I knew I was mad, throwing away caution and my good sense to meet a strange man in Paris. It was the sort of thing my sophisticated and incredibly beautiful sister would have done in her single days. And perhaps that was the main reason why I’d decided to go.
We’d slowed behind an ancient tractor whose driver seemed even older than the vehicle. Diana pressed down on the accelerator, the silk ends of her scarf fluttering like angry doves, and passed the tractor, moving back into our lane just as another car approached in the opposite lane. My stomach jumped, lurching up into the place where I needed air to breathe, and I was suddenly very, very sure I was doing absolutely the wrong thing.
Who would manage the upcoming gymkhana? And who would handle the auditions for the nativity play? It was all very tricky with the feelings of the children’s parents to contend with if their little angels weren’t selected for the roles of Mary, Jesus, the wise men, and the shepherds. Perhaps they should add more characters that might have been present but had merely been ignored in the Bible? And how could I abandon my eldest, Robin, who’d been sent down from Cambridge for drinking? Drinking! The scourge of the Langfords, really. Excessive drinking had been involved on the night he’d been conceived, not that I would ever admit to such a thing. Because then I’d have to wonder if Kit had needed to be inebriated.
“I don’t know why I’m aiding and abetting, but if it helps at all, Robin will be fine,” Diana shouted over the wind. I didn’t even blink at Diana’s apparent ability to read my mind. It had always been that way between us.
“He simply misses his father,” Diana continued. “But his uncle Reginald is more than happy to take him under his wing, I assure you. Reggie is thrilled to have a boy to take fishing and with whom to do manly things. I don’t think he’s fully forgiven me for giving him three daughters, so Robin is truly a balm to that sore spot.”
I only nodded, unable to speak past the ball in my throat. I wouldn’t cry. I was British.
Diana parked her car and despite my protests, insisted on accompanying me inside, although she allowed me to carry my worn valise. Diana, although four years my senior and a full head shorter, still maintained the grace and poise of the debutante she’d once been and had never handled her own luggage. She frowned up at me. “They might not let you into the Ritz, you know.”
“Whyever not? I have a reservation.”
Diana gave her familiar smirk, the one she’d been using since we were eight and four and I’d dared return to the house covered in muck acquired from playing with our brothers and Kit. “Really, Babs. Your valise looks like it was dragged behind a horse in battle. Why didn’t you ask to borrow one of mine?”
“Do you think they really notice those things?”
“At the Paris Ritz? I’d say so.” Diana frowned again. “Really, Babs. You have the most beautiful skin and such fine gray eyes. And most women would kill for your figure and bone structure. Why on earth do you hide behind all of those . . . tweeds? You dress like a ninety-year-old woman instead of the thirty-eight-year-old you are.” With a quick tug, she removed my wool scarf, the last one I’d knitted while Kit had been ailing, and replaced it with her silk Hermès with the beautiful blue pheasants strutting all over a pale yellow background. As she gently looped it beneath my chin, she said, “There. Much better. Now you don’t look like a refugee.”
Her gaze traveled up to my hat—bought on sale at Debenhams—and then down to my legs and feet, respectably clad in lisle stockings and my best brogues. “Babs, I do wish . . .”
The chuff chuff of an approaching train made me jump, my heart racing now at the prospect of actually stepping onto the train and beginning my journey. The scent of Diana’s perfume wafted up from the scarf, comforting me, allowing me a modicum of confidence. Despite my sister’s shorter stature, she’d never lacked confidence and now, more than ever before, I needed that.
As the train chugged into the station, I turned to Diana. “Do you still think I’m being reckless?”
Diana pressed her lips together. “Most definitely.” Then her mouth softened into a smile. “But I also think that recklessness might be the thing we need sometimes to see our lives anew.” She put a hand on each of my shoulders then leaned in to kiss each cheek. “Godspeed, dear sister. And do write at least once. It will be nice to be living vicariously through your life for a change.” She briefly raised her elegant eyebrows, then smiled reassuringly. “Remember you’re wearing a Hermès scarf, and hopefully no one will notice your luggage. Or your shoes.”
I remembered her words as my taxi pulled up in front of the Place Vendôme entrance to the Ritz, the white awnings and brass lighting fixtures reflecting the bright sun, making it appear as if those passing through the hallowed doors had somehow been anointed. My door was opened by a white-gloved valet and I realized his deep blue uniform with the gold edging was perhaps more fashionable than my tweed traveling suit. I hesitated for a moment, almost believing that if I cowered long enough in the taxi, the valet would forget all about me and I could simply find a side entrance in which to enter without any fuss.
“Madame?” A white-gloved hand stretched toward me.
Remembering Diana’s scarf, I took a deep breath and placed my hand in his and allowed him to help me from the taxi. “Bonjour.”
His eyes flickered imperceptibly. “Bonjour, madame. You are English?” he asked in English with only the hint of an accent.
“Yes,” I said with surprise. “How did you know?”
His eyes flickered again as his smile broadened. “Just a guess, madame. This way, please.” He was still looking for my luggage when I finished paying the taxi driver. Or, more accurately, staring at my valise as if it might bite. It was more than past its prime. It had once belonged to my mother and she’d used it as a schoolgirl. I’d brought it on my very brief wedding trip with Kit to the Peak District, and on our overnight trips to visit the children once they’d gone away to school. It was functional and served its purpose and I’d never once considered the need to replace it. Until now.
I was about to suggest I carry it so as not to sully his white gloves when I was distracted by a couple of women walking past us into the awning-covered arched entrance. They were both slender with short, shiny hair, white sunglasses, and long, bare legs that appeared longer because of the shockingly short hemlines of their dresses. Men’s heads turned, yet the two women appeared unaware of the attention as they walked up the red-carpeted steps and disappeared inside. I glanced down at the thick hem of my skirt hitting my legs midcalf and felt those same men looking at me but not for the same reason.
I took a step back, ready to return to the safety of Langford Hall, and found myself facing the Place Vendôme. A tall column dominated the center of the square, and I recalled my brother Charles, who’d read history at Oxford and had thought everyone as fascinated with the past as he’d been, saying it had been fabricated by more than a thousand melted cannons captured by Napoleon’s troops at Austerlitz. A statue of the emperor himself stood at the top, dressed as a Roman emperor, naturally.
The valet coughed politely, but I couldn’t remove my gaze from the little man at the top of the column. There was something about his pose, or perhaps it was his legendary hubris, that gave me an odd burst of confidence. If a diminutive Corsican could conquer most of the world’s armies, then surely I could step into the Paris Ritz with my tweeds and brogues. And Diana’s scarf.