Chapter Eleven

A summery breeze carried in through Charlotte's window, and somewhere in the distance, someone was playing the piano. The notes were faint but smooth. Her desk chair creaked under her. She'd spent the past few days assembling pages, making edits on the sheets in pencil, and then retyping the ones she'd fixed up. Now she had four stories, about fifty pages, stacked in a neat pile on the corner of her desk. She'd wrapped and tied them in a piece of red satin ribbon, which seemed more seductive than a simple piece of string. She stopped herself from spritzing it with her perfume, but may have applied some on her person within close range a time or two. Such a fool she'd become for love! And how easy it was to ignore the fact that he might never change his mind. All she had to do was figure out what to write in the note accompanying it.

She pulled out a crisp piece of her best stationery and poised her pen to write. Since that kiss in the park, he'd written to encourage her to send her stories. She shouldn't have kissed him because he still planned to marry another woman, and Charlotte hadn't changed her mind about what that meant for her and Antoine. But she didn't exactly regret it either. Kissing Antoine had been like melting into a pleasant, happy puddle and wanting nothing else. Although she hesitated to acknowledge it, a flicker of hope had sparked in her—hope that he'd change his mind and forget all about his stupid family traditions. She kept her note simple.

Antoine,

I am deeply grateful that you've agreed to read these pages. There's so much I could say, and after going around about it, I've decided not to. I will let the work speak for itself. I look forward to your feedback.

Sincerely,

Charlotte Deveraux

She folded the note. Then she packaged her manuscript in a craft paper envelope, tucked the missive inside, addressed it to Antoine, and carried it downstairs to put it in the post. Then she took a walk to forget about Antoine and her pages and the fact that he'd soon enough be reading them.

Later that evening, when Charlotte went down for dinner, her housemates were already seated and gossiping about the ladies in the house next door. Charlotte put a slice of roast chicken and three small red potatoes on her plate as the dishes were passed around. Nadine filled her glass and Charlotte's with red wine. She didn't know which neighbor the women were talking about, but she'd gathered quickly that it wasn't one of the ones Madame deemed respectable. Charlotte found the women she encountered in her neighborhood, and everywhere in the city really, to be fascinating creatures. Overdressed and concerned with such a multitude of sins.

"You heard about that one didn't you?" Catherine said, nodding at Madame.

"I know she left," Diane said. They were talking about one of the neighbor girls who'd come around a few times with Diane. "She didn't tell me why, I didn't had a chance to ask she was gone so fast."

"She was taking gentleman callers," Madame Tremblay said. "I spoke to Madame Placard this morning."

"Madame, that could mean anything from having a boyfriend to prostitution," Vanessa said. "Did you ask her for more details?"

"Lord, no," Madame said breathlessly. "I don't want any sort of details in my mind."

"So what will happen to her, then?" Charlotte asked, genuinely curious. These matters were largely about perception. What happened to the fallen ladies everyone was always talking about? Did they all just die in poverty and misery like Fantine? Or did they bounce from one man to the next? Because that was the risk: that a man would tire of her and her reputation would be ruined.

"A baron's son is putting her up in the second. I saw her this afternoon after work," Catherine explained. "She said it's a nice place, and she was wearing a new dress."

"That doesn't sound so terrible, to be honest," Nadine said.

Madame Tremblay shot her a hot look. "Don't get any ideas, mademoiselle. That's not a life that will lead you to a happy place. You girls need to learn how to take care of yourselves. That's the only secure path for a woman. That's why I opened my doors to you, to help you do that."

"I know, I know." Nadine rolled her eyes lovingly. She always joked, but she did seem to heed Madame's advice. She never brought men around. If she were seeing someone, she'd been doing it in secret and nowhere near Madame's respectable pension.

"What happened to the woman who lived in my room before me? I don't remember her name. The one with the gentleman caller?"

"Her name was Fleur," Vanessa said. "She's still in the apartment. Is that what you mean by what happened to her?"

"I don't know. Is she still with the gentleman she was caught with?"

"She actually isn't," Nadine said. "But she's seeing someone else. And she'd saved quite a bit of his money, sold some jewelry. She said you kind of have to do that anyway because a new man wouldn't appreciate seeing gifts from previous lovers adorning a mistress."

"I've told you to be careful socializing with a woman like her." Madame clutched her fork and knife while she gave her warning, and then she sliced into her chicken breast. "Though I'm happy to hear she's all right."

"She came to see me after a show a few weeks ago. We keep in touch."

Charlotte considered this fate. A powerful, wealthy man's mistress might live well until he tired of her and replaced her with someone younger. But some men kept the same mistress forever alongside the same wife. She'd heard stories about those arrangements too. Would finding herself broke after a man abandoned her be worse than being broke because she couldn't sell a story? There was risk in any romantic entanglement, but she imagined her future life would be alongside a best friend, a companion who didn't need anyone else but her to be happy. That's what her parents had. That was what she wanted. Maybe her parents had limited her idea of what a marriage could be. Maybe she was too idealistic. But that was what she imagined for herself. Too bad she kept picturing Antoine there.

"No woman needs a man to take care of her," said Madame Tremblay. "Especially not in this day and age. There are better opportunities. People aren't as backward. You all have it easier than I did."

Charlotte wasn't so sure. She'd received two more rejections in the post that morning. She was running out of options for placing her pieces. Even with Antoine's help, it might be too late. She might be heading back to Vernon.

"Why so curious about Fleur?" Vanessa asked Charlotte pointedly. "Thinking of getting into mistressing?"

"No. Not at all." She made a face to emphasize the fact that she would never consider it. They were all watching her. "Just curious."

Being curious was different from being someone's mistress. No matter how tempting, she wasn't going to be that. For the rest of dinner, she listened to her friends gossip and started formulating a plot in her head. A woman gives up her ambitions to become an aristocrat's mistress, but she's flung loose and forced to live on a budget when he dies unexpectedly in a train accident. She ate her chicken and plotted. By the time she got back to her desk, the words poured out of her.

?

Two weeks later, they were back at the café on Champs-élysées.

"I know you're behind my busy social calendar," Charlotte said after they'd finished discussing her latest stories. Antoine had worked his social connections to get Charlotte, the up-and-coming writer, invited to two different salons and a party.

"But there is always a publisher or two, so consider it professional advancement." This was true, even if he wanted nothing more than opportunities to spend more time with her.

Every time, Charlotte held her ground. There had been no kissing or gentle touches. When he reached for her, she pulled away. She toned down the flirting and refused to dance with him more than one time a night. They were friends and nothing more. Still, he'd been spending exponentially more time with her than with Louise. A name he dared not say in Charlotte's company.

After the party—a large affair at the home of a judge and his extravagant young wife—Charlotte and Antoine were mentioned in two different gossip columns. Nothing more insinuating or damning than a mention. Two names listed benignly in a sentence. So and so talked to so and so. His mother didn't even mention it. But the friendship had become more visible, and therefore riskier in a way, even if they weren't engaged in an affair. Knowing this hadn't made it any easier for him to pull back.

Antoine stacked their empty pastry plates and put his elbows on the table. Charlotte was lovely this morning, as always, in her gray skirt and a green ruffled blouse. And he wasn't ready to end their little meeting.

"Can I tell you something, Charlotte?"

"Of course."

"Do you remember me telling you that my father sold our family's estate?"

"I do remember you mentioning that." She nodded when the server came around with a coffee pot. And Antoine pushed his cup over for a refill as well.

"I'll take the check whenever you're ready," Antoine told the server, who nodded, cleared the empty dishes, and departed. Then Antoine turned back to Charlotte. "Well, I've asked him to give the money to the tenants who are being displaced by the new owners."

"Who are the new owners?"

"Developers. I guess they plan to build a factory."

"And what did your father say?"

"He said no. Absolutely not."

"It's a lot of money, I assume."

"It is, but we don't need it. I've checked."

Her blue eyes flashed with something shocked but fleeting. "So what are you going to do?"

"I'm not even sure there's anything I can do. But I suppose I feel like a terrible son even pursuing it. I've made an appointment with a lawyer."

"Oh, my. You really are pursuing it then."

"I am. So how terrible does that make me?"

"Well, I can't speak for your father. And something tells me that he and I would have differing opinions. But, Antoine, if your family doesn't need the money, but it will help so many others, then your father is wrong."

"I agree. But I'm afraid it will tear my family apart if I go through with it."

Charlotte got quiet then, refocusing her attention on her coffee cup. When she didn't say anything for a few minutes, Antoine broke the silence.

"Does it bother you to talk with me about things like this?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean money. Class. Is it difficult for you to talk to me about it?"

"Don't take this personally, Antoine. But it seems to me that if things like marrying for love and doing what's right are what's threatening to tear your family and traditions apart, then maybe you should all reconsider what's holding it together. Thank you for the croissant."

She rose, and he did as well. He still hadn't paid, and so he reached for his wallet. But Charlotte was already walking away. When she reached the door, she looked back at him. Her blue eyes simmered. But she smiled, so she couldn't be that mad. Could she?

Antoine was still wondering about it the next day on the tennis court with Guillaume. The sun had been up for less than an hour but the early summer heat was already taking hold of the day. After his meeting with Charlotte, Antoine had gone out with René and drank too much whiskey, lamenting the state of his love life. Now sweat was running into his eyes, down his chest and legs. His feet felt heavy and his reactions were sluggish. And Guillaume, who had gone to bed early the night before, was proving to be an apt competitor. Over and over again, he returned the ball as easily as a bird takes flight. Antoine, meanwhile, could hardly hit a thing. This carried on until Guillaume grew bored.

After he thoroughly mopped the court with Antoine, they retired to the locker room, where they showered and dressed in amicable silence. Now they were standing side by side, combing their hair and tying their ties.

"Sorry my game was off," Antoine said.

"I hardly noticed," Guillaume said smugly. But then he cleared his throat and apologized. "I almost forgot that your brothers' anniversary is coming up. That's probably what's distracting you."

Antoine hadn't considered it, but the anniversary was in a few days. That wound had closed, for the most part. Now it was a dull, ever-present ache that persisted all year long. "Maybe you're right."

"My parents are hosting a dinner party," Guillaume said to Antoine in the mirror. "Next Friday. I've invited you."

"Sounds lovely." Guillaume's parents always pulled off a fun evening. Their events were smaller, more intimate, and less stuffy than many others he was expected to attend.

"Louise's family is not invited."

Antoine eyed Guillaume curiously.

"My parents don't know them." Guillaume shrugged and put his comb away. "But if you wanted her to be there, it's probably not too late."

Guillaume was testing him; he knew damn well that Antoine didn't really want Louise anywhere.

"No, that's all right. Though I suppose it's not good to say so."

"Probably not."

They left the locker room and made their way to the exit. The club buzzed with activity, attendants running errands, and people coming on and off the courts. All the same people they saw every time they came, dressed in their stylish whites to be seen as much as to play.

They asked the club attendant in the lobby to call up their carriages. Then they walked out to wait in the garden. Guillaume lit a cigarette.

"You know who would be a good addition to your guest list?" Antoine said, leaning against a gate. "Charlotte Deveraux."

"I have been secretly waiting for you to propose just that."

"I don't know why."

"It's clear you like her. It's not so clear that she likes you. But I hang around with you enough to see the pattern of you getting her invited almost everywhere."

"She's good company, is all."

Guillaume took a long drag of smoke. "And she's still refusing you."

"I haven't asked her for anything but her friendship."

"Sure you haven't."

"So maybe I have. She's a friend, she insists. And a good writer. I want to help her. I want her to be happy."

"Does that mean being with you?"

"I certainly think so. Though I don't believe she agrees."

"Does Louise know about her?"

"There's nothing Louise needs to know, at least not yet. And as we've already established. Charlotte has refused me. Until she changes her mind, there's no reason Louise needs to know anything."

"Sounds like a tangled web."

The carriages came around then. "Will you invite her or not?"

"Of course, I will. I happen to like Charlotte very much." Guillaume waggled his eyebrows suggestively. The urge to hit him came suddenly, then subsided the way it often did with friends. Antoine couldn't even think about another man swooping in and snatching Charlotte away. And if he wanted to see her at Guillaume's party, he had to be nice.

On the morning of June 17, Mother came down from her rooms dressed in black, as was her custom for the anniversary of her eldest sons' deaths. Antoine had been thirteen when it happened; within a matter of days, they'd both fallen ill and were gone. Antoine and his parents' lives had never been the same since. Antoine and Father had already gathered in the drawing room to mark the occasion in quiet togetherness. But Mother was smiling, strangely enough, while she poured her coffee and settled into the settee.

"Your father and I had the lawyer draw up a marriage contract while we were there last week. The papers arrived today."

Aha. She was maneuvering. That explained the cheerfulness. Antoine didn't hate having the power to please her. But the responsibility wasn't so easy to bear either. Especially with the growing sense of doom associated with the idea of marrying Louise. Why couldn't his mother find her purpose in some other pursuit that didn't involve him?

"Are the Montmorencys aware that you're taking legal action?"

"That was my question for you. Can the Montmorencys anticipate an engagement? Soon?"

"I assume you've given them every indication that it's in the works."

"Stop talking around it, Antoine. Isn't it time to propose?"

This was the first time she seemed to be moving past the deaths of his brothers. After the tragedy of their passing only hours apart, this day came and went each year. And it was always a cruel annual reminder that Antoine was alive and his brothers weren't. He hated to deny her when her eyes sparkled with hope.

"I have some other concerns at the moment, but I assure you that I will do as I'm told and propose to Louise. Eventually."

"I suppose that will have to keep my spirits afloat for now." She sipped her hot coffee thoughtfully. "We'll just look at the contract to make sure it's ready when the time comes.And it's nice to have something to look forward to, isn't it?"

Antoine settled into an armchair and drank his coffee. He wasn't a romantic, necessarily. The moment didn't need to be right for a proposal like his. There didn't need to be any elaborate declarations or grand gestures. Just terms of a contract hashed out by lawyers and their parents. There was nothing romantic about it. He could save the romantic gestures for Charlotte, if she'd only let him.

It had been weeks since they kissed in the park; though the more pressure his mother put on him about proposing, the more he sought respite in the memory of her mouth on his. But he'd been consumed by her pages. Reading her stories, inhabiting her mind had been like a fever dream. Every word chosen, every phrase soaked in wit. He'd read through all four of the stories two times in one sitting and was weak in the knees when got up. He'd never experienced such pure and passionate affection. A life without this glorious sensation would be no life at all. However, the last time he saw Charlotte, she'd left abruptly, and Antoine still wasn't sure where he stood with her.

Later that afternoon, Antoine took the carriage to the offices of Martin, Barbier, and Marchambeau in the fifth arrondissement. A bell above the door chimed when he walked inside, just in time for his appointment with the lawyer he hoped would help him get money out of his father.

The office wasn't nearly as stately or impressive as his father's lawyer's. Instead of walls covered in shelves of leather-bound books, a thin rack of books sat behind his simple, narrow desk. There was no view of the charming street from these windows. Even if the windows were low enough to see anything, the view was more likely to offer petty crimes than charm.

"Ah, Monsieur de Larminet." The lawyer's chair squeaked when he rose to shake Antoine's hand, which he did firmly.

"Monsieur Barbier. Thank you for seeing me." His youth was surprising. Not a gray hair on his head. Perhaps even younger than Antoine. He probably couldn't afford a nicer office because he hadn't been practicing for long. Still, Antoine was impressed by anyone who had to work to secure a living and position in society. It was something he would never have to do, even if he did give away all the money from selling the estate. He'd never have to do anything with his life except read and enjoy himself. This was why he believed the tenants who worked the land deserved a degree of security. And hopefully, this man was the lawyer to figure out how to do it.

"This is quite a generous request," Barbier said.

"My father doesn't think so."

"I'm sure not." When Barbier asked about Antoine's motive, Antoine explained everything as the lawyer nodded his head. They had drinks and talked about their childhoods. And they hashed out a plan that might work, if it didn't kill his father first.

By the end of the meeting, with a glass of whiskey in his system, Antoine had grown friendly enough with the lawyer to ask him about the plain gold wedding band he wore.

"I've been married for nearly two years now. We're expecting our first baby in a few months." He spoke with pride that seemed even more mature than his profession.

"Well, congratulations, to a man who seems to have it all."

"I am lucky."

"And your wife? She's perfect I'm sure."

His eyes gleamed. "She is. My best friend."

"That's nice. My marriage, which I'm putting off as long as I can, will be more of an arrangement than a friendship."

"I had a client in such a case recently. He became good friends with his wife eventually. They're still friends. Though no longer married."

"No? What happened?"

"No matter how much he cared for his wife, he couldn't seem to give up his mistress." Barbier shrugged. "It wore on the relationship. But because he'd befriended the wife, she understood. They'd been waiting until his mother died to divorce."

"My god." Antoine's gut sank. "That story slices a little close for my taste."

"Are you in love with your mistress, Monsieur de Larminet?"

"You could say that." His words came out distractedly. He was busy putting himself in the anecdote, imagining himself divorcing Louise after his mother's death because he had been in love with Charlotte the whole time. What kind of man lived his life in such a way? Not one that a woman like Charlotte would wait for, let alone tolerate. No wonder she seemed so annoyed with him.

"My wife keeps my hands too full to pursue any others, even if I wanted to. So I can't help you with the heart in that respect."

Antoine thanked him and stood.

Barbier stood as well. "Let me know when you're ready to write your will. And, of course, I'll be in touch."