All the Ways We Said Goodbye Page 6

  The first was how opulent, how grand the crystal chandeliers, the thick rugs, the vases filled with elaborate floral arrangements, the gilded mirrors and the people walking through the palatial hall appeared to be. It all reminded me of the dolls and the dollhouse Diana and I had once played with as children, a fantasy world with imaginary people. The second was how absolutely out of place I was, how I had most certainly taken a wrong turn when I’d made the rash decision to shake myself from my melancholy. I should have opted for a weekend in the Cotswolds instead.

  The bar to the left seemed filled with more well-dressed people, all having highbrow conversations because they looked the sort to know a lot about everything. A burst of laughter floated out from the dimly lit room, and I found myself cringing, certain that they must be laughing at me.

  Another uniformed man approached and introduced himself as the hallway manager, his French name quickly forgotten in my embarrassment at being noticed, then escorted me to a desk near the bottom of the wrought-iron wrapped staircase. I peered past the enormous tapestry hanging on the stairwell wall, upward through the loops of gleaming brass banisters to the upper floors.

  A woman’s voice caught my attention. “I thought this was the Paris Ritz and not some hourly motel. Because I just can’t understand why the flowers that arrive in my room in the morning are sad little crawdads on the wrong end of a fishing net by afternoon. You must be giving me day-old flowers, which isn’t what I expected at all. If you can’t get it right, then I’d prefer no flowers in my room at all.” Her words were light and airy, carrying with them a strong accent that brought to mind Scarlett O’Hara. I turned with interest, as it wasn’t just the accent that reminded me of that particular indomitable and stubborn heroine.

  “Miss Dubose, I assure you,” began the young man behind the desk in perfect English, his face a mask of understanding. “Our flowers are cut fresh every morning. Perhaps they’re sitting in the sun in your room? We can certainly place the vase . . .”

  “Pardon me,” I said, a feeling of familiarity a welcome reprieve. If there was one thing I knew, it was flowers. I’d had my own flower patch in my mother’s garden since I was small, kneeling in the dirt beside her as she worked. I was more at home with my hands in the rich soil than holding a delicate teacup. The hardest part about doing without during the war had been the requisitioning of my flower garden to grow vegetables.

  The woman looked at me, and I realized we were both tall, our eyes level. She was older than me, perhaps in her late forties, but it was hard to judge by exactly how much because of her exquisite skin and flawless makeup. Beneath her elegant hat, her hair was that lovely color of blond that caught the light at every angle, and her slender figure was evident from her form-fitting silk skirt and jacket in the most extraordinary color that reminded me of the sunsets over the lake at Langford Hall.

  She was looking at me expectantly, so before my better judgment could intervene, I pressed on. “You see, if one should sear the stems in boiling water, the blooms will perk up as if they’d just been cut from the garden. And a drop of bleach in the vase is all they’ll need to remain shipshape for two to three days.”

  The woman didn’t say anything as her gaze swept my person from head to toe and then back again. Then she turned toward the young man behind the desk and said, “That sounds like very good advice. I would appreciate it if your people would do as . . .” She paused, waiting.

  “Mrs. Langford,” I supplied.

  “As Mrs. Langford has suggested.”

  The man nodded once. “Of course, Miss Dubose. I will see to it personally.”

  Miss Dubose turned to me again, her clear blue gaze on me. “You’re British, aren’t you, dear?”

  I frowned, having the distinct impression that it hadn’t been my accent that had given me away. “Yes, actually. I am.”

  She smiled tolerantly as if she might be speaking with a young child with food on her face. “Of course you are. I’m American. From Memphis, Tennessee,” she said as if I’d asked. “Are you staying at the Ritz?”

  “I’m just now checking in.” I looked expectantly across the desk.

  The young man handed me a key. “Everything is arranged, Madame Langford. Enjoy your stay.”

  Miss Dubose reached over and took the key from his hand. “Really, Jacques. Is that the best you can do for Madame Langford? She’s come all the way from England, has just given you expert advice on keeping flowers fresh, and you give her a tiny room on the wrong side of the hotel? That won’t do. Please find her another room—preferably one of the suites on the Vendôme side?”

  “Oh no!” I protested. “That’s completely unnecessary. I’m sure the original room is quite suitable.”

  “It isn’t,” Miss Dubose countered. “And this is simply what they do at the Ritz. They make their guests comfortable and happy. Let’s allow them to do their jobs, shall we? I think they get quite upset if they believe we might be unhappy.” She glanced across the desk, where the man stood absolutely still with a smile on his face.

  “Of course,” he said. There wasn’t even a flicker in the man’s eyes. He simply gave another single nod before referring to a large ledger on the desk and pulling out another key. Handing it to me, he said, “Enjoy your stay, Madame Langford. And do let us know how else we may serve you.”

  I turned to look for my valise but found it had disappeared—hopefully to the correct room. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Langford,” Miss Dubose said. “Your clothes will be unpacked and placed in your closets and drawers by the time you get upstairs. And hopefully they can work their magic on your valise, too, although I do say it’s hopeless.”

  I was sure she’d just been insulting, but she was smiling so pleasantly that I wasn’t certain. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Dubose.”

  “How long will you be staying?” she asked, her words spoken slowly and with the irritating habit of consonants disappearing from the endings of her words.

  “I’m not exactly sure. I’m here because . . .” I tried to find words for my reason to be in Paris, but found that I couldn’t explain it even to myself. “I’m on a business trip,” I said with confidence, imagining that’s what Diana would have said.

  “Ah, you’re here for a man.” The woman actually winked at me.

  It felt as if someone had just immersed me in a hot bath. “No, no . . .” I flushed even hotter at my stutter.

  The concierge chose that moment to interject. “One moment, Madame Langford. You have a message.” He handed me a small envelope with my name written on the front in familiar bold, messy, and decidedly masculine handwriting. I peered up at Miss Dubose and found her smiling knowingly.

  “Excuse me,” I said, pulling out a piece of embossed Ritz stationery from the envelope.

  Dear Mrs. Langford,

  I trust that you have arrived safely from England. Allow me to suggest that you spend your first day acclimating yourself to Paris, and then we can rendezvous at the Bar Hemingway (on the Cambon side) at eight o’clock tomorrow evening.

  I look forward to meeting you then.

  Yours,

  Andrew Bowdoin

  I stared at the word rendezvous and my cheeks flamed once more.

  Miss Dubose patted my hand. “An assignation? How simply marvelous.”

  Assignation? That was even worse than rendezvous. It made my hasty visit to Paris seem so . . . sordid. “No, no . . .” I stammered again in protest. “He merely wants to rend . . . meet tomorrow evening at the Bar Hemingway . . .”

  “How delightful. But, darling, you must allow me to take you shopping first.” Her eyes flickered over me, her head turning from side to side as she studied my face and my hair that I’d piled into a functional sort of bun at the back of my head and tucked under my Debenhams hat. “There is so much here to work with and your skin is just lovely when you’re flushing like that.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m supposing that whatever you have in your valise isn’t suitable to wear
, either.”

  Her face brightened, her eyes widening, and I suddenly felt like a fox surrounded by barking beagles. “Meet me right here tomorrow morning at ten, and I will take you shopping at Printemps. I’ll have you looking pretty as a picture before you go meet your beau.”

  “He’s not my . . .”

  Miss Dubose seemed not to have heard me and was waving at someone across the lobby. I followed her gaze toward a pinch-faced and gray-haired woman standing with a cane, wearing clothes that were even more out of fashion than my own. She appeared to be at least ninety years old and in a very loud and shrill American accent was demanding that someone—anyone—find her spectacles (perhaps the same that were currently hanging from her neck) and saying something about surviving the sinking of the Lusitania.

  Turning back to me, Miss Dubose said, “I must go see to my friend, Mrs. Schuyler. It’s been a delight meeting you, Mrs. Langford, and I honestly can hardly wait until our shopping trip tomorrow. You will be transformed. Goodbye for now.” With a little wave of her fingertips, she walked away, her high heels clicking across the floor. Turning her head as she walked, she added over her shoulder, “And that’s a lovely scarf—wear it tomorrow.”

  “But—” I closed my mouth, aware that others had paused to watch. Diana had always loved being the center of attention, but I had never appreciated being a spectacle simply because I hadn’t wanted observers to be disappointed. Feeling the gazes of strangers, I abruptly turned on my heel, my brogues sticking stubbornly to the marble tiles and most likely scuffing the shiny surface, and made a hasty retreat out of the front door, my head down to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze.

  I walked blindly, somehow managing to avoid other pedestrians, simply eager to escape the Ritz and the knowledge that I’d made a fool of myself coming to Paris. I needed to go back to England as soon as possible. I would make my excuses to Miss Dubose in the morning and leave a note for Mr. Bowdoin, and then I would take the first train home.

  Having reached my conclusion, I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. A man bumped into me and said something in French that certainly wasn’t pardon. I looked up at the blue street sign on the building in front of me, hoping I could at least find my way back to the hotel. Rue Volney. I stared at it for a long moment, wondering why it sounded familiar. A stream of angry French erupted beside me as an older man with a long brown cigarette and beret made an exaggerated show of going around me.

  I apologized and moved to the edge of the sidewalk and looked up at the sign again. Rue Volney. I’d seen that name recently. And it had meant something to me, but I was at a loss now in recalling what it had been. A man with a pipe walked past me, heading toward the zebra crossing. I turned at the smell of his tobacco, the scent making my heart ache, my gaze following him across the street. When he’d reached the other side, he entered the corner door of a shop built into the bottom floor of a white plastered building.

  A small table full of stacked books sat on the sidewalk to the side of the entrance, a sign directly over the door reading Livres. Glass-paned windows covered the two angled sides of the building, allowing passersby to view the piles of books inside. I lifted my gaze and there, dangling from the deep awning, hung a large wooden placard with the words Le Mouton Noir.

  I recalled now where I’d seen those words. They’d been stamped inside the cover of Kit’s cherished copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel that he’d bought in France during the war. Which meant he’d been to this bookshop, had walked through those doors, had slid a volume or two from the shelves. Had purchased at least one book in this very store.

  I knew there would be nothing of Kit there still, but something—maybe it had been the pipe smoke—compelled me to find out for myself. I stepped into the intersection, looking right as I always did for oncoming traffic. Someone grabbed my arm from behind, forcibly pulling me back against a strong, firm chest that smelled pleasantly of soap. I opened my mouth to screech out a protest just as a lorry sped past me on the left, passing close enough that I felt the movement of forced air on my face.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” said a decidedly American male voice as the tight grip on my arm ceased. “I hope I didn’t hurt you, but you were looking the wrong way.”

  My heart hammered wildly as I stared up into the face of my rescuer and for the third time in an hour, I found myself blushing profusely. I was a widow with three children and one should be expected at this stage in one’s life not to be so easily ruffled. He was young-looking, with hair the color of hay, and eyes that were either green or brown—I was too flustered to look closely. He was a large man—not like a man who enjoyed his pints, but more like one who enjoyed sports and outdoor activities. Diana would call him muscular and a definite looker. Not that I’d ever use either word although in this case they were decidedly accurate.

  “No. Of course. Thank you. I didn’t see the lorry, you see, and I thought no one was coming, and I wanted to cross the road to the bookshop, and I’m British so I looked right . . .” The words tumbled from my mouth like dandelion seeds, spewing in every direction at an alarming rate.

  A swarm of pedestrians moved toward the crosswalk at the light change, sweeping us across the street as if we were no more than pebbles in a downpour. The man held my elbow as if I were a feeble old woman, escorting me to the other side before making sure I’d safely ascended the curb. I began to tell him that it was all unnecessary and that I was perfectly capable of walking when a loudly gesticulating Frenchwoman speaking to a companion dislodged my hat and knocked it to the sidewalk and then carried on as if unaware of what she’d just done.

  The American bent down to retrieve the hat before anyone trampled on it, pausing for a moment with a small smile on his lips. “I think my mother has this exact same hat,” he said as he handed it back to me. His smile faded quickly as he caught a closer glimpse of my face, visible now without my hat.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I beg your pardon. I thought with . . .” He made a vague movement with his hands either indicating my shoes, my suit, my hat, or all of the above. “I mean, I thought you were older. My greatest apologies.” With a deeply chagrined expression that somehow made him even more appealing, he pulled open the door. “You were headed to the bookshop? I am, too.”

  I glanced behind him to the crowded interior of the shop, the floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with multihued volumes with more stacks of books on the floors crowding the aisles. I could not imagine being in that small space with this large man—not the least reason being that I found him attractive and he thought of me as elderly.

  Clutching my hat to my chest and no doubt crushing it beyond repair, I shook my head. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Thank you again.”

  I turned on my heel, prepared to cross the street from where I’d just come.

  “Look left,” the man shouted as I once again approached the intersection looking the wrong way. Completely mortified, I pretended I hadn’t heard him and instead of crossing the street, took a left down the sidewalk, intent on walking until I’d forgotten the scent of pipe tobacco, and the hazel—yes, they were definitely hazel—eyes of a particularly outspoken, well-fed, and well-groomed American. Except all I’d accomplished after an hour of walking was a pair of very sore feet and a memory that remained startlingly clear.

  Chapter Five

  Aurélie

  The Château de Courcelles

  Picardy, France

  September 1914

  The towers of the Château de Courcelles stood out clearly against the gray-tinged light of dawn.

  Aurélie could have sobbed with relief at the sight of them. She managed to turn the sob to a sort of half gulp, half hiccup, but she couldn’t control the shivers that made her teeth knock together and her skin prickle beneath her too-thin clothes. She balled her hands together to stop their shaking, trying to find some, any, of that buoyant spirit with which she had set off the previous evening, back when it had seemed a brilliant gesture to thumb her nose at Paris and t
he Ritz and spin the wheel east, to Courcelles.

  She had seen the battlefield and assumed that would be the worst of it.

  She had been wrong. So wrong.

  Aurélie yanked the corners of her thin jacket closer and tried to ignore the memory of a hand protruding from a ditch, an English soldier bloated with death and wastewater, his feet bare where someone had looted his boots.

  The crows had been at him, even in the dark she could tell that much. The stench had been appalling. She had forced herself to stay and murmur a quick prayer for his soul—a very quick prayer. It seemed the least she could do. She’d had vague thoughts of covering him somehow, but then the sound of someone’s motor had forced her to flee into the woods, and he had been left to the crows again.

  It felt as though she had been walking for years, cursing the delicate shoes that had been fashioned for the thick rugs of the Ritz, not the viscous mud of Picardy. She had been forced to abandon her beloved Hispano-Suiza somewhere just north of Haudouin, after an anxious farmer, mistaking her for a German, put a bullet in the fuel tank and narrowly missed putting another one into her shoulder. When she’d shouted back that she was French, he’d not apologized, not really, only shouted at her that she was a fool to be about and made some rather alarming insinuations about her status and her level of virtue. Aurélie had deemed it wiser to depart than to debate the point.

  The car was beyond saving. A sacrifice for France, she’d told herself, trying to make light of it, but she’d never imagined how dark the night might be, nor how small she could feel without that metal carapace between her and the world. She took to the fields, but it was slow going in the dark, and she’d found herself floundering about, her skirt knee deep in mud, terrified that she’d lost her way and was going in circles. She’d always prided herself on her sense of direction, but it was one thing to find one’s way by road, another to navigate in darkness by the stars and the sound of shelling behind her.