by Chloé Duval
“Come on, don’t be stubborn, just come along!”
“What, are you scared of going on your own?”
He raised an eyebrow, but refused to answer. That question, at least.
“You asked for it. Don’t come complaining.”
“Complaining about what?” I asked, naively thinking he was at last going to let me read in peace.
Instead of following Mr. Bourgeois out of the room like I expected, he came up to me, smiling mysteriously, and unceremoniously lifted me into his arms. And under the amused gazes of the owner and the few patrons hunting through the shelves, he bodily carried me into the café, deaf to my protests.
“You didn’t need to do that,” I grumbled as I smoothed my clothes, sitting on a chair.
My cheeks were crimson. I hadn’t been that embarrassed in a long, long time.
Éric sat across from me.
“If I’d had to convince you, we’d still be back there. My method is quicker.”
“And a lot ruder.”
“You’ve already told me as much, princess.”
“What would you like to drink?” Mr. Bourgeois asked us.
I peered at the board and chose a chai latte. Éric ordered an espresso.
“Coming right up.”
I walled myself in stony silence, examining my fingernails so my displeasure would be obvious even to Mr. Sarcasm.
“All right, I’m sorry,” Éric finally said. “I was a little out of line.”
“A little?”
“Okay, a lot.”
I considered, then sighed, resigned. Éric smiled, and the butterflies in my stomach took off for another loop-de-loop. What the hell was wrong with me?
“Here you are!” Mr. Bourgeois announced, depositing two cups in front of us.
“Will you join us?” I hastened to ask.
“If you’d like me to, I can spare a few minutes.”
I promptly put those minutes to good use interrogating him about the bookstore and how he’d come to own it.
He told us he had found the documents in the attic of the apartment above, which had come with the bookstore. He wanted to show them to a historian to find out whether they had any value other than the one they held for him, and use them to create a section in the bookstore about its origins. He had only lacked the time to take care of it.
“You know how it is. You manage the most urgent matters first, thinking you’ll do the rest later, and days and months go by and you still haven’t found the time.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I assured him with a smile, gulping at my—delicious—chai latte.
Somewhere around the middle of the conversation, Éric’s phone rang, and he excused himself to answer, muttering that he absolutely had to take this call. He stepped outside the store, and I couldn’t help watching him through the window. A shadow had stolen over his face when he had seen the name of the caller and his smile had vanished. Now he paced up and down the sidewalk, gesturing wildly, his shoulders tight with frustration.
Seeing him so downcast, I couldn’t help but think he sorely needed a little levity in his life. Just to change his mind.
My gaze slid absently over the posters on the walls, and one of them caught my attention. It featured a hot-air balloon flying over a vineyard, a castle in the background. A headline at the top of the picture read: “Discover the Loire valley from a whole new angle.” An idea blossomed into my mind, and I turned to Mr. Bourgeois.
“Can you really go ballooning around here?”
“Yes, one of my friends runs the tour.”
“Do you think he could take us?”
“Of course! When?”
“This is kind of last minute, but do you think tonight might be possible?”
“I’d have to ask. Let me call him.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Bourgeois pulled out his cell phone and made the call. He explained the situation, waited for a reply, then covered the phone with one hand and said:
“He can’t tonight, but somebody just canceled for tomorrow morning, is that okay?”
I thought as fast as I could and decided that yes, it was doable. We just needed to find a hotel to spend the night in Angers.
“That would be perfect.”
Two minutes later he hung up.
“He’ll be waiting for you tomorrow at five a.m. You can watch the sun rise. I’ll give you directions to the meeting point.”
I swallowed a grimace, realizing the ungodly hour we would have to awaken, and thanked him.
The bell over the door rang, and Mr. Bourgeois excused himself to attend to the new arrival. I immediately jumped on my phone and searched for a place to spend the night. Two minutes later I had booked two rooms in a nearby hotel. Only one thing remained—tell Éric about the change of plans.
* * * *
His reaction did not disappoint.
“It didn’t cross your mind to wait for me to be done with my own phone call so you could ask my opinion?”
“If I had, would you have said yes?”
“No!”
“Yeah, I thought so too. So I followed your example and made an executive decision to save some time.” I paused. “You need to have a little fun, Éric. Once in a while wouldn’t kill you.”
“And what if I had plans for tomorrow?”
“Then I would have sent you home and I’d have taken a train and taxi to return tomorrow. But you don’t seem to, so relax and live a little. It’ll do you good.”
“We can’t spend the night in Angers anyway. I didn’t pack any clothes.”
I raised my eyebrows, dubious before his increasingly desperate excuses.
“France is a civilized country; I’m fairly certain we can find something.”
“Maybe you’re rolling in money, but I have a broken-down castle to save. I can’t afford to spend money on frivolities.”
“I’m certainly not rolling in money, despite what you seem to believe, but I think I can afford to buy you a pair of briefs if that’s your only argument. Unless you’re a boxer man?”
This time he was the one to roll his eyes.
“This conversation is unreal. I wasn’t talking about the underwear but the hotel and the balloon!”
“That’s no issue. My idea, my funding. You won’t need to pay for the room, the trip, or your spare underwear.”
“I refuse to let you pay for me! Out of the question.”
“So if I let you pay your half, will you climb into the balloon with me?”
“You’re insufferable, you know that?”
I summoned my sunniest smile for him and leaned close to purr: “It’s pronounced ‘determined.’ So, Mr. Lagnel, tell me everything—boxers or briefs?”
Chapter 16
Gabrielle
Castle of Ferté-Chandeniers
December 1899, one week later
Pale light bathed the library on this cold and wet afternoon, lending an otherworldly air to the room.
Gabrielle sat at one end of the great oak desk, working.
Or at least, that’s what she was supposed to be doing. But it would be closer to the truth to say that she was playing, experiencing some of the most extraordinary and precious moments of her life in this library. Every book she inventoried seemed to be a new treasure to uncover, a new world to explore. The work she was examining just then was an antique, richly illustrated edition of the Roman de Lancelot du Lac, written in French so ancient she had trouble deciphering it. It had been published by Antoine Vérard in 1494 in Paris. It was, she realized, the oldest book she had ever come across.
Smiling slightly, Gabrielle held the book close to her face, closed her eyes and inhaled its smell. It was a ritual of hers. She reveled in the scent of books the way others might with flowers. The aroma of le
ather, paper and ink brought comfort like no other.
Sighing happily, she opened her eyes and carefully, reverently, cracked the book open and got to work, listing every detail and characteristic on the notecard in front of her.
She finished her examination, jotting down a few final notes in clear, legible print, and tried to estimate what such a rare book should be valued at for sale. What price would be fair? She soon gave up the attempt. A sharper eye and greater knowledge than hers were required for such a rarity—published less than fifty years after the invention of the printing press! She set it aside with a few others to bring to her father that evening.
She yawned and stretched, rising to her feet and going over to one of the high windows, admiring the landscape stretched out in front of her eyes.
Snow had fallen again during the night, and the vast gardens around the castle were so blindingly white she could not tell where the land ended and the sky began. She could have been in a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tale.
Two silhouettes appeared at the foot of the castle, a few feet from the moat. One was tall and broad, its dark coat a sharp contrast to the surrounding white, throwing a stick that the other shape, a beautiful dog almost as white as the ground, leapt after, joyfully plunging into the powdery snow. After a week of tender care, she was brimming with energy. Gabrielle watched the taller silhouette bend down to pet the dog; her heart filled with emotion at the sight.
Many would have judged the scene ordinary or even uninteresting. What could be more common than a man playing with his dog?
But it wasn’t any man, and it wasn’t any dog. They had found each other. It could almost be said that the dog had saved the man as much as the man had saved the dog. Thomas seemed different with her. Happier. He radiated joy such as Gabrielle had rarely seen in him, and each day, his smile grew larger, his shoulders became straighter. Light reasserted its rights over him and cast the shadow away from his face.
And the happier he was, the happier Gabrielle became.
She wished time would stop.
She wished she could stay forever.
Stay with these people who made her so happy.
Stay with him.
With the man to whom her heart now clung.
* * * *
A week had gone by since the puppies and their mother had been saved, and Gabrielle’s life had fallen into a quiet routine. She split her time between the inventory of the library, the care she provided for her father with Hélène’s help, the moments of pure bliss she shared with the puppies…and this bubble out of time and space that emerged when night fell and firelight replaced daylight.
Her secret.
Their secret…
Every night, after all had retired to their bedrooms and silence had fallen over the castle, another life began for Gabrielle. She put away the diary into which she scrupulously noted the detail of her days and tiptoed out of her room up to the library, oil lamp in hand, to join him.
They had never really agreed on this, but it had become a habit, something they both awaited impatiently throughout the day. Every night, they met up in secret in the library. Every night, she pushed open the door, heart hammering, wondering whether he would be there. And every night, when Thomas saw her come in, when his gaze caught hers, he lit up and seemed to glow from the inside, making her heart beat a little faster.
And in this moment in time that belonged only to them, when they would read, talk or simply sit side by side in the comfortable silence of two people who do not need to speak to understand each other, Gabrielle could feel new emotions welling up within her. She did not attach any words to them, but they grew stronger by the day, tying her closer to these intimate, carefree moments. Closer to him.
* * * *
Voices from the gallery of portraits outside the library reached Gabrielle through the open door, bringing her back to the present. She glanced out the window. Thomas and his dog—Duchesse, they had named her—had vanished.
Curious, she cocked her head to listen, hoping he would be the one to come in, as he sometimes did to borrow a book, ask a question or her opinion.
Her hopes were soon dashed.
“My dear friend, please photograph this gallery of portraits. It is perfect. Come over here, the light is ideal.”
Gabrielle grimaced as she recognized the nasal voice.
Mr. Choiseul, the auctioneer, had arrived that morning to evaluate the hundreds of works of art in the castle with his own photographer, one Arnaud Colin. He was affected and obsequious and obviously had a very high opinion of himself. Gabrielle had come across him as she made her way toward the library after breakfast. He had burst into the great hall like a messiah ready to dispense his great science and superior knowledge to the poor ignorant wretches of the castle.
Gabrielle had loathed him on sight.
She cast about for a hiding place in case he had the sudden fancy to enter the library. Listening carefully, her whole body poised to spring behind the curtains at the slightest suspicious sound, she suddenly relaxed upon hearing a familiar gait in the gallery.
Her heart suddenly beat faster, and a smile came to her face. He was here.
“Gentlemen,” a deep voice intoned.
Gabrielle heard the photographer greet Thomas; then Mr. Choiseul’s grating voice rose.
“My lord baron! I was hoping to see you!”
Gabrielle shook her head, appalled at the man’s attitude. Thomas had told him at least fifteen times that he did not wish to be addressed as such. From the safety of her window, she could almost sense his exasperated sigh as he tensed.
“I must say that you have some truly extraordinary pieces here!” the pompous fool continued. “Simply marvelous! It really is an immense honor to be the one to estimate such a priceless collection!”
“I have told you before, Mr. Choiseul, that I do not carry the title of baron,” Thomas replied coldly. “I would thank you to call me D’Arcy as all others do.”
“Of course, anyone in my profession knows your late father’s reputation as a learned amateur of art,” the auctioneer prattled on bombastically, seemingly deaf to his employer’s remark. “I would venture that many an expert wishes he were me in this moment. But you were right to call for the best. Art is a serious matter.”
Gabrielle silently rolled her eyes, convinced that just then Thomas would much rather have chosen anyone other than “the best.” How could he be so full of himself? She wondered how his photographer friend, who appeared both shy and quiet, could stand to be with him all day long. Truly, it was remarkable.
Mr. Choiseul carried on with his own accolades, telling Thomas at length of his many accomplishments, singing the praises of his wonderful patrons and boasting of his many friends in the Paris auction house of the Hôtel Drouot, relentlessly asking Mr. Colin to confirm while never pausing to let him do so.
He went on for so long that Gabrielle finally took pity on Thomas and decided to step out of her sanctuary to try to pry her friend from the detestable Mr. Choiseul’s claws. She walked up to them, head held high, and cleared her throat. All three turned toward her.
“Mademoiselle Villeneuve.” Thomas greeted her with a slight nod and a relieved gleam in his eyes.
“Mr. D’Arcy. Gentlemen.”
Mr. Colin nodded to her while Mr. Choiseul graced her with his usual condescending sneer. Gabrielle raised her chin a little higher, ready to do battle.
“What is it, my dear?” Mr. Choiseul asked patronizingly. “We are dealing with serious matters here.”
Breathe, Gabrielle, stay calm. She swallowed the cutting jab rising in her throat. She pasted her most professionally polite smile onto her face.
“Please forgive me for interrupting, gentlemen, but would you have a few minutes to devote to me, Mr. D’Arcy? I have something to show you. It is an unusual work that—”
&
nbsp; “Come now, can’t you see that the baron is busy?” Mr. Choiseul interrupted. “He has no time for such nonsense.”
Gabrielle’s eyes met Thomas’s, and she saw that he was about to reply. She motioned for him to keep quiet. She was here to help him, after all, and not the other way around. And it was a battle she was perfectly qualified to lead. Men like this one, who took pleasure in looking down on her because she was a woman and thus witless, were unfortunately too common.
“Of course, sir,” she replied with her sweetest voice. “I’m very sorry for overstepping myself.”
“You’re a darling little thing,” Mr. Choiseul told her, visibly satisfied. “I will be magnanimous—”
“But please allow me to remind you that what you call ‘nonsense’ are works painstakingly collected by several generations of bibliophiles, the very same ones as those you have been lauding for hours. These are books written by learned people who have mastered French perfectly. Books that were put together with the greatest care by equally passionate publishers and printers. And no matter what you may think, sir, a great number of these books are truly works of art. And now, if you will excuse me, I was not speaking to you, but to Mr. D’Arcy. And unless he dismisses me himself, I do not intend to leave. With all due respect.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Gabrielle saw Mr. Colin smothering an amused smile and Thomas looking at her proudly.
Mr. Choiseul did not appreciate her little speech quite as much.
“You impertinent wretch!” he sputtered. “How dare you talk to me in such a manner! You have no idea who you are dealing with!”
“Believe me, sir, I have had more than enough opportunity over the last few hours to hear you introduce yourself. The issue rather seems to be that you do not know who you are dealing with.”
Mr. Choiseul’s face was so red she thought for an instant he would burst.
“You little—”
“That is enough!” Thomas stepped in between them, throwing a frosty glance Mr. Choiseul’s way. “I would advise you to think carefully on your next words, Mr. Choiseul, if you wish to keep the honor you have not stopped raving about for the past few hours. Mademoiselle Villeneuve is my guest, and I will not stand for her being insulted under my roof. Is that clear?”