From a Paris Balcony

by Ella Carey

  “She did.”

  Sarah put down her teacup. She was going to have to think. If the famous British stiff upper lip were anything to go by, she could be having endless monosyllabic conversations and then it would be time to go home.

  Jeremy stood up suddenly. Clearly tea was at an end. “You’ll want to go up and rest. We meet in the library at eight for drinks. It will just be mother, father, myself, and you. No need for formal dress.”

  “Oh, well, that’s good.” Suddenly, oddly, she was aware of her leather jacket. She had considered not wearing it, and then, for some odd reason had put it on instead.

  “Oh, and one thing,” Jeremy said. “Father likes to keep things on time. He gets upset if people are running late.”

  Sarah shuddered a little as they moved out of the salon. This did not bode well as far as the duke was concerned, but she would not allow herself to be swayed by irrational comparisons to her ex-husband.

  Jeremy moved from the hallway into the first room on their right. This was one of the most enchanting spaces Sarah had seen. She felt the tension that had gathered in her body dissipate. Bookshelves lined the room. Wooden ladders were arranged around the walls at perfectly even spaces, as if the distances had been measured. And Sarah suddenly wondered how much reading went on in here, if the ladders were only placed for effect. A newspaper—today’s, a tabloid—lay on a coffee table between two high-backed deep sofas. Plush cushions were scattered over these. A tall fireplace. Several windows overlooked the park.

  “Heaven,” Sarah breathed.

  “Beyond this is the dining room, then the breakfast room, and a sitting room. You can come and sit in any of these while you’re here. I’ll show you up to your own room now.”

  “Thank you. It’s very kind of you. It will be good to talk to your parents.” She was determined not to feel awkward and utterly out of place.

  Jeremy moved back into the salon, stopping at the foot of the great wooden staircase. “I’m not sure that . . . anyway.” He shook his head and moved up the stairs.

  Sarah rested her hand on the polished wood banister. She was going to have to come up with a plan, and fast.

  The late-afternoon sun beamed down through the huge stained-glass window on the landing above them. The family crest decorated the glass—two stags and a shield with a Latin inscription.

  “Never give up,” Jeremy said. “The family motto.”

  “I like it,” Sarah smiled. Something in that gave her a little more buoyancy in turn.

  He led her up the stairs and she followed him, half taking every detail in, half thinking up a strategy in her head.

  Sarah was precisely on time for drinks. She had chosen one of her little black dresses, one that she loved to wear under that leather jacket, but tonight, she had decided to skip that, even though it was a little chilly in the palace. Her hair was behaving, at least, swinging at its glossy black best.

  Sarah glanced at the portraits that lined walls above the beautifully carved staircase as she went down to the library. The women were consistently beautiful, and every one of the men seemed to have strong dark features. She stopped and looked at the portrait of Henry Duval. Henry looked as if he were brooding.

  Sarah moved on.

  The sound of voices rang out into the hallway from the library. Laughter, short comments. Everything came in short bursts.

  Sarah took in a breath and went inside. The room was lit with soft lamps that cast an intimacy while sending shadows onto the myriad books.

  Lady Olivia sat on one of the two dark sofas. Her hair was bottle blond and pulled back into a chignon. Her skin was tanned, either by a lotion or a lamp. Sarah had to stop herself from smiling at this.

  The duke, Theodore, seemed to be watching Sarah just as she was watching everything in sight. His face was not what Sarah would describe as friendly. She detected a narrow calculation in his eyes.

  Jeremy took a step forward from where he and his father stood in front of the mantelpiece.

  “Father, Mother, this is Sarah West.”

  Sarah moved forward and extended her hand.

  After Sarah had consumed a sherry, which was the only thing offered, and eaten a few olives along with some plain rice crackers and French onion dip, Olivia announced that it was time to go in for dinner.

  Sarah checked her watch. Half past eight, on the dot.

  The duke and Jeremy began a conversation about farm management, and Sarah found herself next to the duchess as they made their way down the wide hallway, past elegant little tables scattered with objects that Sarah knew must all have their own stories to tell.

  Portraits lined the walls in the dining room. Charles II overlooked the head of the vast mahogany table. The table was laid at one end for four, with porcelain plates and crystal glasses.

  The duke poured for them from a decanter of red wine, and Sarah reminded herself that she must keep her head were she to have any hope of steering the conversation.

  After a few minutes, it became clear that the duke was not going to let down his guard. There was a round of polite chat with the duchess in which questions were asked about Sarah’s life in Boston, her family, who they were, whom she knew, and where she lived. There was also an attempt to make a connection between the people the duchess knew in Boston, and possibly the entire United States, with Sarah’s acquaintances and family back home.

  The duke did not address her at all.

  Sarah regarded him over her roast beef and decided to make the most of a pause in the duchess’s conversation.

  “I am interested in my ancestor’s life here,” she said, looking directly at the older man. “I have just come from Paris.” And waited.

  The duke put down his fork. “You know, I think all I can say about Louisa West is one thing, Sarah: your ancestor was not a very good choice for Henry.”

  Sarah took in a sharp breath. “I do know that my ancestor was interested in women’s causes.” Sarah threw that idea out softly. “That may have been difficult for the family.”

  “The family has always held liberal views about women.” The duke brought his white linen napkin up to his mouth. “But there’s no going around the facts. Louisa was depressed. She killed herself. It is something the family deeply regrets. But she was unstable. That is quite well known, Sarah.”

  Sarah glanced at the duchess. She appeared to have zoned out of the conversation entirely.

  “Louisa not only had this strong interest in women’s rights, but by all accounts, from my side of the family, she was a happy, intelligent young woman who was not given to bouts of depression,” Sarah said. She knew she was pushing things, knew, even, that she was possibly extending the boundaries of her own knowledge, but something told her that the veneer needed to be broken. If she didn’t press harder, she would be shut out of any sort of truth for good.

  The duke seemed to be watching her, and for a ridiculous moment, Sarah had the idea that she had met her match.

  “Sarah, you do know that Louisa had a baby. She did not connect with her son. I don’t want to spell out the idea of postnatal depression. I’m sure I don’t have to in this day and age.”

  Sarah felt as if she had been hit in the chest. Why on earth did she not know of a baby? The duke had thrown her, but she kept her chin up.

  “Louisa went to Paris, ran away from her responsibilities here, and killed herself at a party. As I said, our family took a sympathetic tone, but one has to admit—”

  “Father,” Jeremy interjected.

  But the duke waved Jeremy away. “Yes, Jeremy, we know that Henry was hardly the ideal husband, off in Paris for much of the time.” His tone was that of dismissal toward his son, and Jeremy looked back down.

  Sarah was going to have to ensure that the duke did not use such a strategy on her. But she also knew that she must not upset the duke too much if she wanted to be able to see out her visit. She would have to bide her time.

  Dessert appeared. Sarah’s half-eaten main course was w
hisked away without question. She looked at the plate in front of her. A crème brûlée.

  “Henry didn’t want to run the estate,” Jeremy said, all of a sudden. “He was, apparently, a talented actor.”

  “Yes,” Sarah said. “I did know that. That would have been incredibly difficult for him.”

  “And the person he married couldn’t let him be who he was.” The duke seemed to want to blame Louisa—he was not going to allow for any role the Duval family might have played in Louisa’s tragedy.

  Why was he so adamant? Surely he couldn’t be worried that Sarah might go to the media.

  She picked up her spoon, poised it above the crème brûlée, and then put it back down again. She had two days. “Do you really think Louisa was to blame for Henry’s . . . problems?” she asked, casual sounding. That was what she needed to be.

  “Who is dining with us tomorrow night, Olivia?” The duke turned to his wife. “Or are we going out?”

  Sarah raised a brow.

  The duke talked quite firmly about other matters until the uncomfortable meal was done.

  Sarah was left with a persisting question that forced itself to the front of her mind: had Louisa been seen as a person or as a commodity by this family? No wonder she had become passionate about women’s rights.

  When Sarah climbed the grand staircase to her guest suite, other ideas kept biting into her thoughts. Why had Sarah’s Boston family never mentioned a baby? And what had happened to the child?

  Sarah lay in the darkness in the vast bedroom in the vast old family estate. She was the only person sleeping in the guest wing. Were she in a Gothic novel, she would get up and search the house.

  In the early hours of the morning, Sarah was still wide awake. She was going to have to ask more probing questions tomorrow. But searching the house was entirely against her character. Searching the house was something that rational, logical, strategic Sarah would never do.

  But had that girl disappeared the moment she arrived in Paris? Or had it been a gradual shift?

  After a few more minutes of lying in complete indecision, Sarah was unable to wait anymore. She had her feet over the side of the four-poster bed and her dressing gown wrapped around her body before she could think any more. No analysis. She was going to have a look around the house.

  She tiptoed across her room toward the solid bedroom door. When she opened it, no sound upset the silence in the vast guest wing. Not that anyone would be listening.

  Would they?

  No.

  Logic had its uses sometimes.

  Sarah made her way down the silent passageway. The corridor was narrow. She had her phone, which had a flashlight app, but she dared not turn it on for fear of being caught.

  As she reached the end of the long, still hallway, she stopped for a moment. She was at the edge of the main staircase. The vast stained-glass window that ran three stories down the length of the tower was blanked out in darkness.

  Sarah moved onto the stairs, one hand on the banister. It would not do to slip and send noise crashing through the house.

  Sarah stopped at the next floor down and frowned. She must be careful now. She knew that the family’s bedrooms were on this floor, because the duchess had waved in a certain vague direction as they had been going upstairs to bed.

  She moved, as silently as possible, toward the library. That was going to have to be her first scene of investigation. The oak-paneled door was open. Moonlight shone through the vast windows, sending smooth shafts of light onto the bookshelves. Sarah moved to the middle of the room.

  The thing was to work out how the collection was organized.

  Henry had lived until 1943.

  What she needed was a family Bible.

  Sarah closed the library door. Then she slipped her phone light on and scanned the shelves, starting at the bottom, moving around the room in an orderly fashion, checking each gold-leaf spine for any hint of the Duval name. Once she had searched the entire bottom shelf, she stood back a little and counted—fifteen shelves to the top. And ladders.

  Her phone buzzed. She stopped dead.

  Sarah frowned and turned around quickly. She would hear footsteps, she would hear a door handle turning, she told herself, if her phone had disturbed anyone in the house.

  She checked the text. It was Laurent. “You’re probably asleep,” he wrote. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch yet. What’s happening? What have they said?” She smiled, thought for a moment. Then texted back: “They aren’t going to budge. I’m searching the library in the middle of the night.” He responded, and his words on the screen caused Sarah to smile. “Would you like a chat? Some company while you sleuth? I’m working anyway.”

  Of course he was. Sarah reminded herself how big the palace was, how quiet she would be on the phone in here, how unlikely it was that she would wake anyone up, and called him. Whispering, she moved around the shelves. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She could read the spines of the books using moonlight. Shelley, Byron, Keats . . .

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “The family has a stock story. Louisa committed suicide, no discussions. When I tried to probe, the duke cut me off. They described her as a ‘bad choice.’ That didn’t impress me much. What was she? A commodity?”

  Laurent was quiet.

  “But I have learned something.” Sarah ran her eyes over Tennyson. First editions, she could tell.

  “Yes?”

  “Louisa had a baby, apparently. The duke says she suffered from postpartum depression, hence the suicide. But why didn’t my family know about a baby?”

  “Keep pushing on,” he said. “The baby, for a start, confirms that there is more to it than you thought.”

  Sarah stopped. End of row two. “True,” she said.

  She started another round.

  She stopped and frowned at the books in front of her.

  Not one family Bible. Not just one. There were at least ten.

  “Laurent?” she whispered.

  “Yup.”

  “I have to go. I’ve found something.”

  “Don’t hesitate to call anytime.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  And hung up.

  The Bibles were all in perfect order.

  She picked up the one dated 1870–1900. And moved to the window, sitting on the wide windowsill to read.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ashworth, 1895

  Louisa had taken to visiting Jess in the afternoons once the older woman had finished her duties at the school. Their friendship had blossomed into an understanding, and a complicity of sorts. Jess was helping to set up a branch of the Women’s Franchise League. And Louisa spent her evenings with Charlie. She had come to a sort of truce with herself whereby she could almost pretend that Henry did not exist. The only problem was, he did.

  “I have spoken with nearly every woman in the village now,” Jess said while she cut Louisa a slice of cake. “Some of them had heard of Mrs. Pankhurst’s activities. There was a little resistance—antipathy, and also outright damnation from some quarters—but I say those women simply needn’t come. I have five women who will. That is a good start.”

  “Mrs. Pankhurst is determined that the promotion of women’s rights should be attained in a peaceful manner. We are not going to alienate those who do not wish to join us,” Louisa said. “Although, having said that, I find it difficult to imagine why women would not want to be liberated from their lot.” She sipped at Jess’s tea in its floral china cup. “I have a list of speakers from Mrs. Pankhurst who will come down and address our meetings. We need to work out a place in which to gather. Jess—”

  “My house, for a start.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a silence for a moment, before Jess spoke. “Louisa, I don’t know how to bring this up without sounding jolly negative. But, how will you deal with the duchess?”

  Louisa put her pretty teacup down. “I confess, I have been putting the idea off
and contemplating not telling her, or Lord Aubrey, at all.”

  “The duke will think it is beneath him, ridiculous and a waste of time. But he could put a stop to it if he feels it will threaten stability in the village,” Jess said. “He would argue quite rationally with you. I think it would be better to keep it quiet at first. After all, if there are only seven of us, we are hardly starting a revolution on the estate.”

  Louisa was beginning to think that her plans for a local Women’s Franchise League were the only rational thing in her life. The tumult of feelings that she had for Charlie were beginning to drive her to distraction. She had come to realize that the way she felt for him was beyond her control.

  And the fact that she was carrying Henry’s child only confused her even more. Why had she fallen in love with Charlie? What on earth use was that? Why could she have not loved his brother? Why had she met Henry first? Why had she agreed to marry him? And why, in turn, did Henry have to be the person he was? If these questions kept her awake at night, the fact that she was about to bring a child into this complicated mess only made things a hundredfold worse.

  As for the Women’s Franchise League, Jess’s plan to stay silent about their activities seemed more than sensible for now.

  More silence. The duke and duchess never commented on Henry’s absence. She and Charlie could not say a thing about their feelings to a soul. And as for Henry, he never said anything to anyone about whatever was going on with Marthe de Florian.

  She took one last bite of Jess’s delicious cake. “I think we should keep our meetings confidential to start with, at the very least, Jess. When the time comes that we must talk with the duke and duchess about the League, it would be better to have some local support. Then the duke will have to think twice about stopping his villagers from an activity that is established.”

  Jess’s brown eyes caught Louisa’s own. “You are beginning to think like a strategist.”

  Louisa stood up then and held her friend’s hand for a moment. She was going out with Charlie this afternoon. He had organized the carriage to take them to visit a tenant farm.