toward the window.

  “I’d better get on with my work,” he said.

  Questions ran on in Sarah’s mind. But she gathered her shoes and stood up. Whatever the answers were, it was clear that he was not going to talk now.

  “I guess we should wake them . . .” she began.

  Laurent shook his head. “I roused them a couple of hours ago. Made them keep quiet so they didn’t wake you. They’ve gone. You can go through to your rooms and get ready for the day.” He sounded tired, resigned. “What are your plans, Sarah?”

  She stood there, her eyes wanting to search his face for answers. He was talented. He seemed an incredibly thoughtful, sensitive person. He was absolutely gorgeous. He had everything in the world going for him. So what on earth was wrong? Why was he spending time with people who clearly took liberties with him like this? She looked directly at him. “I just don’t know. I really haven’t thought about today. I’ll sort something out.”

  “I want to make it up to you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes I do. I want to,” he said. His lips curved into a smile, but his eyes remained serious.

  Sarah kept her tone light. “Are you going to clean the apartment from top to bottom? Decorate it with flowers? Massage all the kinks out of my neck that I got sleeping out here?” Whoops—too far! She bit at her bottom lip.

  “Nope.” The expression on his face softened.

  Sarah felt a little of the tension in her shoulders easing too.

  “Come out with me tonight,” he said. “I promise it won’t be crazy, and I’ll introduce you to my friends—dear friends I think you’ll like. It would be good for you to start meeting people in Paris.”

  Sarah
folded her arms.

  He waited.

  She pressed her lips together.

  “It won’t be out of control, I promise,” he said, his voice soft.

  Sarah looked up at him. And for some irrational reason, she did not want him to think she was boring. She might like a bit of organization. She might like a plan. She might prefer sleeping in a bed to sleeping on Marthe de Florian’s scandalous chaise longue. But she was definitely not dull.

  “Tell me what time to be ready,” she said, aware that she was gritting her teeth.

  “Nine,” Laurent said. He was still close. She sensed him laughing again, a little. “See you then?”

  “See you then,” Sarah said. “I’m going to go out for breakfast.”

  He stood up. “Good. Enjoy your day.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “Excuse me . . .” She had to move past him to get to the bedroom door.

  “Sorry,” he said, quieter as he stepped aside. “Looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

  He moved away from the door. She went into her room, closed the door behind her, and leaned against it on the other side.

  Two things were perfectly clear. Laurent was devastatingly attractive, and the thoughts that were coming into her head were quite the opposite of the ones she had had about any sort of man for months.

  After brunch at a boulangerie near the Palais-Royal, Sarah wandered around the boulevards on the Right Bank. It was strange, not having a plan as to what to do next. Being adrift certainly wasn’t how she had gotten through the last year. But somehow, walking around Paris made plans seem rather too efficient for the first time in ages. Instead of thinking about Louisa or the future, or her work or the apartment, Sarah simply enjoyed the city.

  She found herself lured by makeup in Galeries Lafayette for the evening ahead. Sarah debated the reasons for her browsing while coveting the pretty, shimmering glosses and eye shadows in the famous department store; she wondered if she was becoming too anxious about an evening spent with Laurent’s glamorous Parisian friends. What if they found her dull?