Chapter Twelve

Charlotte sat on her bed with her latest rejection letter in her hand. The rejection letter that meant she wouldn't have the money to pay her rent for July.

The rejection letter that meant she'd have to leave Paris.

She hadn't been frivolous with her money, but her expenses were higher than she'd anticipated. She'd bought a dress and a secondhand pair of shoes. That and paper and a typewriter ribbon. A few books. But the rejections had piled up faster than the checks. She had been waiting to hear back from a few magazines, hoping for an acceptance to save her. But her time was up.

She never expected being a writer to be easy, but did it really have to be this hard? Maybe she wasn't cut out for Paris.

"Good morning," Nadine said, passing Charlotte's open door. Aside from Madame, who was scrubbing the dining room floor with a deck brush, and the staff, they were the only ones home. Nadine had slept in and missed breakfast because of a late performance. Creases from her pillow lined one side of her face.

"Good morning." Charlotte set her letter aside. "Do you have a minute? I actually want to ask you something."

"Of course." Nadine came into the room and sat next to Charlotte on the bed. Her wrapper hung loose on her thin shoulders, and her long, auburn hair was tousled and curly from the braid she wore at night. "Is everything okay?"

"Well, not really." Charlotte shrugged and her eyes stung. "I'm short on rent for next month."

Nadine stiffened a little at the mention of money, but that was probably because she didn't have any. Charlotte would never ask any of her housemates for money because they were likely living on as little as she was.

She continued, "Very short. And I was wondering if Madame ever gives a boarder more time?"

"Never. Not since I've lived here. And she can be a bitch about it too. Once I had to borrow five francs from one of the ladies next door. From the house of ill repute! Because she wouldn't give me an extra day."

"That's what I was afraid of."

Nadine looked over her shoulder at the door and lowered her voice. "Maybe you have a gentleman friend you could ask for the money?"

Charlotte could ask Antoine. And he'd give her the money for sure. But she couldn't do that. He'd already given her so much, and she shouldn't get in the habit of relying on him. "I don't think I do."

"Or you could sell something?" Nadine's gaze crossed the room and landed on Charlotte's desk. The typewriter.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to do that."

"It happens," Nadine said without judgment. "I know a pawn shop. They'll hold it for you for a month. So if this is only a rough patch, maybe you can get it back as soon as things turn around."

Could things turn around? Or had she not been realistic about the writing trade from the beginning? "It might not turn around until I have a book published. And I think I'll be able to do that soon, but it won't be in the next week."

Nadine reached across the bed and put a firm hand on Charlotte's shoulder. "You can't leave Paris. I have to say that because it's the best place in the world. But for you, leaving Paris could be temporary. You are smart, and you have a loving family who can keep you while you save up and get your book done."

"That's true. I can carry on writing in Vernon without so much expense." She sniffed. "Paris will always be here waiting for me to come back."

"I had to move back in with my aunt twice before I learned enough and earned a good enough professional reputation to afford to be here on my own."

Nadine was right. "I just like it here and don't want to leave. Vernon is so dull in comparison."

"Nobody wants to leave Paris."

"Why didn't you ever find a gentleman friend to help you? I mean, there's no shame in it. And so many actresses do it."

Nadine rolled her eyes. "Oh, that's not my style. I'm probably the only actress in town who doesn't moonlight as a courtesan. But that's the way my mother lived, and I've always told myself that I never would. I saw how those men treated her. Not always, but sometimes. Life is much more stable and less risky when you can provide for yourself." Nadine held up her hands. "Not that I begrudge any woman who does it that way. It's just not for me."

"That's admirable of you—providing for yourself."

"It's something."

Charlotte picked a piece of string off her friend's dress. The world was a harsh place. Her mother had warned her of this many times. It wasn't personal. It was harsh. All the editors who'd stroked her ego and then put her off or rejected her outright or asked her to send something a little more this or a little more that; it wasn't that they didn't like her or didn't like her work. Publishing was business. Just business. There was no sympathy or handouts or easy wins. And no matter how much she loved Paris or the idea of living the writer's life here, that didn't mean her life would happen that way. This didn't make her less of a writer. Just not a rich one. And one day, she might be able to return. The only thing she could do was keep working. She told herself all of this, firmly and with emphasis, but then crumpled back onto the bed and moaned, "I don't want to leave Paris, though!"

"Well," Nadine patted her knee. "You've got a little more time to figure it out. Rent's not due until Monday."

"I do." The typewriter gleamed on her desk. Selling it would be awful. But would it be more awful than admitting defeat and going home? Where her mother would keep her busy and finding time to write would be her greatest struggle. In theory, she could write anywhere. But she'd never been able to write in Vernon the way she was writing now in Paris. "Where's that pawn shop?"

"It's on Pernette du Guillet." Nadine stood up from the bed. "Are you hungry? I'm going to see if there's anything in the kitchen. I can bring you something."

"No, but thank you."

As she was leaving Charlotte's room, Nadine stopped and said, "Try not to worry. It will all work out in the end exactly as it's supposed to."

The next day was Guillaume's party. According to Antoine, there would be some people from publishing there, and so this would be another chance to further her career. But the only real reason she'd been invited was because of Antoine. Not because any of these supposedly powerful publishing friends wanted to meet her. She was just another writer trying to get a break. And the breaks, she knew for a fact, were not widely available. Now that she knew her departure from Paris was more or less inevitable, she didn't care so much about career opportunities.

She'd gone to sleep the night before planning on pawning the typewriter. But in the light of the new day, she couldn't bring herself to do it. She pulled the box down out of her bureau, but couldn't pack up the machine. If she pawned it, it would buy her more time; but she probably wouldn't be able to get it back for much longer than that, if ever. And she might have to go home anyway.

As the day unfolded and Guillaume's party approached, Charlotte realized that there was perhaps good reason to leave the city. Leaving Paris would make things easier between her and Antoine. If she was gone, then he couldn't tempt her with his offers. And he could get on with marrying Louise. This was why she had to go. She needed to make a clean break. The partyat Guillaume's would be their last.

So Charlotte dressed in her new dress and the feathery hat that Antoine had sent. Nadine curled her hair, producing another fashionable success. She arrived at the stately residence in a cab among luxury private carriages. The house was lovely with a spacious foyer and ballroom. The sound of string instruments carried from some ensemble deeper inside. But there were no ostentatious fountains or cascading staircases. The dresses were more casual, the jewels lighter. Charlotte didn't stand out here the way she had at other parties with Antoine's crowd.

Standing inside the door to the ballroom with Guillaume, greeting guests with two people who appeared to be Guillaume's parents, was Antoine. Charlotte's throat tightened, and she swallowed hard as she approached them. Guillaume greeted her first, with a kiss on each cheek. Then Antoine greeted her the same, lingering next to her left ear to whisper how happy he was that she'd come. He was dressed handsomely as always in a black suit with a white tie. He had a red rose pinned on his lapel. A rush of sadness hit her as she stood next to him. This would surely be one of the last times they'd spend together.

After introducing her to Guillaume's parents, Monsieur and Madame Allard, Antoine left the hosts and led her toward the refreshments. "You look beautiful. I've been waiting at the door for you to walk through it."

"From what I've heard you say about Guillaume, the event sounded promising."

"His father has invested in some publishing businesses, and he's friends with Monsieur Bouche, the publisher of étoile Books. I want to introduce you to him. But let's get you a drink first."

A well-dressed server passed Charlotte a glass of champagne. She filled a small plate with petite fours and mini quiches—one of each variety available because they all looked so delicious. Then they found a small table on the edge of the ballroom. The music swelled as she sipped and bubbles broke on her tongue. The quartet was playing on the far end of the room, underneath a stunning circle window assembled from what had to be a thousand smaller petal-shaped pieces. It looked like more a window in a cathedral than a home. It was too dark to see anything through it, only a reflection of the room cut into slices. Several couples were dancing, and many small groups stood around the perimeter of the room. People milled about, visiting and cramming bites of food into their mouths.

"You're awfully quiet this evening."

"What? No. I'm just taking it all in. This is a lovely room." She needed to tell him about her plans to go back to Normandy, but she didn't want to ruin the evening.

"Ah, I see Monsieur Bouche now." Antoine waved to catch an older gentleman's attention, and they stood when Monsieur Bouche came over. He was much shorter than Antoine, with red hair streaked in gray. And he wore small round glasses.

"This is the writer you've been telling me about?"

"Charlotte Devereau, this is Monsieur Bouche. She's working on a collection of stories that portray modern French life with such biting wit and clarity."

"It's a pleasure, monsieur."

"Well, my wife remembered your story in the paper. As soon as Antoine said your name, she knew who you were."

"I am fortunate that so many people read it."

Monsieur Bouche raised an eyebrow. "It was a good story, I'll say that. But is it the start of a career, or a flashpoint? That's what I have to consider as a publisher."

"Her stories have already been published in another paper. La Fronde searched her out to write something for them. She's very much in demand."

"Monsieur de Larminet is being too generous." It was too generous, considering she hadn't been able to sell anything else. Since her realization that she couldn't afford to stay in Paris and her writing wasn't actually going to sustain her, her emotions had been swinging between everything being okay and feeling like an embarrassing imposter.

"I'm not being generous." He smiled at her earnestly. "She's being modest."

"Well, if you have a manuscript, I'd be happy to take a look at it. Books of the feminine nature sometimes don't sell as well because the potential readership is that much smaller when it doesn't include men."

"Oh, I assure you her work will appeal to anyone who enjoys reading." Antoine argued with his characteristic magnetism. "Her charm is universal, and the stories aren't entirely feminine, I wouldn't say."

"You know we might consider publishing it under a man's name," Monsieur Bouche said thoughtfully. "I've heard that can work."

Charlotte's mouth dropped open. She'd heard of this sort of thing, of course. But she'd already published under her own name.

"I assure you, monsieur," Antoine said, aghast. He stood up straighter, emphasizing their height difference. "Charlotte Deveraux's name is an asset. Whatever imprint debuts her book will be greater for it."

Antoine, though smiling politely, was turning red. What had she done to deserve this man? Antoine's dedication to Charlotte and her work couldn't be denied, or attributed to purely physical attraction either. He wasn't saying it to get her in bed, but hearing him take up for her like this made her very much want to be in bed with him. She swallowed the last of her champagne with a gulp.

She turned to Monsieur Bouche, suddenly eager to be away from his company, and said, "I've promised a first look of my collection to Monsieur Patenaude at Palace Books. And now, Antoine and I are heading to the dance floor. It was a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Bouche."

He nodded and slipped away, perhaps as eager to get away from them as she was to get away from him.

Antoine was staring at her in his openly adoring way. "Were we going to dance? Because I didn't remember that."

"I don't feel like sweet-talking publishers tonight." She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor. The musicians were just starting a waltz.

"You don't have to sweet-talk. Your work stands," Antoine argued as they wove through the crowd. "But it probably helps if he can put a face with the name on the manuscript when it comes across his desk."

Her eyes met his when they found a spot on the dance floor, and it was like his attention snapped into place. His gaze swept scandalously over her. Then Antoine wrapped an arm around her waist and held her close. Far closer than was appropriate for friends, or anyone in public. His throat was dangerously close to her nose and mouth. The vanilla and cedar aroma of him snagged her attention. She straightened her back but didn't pull away, her whole body tingling with awareness and melting into flexible submission. The violins took off as they spun and pulled apart and bowed and pulled back together again. He was watching her, smiling mischievously. Around and around they swung in a seductive dance. And every time they came together, he seemed to get closer to her. By the time the song ended, she was hot and entranced in his physical nearness. And thirsty.

He didn't remove his hand from the small of her back until they had fresh flutes of champagne and were seated at one of the little tables around the edge of the room. He wasn't shy about touching her, not the way he had been at other events.

When she caught her breath, Charlotte asked, "How many dances have you promised to these other ladies?"

"Not a single one." He sipped his champagne.

"So you can dance with me again?"

"If we can dance the way we just did." He tugged at his collar.

"And how was that?" She awaited his description, even though she'd been there herself.

"You know what I mean. That was… quite exhilarating. Almost scandalous."

"Do you regret being seen in the throes of dance with a commoner?"

He caught the brush of his mustache with his lower lip, like he was contemplating taking a bite out of her. "No."

"How can you be so sure there isn't a gossip columnist lurking around taking notes?"

"I'd be surprised if there wasn't."

The tension swirled around them like smoke. She almost asked about Louise just to break it. But that wouldn't accomplish anything. Charlotte was leaving town anyway. Perhaps it was time to throw caution to the wind.

"I'm happy to dance with you, Antoine."

"I feel the same."

Charlotte drank a mouthful of her champagne. She should tell him now that she was leaving. But the room was so warm, especially after dancing. "Do you want to step outside? Maybe smoke?"

"I would like that very much."

The air outside was only slightly cooler than it had been inside. But a whisper of a breeze brought some relief.

"Ah, my good friend the vicomte," Guillaume cheered good-naturedly from where he was leaning against a balustrade. He was surrounded primarily by women, but also a few young men and a cloud of smoke.

"Surely you have two cigarettes to lend such a good friend."

"Surely." Guillaume extended his enamel cigarette case, and Antoine took it, removing a cigarette and passing it to Charlotte before removing one for himself and returning the case. The little crowd shifted to let them join in. A post lantern glowed above their heads, and moths circled the light. Crickets chirped from their hiding spots, the sound mingling with the faint music coming from inside.

Antoine struck a match, cupping his hand by Charlotte's face to shield the flame and light her cigarette. Then he used it to light his own before extinguishing it with a shake. The low light cast shadows across his profile, enhancing his already handsome face. He had a face she could look at every day. Could, but couldn't.

Charlotte inhaled and exhaled a puff of smoke that rose into the night. And they fell into the conversation that had been happening before they arrived, about a show that opened the weekend before. A woman in a corset-style dress and long black gloves said the star actress had been a disappointment. She was a famous singer with a reputation for capturing deep emotions in her performances. But not this time. Charlotte hadn't seen it, and probably never would, but she'd heard about it. She'd imagined seeing a show with Antoine because any daydream of Paris apparently included him, but now it was too late. Proximity to culture was perhaps what she'd miss the most about life in the city. Aside from Antoine. She'd miss him terribly. The stimulating conversation, the art, and the shows—she'd miss all that too. Vernon wasn't ugly, but the beauty was harder to find. Or it was difficult for her to see because she'd grown up there. And it would all be the same when she got back. Two months wasn't long enough for the place to change. She hadn't moved to Paris, so much as come for a long visit.

"She lived up to all of my expectations," Guillaume said of the actress. "She had me practically on my knees in those ending scenes."

"I liked her too, but for more reasons than her singing, if you know what I mean," the young gentleman to his left chimed in. His lanky youth helped the joke land, or twisted it around on itself, because no matter how wealthy this young man was, the actress's outsized success put her far out of his realm of possible dates.

The woman next to Charlotte wore a heavy floral perfume that wasn't unpleasant. Her dress was pretty and blue, but not brand new. And her jewelry was simple. She smiled and extended a hand to Charlotte.

"I'm Natalie."

"Charlotte." She smiled warmly.

"How do you know Guillaume?"

"Through Antoine."

"Really? I thought everyone interesting knew Antoine through Guillaume." Natalie looked teasingly at Antoine, biting her bottom lip.

"I can interest people," Antoine said feigning defensiveness. "It does happen."

"Just this once, you mean?"

Antoine laughed along with everyone else, and then the conversation moved on to some juicy piece of gossip about the end of an affair involving people Charlotte didn't know. Even so, they explained so she could laugh too. This was a better crowd than at the fancy ball. They were friendlier. Not as stuffy. Rich, probably, but not because a king gave it to them. Charlotte liked Guillaume, but seeing him in his home, surrounded by his favorite people, she liked him even more. And thank goodness Guillaume was Antoine's closest friend to balance out his snobbish family. It was the kind of party that reflected well on everyone involved, and if she put off telling Antoine about leaving the city, then they could have a lot of fun.