THIRTY-ONE

I was following one of the saleswomen, wending my way out through the display rooms, when I heard my name called faintly from behind. I stopped in the black and white room, surrounded by glass cases full of ornamental snuffboxes and fans, and Grace Greenway Brown caught up with me. She wore a modest black outfit with a plain black straw hat. It seemed to me she was Edith Stuart’s only mourner.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Chapman, but may I speak with you before you leave?”

“Certainly.” I thanked the saleswoman and told her I would find my way out, then turned back to Grace.

“I wanted to ask about Mr. Palmer. Can you tell me how he is?”

She was certainly politer than her companions, who had never asked after the sick man. “He’s improving, thank you for asking. He’s back at the house on rue Brignole, where Mrs. Palmer and my husband are keeping an eye on him. I’ve only just returned from the country and I haven’t seen him myself. He’s up and about but not well enough yet for outside activities.” I wanted to know what Miss Brown thought of the death of her friend. This was an opportunity to sound her out away from the Johnstone family. “We’re all very sorry about Miss Stuart. She was so young to meet such a tragic end.”

She closed her eyes. “It was awful. And I’m sure you must find the callous attitude of Lydia and her mother quite shocking. I can only say that Edith was not herself in those last days. She was acting very strangely.” She looked at me as if asking me to forgive the dead girl.

“Lydia indicated that Edith tried to extort money from her. She must have been quite desperate.” I was reminded that Lord James had said Edith had acted as if she were trying to seduce him. I wondered what Grace thought of that. She must have been a witness to the behavior, if it really happened.

She seemed to guess my thoughts. “She was very desperate and very unhappy. When Mr. Johnstone found out about her debts and planned to send her home, she did some deplorable things. But all she accomplished was to diminish herself in everyone’s eyes. It was a very sad thing to see.”

“Do you think she was really desperate enough to jump from that balcony?”

She moved to one of the tall windows before she replied. I stepped beside her and looked down to see people strolling below us on the rue de la Paix. It might have been just the height that Edith Stuart had fallen from on the Quai d’Orsay. The thought made me feel a touch like ice down my spine.

“Oh, I hate to think that she was that desperate. But she must have been, mustn’t she? I know the police thought Honoré…the younger Mr. Palmer…was involved, but that couldn’t be. He wouldn’t do such a thing. Mrs. Chapman, can you tell me, has he really been released by the police? Are they convinced he had nothing to do with Edith’s death? Is he clear now? I heard that Sonya Zugenev was able to tell the police that she was with him the whole time and so now he’s safe. Is it true?” Her cheeks had reddened, and the blush spread to the tips of her ears, above small gold and pearl earrings. Her breath came fast.

I hastened to reassure her. “Yes, he was released. He’s home now. Miss Zugenev told them that he was with her right before Edith fell to her death.” She took a big breath at that, but then she bit her lip, as if keeping something back. I couldn’t resist telling her more. “I believe Honoré and Sonya have been in each other’s company almost constantly since his release. I’ve been told that an engagement may be pending, that they are only waiting for the elder Mr. Palmer to recover. The count, Sonya’s father, has even come to Paris to meet the Palmers.”

She let her breath out and looked down at a horse-drawn carriage in the street. A man jumped down and turned to help a woman, who balanced her parasol with one gloved hand and took his hand with the other. As she stepped down he tipped his head to avoid her wide hat, heavy with ribbons and floppy fabric flowers. When she was safely on the ground, he pulled her arm into his and bent to whisper in her ear. I couldn’t see the woman’s face, as it was shaded by the large hat, but she grasped his arm and leaned towards him as they stepped away.

Suddenly it occurred to me that there might also have been something between Miss Brown and Honoré. She smiled faintly and turned back to me. “Mrs. Chapman, there is something I should tell you. Edith was also attempting to get money from me. She threatened to tell Mrs. Palmer that her son and I had been meeting secretly. That afternoon—when the young milliner was killed—I was not at the Ferris wheel with Lydia and Edith, I was with Honoré. We were strolling through the gardens while the others rode the wheel.” She clasped her hands at her waist. “You see, we met before Honoré’s parents arrived in Paris. We have much in common. I assure you it was all very proper but, once Mrs. Palmer arrived, there was such animosity between her and Mrs. Johnstone we decided to be discreet.” She crossed her arms and shook her head. “And then Mrs. Palmer got it into her head to pair Honoré with Sonya Zugenev. He didn’t want to disappoint her. I told him it wasn’t right, that he should introduce me to them properly. But he insisted it was only part of the flurry of activity having to do with the Exposition and his mother’s duties as a commissioner. He assured me that she and his father would eventually be happy to receive me, but he wanted to wait until the Exposition was over to introduce me. He said that when we were all back home none of these European aristocrats would mean anything. He almost treated it as a little joke.” She raised a gloved hand to her forehead as if it hurt. “We were foolish. But I suppose it was attractive to have a secret rendezvous here, in Paris, the most romantic city in the world. And when we could slip away, it was only the two of us. We did nothing wrong, I promise you. We talked and talked. He bought me flowers. We had coffee at cafés. We were lost in our own world and escaped to it whenever we could.”

How simple that would be, with all the excitement of the Paris Exposition. With so much going on, a young couple could easily slip away and walk the streets together and no one would miss them, as long as they showed up at the functions they were expected to attend. Looking out at the bright sunshine on the street full of strolling people and the cafés under gently flapping awnings, I could see how the secretiveness of their actions might be seductive as well.

She looked at me earnestly. “After they found that milliner in the Worth exhibit, I told him we needed to admit we’d been together that afternoon. But he pleaded with me. He said there was no connection between him and the girl, so there was no reason to expose ourselves. By then he was sure his mother would be angry to have her marriage plans for him disrupted. He insisted that when he finally told her, she would be angry but would get over it, and he was sure he could depend on his father to support him. He was afraid that a revelation now would spoil his mother’s plans and her enjoyment of her time as a commissioner for the Exposition, especially since I was traveling under the protection of the Johnstones. They are such rivals, Mrs. Johnstone and Mrs. Palmer.” She shook her head again. I could tell from the way the words were spilling from her that she had been bottling all of this up inside for quite some time. She must have been worrying it all week, unable to confide in Lydia or Mrs. Johnstone.

She walked away, to the middle of the room, her heels clicking on the gleaming wooden floors. Turning back to me she said, “I never should have gone along with him. But he was so sure of himself. After the Worth reception, he got word to me that he was being followed by the police, so we could not meet. I had hoped to talk to him at the reception in the United States pavilion that night. I arranged to meet him in one of the side rooms. By then, Edith was threatening to expose our attachment. Honestly.” She raised her hands as if surrendering. “I wanted to tell him that the secret meetings had to end. If he cared for me, he needed to tell his mother about me. I was going to tell him I was breaking it off unless he was honest with her.” She took another large breath, lowering her hands to clutch them at her waist. “But then he arrived at the reception with Sonya on his arm…and when I went to the room where we were to have met, he never came.”

She paused, as if overcome with emotion. But she raised her head and swallowed, then continued in a rush of sentences. “The Countess Olga came instead. She explained to me that Honoré would not be meeting me. She suggested that his regard for me, while real, was by no means exclusive. She said that, for a wealthy young man like him, one had to expect that he would have many experiences on his grand tour and that it would be wrong to assume an attachment.” She paused and looked up to stare directly into my eyes. “She said the police believe he had a relationship with Miss Laporte before she died. I told her that was just ridiculous. I’ve known Honoré almost the entire time he’s been here, even before his parents came, and he was not involved with that young woman. I’m certain of it.” Grace shook her head as if to remove cobwebs from her mind.

It sounded like the countess was trying to disabuse her of any romantic idealization of Honoré Palmer. I was sure that she was wrong about his relationship with Denise Laporte but perhaps she was just repeating what the police suspected, in order to scare Miss Brown off.

Grace took a deep breath and let it out through her mouth. “She said that a young man like that doesn’t know his heart and can be too free and open. She said she understood how I might be attracted to him, as she had seen the same thing happen with her own daughter who, she said, believed herself in love with the young man.” She bit her lip before speaking again. “She begged me to break it off with Honoré, to allow him to contract a marriage that she said would be welcome to both families. I feel it is right to end our friendship.”

I was saddened to think that the wishes of the Palmer and Zugenev families would come between two young people who had seemed to be forming an attachment. The proposed marriage between Honoré and Sonya was beginning to sound even more like a business arrangement. I was grateful that such considerations had never come up while Stephen and I were courting.

“I believe it is over between us,” Grace continued. “I, too, have heard he’ll probably become engaged to Sonya very soon. I understand. Sonya has been able to clear him from the accusation that he was responsible for Edith’s death, which is incredible. But I want him to know…can you please tell him…that he should tell the police that we were together the afternoon when Denise Laporte was killed. There’s no reason, now, for him to try to protect my reputation. It is nothing compared to the threat of the police believing he had something to do with her death. Will you tell him that for me? And tell him I am not distressed, I understand. I only hope that he and Sonya are happy and that his father is well.”

She stood there in her black mourning, a small figure in a room that was entirely black and white—the floor tiles, the woodwork, the curtains, and even the paintings. It was very stark. I felt sorry for her and if, as I suspected, the Johnstones or someone in their circle was responsible for the thefts, I was sure she knew nothing about it. But Honoré might know something about the thefts. Perhaps that was what he was hiding from us. I could not tell.

Grace said goodbye and headed back to the main room, where she would have to endure the parade of gowns for her friend’s trousseau, all the while conscious that her own romance had come to an end. It was an unpleasant prospect. But then, so much about the Johnstones was unpleasant. I needed to think about what Grace had told me.

It was refreshing to step through the wide blue door and out onto the busy sidewalk of rue de la Paix. Having a lot to think about, I decided to walk back to the rue Brignole. It was a warm and sunny day. Ladies strolled under parasols, holding the arms of men wearing light gray suits and the straw hats of summer. The street was wide with broad sidewalks, and horse-drawn carriages and an occasional motorcar paraded down the middle. I turned towards the column in Place Vendôme, which could be seen at the far end of the street. I had gone only a few steps when I recognized M. Worth standing, gesturing emphatically, at the edge of the sidewalk. He was talking to M. Poiret, who smiled as he stared up at workmen on ladders leaning against the storefront before them. I looked up to see what it was all about and everyone else in the vicinity looked up, too. A canvas cloth dropped down and I saw a flourishing series of gold letters that spelled out Paul Poiret above the glass walls below. It seemed M. Poiret had started his own house of fashion.