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Authors: The Finer Things

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PARIS
 
THEY
had arrived in Paris with all of their belongings and four thousand pounds—every cent that was left over from Blake’s gift. It was Ralph who insisted that they flee the country. Violette had been too miserable to do anything but agree.
The crossing of the Channel had been swift. They had spent their first night in Paris in a small brick-fronted hotel not far from the Quai d’Orsay. Now she stood on the Rue de Rivoli, one of the most fashionable streets in the city, or so the concierge had said, clutching her cashmere mantle to her. It was a chilly November day. Although the sun was out, its rays slanting over the Jardin des Tuileries on Violette’s right, most of the elms had turned, their leaves brilliantly red and gold, although the lawns were still verdantly green, and a cool breeze seemed to be coming off the river just beyond the gardens. Behind Violette, inside the shop, the clerks were opening draperies and displaying wares. On the street in front of Violette, carriages and coaches passed, filled with elegantly dressed, gayly chatting women. There was a boulangerie on Violette’s right, a brasserie on the corner. The aroma of freshly baked pastries and bread, mingled with something spicier and more tantalizing, wafted toward Violette, whose stomach rumbled. She had hardly eaten in days.
Violette glanced at the shop. It was set in a small, square
stone building with a garreted rooftop. The big slabs of tawny stone were freshly scrubbed, the two front wood doors gleaming with wax. The sign above the pediment read “Maison Langdoc” in oversized gilded letters. As Violette studied the entrance, a big, redheaded woman from inside the shop glanced out of the window at her as she crossed the foyer.
Ralph was looking for a flat for them to rent, and Violette was looking for employment. The concierge of the Hôtel d’Eglise St.-Marie had told Violette that the Maison Langdoc was one of the finest retail establishments catering to ladies of quality in the entire city.
She shivered, staring into the window. The maison reminded her of Lady Allister’s. Two clerks were putting ready-made ball gowns in the first oversized window. The gowns dripped lace and intricate beadwork. But it was so very hard to think about finding work when her heart seemed to have ceased functioning the way a heart should—Violette felt peculiarly numb, almost incapable of feeling, yet a deep misery pervaded her entire being as well. But she and Ralph desperately needed an income. Four thousand pounds could be gone in the blink of an eye—or after a hard winter of unemployment. Neither one of them had ever been to Paris before, neither one of them could speak French, and Violette was afraid of what the future might hold for them. She would, of course, learn to speak the language as soon as possible. It would help her to keep her mind off of Blake—and what would never be.
She had only left Blake in her bed two days ago. It seemed like two lifetimes ago.
She wondered if she would ever see him again.
A big black coach halted on the street beside Violette. She watched without interest as two fabulously dressed women exited the vehicle, the carriage doors opened by a footman, and they were followed out by two waiting ladies. They passed Violette with curious glances and entered the Maison Langdoc.
Violette turned, knowing she must go in, but she made no move to do so. She had not said good-bye to anyone. Ralph had not let her. She knew he had been right to insist they flee immediately, before those inspectors might try to detain her, but she had wanted to thank Catherine and the countess for everything, and Lady Allister as well.
The doors to the shop suddenly opened and the stout redheaded woman stepped onto the street. Although she was quite overweight, she was very attractive, her hair a dark, natural red,
her features classically handsome, and she was dressed in a stunning apricot-colored moirée gown. She gazed at Violette.
“Madame, qu’est-ce que c’est? Voulez-vous entrez chez moi? Puis-je vous aider?”
Violette realized that the woman was speaking to her. She tried to smile. “I beg your pardon,” she said very softly. “I do not speak French, although I shall learn, as soon as possible.” To Violette’s horror, all she could think of in that moment were her lessons with Catherine, and her hopes and dreams with Blake. Tears suddenly filled her eyes.
“Oh,
ma pauvre
,” the Frenchwoman said, taking Violette’s arm. “My poor one. Come,
venez avec moi.
Come.” Her smile was kind, as was her melodious voice.
Violette dabbed at her eyes with her gloved fingertips and allowed the woman to lead her inside the shop. The floors were carpeted in red. The walls were wood-paneled, but mirrors were everywhere, making the interior large and bright. Huge crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings, which were high, and various settees, ottomans, and chairs graced the room, all upholstered in shades of crimson and gold. The Parisian led Violette to a yellow damask sofa and encouraged her to sit. Violette obeyed, trying for another smile.
“May I bring you something to drink,
ma belle femme
?” the woman asked.
“I am not a customer,” Violette returned, thinking the woman had misunderstood.
“So?” The redhead shrugged with a smile. “You are so sad, and you appear lost.
Café au lait
will help,
je le sais
.”
Violette did not protest as the lady disappeared up the narrow stairs just to her left. She found her handkerchief, in case the tears should rise up again, while the patrons at the other end of the room began examining fabrics with exclamations and varying degrees of enthusiasm. It was hard to believe that she was in Paris. Violette hoped she had not made a mistake by leaving London—by leaving Blake.
The redhead returned, carrying a small sterling silver tray covered with an exquisite lace doily. The tray contained a steaming cup of coffee laced with hot milk, a porcelain plate filled with mouth-watering pastries, and a silver sugar bowl. “Thank you,” Violette said as the tray was set down on the side table, the lady taking an ottoman beside her.
“How is the
café
?”
“Very good,” Violette said truthfully. Her stomach rumbled
loudly now. It was the most delicious cup of coffee Violette had ever had.
“You are, how do you say,
famished
?”
“I guess I am somewhat hungry,” Violette admitted ruefully.
“Eat. I am Madame Langdoc.”
Violette started. “The proprietress here?”
Madame Langdoc smiled with pride. “
Mais oui
.”
Violette hesitated, then picked up a croissant and ate, in spite of her hunger, careful of her manners. Madame Langdoc did not speak until Violette had finished and was sipping the
café au lait
again. “Do you feel better now?” she asked.
“A little,” Violette said. “Thank you. You are very kind.”
“What is wrong?”
The blunt question, accompanied by her probing, concerned brown eyes, startled Violette.
“You are very sad, and very beautiful. Is it a man?”
Violette felt her cheeks heat.
Madame Langdoc touched her palm. “
Ma pauvre femme.
You are in Paris, now. Of course it is a man. What else but
l’amour
could make you so sad and so lost on the street outside my shop?”
Violette glanced at her lap. “Yes,” she whispered. “I am sad. I am lost.” She wondered if she would ever find her way again through life.
“You love him very much,” the Parisian said.
“Very much. Always.” Violette closed her eyes over fresh, hot tears.
“Perhaps you should go to him and tell him so. A beautiful woman like yourself, one with a kind, good heart, I am sure that he loves you, too.”
Violette met Madame Langdoc’s gentle gaze. “He is divorcing me.”
The Frenchwoman straightened. “
C’est incroyable! Le bâtard
!” Her eyes flashed.
“It is so complicated,” Violette said. She sighed, the sound tremulous, shaky.
“Love is always complicated,” Madame Langdoc said firmly. “But divorce, that is, how do you say,
insufferable
.”
“No. He only married me to protect me. He never loved me.” Violette forced a smile. Her vision blurred. She took a breath of air and forced a cheerfulness into her tone that she did not feel, would most likely never feel again. “Madame
Langdoc, the reason I was standing on the street outside of your shop is because I am in dire need of employment. Before my marriage, I worked briefly at an establishment like this one in London, at Lady Allister’s. Do you have a position available?” Violette gripped her palms. Her gaze held the older woman’s. “I am a very hard worker. I am eager to learn. I promise you I shall speak French passably within a few months. My life shall be my work, Madame.”
Madame Langdoc stared. “
Ma pauvre,
I believe you. And although I was not looking for another employee, perhaps I can use you here. I have been thinking recently of working a bit less myself, you see.”
Violette straightened. For the first time since she had left Blake she felt the stirring of interest, of eagerness. “Really?”
Madame Langdoc smiled. “
Ça c’est la vérité.
I am not so young,
ma belle.
And we are very busy here.” And even as she spoke, the doors to the shop opened and a trio of finely dressed ladies entered the shop, a beaming clerk rushing forward to greet them.
Madame Langdoc rose. “You may start tomorrow,” she said decisively. “And today, today I insist you eat a good meal and rest.”
Violette also stood. She clasped the Parisian’s two hands. “You are too kind. Thank you. You will not be disappointed, Madame, I promise you that.”
Madame smiled. “I am a very good judge of people,
ma belle.
And I already know I will not be disappointed in you.”
 
The letter, dated December 1, 1858, began:
My dearest Catherine,
Paris is beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful city in the world. I do not think I have ever been happier. I have a flat in St-Germain-des-Prés in a charming little building built two hundred years ago. The concierge is an old man who insists on bringing me fresh croissants every morning from the boulangerie down the street. I can speak a bit of French, and am studying the language avidly. In fact, my first day in Paris I obtained employment at Maison Langdoc, the finest ladies’ shop in the city. I love my job; my fellow workers; my employer, Madame Langdoc, who is so very kind; and my customers. How very lucky I am.
I am still studying English, of course. Every night, no matter how tired I am, I read and write, using the grammars and books you gave me. I am trying to read Shakespeare now. How difficult it is! And I wrote this letter myself (with a little help, of course).
I do hope Jon is much better; please give him and the earl and countess my regards. I also wish you the very best. I do miss you. I hope one day we can sit together like in the past and chat about old times.
Best Regards,
Your Loving Friend,
Violette Goodwin.
Catherine read the letter again, her hands trembling. No, there had not been a single reference to Blake, she had not even used his name, although there had not been a divorce, and Violette sounded as if she were truly happy. Was it possible?
Catherine folded the letter, not sure of what to think. More than six weeks had passed since Violette had run away. Catherine recalled with utter clarity just how enamored Violette had been. Had she gotten over him? If there were nuances to read between the lines, Catherine could not find them.
And if Violette were happy, that pleased Catherine, who did not want to see anyone suffer. But what about Blake? He did not have to wear his feelings openly, or speak of them, for her to understand him. She knew him too well, had known him too long. He had changed. He had been, she knew, far more than betrayed by Violette, he had been crushed.
How Catherine hurt for him. He had not deserved this. First Gabriella, and now Violette. Catherine did not think he would ever trust another woman again. If only Violette would return—but she was a fugitive now, a warrant still pending for her arrest, and if she ever did return, she would be imprisoned by the authorities and tried for Sir Thomas’s murder.
Catherine slipped the letter inside the drawer of her small mahogany secretaire, but kept the envelope with Violette’s mailing address. She had no choice now but to give Violette’s address to Blake. Since Violette had fled the country, no one knew where she had gone, and this was the first time she had contacted anyone. Blake could have hired runners to find her, but he had refused to even consider doing so—shrugging off first the earl’s and then the countess’s suggestions that he learn
her whereabouts, at least. In fact, hadn’t he said, for all that he cared, the earth could have swallowed her up?
Catherine hurried downstairs and ordered a carriage. Her pulse raced. She couldn’t help wondering what Blake’s reaction would be to Catherine having finally received word from his missing wife.

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