Chapter Nine
Charlotte swallowed the last of her wine and turned to find more. She found a glass on a convenient server's tray, took a hearty swallow, and stole another glance at the dance floor. Antoine's back was to her, but the blonde woman was now facing her. She was pretty and adorned in jewels that looked as if they cost as much as a year's rent. Maybe more. Was this Louise? It had to be. Charlotte's chest constricted. How foolish to think she'd have his attention at a party like this. He may not even speak to her. No. He wouldn't be that rude. But he'd also be expected to dance several rounds with his intended fiancée.
Charlotte decided she'd find René to say bonjour and merci and au revoir and then she'd leave. There were enough people crammed in this room that she could easily avoid Antoine for long enough to do that. Searching the room again, René wasn't present. But a buffet table as long as a carriage was set up in a place sufficiently far from the dance floor. Food might help calm her nerves, and she wasn't the sort of woman who could pass on a free gourmet meal. With the cab driver's words in her mind, she headed toward it.
The spread was arranged on several tiers with three overflowing bouquets of fresh fruit and flowers down the center, towering over plates of oysters, shrimp, and small bites that weren't as easy to identify, at least not for her. There was a croquembouche, a rainbow of macarons, and tarts. Elaborate spreads of cheese and meats laid out in patterns of flowers and what looked like an owl. Vegetables and dips in every color. Nuts and berries. Tiny sandwiches. Her mouth watered at the sight of it all. She'd been so nervous about this night for days that she'd hardly eaten a thing. She fixed herself a plate, trying a little of everything, popping bites into her mouth as she went.
"I thought that was you."
The smooth voice in her ear startled Charlotte. It was Antoine.
She chewed and swallowed and nodded at him, buying time to decide what to say. "Did you recognize the hat?"
It came out a little colder than she intended, and his eyes flickered and dimmed. It almost broke her heart.
"I'm sorry." She softened. "I don't mean to be so abrupt. But I saw you dancing and was sort of hoping I could avoid you for the rest of the night."
"Why is that?" He stepped closer to her side and grabbed a plate off a stack.
"For appearance's sake."
"Charlotte, I see that you're eating, but may I have the next dance? In front of everyone?"
Wasn't he witty. She couldn't dance with him, not here. Not in front of all these people.
"You know that isn't a good idea. You said so yourself." She turned and faced him, plate wobbling a little in her one hand, champagne in the other.
"Charlotte, what do you mean? You're a guest at the ball. Of course, we can dance."
"Ah, as you were dancing with a woman when I arrived. Was that Louise?"
This knocked him off a touch. He straightened his shoulders. "If it was a blonde woman in a light green dress, then yes. That is Louise."
"What will she say about you dancing with me, then?"
He tilted his head closer and smiled tightly, as if this could hide the fact that she'd put him on the spot. She had every right to. He'd more or less propositioned her. She could ask questions.
He leaned in close and said, "She and I aren't engaged yet. But this is a society party. I will have to dance with many women tonight, per society's standards for my conduct. My mother is here and many family friends. But I can also dance with you. And I won't stop asking until I have you out there on the floor."
"What will people think?" Charlotte found a bare spot for her champagne, freeing one hand to reach for the serving tongs. She deserved another macaron.
"They'll know we're friends." He smiled devilishly. "Which is exactly what we want them to think."
"That's what we are!" She nudged him with an elbow. Her plate was so full now she had to stop looking at the buffet. Antoine had almost filled his plate too.
"Let's sit, then, friend."
She followed him to a clean table surrounded by empty chairs, each elegantly adorned with a bow of silvery tulle. They sat next to each other, but she scooted her chair a few inches away from his, creating space.
She unfolded her napkin and put it into her lap while Antoine sliced a bite of canapé with the most sophisticated manners. Where did he even get the silverware? She must have missed it. The discussion about dancing dropped while they ate.
After a few minutes of watching her and chewing, he dabbed his mustached mouth with his napkin and smiled at her appreciatively. "I like the hat."
"Merci. As you may know, it was a gift. And because of your other recent gift, I assume it was from you."
"It was. But I didn't want to be obvious. I'm not trying to change your mind about anything we discussed at the park. I completely understand your position. But I find I can't help myself."
Charlotte put a piece of shrimp in her mouth and chewed it slowly. Just sitting next to him, in the sphere of his cologne and attention, made the world more vibrant. The pianist played the room into a swirl of dancing and laughter. It would be a pure, dizzying pleasure to dance with him in this beautiful room. Could she do it without falling even harder for him?
"I suppose one dance couldn't hurt. In thanks."
"I hope you'll wait until I've finished my dessert."
They ate in companionable silence, taking only a few minutes to finish their plates. He introduced her to an older lady and gentleman as they ambled past, and Charlotte smiled politely. The man was dressed in full regalia, and the woman's wrists were covered in heavy jewels. Nadine had been right: the best part of going to a ball was seeing what everyone was wearing.
"Ready?" Antoine said when their plates were empty. "I think this song is almost over, and we can join in the next one, if you like."
She swallowed and nodded. Her heart kicked up in the hollow of her chest. "Where do we put our dirty dishes?"
"Just leave them there. Someone will come and clean it up for us. We're guests."
She took his hand and followed him through the crowd, around the tables, to the dance floor. As the song ended and the pianist started into a simple, ethereal waltz, they situated themselves among the other couples. Although Antoine was right, probably everyone danced with everyone, it was also a public space. Far more overtly public than anywhere else they'd ever spent time and been seen together. Her awareness of herself and her otherness heightened with every glance from the other dancers and spectators around the room.
In position, Antoine bowed and took her hand, then walked her into a circle formation with the other couples and bowed again.
But when his hand met her waist and held her, it was as if everyone else in the room disappeared. The simplicity of her gown no longer mattered, if it ever did. Her secondhand formal shoes. The spray of feathers on her head didn't quite disguise these subtle indicators of her class. These other women in their fancier dresses with their refined manners and kept lives disappeared. None of it mattered with his arms around her. How was it possible to feel so much with someone she couldn't have? And would he ever change his mind?
Antoine was a confident, strong dancer. And her heart fluttered as she spun in and out of his arms. When he pulled her in closer than was perhaps appropriate, his black cravat was right at eye level, and the spicy scent of his cologne blurred her thoughts. She wanted to run her hand along his jaw and thread her hands through his neatly combed. hair. When he dipped her, and she relinquished her weight into his outstretched arm, she almost lost her breath. When she made a small misstep, he easily recovered her. She could dance like this with him, to this same music, all night without ever tiring of the experience. His moves were seduction set to music. She had danced with men before, of course. Waltzed dozens of times at parties back at home. Never had she been romanced in this way. It was like she'd been ignorant of the true power of body language until Antoine swept the ballroom floor with her. When the music stopped and he bowed to her for the final time, she was panting and warm, like she'd run through a snowy field and come into a warm kitchen.
He smiled at her, flushed and panting as well. Then he took her hand. Instead of raising it to his mouth, he pulled her close and whispered in her ear, "Meet me in fifteen minutes at the top of the stairs. I want to show you something."
"What will I do in the meantime?"
"Here." He reached into the interior pocket of his jacket, produced a silver cigarette case, and passed it to her. "You can smoke out back. René's probably out there."
He bowed and took off into the crowd. Charlotte twirled the cigarette in her fingers and shook off her daze. He was gone, and the absence felt like a chill of reality after such an engrossing dance. Dancing and so many people had made the room stuffy. Then she noticed the seam she'd repaired had come loose. It must have happened when they were dancing. She tightened her grip on the cigarette case and cut across the dance floor while the pianist was taking a break. The door to the terrace was closed, but outside several people were partaking in the night air. Beyond the wide stone terrace, the garden was lit only by a few torches spread out across the property. Darkness had fallen. The gibbous moon clung to the sky, embedded in the cosmos. Charlotte opened the cigarette case and immediately there was a well-dressed gentleman there to light it for her. She accepted his assistance and smiled in thanks through her first puff.
"Ah, there she is," someone called across the terrace. René was leaning against a low stone wall, surrounded by friends. He raised a hand to beckon Charlotte over.
"You've caught me in the act, I'm afraid." She raised her hand, cigarette pinched between two fingers.
"You're in good company." René laughed and pulled her in for a kiss on each cheek. Then he introduced her to the men in his little circle. No one she knew, and no one René gave any indication she needed to know further. She was perhaps too worried about positioning the tear in her dress out of their view to make for good company. And they must have assumed she was Parisian because their faces fell a little when she told them she was from the provinces. The conversation was cordial enough, but as they carried on gossiping about some American investment gone wrong for a gentleman they referred to only as Dunce, she was alone in her thoughts.
That dance with Antoine had shaken her resolve that they could be merely friends. He was difficult to resist. And what could he possibly want to show her on the upper floors of his friend's house? She finished her cigarette and thanked René again for inviting her, in case she didn't bump into him again before she left. She wasn't sure how much longer she could hang around and not talk to anyone. Antoine surely couldn't abandon the festivities for long, not with his mother and future fiancée watching.
Back inside the ballroom, she plucked a flute of champagne from a passing server's tray and went out into the foyer. Antoine was nowhere to be seen. The music had begun again, and dancers were assembling. Had it been fifteen minutes yet? It had to be close. Charlotte slipped through the ballroom, past the ice dolphin, and back out to the foyer. The water in the fountain trickled, and the sound combined with voices and carried off all the marble surfaces in the vast room. More guests were mingling here now that the party was in full swing and everyone who was coming had arrived. Charlotte stepped lightly, hoping no one would notice her going upstairs like she was up to something. She wasn't up to anything. Though perhaps Antoine was.
Her heels clicked on the marble steps, and when she reached the top, Antoine was leaning on a wall, just down the hall far enough to be out of sight from the foyer. He stood up straight when he noticed her coming and smiled. She came to a stop in front of him.
"So what must you show me in this stranger's house?"
"You'll see." He led her down the hall. The walls were adorned with paintings of men wearing solemn expressions and military uniforms. They passed several tall doors before coming to the last one at the end. It was wider and taller than the others, and the knob clanked when Antoine opened it. Inside, the gaslight sconces were lit and glowing high on the walls. And a small fire was going in front of a pair of deep, cushioned chairs.
The walls, from floor to ceiling, were lined with bookcases, all filled to the edges with what had to be thousands of books. More books than in her parents' bookshop. The room was bigger than the town library in Vernon and the library at the convent where she'd gone to school. Like all the other areas of the house, it was done in intricate, detailed wooden moulding, stained a dark honey color, which gave the room a warm glow. And the books! The books seemed to go on forever.
"Are we allowed to be in here?"
"They left the lights on. Surely we aren't the first to sneak away tonight."
"Is that what we've done? Sneak away?"
"I suppose you could say that." He was still standing close, his shoulder five inches or so taller than hers and close enough to touch. Both of them stared up at the books. A spiral staircase led up to little balconies on either side of the room. There appeared to be a sliding track that must have made the books in the tallest places accessible, but it wasn't immediately clear how it worked. The ceiling, two tall stories up, had a skylight. The room was a marvel. She didn't have to ask why he wanted to show it to her.
"Have they read all these books, do you think?"
"Maybe through the generations. René reads quite a bit, probably not this much though."
"Do you have a library like this in your house?"
He looked down at her, locking her eyes with his. And he seemed to understand something about what all this wealth and excess—not only the library, but the whole house, all of it—was like for her. "We have a library at the house, yes. It's not quite as marvelous as this, but it is full of books that have accumulated over generations. More books than I could read in a lifetime. This is probably the best private library in town."
"You're very lucky," she said. "You and the marquis and everyone else here, I'd be willing to bet."
"That's true, Charlotte. But you're lucky too."
"Antoine, I'm wearing a dress that ripped on the dance floor because it's been worn so many times, and not by me."
"Yes, but Charlotte, you're talented. You have an amazing ability that everyone at this party would love to have. They're all so dull compared to you."
That didn't mean she could have what she wanted. She couldn't have him. "I work hard for my successes. Luck had nothing to do with it."
"You're right, at least a little. But I think luck does have something to do with it. Getting your story in front of the right editor at the right time is a kind of luck."
"It's not the same kind of luck as being born to a wealthy family that everyone respects and opens doors for because of a title."
She turned to the shelves and examined the books closer. They'd all been bound in fine leather and embossed in gold lettering, much more elegant than most of what came and went through her parents' shop. There were books here that she knew by heart. Books she'd heard of and books she hadn't. Books that had been translated. And books that looked so old she was afraid to touch them. How were they organized? How could a person even organize such a large personal library?
"If you were to spend the rest of the night here, what would you choose to read?" Antoine was watching her.
"I would probably spend all my time looking for something and never decide on one. What about you?"
" Les Mis is my favorite book. I'd probably pick that one."
" Les Mis ? It's a solid choice." She gazed up at the shelves.
"I liked what you said about it the other night. About coincidence."
"It's one of my firmest stances."
"Well, I'd never heard anyone say it quite like you did. And it made me love you a little."
Charlotte's mouth fell open, and she covered it with a hand. This man was not afraid to wade into dangerous conversational waters. Waters that would likely sweep her away. "Why did you bring me here?"
"Because I knew you'd appreciate it. And I wanted a moment alone with you. How have you been, Charlotte?"
"I've been working a lot." She looked up at the shelves. If she wasn't going to run away from him, she at least needed to change the subject. "Typing away at my new machine, I suppose."
"And how's it going?"
"Well enough." She didn't mention the growing pile of rejections. He might think less of her if he knew about all that.
"Any new stories coming out that I can await?"
"No. Well, not yet."
"Have you been back to Madame Durand's salon?"
"I haven't. Have you?"
"No."
They were standing close to each other still. Every time she moved to look at a different shelf, he followed her like he was tethered to her. His voice was smooth and mesmerizing in the quiet space. And she adored being with him to the point of losing her head. They weren't even talking about anything of consequence, and she didn't care as long as they were talking. She liked it. Liked being so near to him, even though maybe she was stealing his company from someone else.
"Are your friends and family looking for you?"
"You mean have they noticed I'm not downstairs? I doubt it." He raised his arm and set an elbow on the bookshelf, leaning into it and over her. He was so close she could smell the hint of champagne on his breath. "Everyone is enjoying themselves and no one cares about what I'm doing."
"I find that hard to believe."
They were even closer now, facing each other. The memory of their passionate carriage ride tingled on her skin. His face so handsome in the shadowy gaslight. His clothes so perfect. Everything about the evening felt surreal, like she'd stepped out of the cab into some sort of wonderland. The exquisite house, the lavish spread of food and drink, the guests in ballroom attire, the magical library, Antoine in his impeccable suit—it was like a dream. Perhaps she'd had too much champagne.
Antoine raised his hand and tentatively moved a stray curl of her hair away from her eye. "Your hair looks lovely tonight. You look lovely."
"Thank you. You look lovely too." They were so close, staring into each other's eyes. One move and they would be kissing. Making that move, though, would erase all the work she'd already done to distance herself from him. Everything she'd said about being just friends and not being the sort of woman who could enter into the kind of relationship he was offering her. It made her chest ache to think about kissing him again, pressing herself to him, and not being able to have him. Because it mattered, didn't it? Love mattered more than what everyone thought. At least, in that moment, inches from Antoine, it felt like it did.
Then the metal clunking sound of the elaborate doorknob turning drew their attention. Someone was there, coming into the room. Simultaneously, as if choreographed, both Charlotte and Antoine took a step back, putting a meter or more space between them just as the door swung open.
"Oh," the woman who'd opened it looked quizzically between them. Then her eyes, wide with the surprise of finding them, narrowed with suspicion. "I didn't know this room was taken."
The woman was older than Charlotte, maybe in her late thirties. And she was dressed in a fiery red satin dress. The man with her, who was tall and thin, stood there as unopinionated as a piece of furniture. Charlotte didn't recognize them. Did Antoine?
"It isn't. I was merely showing my friend here the marquis's impressive library. We were just leaving." He looked cooly at Charlotte, and when she didn't move, he held out an arm to direct her toward the door.
"Oh." Charlotte squeaked, catching on. "Yes. Thank you for showing me the library, friend."
She walked to the door and nodded at the woman and man, who nodded back. The man, who was dressed in a black brocade suit, didn't seem to register the interaction at all, but the woman smiled coyly and stared at Charlotte as if she were memorizing every detail.
"Your dress is ripped," the woman said as they passed through. Then the man pulled at the library door and it closed with a thud of finality.
"What just happened?"
Antoine laughed. "Nothing of consequence. But your dress is perhaps getting worse."
"It's fine. I'm going home now anyway." She started walking back toward the staircase, embarrassed and eager to get away from the scene of the crime. "Why do I feel like I've just been caught doing something I'm not supposed to do? Do you know those people?"
"We're allowed in the library. But I didn't want you to feel as if I'd put you in a precarious position. Or lead you to do something you might regret. So I thought it best to leave."
"There was some tension building in there before we were interrupted."
"There was." He smiled at her, maybe relieved that she'd mentioned it. "I wasn't sure what to do. I mean to say, I know what I wanted to do. But I didn't know what I should do."
"Getting out of that very seductive library seems like a good choice."
As they stepped down onto the staircase, into view of everyone in the foyer below, several curious eyes watched them descend. It was like being on a stage, with an audience gazing up at her. Antoine was grinning and trying to hide it, looking at his feet instead of anyone in the room. But what were they looking at? What did they see? What would they say about this moment later? This wasn't a world Charlotte knew well enough to judge, but she was familiar with the way gossip could circulate around a community. No place had a whisper network like Vernon. When they reached the ground floor, she stopped him.
"I must be going, I'm afraid."
"Yes. Leaving actually sounds nice."
"You can't come with me." She whispered in case the piano wasn't loud enough to drown out their voices.
He grinned, always ready to flirt. "I'm sorry to hear that. But I wouldn't presume. Please, let me have a carriage called around for you."
"I came in a cab, Antoine. I don't have a carriage."
"Of course not. I meant that you could borrow one. Mine or someone else's. It's fine. Please."
Antoine asked the servant attending the door to bring up his carriage for Charlotte.
"Of course, monsieur," the uniform-clad man said with a bow. He didn't go himself, but sent another, younger uniformed attendant off.
"Can we walk in the garden while we wait? Out front?"
The man nodded. "Please help yourself, Monsieur de Larminet. Look for the carriage to pull up to the gate. Yours is the only one called up. It shouldn't be long."
"Thank you," Charlotte said. She followed Antoine out the wide front doors, into the cool night. The music carried through the open window, and guests were milling about in groups and couples throughout the landscaped yard. The streetlights and lights in the house cast a faint glow over the scene.
"Are you sure you want to leave already? I can give you my coat to cover your dress."
"It's fine." Was he crazy? That was all she needed was to wear his clothing in front of the woman he planned to marry. "This is a place to be seen, and it turns out I don't love being seen all that much."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. I'm conscious of what people will think. I don't want anyone to see me."
"You'd rather let your words on a page represent you?"
"Exactly! Meanwhile, I wish to remain invisible."
"I don't think you should be concerned what these people think of you, to be honest."
"I know, but I do. I know they're judging me because I'm different. My gown isn't from Worth. I don't even own any fake jewels, let alone real ones. And I stand out because of it."
"Standing out from this crowd isn't a bad thing." A carriage rolled to a stop outside the gate. "Let me walk you out."
He helped her climb aboard the carriage. Then as it pulled away, he stood there and watched her go. Only when they'd pulled out onto the street and he was out of sight did she settle into the plush velvet seat. The interior was finished in leather and polished wood; different from the marquis's carriage, but just as ornate. Charlotte, smoothing the tear in the side of her dress, didn't know enough about luxury transportation to know which of the two was better appointed.