Chapter Seventeen

Charlotte hesitated and then knocked twice on Vanessa's door. When nothing but silence came from the other side, she tried the knob. Locked. It had been for three days now. The article was published and Vanessa disappeared. No explanation or apology. Nothing. Charlotte was taking this as an admission of guilt, but she still wanted a confrontation.

After listening for another moment for Vanessa, Charlotte retreated downstairs to try filling the pit in her stomach with some breakfast. She'd not only lost her love, but Antoine had also been her friend. Every thought was followed by a desire to know what he'd think. He was there every time she sat down to write, not only in his messy margin notes, but in every character and situation she imagined. She missed him terribly. She'd gone to the park the other afternoon, and when she passed the places where they'd been together, she nearly burst into tears. When she walked down the street, she searched every face in the crowd for his. Paris wasn't the same without him. But she'd also been hardening these past few days, ignoring Antoine's multiple letters and searching the papers for his wedding announcement. Every time it wasn't there, a feather of hope that maybe he'd reconsider tickled her insides.

In the dining room, there were three croissants on a platter in the middle of the table. Madame Tremblay stuffed the last bite of hers into her mouth as Charlotte was sitting down and helping herself to one. Madame smiled as she chewed and swallowed. Then she held out the morning copy of Le Figaro .

"I've finished with it, dear. And I'm afraid I can't sit with you. Cook and I are off to the market in a few minutes." She put a hand on Charlotte's shoulder as she left the room. Charlotte poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe on the table and unfolded the newspaper. That was when one of the little preview headlines under the fold caught her eye: "Future Vicomte to Marry and Other Society News, page 8."

Dread filled her as she frantically turned the pages, even though she knew exactly who the headline referred to. And there it was, on the top of the page, Antoine's wedding announcement and several columns worth of text about his and the bride's esteemed families and connections to long-dead royalty. She read it twice while numbly eating her croissant. So he hadn't changed his mind after all.

After breakfast, Charlotte went upstairs and closed her door. She sat on her bed for a long time, staring at the sky through her window. The beautiful summer day taking hold of the city. For the first time, she couldn't stand the sight of it. She wanted to rip up every feather of hope she'd ever felt over that stupid man. Desperate to be anywhere but in the city where her life had been so wrapped up in his, she got up and packed her things. She wrote a note to assure Madame that she'd be back or at least send word before the next rent payment was due. Then Charlotte walked to the train station and bought a one-way ticket to Vernon.

She rode in quiet agony with her head against the rest, staring out the window as city transitioned to outskirts and then countryside. She hated to leave, but she couldn't stay another minute. And his wedding on the horizon. It was nearly dark when Vernon came into view. And despite herself, relief fluttered through her. Maybe it always felt a little good to be home, no matter how badly you'd wanted to leave. When she stepped off the train and onto the platform, a porter helped her with her bags and to find a cab. And when her mother opened the door and saw her standing there, they both cried.

Two days later, Charlotte met her friend Marie for lunch at the inn in downtown Vernon and told her everything that had happened.

"I saw in the Paris papers that you'd been seen out with him," Marie said. Her hair was curled and more sophisticated than Charlotte remembered, but otherwise Marie hadn't changed. Even her dress was familiar and comforting to see. "I thought for sure you'd be marrying him."

"No fairy tales for me, sadly," Charlotte said. She'd written to Marie a few times when she first arrived in Paris, but they hadn't corresponded for a month. She'd walked into the shop on Charlotte's first morning back in town, and the two women had squealed and hugged each other. If there had been any hard feelings about losing touch, neither one of them mentioned it.

The server arrived at the table with bowls of soup and bread, and both women were silent for a few minutes while they ate. It was strange how easily Charlotte fell back into the rhythms of her life before Paris. It had seemed like a lifetime, but she'd only been gone for a few months. Everything was just as she'd left it. That first morning back in town, she woke up early and wrote before the day started. Then she helped in the store through the busy morning hours. All day, familiar faces came and went, curious as to how long she'd be back and about her experiences in Paris. No one seemed to care that she was back because she'd failed to make it on her own, though they may have been gossiping about her as soon as they left the store.

She'd left the stack of Antoine's letters boxed up with some other papers on her desk in Paris so she wouldn't be tempted to keep reading them. And she'd given the bouquets of flowers he'd sent to Cook and Claire. Aside from the hat stuffed in her parents' hall closet and the typewriter, which she hardly associated with him anymore because she used it every day, the physical reminders of Antoine were gone. Her parents and brother were happy she was home. And something about the return to this rhythm made her appreciate the fact that she'd been to Paris at all.

"I didn't want to say anything because you're so heartbroken, but I can't stand to keep quiet," Marie said with a bashful smile. "I've met someone. And I think it could be serious."

"Oh, that's wonderful! Who is he?"

"Don't worry. It's not Pierre, though they do know each other."

Charlotte rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh god, stop it. Who is he?"

"He's in town for the summer, so you won't know him. But he's almost finished university. He's studying law. And he thinks he'll have a place here in town in his uncle's law firm. That's what he was doing here, working for his uncle. It's the same firm that Pierre works for."

No matter how many times Marie said Pierre's name, Charlotte didn't experience any pangs of longing or even much curiosity. Antoine had dwarfed anything she ever felt for anyone else. "Will he have to go back to school?"

"Yes, in a month." Marie sipped her red wine. "I'm devastated by it, but he can take the train in on the weekends so we can see each other."

While Marie shared all the details of her new romantic entanglement, Charlotte finished her lunch and tried not to feel jealous or sad or disappointed by her own situation. But some awful feeling must have shown on her face because Marie cut her story short.

"Oh, honey," she said emphatically. "I'm sorry it didn't work out with your aristocrat."

"I am too." Charlotte didn't want to dampen her friend's excitement. "But I'll be fine. Paris was a great adventure. I don't regret going."

It was true. Charlotte would do it all over again, even knowing how devastating losing Antoine would be. She was writing—less than when she was in Paris, but she'd managed a few pages every day since she arrived—and she had enough material to keep her busy revising and shaping stories for months.

"I'm glad you don't regret it. It seems like such a waste, going to Paris only to come home broken-hearted. Though I suppose that means you went to Paris and found love."

Charlotte had. And it wouldn't always hurt this bad. She missed Antoine. Not a minute passed without thoughts of him. But she no longer searched the crowds for his face. He was so Parisian, she couldn't even imagine Antoine in Vernon. Charlotte would write to Madame to give up the room and ask her to forward her boxes of papers to her in Vernon. And she could go to Paris again when it didn't hurt as much, when they really could be friends and nothing more.

?

Antoine paced the length of his balcony, watching the street for the return of his messenger and hopefully word of Charlotte. It was past breakfast time, but his face was unshaven and he still wasn't dressed. His life had also fallen into a pattern since he'd last seen Charlotte. Without fail, he wrote to her twice a day, and often more. And although it was difficult for him to tell, the letters had become increasingly desperate. On the days when his messenger wasn't able to see Charlotte and report back, Antoine often found himself staring up at the pension on Rue de Fortuny from inside his carriage. When there wasn't a spot to park discreetly on the street, he made the driver circle the block three or four times before relenting and allowing him to move on. And because he couldn't sleep, he'd been drinking more. After a boozy dinner with Guillaume last night, he slept through tennis this morning, which had only perpetuated his foul mood. His head had been such a mess not knowing what she was up to, what she was thinking.

So today, he paid the messenger three times his normal carrying fee to wait for a reply before returning, thinking the boy could sit on the stoop until she either came out or returned. He didn't like pressuring Charlotte like this, but his messenger hadn't seen her in days. When the boy came running down the quay, Antoine was both relieved and desperately anxious to hear what he had to say. Antoine hurried downstairs to meet him.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur de Larminet. I can give you back some of your money since it didn't take so long as you thought."

"It's fine, my friend. Just tell me what she said."

"I didn't see her. That is, Mademoiselle Deveraux's not there. The lady who answered said she probably wasn't coming back either."

"Where has she gone?"

"I asked twice, monsieur. The lady wouldn't say. I'm sorry."

Antoine put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it."

The boy nodded and hurried away. Antoine hadn't considered that she'd leave the pension altogether, especially not after he paid for her to stay out the month. He would gladly pay her rent every month if she'd let him. It killed him that she was mad enough to leave the place altogether. What if she'd left Paris? All of these thoughts swirled around Antoine's mind as he made his way back up to his room. When he reached the third floor, Emile was at his door.

"Ah, there you are, monsieur. Your mother has been quite anxious since you didn't show up for breakfast. Remember you are supposed to have lunch with the Montmorencys. Can I help you get ready?"

Wordlessly, Antoine shaved and dressed with Emile's help. And when his mother came up to see if he was ready, Antoine followed her downstairs and into the carriage.

He drank his coffee dutifully in the Montmorencys' drawing room, and he smiled and nodded whenever any comments were directed toward him. But his mind never stopped ruminating on the problem of Charlotte's departure. Where could she have gone? When? Had she even been reading his letters?

Later, after their mothers had scurried off in hopes that they'd fall madly in love, he and Louise were walking alone in the garden.

"You seem distracted," Louise said. "You haven't responded to my last two questions."

"Oh? Sorry." Antoine scrubbed his face with his hand. "I am distracted."

"By what?"

He looked at Louise, perhaps for the first time that morning. She wasn't nearly as much trouble as most women in her position would be. Most brides would take such absentmindedness personally, no doubt. "My lover has fled, apparently, and I don't know where she is."

"That's unfortunate," she said serenely.

"To be sure."

"The writer, correct? Charlotte Deveraux?"

Antoine nodded.

"She's not happy about the wedding, I take it?"

"No. She's refusing me because of it."

"Ha. Imagine that."

"You're not surprised?"

"Most women would be upset."

"I haven't cast her aside. Quite the opposite. But she says she'll never be my mistress."

Louise stopped walking then and turned to face him. Her brow furrowed, but her face was filled with humor. "That's because she loves you."

"How do you mean?"

"Are you so foolish? A woman in love won't be happy to share." When he didn't say anything, she continued. "Antoine, are you and Charlotte in love?"

He sighed as if he were deflating. He was the dumbest man alive. And he still didn't know what to do. "I believe so, yes. I mean, I love her. And I think she loves me. That's why I was so sure this would work. That you and I could marry and come to an agreement, and Charlotte and I could live happily ever after."

"You are a fool. I'm sure of it now." She started walking again. The gravel path was narrow and lined with waist-high box bushes cut into uniform cone shapes. "Tell me what happened."

Antoine told her everything, from the chance meetings to the deep friendship to the breakup and Charlotte's disappearance. When he finished, Louise was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. And then she said, "Antoine, why are you marrying me?"

"For the same reason you're marrying me. Because we're expected to marry someone with a title. This is what my parents want. This is what everyone wants and expects."

"All of that is fine. And for me, people do expect this. But marrying a peer is important to me too, not just my parents." She spoke with a calm, measured tone. "It's something I want, and you are as good a choice as any. But I'm not in love with anyone else. I don't have anything to lose."

"You don't?"

"No." Her curls bounced merrily when she shook her head, but her words were serious. "Whereas it seems as if you have quite a bit to lose. Do you see what I'm saying, Antoine?"

He ran a hand along the slanted side of the box bush, the leaves scraping pleasantly against his skin. "I suppose I do."

"What do you want, Antoine?"

He didn't have to think about an answer to that. "I want Charlotte."

She swatted his arm with the back of her hand. "So what are we doing here, then? Really? You can't please everyone, Antoine. And not to be so dark about it, but your parents are going to die eventually, and likely long before you do. They made their choices and got to live their lives. You get to live your life too."

"It sounds simple. Why does it feel so hard?"

"Because we've been told our whole lives that this is the way it is, that tradition is of utmost importance, that it's a sacrifice we have the privilege of making. But it's not always a privilege. And it's the twentieth century! Tradition isn't the only way."

"But if I don't marry you now, it will be a scandal. Your reputation will be damaged by my mess."

"Yes, people will talk." She shrugged and looked off into the distance for a moment before turning back to him. "I'm not exactly happy about taking the collateral damage of your inconstancy. But I'm not sure I can marry you when it's so clearly wrong for you. I'm also pretty confident that the fault here and the resulting scandal will land primarily on your shoulders."

"I think you're right. And it's definitely my fault." He scrubbed his face with his hands.

"Definitely. But that's okay. It's your life. Sometimes we have to disappoint people so that we can be happy."

"Is my happiness so important, though? In the grand scheme of things? I mean, no one ever died of a broken heart."

"You're more than some pawn in a game, Antoine. You're more than your title. Your happiness should be important to you. And it should be important to your parents as well. You're their last surviving son. Shouldn't they want you to be happy?"

"Can I use that? When I tell them the wedding is off?"

"Yes. Though probably nothing you say will do any good. At least not at first. They'll have to come around to the idea. After they stop seething with rage."

They'd circled the garden now and came to a stop in front of the door. "We'll still be friends afterward?"

"Of course. And I can't wait to meet Charlotte."

"Yes. Charlotte. I will have to figure out what to do about that. Right now she's the one seething with rage, I fear."

"Well, whatever you do, include lots of groveling."

Rather than tell everyone together and ruin what had been a perfectly civil lunch, they decided to tell their parents respectively in private. So the two families said their goodbyes and made loose plans to get together again soon, and Antoine and his parents walked home together in companionable silence. Then, when they made it back, Antoine asked to see them for coffee in the drawing room.

"The wedding is off," he said when they'd all assembled. Best to get it over with fast.

His mother yelped and dropped her coffee cup onto her lap. She stood up quickly so the hot liquid wouldn't seep through the fabric of her dress and burn her. His father, equally as shocked, threw his arms up as if in surrender. Antoine passed his mother a towel and after a few minutes of blotting and cussing, she looked at him again, her bafflement fully sunk in. "Tell me you're joking, Antoine, for the love of god."

"I'm sorry. But I'm not marrying Louise. We decided just now that we don't suit because I am in love with someone else. Charlotte Deveraux. It's my fault, and I accept all responsibility for it. I have apologized profusely to Louise, and I will do the same for her whole family as soon as possible."

"You're refusing a perfect match in favor of that girl writer? That commoner?"

"Hack is more like it," his father chimed in cruelly.

"How could you do this? Do you not understand what you're throwing away?"

"Mother, really. What does ‘commoner' even mean? Class isn't important."

She gasped and clutched her chest, reeling anew. "If you don't continue the tradition, then it negates everything that came before it. It brings the whole history down and makes it all for naught. Our whole lives, the sacrifices that we've made, will be worthless if you don't keep it up. It's just how things are done."

"But this is my life. I have to live it. And I deserve to be happy. You made your choices. And I won't cease to be a vicomte regardless of who I marry. I won't cease to be your son. And I refuse to let some outdated tradition run my life. If living a respectable life means side-lining love, then I'm not interested."

His sense of urgency grew as he took his stand. What started by releasing Louise, strengthened as he told his parents. His decision became real. He was making it happen, creating a future rather than letting it fall into place according to someone else's ideas of how it should be. And the stronger and more certain he became, the bigger his problems with Charlotte got. She was gone. He didn't know for sure where she was. And it had already been days.

Both his mother and his father were talking at increasing volumes, arguing with each other and him about the way things should be, seemingly unaware that Antoine was still in the room. The scene was a perfect metaphor for much of his life.When he stood up and excused himself, they didn't notice.

Just before closing the door to leave, Antoine looked back at his parents one more time.

"By the way," he yelled. They both paused to look at him, anger flaring in their eyes. He had one last shot to fire before he was in the clear. "I'm suing you for the money from the sale of the viscounty. My lawyer will be in touch."

With that, he closed the door.