Gina woke early the next morning with something of a hangover. She hadn’t realized she’d drunk quite so much the evening before.
Force of habit carried her through washing, dressing, and putting on her makeup. She’d taken to finding a quiet, sunny spot in Le Chat with a cup of coffee and a freshly baked roll and writing for a couple of hours before leaving for the bookstore, which opened at ten. The routine seemed to be working, and not even a hangover would prevent her from following it today.
She entered Le Chat quietly, set down her things in a pool of sunlight-tinted amber by a stained-glass window, and went to get coffee.
Usually Claire respected her need for absolute quiet on these early mornings and went about her own work without more than a nod and a smile in Gina’s direction. This morning, Claire was practically bouncing off the walls.
“She simply must move in with us,” she said, before even bidding Gina a bonjour. She was pacing with a copper whisk in hand, a great dollop of whipped cream crowning the implement. Waving the whisk, Claire added, “I mean, the Pigalle! What on earth could she be thinking?” Gina dodged a fleck of whipped cream that flew in her direction, then stepped forward to remove the whisk from Claire’s grasp as if she were a police officer disarming a gangster.
“She will move in with us, don’t you worry,” said Gina, setting the whisk back in the copper bowl. “If she needs to keep her presence here a secret, we can do that.”
Claire frowned. “I can’t stop worrying about her. I lay awake all night.”
Gina hadn’t gone that far, and she was almost as mad at Margot as she was concerned. Gina had always believed that God helped those who helped themselves. She was impatient with any kind of martyrdom, and it seemed to her that Margot was determined to struggle rather than to accept her friends’ assistance. However, she kept telling herself to reserve judgment until she knew the full story. And it hadn’t been so very long since Gina had been in a somewhat similar position.
“She’ll come around,” she said, chiefly to soothe Claire. “We’ll make her. In the meantime, I’m going to get to the bottom of what happened to Margot back in Australia.” Gingerly she picked up the coffee press that, thanks to Claire, sat waiting for her, and poured herself a cup.
“How are you going to do that?” asked Claire.
“I’m a journalist, remember? It’s my job to find things out.” Gina tapped the side of her nose, then snatched a croissant from the tray that had just left the oven, but quickly dropped it on the counter as it was piping hot. She blew on her singed fingertips, then used a napkin to handle and plate the croissant. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have pages to write.”
Despite her outward insouciance, worry and speculation about Margot threatened to derail Gina’s writing session. However, years of training herself to write at any time, in any place, and under any constraints, be they emotional or physical, allowed her to dismiss from her mind everything but the book she was working on. For the next hour or so, she slipped away to that other world in the depths of her mind, watched what happened there, and took note.
When she slid back to the present and became aware of the bustle starting up around her, it was time to leave for work.
The day passed pleasantly at the bookstore. Gina had set herself the task of taking inventory of the extensive English-language section, so that kept her busy when there were no customers to serve. She thought of her promise to Claire—to find out what had happened to Margot. It was still early enough to visit the Bibliothèque Nationale.
She loved this building, and stood for several moments marveling at its glorious oval reading room, with its glass roof and beautiful mosaics and its four stories of galleried bookshelves framed by tall Ionic columns. Anywhere there were books, Gina knew she would be at home, and among like-minded people. A friendly assistant directed her to the room she was looking for, and she began working her way through back issues of the Sydney Morning Herald on a microfiche machine.
If she confined herself to the years the friends had been apart, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack, but Gina knew within a month or two where to look. Sometime between the date of Margot’s final letters to her and Claire and the next date Gina judged she ought to have written back to them. Something had happened during that time. Gina had her suspicions about what. If she was right, she’d find what she was looking for tonight.
After skimming through several weeks of Sydney social pages and announcements, there it was, in black-and-white: a beautiful, if grainy, photograph of Margot and a handsome man quite a few years older than she was, if Gina were any judge. Had Margot mentioned getting serious about someone? Surely Gina would have remembered if she had. There were always multiple beaux to escort her to parties, but never anyone special, as far as Gina could make out from Margot’s letters. This courtship must have been a whirlwind affair. Was that why Gina and Claire hadn’t been invited to the wedding ceremony?
Gina studied the photograph closely. Margot looked enchanting. Her dark hair was piled up and encircled by a delicate tiara with a filmy white veil suspended from it. Holding a sheaf of white lilies, she stared up at her new husband with a kind of rapt admiration. He was gazing directly at the camera, a faint smile lighting his eyes. He reminded her a little of Senator Jack Kennedy, whom she’d interviewed once when she worked in D.C.
Triumph at the discovery was swiftly replaced by a churning sensation in Gina’s stomach. Married. Margot had been married for three whole years. But now she was in Paris, alone, using a different name from her husband’s, and she wore no wedding ring.
Had she divorced her husband and been too ashamed to admit it to her friends? Or had she simply run away?
The latter seemed more likely. Margot had claimed someone was looking for her. Someone she was so desperate to hide from that she hadn’t even paid a visit to Claire as soon as she hit Paris.
Gina stared at the groom in the wedding photograph and tried to fathom what kind of man he might be. A playboy? Possibly. Definitely a charmer, popular with women. But then, all men tended to look sophisticated in morning suits, didn’t they? One thing was clear to her: Margot had loved this man when she married him. There was no faking that adoring expression. What he felt about Margot, on the other hand . . . He wasn’t looking at her in this particular photograph but there was a smile in his eyes. Was that significant?
Glancing at the clock, Gina realized she’d better get home before Claire sent out a search party. She copied down the details of the marriage announcement and took the Métro back to Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Emerging from the subway station, she walked slowly toward Le Chat.
What had happened to Margot in that marriage? Had her husband beaten her? Gina was experienced enough to know that this happened, even in the most unlikely and affluent of couples. It was a somewhat obvious conclusion, a good reason for Margot to run away to Paris, perhaps even to change her name. But what about her family? Margot’s people were wealthy and liberal-minded and cared little about what people thought, if Margot’s anecdotes were anything to go by. Wouldn’t they have protected her if she’d suffered that kind of cruelty?
Well, maybe not. It never ceased to amaze Gina what hypocrites some people could be. The compulsion for a woman to stand by a husband no matter what he put her through was enshrined in the law as much as it was reinforced by society at large. Maybe Margot hadn’t found a safe harbor at her childhood home.
One thing was for sure—Gina had been too hard on Margot last night, too unforgiving. It was a terrible trait, one she’d thought she’d overcome when she’d fallen in love with Hal. But there she went again, judging those closest to her and finding them wanting.
She needed to see Margot and try to persuade her to let her friends help. She didn’t need to face whatever it was alone.
Days after her visit to Claire’s—or rather, Madame Vaughn’s—apartment, Margot had not regained her equilibrium. However, there was a new influx of stock that needed to be inventoried and new displays to execute for the Dior boutique, and many errands to run that necessitated traipsing up and down the many flights of stairs between the boutique and the ateliers several floors above.
For the past week, stomach flu had cut a large swath through the staff, and their collective absence had increased Margot’s workload. She could only be thankful, both for her own good health, and for the way the added busyness filled her days. It kept her mind off other things.
The service door buzzed and Margot, stripping off the cotton gloves she used when handling Monsieur Dior’s creations, hurried to answer it. A bouquet of flowers bigger than the deliveryman’s head, complete with its own vase, was thrust into her arms. Before she could ask for the recipient’s name, the deliveryman had gone.
Margot shut the door with her hip and carried the flower arrangement to the counter where another of her duties was to wrap parcels for delivery.
How lovely! At this time of year, flowers were terrifically expensive. Who were they for? Probably one of the mannequins who had featured in Dior’s last show, or maybe for Monsieur Dior from a grateful client. The heady scent almost made her dizzy as she searched for a card. She found a little envelope nestled in the arrangement and plucked it free.
It was addressed to her.
Dropping the envelope without reading the card, Margot backed away, her hand to her mouth. Then she realized. Pink peonies. Her favorite flower. Or it had been once.
“Watch out!”
She turned to see that Madame Vincent had come up behind her. She’d stepped on Madame’s toe.
Babbling apologies, her heart beating wildly, Margot’s instinct was to flee. But Madame said sharply, “One moment. Who are these for?”
Before Margot could answer, Madame Vincent had stooped to pick up the card Margot dropped.
Oh, no! If only she’d shoved it in her pocket instead! Squeezing her eyes shut, Margot waited for the anvil to drop on her head.
“For you, Mademoiselle Foulon?” Madame sounded incredulous and affronted. She riffled inside the small envelope. “From Monsieur Mountbatten!”
It took several seconds before that sank in. Mountbatten had sent her the flowers! Relief flooded her entire body. She felt limp with it, and made the mistake of laughing out loud. At the expression on Madame’s face, she quickly sobered. “Sorry, Madame. I swear, I did nothing to encourage him. I—next time you see him, will you please explain to Monsieur that it’s not appropriate?” Surely Madame would oblige her in this. Monsieur Dior frowned upon any relationships beyond light flirtation between clients and staff.
“Actually, he will be here very soon,” said Madame, checking her watch. “His sister is coming for her fitting at two. You can explain it to him yourself.”
“Oh! But you must understand . . . I can’t see him,” said Margot. “It would be too awkward.”
“Well, I don’t know who else will look after his sister,” said Madame. “I have to leave for London in fifteen minutes. This trip couldn’t have come at a worse time.”
Tempted though she was to fake a stomachache and pretend that she, too, had succumbed to the virus that was going around, Margot knew such behavior was unlikely to earn her a reprieve. “Madame, it is uncomfortable for me to attend to Monsieur Mountbatten.” She gestured to the flowers.
“I hardly think he’ll cross the line. Particularly not with his sister there,” said Madame. “And anyway, there is no one else.”
“But, Madame—”
“I don’t have time for your nonsense, child,” said Madame. “Do as you’re told!”
Margot frowned as Madame hurried away. It wasn’t right for Mountbatten to use his status as a client to pursue her, knowing that to keep her job she must keep him happy. In her experience, such men were too arrogant to understand that their attentions might be unwelcome.
If she were completely honest, part of her did welcome his interest. The foolish part of her. The part that, despite everything, still had not learned its lesson.
With Madame gone, Margot went to the desk in her small office and checked the appointment book. Monsieur Dior was away at his Riviera house, dreaming up new designs. With Madame gone, Margot would have to oversee this fitting, but one of the tailors would be there with her to make the necessary adjustments. At least, she hoped so.
Margot returned to the boutique and restored order there following the exodus of a gaggle of young ladies who had come in to try on hats. Leaving Delphine in charge, she climbed to the top of the maison, where usually she found a hive of activity.
Today, only a few workers remained, one of whom was her friend Béatrice. The tailor was pinning a suit skirt made of toile on a mannequin and standing back now and then to view it from different angles. All of Le Patron’s designs were made up in this inexpensive fabric first so as to judge how the garment fell, what details might be added or removed, and how the construction of the garment might best be achieved. Sometimes at this stage, Monsieur Dior would scrap a design entirely from the collection when the reality did not match up to the fantasy he had created with his sketches.
“Thank goodness you haven’t gone down with flu,” said Margot, clutching her friend’s hands. “Will you do the two o’clock fitting for me? Pretty please?”
Béatrice chuckled, showing dimples. “But of course. I hear the English aristo has a crush on you, ma petite.”
Margot felt heat rise to her cheeks at this unexpected teasing. “Who told you that?” Even with a skeleton staff today, it seemed news of Mountbatten’s floral tribute had spread up and down La Maison Dior.
Béatrice tapped the side of her nose. “I have my sources. And now I get the opportunity to see your admirer’s beaux yeux up close. How could I miss it? See you at two.”
Beaux yeux. Margot sighed a little, wistful for the days when a pair of beautiful eyes would set her own heart aflutter. And it was true that Mountbatten’s were particularly fine—the color of maple syrup with the kind of thick, dark lashes that many women might envy. But it wasn’t the color or shape—it was the understanding in those eyes that hit her hardest. She had the strangest feeling that he saw through all of her pretense, even though he couldn’t possibly guess at the truth of her recent history. He unsettled her and she didn’t like that sensation at all. Well, she would make it clear to him she wasn’t interested. A gentleman would give up and move on.
At ten minutes to two, Margot was ready and braced for combat.
Miss Mountbatten was as elegant as Margot had expected, but she had a twinkle in her eye that drew Margot to her immediately. She was younger and fairer than her brother, and although she lacked his charisma, the resemblance in facial structure was strong. “I’m here for my fitting!” she announced merrily in poorly accented French as soon as she walked in the door.
“Good day, mademoiselle,” said Margot, also in French. “My name is Marie Foulon and I will be assisting you this afternoon.”
“I can’t wait. A Dior suit!” The young woman grabbed Margot by the elbow as if they were friends off to do some shopping together. “Isn’t my brother too, too marvelous for words?”
When Margot didn’t answer for a moment, a little taken aback by this ebullience, Miss Mountbatten tilted her head toward the staircase. “Shall we?”
“But what about Monsieur? I thought he was . . . ?” Margot trailed off, flustered.
The other girl laughed. “Oh, I told him not to bother coming along. Men are no fun to have around when one is buying dresses, dear as they might be.”
Margot tried to mask her emotions, but she was caught off guard. She’d done her best to fortify herself against the man’s visit and now it seemed there had been no need. She ought to be relieved.
As they moved to the staircase, Miss Mountbatten darted a mischievous sidelong glance at Margot. “Disappointed? My brother is very handsome, isn’t he?”
“Would you prefer to speak in English, mademoiselle?” Margot asked, switching languages and hoping to avoid answering the question.
“Oh, yes, please. And I wish you would call me Charlie—short for Charlotte, you know. I hate standing on ceremony. I’ll call you Marie, if I may.” Without waiting for an answer, she added, “You’re Australian, aren’t you? I can tell by the accent, though yours isn’t very strong. How splendid.” Though what was particularly splendid about it, Margot had no idea.
Margot laughed. “In my experience, the British are more likely to view my compatriots as uncouth colonials.”
Another sidelong glance. “Now I think I understand what my brother meant.”
Surprised, Margot nearly missed her footing on the stairs. Had Mountbatten mentioned her to his sister? Unable to think of anything to say in response, she pushed open the door to the fitting room, where Béatrice was waiting with her tape measure.
“Here we are,” Margot said. “We will make the suit to measure, of course, but this model will give you an idea.”
“Oh! I love it. It is utterly perfect.” She turned to Margot. “Andrew said you chose it. Thank you! Goodness knows what I would have ended up with if he’d been responsible. It’s a birthday gift, you know. I’m turning twenty soon. Well, in a few months, actually, but my brother’s leaving for Bermuda shortly, so he wanted to do this before he goes.”
All of this gushing was making Margot uncomfortable. What on earth had Mountbatten said about Margot to his sister for her to react like this? Surely his family would disapprove of his interest in a mere shopgirl, even if she did work at Dior? True, Le Patron tended to hire society ladies in the knowledge that they would attract the right clientele to his boutique, but the Mountbattens were related to royalty. Trying not to appear as flustered as she felt, Margot gestured toward the changing screen. “If you would like to try on the suit? Béatrice will measure you first.”
Béatrice had been agog, watching their exchange as if it were a gripping tennis match, but she understood virtually no English, so hopefully she wouldn’t get the gist. However, when Charlotte retreated behind the screen, Béatrice widened her eyes and raised her eyebrows, as if she’d at least understood the tenor of it—that the client was being unusually familiar with a member of staff.
After Charlotte’s measurements had been taken, she changed into the suit—the same model that Margot had shown to Andrew Mountbatten.
When Charlotte stepped out from behind the screen, Margot couldn’t help a pleased exclamation. “You look utterly divine.”
Turning this way and that so that the A-line skirt swished and swung, Charlotte chuckled. “I do, don’t I? Simply smashing!”
Having admired herself some more in the full-length mirror and tried on the hat and gloves Margot recommended to go with the suit, Charlotte slipped back behind the screen to change. When she emerged, and Béatrice had left with the dress and jacket, Margot said, “If you wish to take the hat and gloves, shall I order them for you, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, please. Oh, but I do wish you’d call me Charlie because I want us to be friends.”
Friends? Margot stared at her in surprise.
Her expression must have betrayed her because the other young woman’s smile faltered. “Don’t you want to? I was hoping—I don’t know an awful lot of people in Paris. Well, I do,” she corrected herself. “But I don’t count most of them as friends. Not real friends, anyway.” She pursed her lips and flared her eyes. “I know! I’m having a small dinner party next week and I’d love you to come.”
This was so strange, Margot decided to be blunt. “It’s not that I don’t want to, mademoiselle. It’s just that I’m so . . .” What was the word? “Flabbergasted”? “Dismayed”? “So flattered. And you are very, very kind, but I’m afraid it’s not appropriate.”
“What nonsense!” said Charlotte. “Oh, I suppose you are thinking we’re stuffy because of the family but Andrew and I don’t care a fig about that.” Some of her brightness faded a little. She gripped her hands together and tilted her head, as if trying to decide how to phrase a difficult statement. “I suppose it does seem incredibly odd and forward of me to ask you to be friends, and I can’t explain it now, but . . . Will you think about it? I love my brother dearly, and I know he would be so pleased if you’d say yes.”
Without waiting for an answer, she took out a pencil and scribbled the details of the dinner down on a visiting card. Then she hesitated. “I didn’t ask if you intend to bring an escort. You aren’t attached, are you?”
Without answering that question, Margot glanced at the card. “I’m afraid I can’t join you on Friday evening. I have a prior engagement.”
“Oh?” Charlotte tilted her head as if debating whether to challenge this fairly transparent untruth. Then she nodded. “Another time, then. I won’t forget, mind!”
Charlotte left Margot with much food for thought. If she were honest, she had been disappointed Andrew Mountbatten hadn’t attended his sister’s fitting at Dior. But the knowledge that he’d told his sister—what? Something about his encounter with Margot?—unsettled her. She couldn’t go to any dinner party at the Mountbattens’. What if she ran into someone she knew?
Besides, she couldn’t befriend Charlotte while lying to her about who she was. And she certainly couldn’t do anything to encourage Charlotte’s brother.
Years ago, Margot would have accepted the Mountbattens’ friendship without a second thought. She’d always loathed the very idea of social hierarchy. Be they prince or pauper, they were all just people, weren’t they? She took everyone as she found them, but with her money and connections she’d rarely been on the receiving end of snobbery. It had been humbling to accept that, now, things were different. At Dior she was obliged to swallow some of the stinging retorts that rose to her tongue in response to clients’ rudeness, not to mention Madame Renou’s barbs, for the sake of keeping her job.
She managed to compartmentalize, to separate the servile Marie from the real Margot lurking inside, treating her job as an actress might treat a theater role to be performed in a long-running season. And now, here came Andrew and Charlotte Mountbatten to upset that careful balance.
No. She couldn’t risk it. She couldn’t let this house of cards she’d so gingerly constructed come tumbling down around her for the sake of a new friendship and a disturbing pair of beaux yeux.