“Excuse me,” I said, pulling out a piece of embossed Ritz stationery from the envelope.
Dear Mrs. Langford,
I trust that you have arrived safely from England. Allow me to suggest that you spend your first day acclimating yourself to Paris, and then we can rendezvous at the Bar Hemingway (on the Cambon side) at eight o’clock tomorrow evening.
I look forward to meeting you then.
Yours,
Andrew Bowdoin
I stared at the word rendezvous and my cheeks flamed once more.
Miss Dubose patted my hand. “An assignation? How simply marvelous.”
Assignation? That was even worse than rendezvous. It made my hasty visit to Paris seem so . . . sordid. “No, no . . .” I stammered again in protest. “He merely wants to rend . . . meet tomorrow evening at the Bar Hemingway . . .”
“How delightful. But, darling, you must allow me to take you shopping first.” Her eyes flickered over me, her head turning from side to side as she studied my face and my hair that I’d piled into a functional sort of bun at the back of my head and tucked under my Debenhams hat. “There is so much here to work with and your skin is just lovely when you’re flushing like that.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I’m supposing that whatever you have in your valise isn’t suitable to wear, either.”
Her face brightened, her eyes widening, and I suddenly felt like a fox surrounded by barking beagles. “Meet me right here tomorrow morning at ten, and I will take you shopping at Printemps. I’ll have you looking pretty as a picture before you go meet your beau.”
“He’s not my . . .”
Miss Dubose seemed not to have heard me and was waving at someone across the lobby. I followed her gaze toward a pinch-faced and gray-haired woman standing with a cane, wearing clothes that were even more out of fashion than my own. She appeared to be at least ninety years old and in a very loud and shrill American accent was demanding that someone—anyone—find her spectacles (perhaps the same that were currently hanging from her neck) and saying something about surviving the sinking of the Lusitania.
Turning back to me, Miss Dubose said, “I must go see to my friend, Mrs. Schuyler. It’s been a delight meeting you, Mrs. Langford, and I honestly can hardly wait until our shopping trip tomorrow. You will be transformed. Goodbye for now.” With a little wave of her fingertips, she walked away, her high heels clicking across the floor. Turning her head as she walked, she added over her shoulder, “And that’s a lovely scarf—wear it tomorrow.”
“But—” I closed my mouth, aware that others had paused to watch. Diana had always loved being the center of attention, but I had never appreciated being a spectacle simply because I hadn’t wanted observers to be disappointed. Feeling the gazes of strangers, I abruptly turned on my heel, my brogues sticking stubbornly to the marble tiles and most likely scuffing the shiny surface, and made a hasty retreat out of the front door, my head down to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze.
I walked blindly, somehow managing to avoid other pedestrians, simply eager to escape the Ritz and the knowledge that I’d made a fool of myself coming to Paris. I needed to go back to England as soon as possible. I would make my excuses to Miss Dubose in the morning and leave a note for Mr. Bowdoin, and then I would take the first train home.
Having reached my conclusion, I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. A man bumped into me and said something in French that certainly wasn’t pardon. I looked up at the blue street sign on the building in front of me, hoping I could at least find my way back to the hotel. Rue Volney. I stared at it for a long moment, wondering why it sounded familiar. A stream of angry French erupted beside me as an older man with a long brown cigarette and beret made an exaggerated show of going around me.
I apologized and moved to the edge of the sidewalk and looked up at the sign again. Rue Volney. I’d seen that name recently. And it had meant something to me, but I was at a loss now in recalling what it had been. A man with a pipe walked past me, heading toward the zebra crossing. I turned at the smell of his tobacco, the scent making my heart ache, my gaze following him across the street. When he’d reached the other side, he entered the corner door of a shop built into the bottom floor of a white plastered building.
A small table full of stacked books sat on the sidewalk to the side of the entrance, a sign directly over the door reading Livres. Glass-paned windows covered the two angled sides of the building, allowing passersby to view the piles of books inside. I lifted my gaze and there, dangling from the deep awning, hung a large wooden placard with the words Le Mouton Noir.
I recalled now where I’d seen those words. They’d been stamped inside the cover of Kit’s cherished copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel that he’d bought in France during the war. Which meant he’d been to this bookshop, had walked through those doors, had slid a volume or two from the shelves. Had purchased at least one book in this very store.
I knew there would be nothing of Kit there still, but something—maybe it had been the pipe smoke—compelled me to find out for myself. I stepped into the intersection, looking right as I always did for oncoming traffic. Someone grabbed my arm from behind, forcibly pulling me back against a strong, firm chest that smelled pleasantly of soap. I opened my mouth to screech out a protest just as a lorry sped past me on the left, passing close enough that I felt the movement of forced air on my face.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” said a decidedly American male voice as the tight grip on my arm ceased. “I hope I didn’t hurt you, but you were looking the wrong way.”
My heart hammered wildly as I stared up into the face of my rescuer and for the third time in an hour, I found myself blushing profusely. I was a widow with three children and one should be expected at this stage in one’s life not to be so easily ruffled. He was young-looking, with hair the color of hay, and eyes that were either green or brown—I was too flustered to look closely. He was a large man—not like a man who enjoyed his pints, but more like one who enjoyed sports and outdoor activities. Diana would call him muscular and a definite looker. Not that I’d ever use either word although in this case they were decidedly accurate.
“No. Of course. Thank you. I didn’t see the lorry, you see, and I thought no one was coming, and I wanted to cross the road to the bookshop, and I’m British so I looked right . . .” The words tumbled from my mouth like dandelion seeds, spewing in every direction at an alarming rate.
A swarm of pedestrians moved toward the crosswalk at the light change, sweeping us across the street as if we were no more than pebbles in a downpour. The man held my elbow as if I were a feeble old woman, escorting me to the other side before making sure I’d safely ascended the curb. I began to tell him that it was all unnecessary and that I was perfectly capable of walking when a loudly gesticulating Frenchwoman speaking to a companion dislodged my hat and knocked it to the sidewalk and then carried on as if unaware of what she’d just done.
The American bent down to retrieve the hat before anyone trampled on it, pausing for a moment with a small smile on his lips. “I think my mother has this exact same hat,” he said as he handed it back to me. His smile faded quickly as he caught a closer glimpse of my face, visible now without my hat.