Chapter Sixteen

Charlotte read the letter twice and refolded it. Then she unfolded it and read it again.

My dearest Charlotte,

I write to you with a hasty proposition, which must come in two parts. First, since our intimate evening, I have existed in a state of bliss. Every breath I take is infused with memories of you. Every movement I make elicits the sensation of you. Every flower I see is a reminder. You have ruined me. I have never felt life at this level of sensation, of craving and complete admiration, before. I have read your words over and over again, searching for some relief. But everything only serves to deepen my feelings. I must see you again, most urgently today, and then every day after.

It's important that you read these sincere words and know them deep within your heart. And then please meet me in the park tonight at five. As you may have seen in the paper, our attachment has reached the public eye. If you have been unaware of this recent development, I regret to inform you. The second part of my proposition—the most important part—can only be expressed with both your hands in mine, face to face, with all of my being on the proverbial line.

There is no need to respond. The post won't make it in time, and I don't want my messenger lingering suspiciously outside your door. I will be at the little bridge like always, waiting only for you. Please come, Charlotte. And I promise you will be happy.

Yours always,

Antoine

She had imagined several scenarios in response to the gossip column. Antoine distancing himself from her. Antoine bucking tradition and marrying her instead of the Louise woman his parents chose. Charlotte's mother racing to the city and hauling her back to Vernon. She'd tried to write to Antoine after seeing the article, but she didn't know what to say and decided to wait for him to write to her. Now he had. And he was promising her happiness.

She tried to work, but she couldn't seem to keep herself in her chair. She tried reading, but as her eyes scanned the rows of text, her mind wandered. So she fixed her hair and went out. Charlotte walked down Rue de Fortuny, taking her time to look at all the little details of the neighborhood. It had so quickly begun to feel like home, like she was no longer an interloper or wannabe, but walking down her street in her arrondissement.

If Antoine hadn't given her that money, she'd be leaving it all in a matter of days. She was grateful to him, even if the idea of sleeping with a man for money repulsed her sensibilities. But that's not what she'd done, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. It was as he'd described, a friend helping a friend. She'd slept with him because she loved him. Because she wanted to. And because she'd been so afraid that she'd have to leave him and then so relieved that she didn't have to. As foolish as it sounded, she felt much closer to him as a result. But not in a cheap I've-seen-you-naked sort of way. It was a deeper knowing of him as a person, a closeness that they'd achieved not only in the throes of passion but also in the time they spent. She'd seen his room, been in his bed, observed the setting of his private life. The closer she got, the more of him she wanted.

She reached the end of Rue de Fortuny and turned onto Rue de Prony. It was a mild day for so late in summer with puffy clouds marching across the sky. Domestic workers were finishing their errands. The afternoon papers were arriving at the newsstands. The restaurants were getting ready for dinner service.

Antoine had provided her more time in the city, but publishing was slow and making enough money to stay forever was beginning to seem like a fantasy. And lingering somewhere in her mind was an understanding that her time at Madame's pension was going to end.

Please come, Charlotte. And I promise you will be happy.

Those words gave her hope of staying in Paris permanently. Of being with Antoine. As risky as it could be to dream, she could picture them living together in an apartment. It would be a nice, spacious place because he was rich, but not as opulent as his current residence. She didn't consider how he might feel about moving out of his family home for a more modest existence because, most importantly, it would be theirs. They could fill it with books, and she could have an office. And they could make a life together there, with dinner parties and conversations with friends, but also with quiet Sundays reading by the fire. With plenty of I've-seen-you-naked too, of course. She shouldn't, because dreams never work out the way we dream them, but as she walked, she dared to.

She reached Park Monceau early and found a bench along the path that led to the bridge where Antoine said he'd be. The green lawn spread out before her. Two children were chasing a little black dog with curly hair and a leash dangling from its neck. A man and woman were lying on a picnic blanket and reading from the same open book. Beyond the grassy area, the glassy pond reflected the pale sky. A few minutes later, Antoine appeared around a bend in the path. Slim and handsome in his suit. But as he drew closer, there was something worrisome or anxious in his eyes and the set of his jaw.

Charlotte stood up from the bench when he reached her, and Antoine greeted her with a kiss on each side of her face.

"My darling, I was so worried you wouldn't come. Please, sit."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because of that horrible article, of course. You've seen it, haven't you?" He sat close to her on the bench and took her hand. "I was worried you'd never speak to me again."

"I did see it." And she was almost certain that her housemate had something to do with it. Vanessa worked at the same paper and had been conveniently present when Charlotte came in that morning. Even more suspicious was the fact that she hadn't seen Vanessa since. But that didn't matter now. The damage was done. Though she might never speak to Vanessa again.

"I fear everyone in the city did." Antoine looked stricken as he spoke, his eyes tired and regretful. He wasn't as dismissive of this article as he had been about the others, which worried her even more.

"What is it that you need to ask me?"

"I need to tell you, Charlotte, that seeing you has been a dream. One I desperately want to continue. But now that everyone in the city is reading about our intimate glances, things are more complicated."

"They are."

"And I'm afraid I don't know how best to say what I have to say, so I'm just going to do it. I've asked Louise to marry me."

"What?" Charlotte pulled her hand away. This wasn't one of the scenarios she'd imagined. Foolish Charlotte.

"The engagement will be announced as soon as tomorrow." The words looked like they hurt coming out. His brow crumpled and his eyes closed to the unbearable. "I wanted you to hear it from me before you found out from someone else."

"I can't believe this." Charlotte ached like her ribs might collapse.

"Charlotte, my dear. I know you said you wouldn't become my mistress, but that was before. Before we knew how wonderful we are for each other. And I understand that the timing of this is a disaster. I would much rather we had more time together without a wedding getting in the way. But it doesn't have to change anything between us."

"What do you mean it doesn't have to change anything?" Could terrible news break a person's ribs?

"I've spoken with Louise. She understands our connection perfectly and won't interfere. She's sleeping with her family's gardener, for goodness sake. And if you can't stay at your current place, then I want to get you an apartment. Anywhere you want in the city. A place all your own where you can work and have company. A place where we can be together undisturbed."

"An apartment?"

"Yes. Anywhere you want."

The ache in her chest grew into something sharper, a stabbing pain. Her heart shattering. And a flame sparking in its place. "Where we can be together, separate from the life and family and home you're building with your wife?"

"Charlotte," he said soothingly. "I've told you about Louise and my commitment to my family. It's not exactly what I want either, but it's a way for us to be together. People do it all the time."

"I don't."

"But Charlotte, I love you. And I believe you love me. So I'm asking you, because our love is so real, to try it. To let me try to make you happy."

Suddenly, everything clicked into place. His mention of his fiancée sleeping with a gardener, and the fact that he would put his relationship with his precious family at risk to sue them but not to marry her. He was never going to change his mind. No matter how modern his mind, his heart lived somewhere far more traditional. Charlotte's hands trembled in her lap. And then a hot rage surged in her like she might explode. She stood up from the bench and faced him.

"You asshole. I can't believe you're asking me this. I can't believe you're using our love as an excuse for your infidelity. You act like you're powerless against this arranged marriage, but you could just not marry her. You could have not proposed to Louise. You could have stopped kowtowing to your mother because you feel guilty that your brothers died and you didn't. But you didn't do that, when if you really truly loved me, you would have. No, Antoine. No. I will not be your mistress."

Charlotte turned and stomped away as fast as she could.

Antoine called after her and followed. But when he came up behind her, she turned and shot him a look filled with so much vitriol that he stopped short and let her go. A white rage consumed her as she walked so fast she was almost running. Her shoes scraped angrily over the sidewalk, hands fisted at her sides. Not even the exertion of her walk eased her fury. She just made it back to Rue de Fortuny and upstairs into her room before she burst into tears.

Charlotte cried until she was numb. And then she lay there for a long time, splayed on her stomach, face to the side so she could breathe. She'd left her window open, and the sheer curtains moved with the breeze. The sounds of carriages passing on the street below carried in. And the occasional sound of movement or conversation penetrated the walls of the house. The light in the room faded. But she couldn't bring herself to move.

A knock came. Probably dinner time. She wasn't hungry. But when she didn't answer, Nadine opened the door and looked in. "Charlotte, dear, is everything okay in here?"

"No. But yes. I'm fine."

"It's dinner time."

"I'm not hungry."

Charlotte hadn't moved. She couldn't see Nadine, but her footfalls crossed the room and then a hand landed on her back.

"What's wrong, Charlotte?"

She inhaled and exhaled a sigh. Then she rolled over and sat up. "Nothing," she said, smoothing her hair.

"It's obviously not nothing."

"If I say it, I'll start crying again." She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Come down for dinner. Cook made a lovely salad."

"I'd rather stay here."

"Vanessa won't be there, if that's what you're worried about."

Charlotte suspected Vanessa had been the gossip columnist's source. The fact that Nadine suspected the same only made it more clear. The column, like a gun going off, had set her whole day in motion, and her housemate pulled the trigger. Charlotte hadn't truly been able to care about that part of her mess yet. "It's fine. I'm unwell. Tell Madame and Cook how sorry I am."

"Can I put on your lights?"

"Sure."

Nadine lit the lamp on Charlotte's desk, patted her on the shoulder, and left. Charlotte rubbed her eyes as they adjusted to the light. Her room was neat as always, except for her stacks of books and papers. She should try to work or read or do something to distract her mind. But she couldn't move. She just sat there, taking in the space of her Paris life, everything she'd worked so hard to create, everything she stood to lose. Antoine had never been to her room, but his presence was everywhere. His notes on her manuscripts, the pile of his letters that were too sweet to dispose of, the typewriter. All of it paralyzed her.

She lost track of how long she'd sat there, swirling in an eddy of thoughts until another knock came on her door.

"Yes," she said without moving from her spot on the bed. The same spot where she'd rolled over and sat up to talk to Nadine over an hour before.

It was her again. "I brought you a tray."

"Okay."

Nadine stepped inside and set the tray on Charlotte's bed. There was a salad, bread and butter, a cup of coffee, and a familiar-looking envelope.

"Your fancy man's messenger came during dinner," Nadine explained.

When Charlotte didn't respond, didn't even move, Nadine patted her shoulder again and left the room.

There was no way Charlotte was going to read that letter. Nothing Antoine could say would make this situation any better. And so after a few minutes of staring at the tray, she picked up the coffee cup. It was strong and still warm enough to perk her out of her daze. After a few sips, Charlotte got up and took off her dress. She wet a hand towel in her pitcher and pressed it to her face, which she caught sight of in her little mirror. She was red and swollen in the most miserable way. Tears—still more of them—welled in her eyes as she undressed and unpinned her hair, but she blinked them away. She ate a forkful of salad and a bite of bread. Then she set the tray aside on her dresser, put out her light, and crawled into bed, where she stayed for the rest of the night.

?

All the windows on the third floor were dark, and only one was open. Antoine didn't know for sure that any of them belonged to Charlotte, though she had mentioned residing on the third story. Two women wearing lipstick and walking arm in arm eyed him as they passed and mounted the stairs to the house next door. Antoine nodded and pretended to move along until they were gone. Then he quickly circled back to pass under that open window again.

He'd sent a letter right before dinner, and whoever received the messenger had refused to call Charlotte down so he could put it in her hand, as Antoine had instructed. And so now he was here, lurking under a window he wasn't completely sure was hers. His carriage and driver were parked down the street. He hadn't known how stupid he'd been until that sharp look from Charlotte hit him like a dagger in the chest. Of course, Charlotte would not stay with him if he married another woman. She had told him so in as many words. He'd been an idiot, and yes, an asshole, to think that she would change her mind on such a fundamental point.

Although Charlotte could have been somewhere in the house asleep, Antoine felt in his gut that she wasn't. So where was she? As a result of his foolishness, Charlotte could be out with another man. She could have her hand on another man's arm right at that moment and be laughing at his jokes. The thought of it implanted in his mind and from it grew a desperate jealousy.

He could knock and present himself properly to whoever answered. He'd been introduced to Diane, but there was no guarantee that she'd answer or receive him well if Charlotte had told her what he'd done. Based on what Charlotte had said about the woman who ran the place, she would be highly suspicious of a gentleman knocking on the door and asking for one of her tenants. He didn't want to make any more trouble for her.

When the front door of Charlotte's house pushed open, Antoine turned away and walked as if he was leisurely passing by and not lingering. Someone was leaving. Antoine turned casually over his shoulder to see if it was Charlotte, but it was Diane and her sister, laughing and talking, heading in the opposite direction. They hadn't seen him, but Antoine kept walking toward his waiting carriage. He couldn't hang around like this any longer. But he also couldn't accept that this was the end. He needed to speak to Charlotte, make his case one more time. Ease her into the idea slowly. She would come around. She had to. When a connection as powerful as theirs, a relationship so deep, existed, then the discussion of how to navigate it would be ongoing. It couldn't ever be a closed issue. Their love was a living thing. Their relationship. And he'd warned her that this was coming. The sting she felt now would surely subside. He couldn't lose her, could he?

The next morning, Emile came to Antoine's room early to help him dress. Antoine and his parents were supposed to have breakfast with the Montmorencys and then spend the day at the club. Antoine, still hopeful that he could remedy the situation with Charlotte was disappointed not to find a response from her in the morning's post. Disappointed, but not surprised. This was what she did. When she was mad, she didn't respond. It would be fine. It had to be.

"You're quiet this morning, monsieur," Emile said, helping Antoine into his coat.

"I'm a little distracted. You're sure nothing else came in the post? I was expecting something."

"I can check again, if you like."

"No. It's fine. Sorry."

"It's natural to be distracted by such an important step as marriage."

"Believe me, things would be much easier if that were all it was." The words came out sharper than he intended. "I'm sorry for my tone. I'm just upset because not everyone is so thrilled about my engagement."

"Do you mean Mademoiselle Devereaux?"

"I do. How did you know?"

"I read the papers, monsieur. And am I to presume that the lady I encountered on her way out the other morning was Mademoiselle Devereaux?"

A chill fell over Antoine. He didn't even know all the details of Charlotte's departure. "Did she seem upset? When you ran into her?"

"No, monsieur. Startled and embarrassed, but not upset."

"Well, she's upset now, to say the least. She's breaking ties with me because of the marriage, though I'm holding out hope that she'll change her mind."

"May I speak freely, monsieur?"

"Please do."

"Perhaps it would be best to give her some space. You're the one getting married, after all. Not to her. I'm sure she is quite disappointed."

"But I was honest with her from the start. She's always known that I have to marry someone from a titled family. She's aware of my duties to my family."

"But does that make it any less disappointing, if you consider it from her perspective?"

"No. It doesn't."

"Will you need anything else, monsieur?"

"No, thank you."

Emile left the room. He was right. Even though Charlotte knew about Louise, she had perhaps hoped for a different outcome. Just because you know something terrible exists on the horizon, doesn't make it any less terrible when it arrives. Antoine hated himself for causing her this pain. He absolutely couldn't bear it. Emile was right about her anger; it wasn't going anywhere fast. But Charlotte had to come around. All Antoine wanted was her, every day for the rest of his life. While there were occasional sacrifices, he more or less always got what he wanted. Didn't he?

He couldn't stop reaching for her. Before leaving for breakfast, he wrote a short note and sent for a messenger.

"Try again to put it in her hand yourself."

"Should I await a response?" The young man's mother worked in the kitchen, and he came a few times a week to run errands. This wasn't his first trip to Rue de Fortuny, and Antoine made sure to tip him well for his long journey.

"No need for that. Just take note of how she reacts, if you will. But I'll give you extra money to stop and buy her flowers on your way. See if you can make her smile."