Chapter Two

Nadine, who was seated next to Charlotte at the table, let out a slow whistle when Madame Tremblay entered the dining room Friday night. The American sisters immediately chimed in with whooping calls of approval. They were all gathered around the table for dinner, which was served every evening promptly at seven. Madame's red velvet gown was trimmed in white lace. Nadine had curled and pinned her salt and pepper hair around a hat that resembled a fountain. Madame blushed and waved away the attention in such an uncharacteristically girlish manner.

Charlotte had never seen Madame be anything but serious. All of their interactions so far had involved either the listing of rules or dignified dinner conversation. Madame Tremblay was a stern woman with rules and standards, not a woman with a feathery hat and tickets to the opera. Charlotte, who wouldn't have thought Madame capable of blushing, joined Vanessa in hearty applause.

"Fancy, schmancy, Madame," Nadine said.

"Stop, mes petites, please," Madame said. "Don't fluster me. The carriage will be here soon."

"Well, you look stunning, Madame." Diane beamed at her. "But what we all want to know is if the gentleman in that carriage has honorable intentions."

They all laughed, except Madame. "Mademoiselles, there is nothing funny about getting involved with a man who won't marry you, I assure you. But Monsieur Gauthier has no intentions. We're just old friends."

"Don't be afraid of your feelings, Madame," said Vanessa. "He's a widower, no? Probably amenable to marriage then. And I saw the way he was looking at you when he came by the other day…"

"He looked to me like he had some intentions," Diane said saucily.

"Oh, don't be silly." Madame was waving off their naughty speculation when Claire, the maid, entered the dining room.

"Monsieur Gauthier is here, Madame. Should I bring him up?"

"No, no. I'll come down." Madame fixed her lacy shawl and gave a little wave to the girls as she left. "Behave yourselves, mes petites. I'll see you at breakfast."

"Never in my days," said Nadine when Madame was gone.

"Did you see her giggling like that?" Catherine said, shaking her head. She turned to Charlotte. "She never goes anywhere."

"Not in all the years I've lived here has that woman gone out with a man," Nadine said.

"Maybe if she falls in love, she'll loosen up a little," Diane said.

"Don't count on it," Nadine and Vanessa said in unison.

"Was Madame ever married?" Charlotte asked.

"She was, years ago. Monsieur Tremblay died when Madame was still young. This was his mother's house," Nadine said. She perched in Madame's chair at the head of the table. "She took care of his mother and inherited the place."

"Why did she start taking on boarders?"

"She was probably lonely," Diane said wistfully. "Rattling around in this old place all day."

"She never talks about it, so it's hard to say for sure. But she doesn't have any children," Nadine said. "And she always worked. I suppose she needed something to do to keep busy."

"Love will keep one busy," Vanessa said.

"Oh, please. Love will make one crazy," Nadine said between sips of wine. "At least I've heard."

"I don't know anything about love," Diane said.

"Love will make one want to run away from home," Catherine said. "But I'm too hungry to talk about it anymore. Pass me the bread, Diane."

Dinner was red wine, baguette, and roast chicken served family style. Madame Tremblay also served breakfast for the women every day, and there was always something in the kitchen for lunch, though most everyone was gone during the day for work.

This was one of Madame's rules: no night shifts. They kept daylight hours and weren't to be coming and going or rustling around the house all night. Madame made exceptions for Nadine's evening performances because, grumpy as she was, Madame loved the theater and was endlessly proud of Nadine's hard work.

Charlotte already knew the house rules through repetition. Madame Tremblay put them in writing when she was corresponding with Charlotte about the rent agreement, and she repeated them for Charlotte and her mother when they arrived. Her mother had insisted on accompanying her to Paris for both Charlotte's comfort and her own peace of mind.

No gentlemen upstairs was another rule, which her mother had loved, because this certainly wasn't a brothel. Gentlemen with respectable intentions could visit in the drawing room, and Madame would even serve refreshments. But this was a house for career women, not kept women. Her housemates had warned her that if Madame was home—and Madame was always home—then she was watching and sizing up anyone who came around.

And no extensions on rent. Of all the rules, this was the most likely to put Charlotte out. The woman who'd had Charlotte's room before her was a seamstress who lost her job and couldn't pay. Even though she'd lived there for a year, Madame still refused the extension. The thought of it made Charlotte's heart quicken with worry.

Charlotte's housemates, though, seemed far more concerned with the rules about men. Charlotte occupied a room that once belonged to a woman who'd been made to leave because she took up with a very wealthy, very married man. But Nadine said she'd been so obvious about it, with the jewelry gifts and quitting her job and the fancy carriage dropping her off in the wee hours of morning. Madame refused to accept the woman's rent money from him and turned her out. Lots of other women's pensions had similar rules about men.

Those were the most important rules of Madame Tremblay's house, but there were lesser ones. All other infractions—like sneaking out to cabarets or leaving messes in the kitchen—were minor and not likely to leave Charlotte unhoused.

Even with all the rules, Charlotte was grateful, for the hundredth time since moving in, that she'd found this living situation. Back in Vernon, she and her friend Marie, whom she'd known since childhood, used to pour over the outdated fashion and lifestyle magazines when her father took them off the bookshop rack. Paris was a dream come true. She had new friends, a lovely home, and delicious food. She'd even flirted with a handsome stranger in a cabaret—all part of her charming new life as a writer in the city of light.

After a tall glass of wine and a second serving of chicken, Charlotte was full and tired. Diane was regaling them with a story about an obnoxious table at the restaurant where she worked. Claire brought in a pot of coffee, and Charlotte poured herself a cup. The sharp and bright aroma perked her up enough to finish dinner.

Her luck had been good, but if she wanted to keep this charming life, she had to sell another story. She'd done nothing but write since she got here, save for her night at the cabaret and a few walks around town. But the work she'd been producing excited her. The house was usually quiet during the day, so she'd had plenty of time to work and think. She slipped easily into that magical writing flow that had been so elusive back in Vernon. And when she emerged, she had pages of material that felt very promising. She felt good about her writing. Confident. And from this feeling, she was sure only great work could emerge.

After dinner, Charlotte went upstairs. As she was undressing, she noticed a letter from her mother that had arrived that day. She hadn't read it earlier because she was working, and then it slipped her mind. She opened it now and settled onto her bed.

Her parents' bookshop in Vernon was a small place on a busy corner with a broken-down printing press in the back. The family lived in the upper floors of the building. It was a small, contained life that had been filled with plenty of reading material as an escape. Charlotte took advantage and read as much as she could when she wasn't dusting shelves or helping customers. Her younger brother, who was back from school, was helping them now, and from her mother's update, sounded like he fit well in the role. In addition to news on the family and shop and garden, her mother complained a little about the neighbors. And then, just before closing, she mentioned running into Pierre Fournier on the way to the market. Charlotte took a deep breath as she read her mother's description. She wrote, "He asked after you and was very polite."

Pierre had asked Charlotte to marry him not long before she came to Paris. He did so, she understood, not because he loved her but because her mother had caught him with his hand up Charlotte's skirt behind the shop one evening. Not that they wouldn't have been a solid match. His father was a lawyer and Pierre himself was working to become one too. They had been sleeping together for almost a year, sneaking around and stealing moments alone like it was a game. But as much as she liked having fun with Pierre, Charlotte didn't love him. She didn't love the idea of spending the rest of her life in Vernon as a lawyer's wife. It wouldn't be terrible, and who knew, she may end up back there. But the idea of it didn't make her heart sing the way a writer's life in Paris did.

When her mother caught them, Pierre apologized all over himself and beat a hasty retreat. After the initial shock had passed, Charlotte apologized to her mother too.

"Everyone has seen you together, so although it was a surprise to find you like that, it isn't so much a surprise at all," her mother had said. "But if your father catches you, he'll make you marry Pierre. And if you get pregnant, I'll make you marry him for the child's sake."

Mother knew how a man could distract a woman from her dreams. She'd married young and worked her whole life around the home and business. Charlotte had a better education and many more opportunities than her mother ever had. So although Charlotte had thought of her romance with Pierre as a game, the stakes were actually quite high. She didn't want to get married to the most obvious choice and settle down in her hometown. She had always wanted something else.

The thing she wanted was still nebulous and taking shape, but it wasn't the rest of her life in Vernon. Her mother knew that. Even Pierre knew that. With her mother's words echoing in her mind, Charlotte submitted her story to the paper the very next day, like a wish for something to happen that would set her life on the trajectory she so deeply wanted. And sure enough, it had worked. Mentioning Pierre in her letter now, Charlotte's mother was again reminding her of the stakes. A life in Vernon with Pierre would probably be a fine life. But it wasn't what she wanted.

Charlotte refolded the letter and set it on her desk. The house around her was silent, save for the occasional muffled shriek of laughter coming from Catherine and Diane's room downstairs. As she finished undressing, she imagined Pierre running into her mother. He would have smiled his friendly smile even as his face reddened with embarrassment. He'd been a mess after she'd caught them. Charlotte laughed thinking about it now. He'd felt so bad. Pierre was a good fellow, a satisfactory friend and lover. She hadn't worried a bit about leaving him behind. He was handsome and settling into a reputable law practice—a very eligible bachelor of Vernon. He'd have a new woman in no time.

Charlotte lay back on the bed and opened the novel she'd been reading. It was one of the new books she'd taken from the shop before leaving, Zola's latest about work that had hooked her from the start. But her mother's letter and lingering memories of Pierre distracted her.

She didn't miss him, exactly, but she'd liked the romantic entanglement. She liked having someone to share her thoughts with and something to keep secret. Then there was the man she'd met at the cabaret, Antoine. His rose now sat in a little bowl of water on her windowsill. Unlike familiar Pierre, Antoine seemed exotic and strange. The look in his eyes when he kissed her hand, and the feel of his hand on her arm. He could certainly entangle her. But she was content with her decision not to allow it. He didn't know how to reach her, and Paris was a big city. She'd never see him again.

But she'd been rolling around an idea for a story that seemed to be coming together. She'd even written a few scenes about a charming Parisian man with a rose on his lapel.

Diane's hearty cackle carried through the hall and the lamp flickered against the floral wallpaper. The room had come furnished, as they all did, in simple muslin drapes and soft, sturdy bedding. She had a dressing table and a wardrobe and a wide desk she'd put by the window. There was a faded green velvet settee and a little fireplace that would be nice in the winter. Vanessa, Nadine, and Charlotte were on the third floor. Catherine and Diane's rooms and a small sitting room where the girls liked to gather were downstairs. The dining room and entry were below that. The main drawing room, and Cook's and Claire's rooms were on Madame's side of the house. Already, Charlotte felt comfortable there, like she was exactly where she was supposed to be. The world of her mother's letter, bustling on without her, was too far away to suck her back in.

Charlotte set her novel aside. The metal frame on her bed creaked as she got up. She went to her desk for her notebook and pencil and then settled back into bed. She wrote like that, drafting her fantasies into scenes, long after the noise from the sisters downstairs fell silent.

?

The next morning, Charlotte wrote in her room until she'd filled her last notebook. Forced into a break, she put her hair up, pinned on a little straw hat, and ventured out. She crossed Rue de Prony and made her way past Parc Monceau, where she'd already strolled several times along the lake and among the trees. Every day—on the ones she went out, at least—her familiar territory and confidence grew. On her second day in the city, she'd walked from the house to the Champs-élysées, exploring and taking it all in. She was sure she'd seen a stationery shop, and so she retraced her route as best she could, toward the intersection with the boulangerie and then down Avenue Hoche.

The grand apartments rose above the tree-lined street, each facade as ornate and lovely as lace. She passed women with baskets, and gentlemen with newspapers tucked under their arms. Everyone coming and going, conducting their business. It had all overwhelmed Charlotte at first. The buildings and crowds—everything was much bigger than she was used to.

And, unlike walking in Vernon, she didn't pass a single familiar face. No one stopped her to tell her this or that gossip about anybody else. No one knew who she was, and no one seemed to care. It was both terrifying and freeing to be so anonymous. Because there were so few people in her town, and there was so little to do or attach importance to, everyone talked about everyone else. Gossip lived well here in the city too. Nadine, Vanessa, and Madame always seemed to be saying this or that about a neighbor. And there was a society gossip column or two in every paper filled. But Charlotte existed pleasantly outside of it, perhaps for the first time in her life.

She found the stationery shop right where she thought she would. Inside, the smell of paper welcomed her. Charlotte marveled at the paper textures and fine leather-bound journals before finding her favorite cahiers. They were ruled, bound in kraft card stock, and simple. She bought four and treated herself to a box of pencils as well.

The paper was more expensive than it was back at home, but Charlotte had assumed some things would be. After paying Madame for the two months, she had some left to live and enjoy herself as long as she didn't go wild. In Paris, it would be easy to do so; lovely treasures filled every shop window. Buying herself a book the other day had been both an indulgence and an exercise in restraint. She had no designs about coming to the city and getting rich. Charlotte knew that a writer's income could be irregular without ever amounting to much. It would be even harder for a woman from the provinces. She had to keep her desires in check. No dress shopping until she absolutely needed one. And her drafts weren't elegant enough for a leather-bound journal.

Pleased to finish her errand, Charlotte stepped back outside. The sculpted wall of the Arc de Triumph was not far off in the distance, and she continued that way. The clouds that had lingered all morning were broken up and scattered across the sugary blue sky. And the creamy late morning light brightened the pale stone buildings.

The closer she got to the Arc, the busier the street became. She skirted around the carriage traffic at the monument and headed down the Champs-élysées, entering the throng of pedestrians. Women, dressed to be seen in tall hats and colorful dresses, strolled in groups with their equally fashionable children. Couples walked arm-in-arm. And dogs of various shapes and sizes tugged at their leads. Charlotte wasn't ready to go home yet and looked for a café where she could have a cup of coffee and watch people.

After walking a few blocks, she found one with wide blue awnings and tables arranged outside around large pots of flowers. She pulled open the door and stepped inside. A host greeted her with a dignified nod and asked, "En salle ou en terrasse, mademoiselle?"

"En terrasse, s'il vous pla?t."

He led Charlotte past the bar and through the open portes-fenêtres to the outdoor seating area. As he placed her menu on one of the little tables lined up along the front wall of the building, she glanced at the gentleman at the adjacent one.

It was Antoine, the gentleman from the café concert, sitting almost directly across from where the host was putting her. He was watching her with a bemused expression.

Charlotte's mouth fell open. Then, remembering herself, she smiled and sat as the host said something about the soup du jour that she completely missed because all of her awareness was on Antoine.

"Charlotte Deveraux," Antoine said, taking her hand for a quick kiss as soon as the host was gone.

"I'm surprised you remember," she said, though meeting him like this was decidedly more surprising. Charlotte sat down and placed her bag from the stationery shop under the table. He'd been here first, so there was no way he'd followed her.

"Of course, I remember." Antoine laughed. Then he clutched his chest as if she'd shot him with an arrow. "How could I forget the name of the most interesting woman in Paris? The real question is: Do you remember mine?"

"Antoine de… Lar… minet." She hesitated for show, as if she hadn't whispered his name to herself a thousand times since learning it.

A server arrived to take her order, and she asked for coffee and a cup of the soup, whatever it was.

"Pardon me," Antoine said to the server when she'd finished. "May I also have coffee, and please, put her order on my check."

"As you wish," the server said. He departed, leaving them alone again, staring at each other.

"Thank you," she said. "For the lunch. You didn't have to do that."

"It's my pleasure." He sank back in his seat and draped his arm over the empty chair across from her. With his dark suit and long limbs, he was like a cat getting comfortable in the sun, eyeing her intently. Charlotte's stomach fluttered imagining that arm draped around her. "It's an honor buying soup for Charlotte Devereaux."

"Why are you saying it like that?" He was up to something.

"Well, I presume you are the same Charlotte Deveraux who wrote the story in Le Figaro a month or so ago."

"Don't tell me you read it?"

"Of course, I read it, Charlotte." He beamed at her. "I loved it. And I loved the story in Wednesday's La Fronde ."

"No, you didn't."

"I really did." He shifted forward and put his elbows on the table. His eyes danced over her with admiration so earnest she tingled.

Who was this man?

He continued, "And I was heartbroken that not only did you refuse my request to correspond, but you also didn't tell me that you are a writer."

"It didn't come up," she demurred. The couple at a nearby table must have overheard them because they were now watching Charlotte and Antoine curiously. Had they read her story too? For a long time, the only people who ever read her work were the people she asked, like her parents and her friends. Being published meant lots of people were reading her, people she didn't even know, which was something she had to get used to.

"You know, I was just thinking I would try reaching you through the paper. That was before you turned up at the table next to mine."

Charlotte wasn't sure what to say. He seemed so genuinely thrilled to know her. "If it's any consolation, I have lived to regret not telling you how to reach me."

"Oh?"

"It's true. I finished the Claudine novel and found myself wanting to tell you about it."

"Me or someone?"

"You, I suppose." She blushed, caught revealing her interest in him, allowing herself to be vulnerable. But something about him made it feel safe and natural and kind of heady to do so. "I was so sure I would never see you again. But I see that's not the case. Paris is smaller than I thought."

"Maybe. Or maybe we're meant to know each other. Maybe fate deems it necessary."

The server returned before Charlotte could respond. But while he served their coffee and her soup, she considered what he'd said. Having an immediate affection for a handsome man was not fate. And she wasn't sure that it was bumping into him repeatedly either.

The soup had white beans and bright green spring vegetables, served with a piece of baguette and butter. When the server left, Charlotte buttered her bread and ventured a glance at Antoine, who was stirring cream into his coffee.

His hands were clean and neatly manicured, not like a man who spent his days working. Shiny gold cufflinks peeked out from the sleeve of his dark blue coat. The fabric of his clothing looked soft and fine. His mustache and hair were impeccably groomed. Not a rough spot on his facade. And it heightened Charlotte's awareness of herself, of the worn spots on her suit, the place where she'd repaired her hat, and the dry skin and ink on her hands. At the same time, she couldn't take her eyes off him. She couldn't stop imagining touching him, smoothing her hands over the fabric of his jacket, feeling the warmth of his body underneath all those clothes, untying that silky cravat and sliding it off his neck. How elegant it would be.

Charlotte tried her soup, which was a delicious mouthful. The creamy bean mingled with the tender vegetables and broth.

"How is it?" Antoine asked over his coffee cup.

"It's lovely. Did you already eat?"

"I did. I had the beef stew. I often come here because it's one of my favorite things to eat in all of Paris."

"Is it? I'll have to try that next time."

"I could order some for you now, if you like. You can have both soup and stew."

"No, thank you. The soup is enough." She ate another bite and watched him watching her. "You don't have to stay. I mean, I don't want to keep you. Since you've already eaten."

He shook his head and smiled at her like she was crazy. "No, my dear. I have the afternoon free. And I intend to extend this fateful meeting for as long as I can. Do you have anywhere you have to be?"

Her new notebooks and pencils in the bag by her feet were all she had to look forward to until dinner. They could wait, couldn't they? She'd written several pages that morning. "No. Not at all."

"Then tell me about yourself, Charlotte. Who is the woman who writes to tease the aristocracy."

Charlotte laughed. "I don't know where to begin."

"Tell me about Normandy." He pulled his chair closer and put both elbows on the table. "That's where you're from, correct?"

"It is. Vernon. A small town you've surely never heard of."

"And your parents own a bookshop there?"

"Yes. It was my grandparents' before them. And so I grew up in the apartment above the shop."

"And you probably read all the books." Antoine crossed his arms lazily without taking his reverent eyes off her.

"I read most of them. There wasn't much else to do."

"Ah, the provincial life."

"It's not so bad," she said a little defensively. "But Vernon is not Paris. What about you? Where did you grow up?"

"Paris. Not far from here, actually. But my family has a country place, south of the city. So I'm acquainted with the small-town atmosphere."

"I assure you, it has nothing compared to this." She gestured at the city around them. "You'll never have reason to go to Vernon."

The server returned again, refilled their coffees, cleared Charlotte's soup bowl, and left the check on Antoine's table. The couple who'd been seated near them earlier were gone now, and the host was seating two gentlemen at another nearby table.

And while they drank their coffee, Charlotte told Antoine about coming to Paris and her hopes for staying. She seemed able to tell him anything. She left out the part about Pierre, though. Perhaps because she didn't want him to think about her in romantic situations, or because she did want him to. And she told him about her housemates and Madame and all the Parisian things she'd done since arriving in the city, which so far hadn't been much.

"I still have a long list of sights I want to see," she said.

"Well, if you're finished here, then I'd love to accompany you."

"Right now?"

"Sure. We can walk toward the tower, toward the river. It's a beautiful day for it." His eyes pleaded with her in the most adorable way.

"It is lovely."

"Then whenever you're ready."

Antoine stood as soon as Charlotte did and placed more than enough money to cover the check on the table. He insisted on carrying her bag of cahiers. And in the most mannerly of ways, he escorted her around the flower pots and out of the restaurant area, back onto the street. He offered her his arm, and she took it.

The sidewalk was just as busy as it had been before she stopped for lunch. But where she'd been anonymous and invisible alone, now she attracted eyes. People noticed him, noticed them. For a moment, she feared that she looked silly and underdressed next to someone so sophisticated. But soon her awareness of everyone around them faded. His arm felt firm under her hand, and the fabric of his coat was indeed a pleasure to her fingertips. No matter how they looked, he felt strangely right.