In my champagne-induced fog, it seemed the crowd parted for me as I walked deeper into the dimly lit room with lots of varnished dark wood on most of the walls, vaguely aware of people staring as I looked for a paunchy, older man wearing tweed. My foot collided with the leg of an empty chair and as I apologized to it, I heard a familiar American voice next to me.
“Pardonne-moi, mademoiselle,” he said with a terrible French accent that made everyone hate Americans. “Would you like to s’asseoir here? Ici?”
He was indicating the chair at the small table where he’d evidently been sitting, an empty wineglass at his elbow as if he’d been there for a while, a yet untouched martini glass full of a viridescent cocktail at the empty seat opposite. He grinned his American smile and it was excruciatingly evident that he didn’t recognize me from the bookshop the day before. I suppose I should have been grateful.
“Would you like to boire?” He indicated the full glass on the table. “For vous?”
When I didn’t respond because in all honesty I couldn’t think of an appropriate response in any language, he continued with, “You are très bon. Very . . .”
His next word sounded very much like the French word for tree, which I didn’t think was his intention. In an attempt to save him from embarrassing himself further, I said in English, “No thank you. I’m meeting someone. Another American, actually. They seem to be everywhere, don’t they?”
He blinked, his startled expression rapidly turning into one of acute mortification and for once the tables were turned, where I was the confident one and my companion the personification of awkwardness. And he was rather adorable at it. It could have been the champagne, but I took enormous satisfaction seeing him bluster his way through his explanation.
“I apologize, I didn’t recognize . . .” He shook his head. “You just look so . . . different . . . so much younger than you did yesterday, I mean, you changed your clothes and your . . .” His fingers gestured to his own thick head of hair. “It got shortened.”
“Yes,” I said, trying very hard not to laugh. “I did get my hair cut. Thank you for noticing. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I do have a meeting, although he might have left by now because I’m frightfully late . . .”
I stopped at the strange look on his face.
“You’re here to meet someone? Are you Mrs. Langford, by any chance?”
It was my turn to blink. “Yes, I’m Barbara Langford. And you are?”
“Andrew Bowdoin,” he said. “Not related to the college.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He waved his hand dismissively and I got the sudden impression that he might be nervous. About what, I had no idea. “Oh, it’s just something I have to explain a lot when I’m in the States.”
Good heavens. Not a paunch or speck of tweed. Good heavens, indeed. I swallowed. “Yes, well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bowdoin.”
“And you, too, although please call me Drew.” He reached out his hand to shake mine—a terribly American thing to do—and his hand collided with the full martini glass, sending it airborne and tossing the entire contents onto my chest.
We stared at each other in stunned silence as I felt the cold, wet drops of the drink slip down my skin, between my breasts, and through the thin fabric of the dress. The conversation around us dimmed, a stray sentence carrying over from the far corner and a brief shout of laughter.
“I am so sorry,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a clean and pressed linen handkerchief. He immediately began dabbing it on the skin of my neck and chest, then started to rub in earnest on the actual dress. I was too stunned to protest and it took him a moment before he, too, realized what he was doing and stopped. “Here,” he said, suddenly thrusting the sodden handkerchief at me. “Maybe you should do it.”
A waiter appeared with fresh drinks and a towel to wipe down the table and chair, and collect the empty glass, but the damage had been done.
“At least it matches your dress,” Drew offered with a weak smile as I ineffectively rubbed at my chest before sliding the handkerchief back to him. His eyes seemed focused on the stain on my chest. “Um, maybe you’d like to go upstairs and change?”
“No. I’m exhausted already so if it’s all right with you, let’s go ahead and compare notes. I don’t know very much about my husband’s time in Paris during the war, so I’m anticipating a short meeting.”
“Sure. It’s just . . .” His eyes fell to my chest again as his finger plucked at his own shirtfront.
Looking down at my chest, I saw the pale pink lacy confection of a brassier that Precious had forced me to wear on full display through the wet fabric of my dress. Completely defeated now, I picked up my drink and drained it. It was at that moment that I spotted Precious and Mrs. Schulyer sitting at a table in the corner with a direct line of sight. They must have seen everything because Precious actually gave me a thumbs-up signal.
Something warm and heavy descended on my shoulders and I looked up to see Drew carefully settling his navy-blue jacket on me. “Maybe this will help,” he said, patting me on the back as if I were some faithful hound before settling back into his seat.
I made the mistake of looking at Precious again, where she and her companion were now giving me four thumbs-up. The waiter reappeared with two more drinks, another green martini for me and a glass of red wine for Drew. “From the two ladies in the corner,” he said.
“Do you know them?” Drew asked, twisting in his seat and giving them a hesitant wave.
Ignoring his question, I thumped my large bag on the table, making sure to avoid our glasses. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” I picked up my drink and took a large gulp, appreciating the encroaching alcohol buffer between my true self and my current actions. I stifled a hiccup. “And since you’ve already seen my underpinnings you should probably call me Babs.”
He choked a bit on his wine. Setting down his glass, he said, “Sure, no problem. Babs it is.” His gaze drifted to my chest again between the lapels of his jacket and he quickly took another drink. “That’s a delicious Bordeaux,” he said studying the deep red of the liquid in his glass. “Great earthy notes, with a burst of fruit.” He swirled the wine and held up his glass. “Juicy, full-bodied, and great legs.”
Our eyes met and I watched the color slowly rise in his face as he realized what he’d just said. “The wine,” he said quickly. “I was talking about the wine. I was president of the wine club back in college.”
“Of course,” I said, a little surprised. He seemed too big and too American to know the difference between a nice Bordeaux and a glass of grape juice. I slid the copy of The Scarlet Pimpernel from my bag, noticing the edge of the letter peeking out of the middle. I hastily removed it from the book and tucked the letter back inside my bag, hoping he hadn’t seen it. I wasn’t quite ready to share that bit of information with him. Or anyone. Or ever. I wasn’t even sure why I’d brought it, except that at some point while packing I must have listened to my conscience. I opened up the front cover of the book, revealing the Le Mouton Noir address stamp in the front.