After the events of the balloon ascent, Madeleine and I spent our final few days in Paris apart. I didn’t know—or particularly care—what she was doing and enjoyed my last peaceful hours in the Louvre and the Musée d’Orsay. While I was pleased to have Edward’s letter back, not least because I now had a way to contact him in Venice, I couldn’t believe Madeleine’s betrayal—and yet part of me wasn’t in the least bit surprised by it. She’d often been caught going through my things when we were younger. Why would that change now? I’d been silly to believe—to hope—she would act differently, and while I was furious that she’d been so deceitful, and mortified to think of her having read Edward’s intimate confession, my greatest reaction was one of bitter disappointment that she’d proved herself to be exactly the same interfering Madeleine she’d always been. I wished I could share more of Paris with her, just as Violet had shared the city with Margaret so many years before us, but perhaps I wished for too much.
“Can you ever forgive me?” Madeleine asked as we ate dinner in silence at the hotel restaurant on our final evening.
I was surprised by her emphatic apologies. It wasn’t like Madeleine to admit she was at fault so readily.
“I don’t think I can, actually. No,” I replied without looking at her. “What you did was unforgivable.”
“Please, Clara. I shouldn’t have read the letter or kept it from you. It was just there, among the newspapers on the desk, and then you came back into the room and I took it without really thinking, and before we . . . well, before we became friends again. Then I just forgot about it.”
I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin, pretending I wasn’t affected by the use of the word “friends.” In truth, I wanted to let go of some of the bitterness of the past. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of letting her off the hook so easily. Not yet.
“When will you ever learn not to go digging through other people’s things?” I asked stiffly.
“I’ll never go through your personal things again. I swear,” Madeleine replied, raising her hands in defeat. “Even if you do leave them lying around to tempt me. But going through other people’s things . . . come on, Clara, I’m a journalist. I dig for information. It’s what I do.”
“You don’t have to do it at another’s expense!” I countered. “You upset people and cause difficulties for them. Surely there are ways to go about it that aren’t quite as deceitful.”
Refusing to meet my gaze, Madeleine pushed a wedge of roasted potato around her plate. She’d hardly touched her meal. It was unlike her not to finish every last bite, and more often than not, mine, too. A sure sign that she really was sorry.
“But I don’t suppose there’s much to be gained by prolonging the argument,” I conceded at last. “What’s done is done, and we still have to take the rest of the journey together. I’m prepared to put the incident aside, for Violet.”
“So, I’m forgiven?” She raised a hopeful eyebrow.
“Not forgiven, but I won’t bring it up again because Violet would want us to bury the hatchet and try to get along.” I put my napkin on the table. “Even though you make it exceptionally difficult,” I added.
“If you want to tell me about Edward, I . . .”
“I don’t,” I said, holding up my hand to end the conversation. “I don’t want to talk about the letter, or Edward, again.”
I might not want to talk about it with Madeleine, but the truth was, I couldn’t stop thinking about Edward or the fact that he planned to be in Venice the following week. It was too late to try to put him off, not that I really wanted to. Was it so wrong for two friends to spend a morning at an art gallery together?
As we were finishing our meal, Daniel spotted us and approached our table.
“Ladies, I’m so glad I caught you. I wanted to wish you both farewell and a happy journey to Venice.”
I thanked him for his help in the balloon, and Madeleine shook his hand.
“Where to next, Mr. Miller?” I asked.
“I’m not entirely sure. I’m waiting for a new assignment at another theater, somewhere in Europe. Possibly something in Austria, but there’s also a chance I might return to America.”
“Oh?” I didn’t mention that we also planned to be in Austria. I’d enjoyed Mr. Miller’s company but didn’t want to see him turning up at every place we visited.
“Things are becoming increasingly unsettled in Europe,” he added, “and while there’s no need for alarm, I’d advise you ladies to be careful.”
Madeleine nodded her understanding, and I got the impression she wanted to speak to him in private. They’d gotten along like Laurel and Hardy, and I suspected they were sorry to say goodbye. I excused myself for a moment, and took longer than necessary in the bathroom.
By the time I returned to our table, Mr. Miller had gone.
“Say your farewells?” I teased.
“You didn’t need to excuse yourself,” Madeleine said. “I’m perfectly happy to see him go. I enjoy his company well enough, but I certainly don’t need him hanging around all the time.”
I didn’t believe her for a minute.
I arched a brow at her but changed the subject. “Do you think he’s right about things becoming increasingly unsettled? Are you sure it’s safe for us to stay in Europe?”
Madeleine hesitated.
“I wouldn’t say it’s perfectly safe,” she replied at last. “But neither is New York City. We’re being sensible, and careful. And I also think Daniel is being overly cautious. A lot like you. I’m following the news closely. If I think we need to leave, I’ll say so. Until then, let’s keep going.”
I really did want to keep going. Paris had already surprised me, but not in the way I’d expected. The sights were awe-inspiring, the food and wine delicious, the lights on the Seine made the city shimmer, but what had surprised me most was the way I felt about being away from home. I recalled Auntie Nellie once saying her trip around the world wasn’t remarkable for what she’d seen and experienced along the way, but for how she’d felt when she returned home. I hadn’t understood the sentiment when I was a young girl, intimidated by this brash, outspoken woman who was a friend of my grandmother’s, but I was beginning to appreciate what she’d meant. I thought about the pocket watch Violet had given me for luck before I’d left New York. I had looked at it at least a dozen times during our time away from home, the inscription Never turn back seeming to speak directly to me, urging me on even when I doubted myself.
I studied Madeleine’s expression and decided that I’d have to trust her to look out for us both, despite my reservations. For all her faults, I knew Madeleine wouldn’t put me in harm’s way intentionally.
“We need to think about Venice, then,” I said, changing the subject as I placed Violet’s second letter to us on the table. “Shall we?”
Madeleine nodded.
Opening the envelope, I removed a single sheet of paper, and began to read the letter out loud.
My dearest girls,
You are ready to leave Paris and move on, to bella Venezia! A city that has my heart, and I hope it will enchant yours, too.
Life doesn’t always run in straight lines, and you must never believe anyone who tells you otherwise. Frank Bell was the love of my life, but there were others. One in particular, who also touched my heart. Most women will tell you (if they’re being honest) that they have loved more than one man in their lifetime. Despite the commitments of marriage, most of us also hold a flame for another. We make our decisions and choices, and we live with them. I wouldn’t change my marriage to Frank for all the world, but I wouldn’t change what came before it, either.
Frank knew all about Matthias Morelli—there were no secrets between us—although perhaps he never fully understood how important Matthias was to me, or how he changed my life so completely. We met in Venice, during the trip I won to Europe. Margaret wanted to visit Rome, but I insisted on Venice. It’s as if I knew I had to go there, that I knew Matthias was waiting for me.
I don’t know if he is still there—if he is still alive, even. I do hope so. It will mean the world to me to know I have this last chance to say the things I should have said to him all those years ago.
With all my love to you both,
Violet
Madeleine’s mouth fell open in shock. I stared at her, too stunned to speak.
“Violet had a love affair before she was married to Grandpa Frank,” she said eventually. “Well, I didn’t see that coming!”
Violet was a beautiful young woman in the old photographs she’d shown us, prettier even than our mother, so it wasn’t unexpected that men should find her alluring, but she’d never once mentioned this other man. Why would she, I supposed.
“I’d assumed Matthias must be an artist Violet admired, or someone who’d helped her and Margaret on their journey,” I said. “But if that were true, why would she go to the trouble of sending us to find him?” I shook my head. Perhaps we had underestimated her.
“We don’t know her at all, do we?” Madeleine stole the words right off my tongue. “We thought we knew everything about her, but we don’t know what she keeps hidden inside her heart, or who she was before she became a mother and grandmother. I wonder what else she’s been keeping to herself all these years. What a woman!”
“I guess we all have our secrets,” I agreed.
“But given how much she loved Grandpa Frank, it’s hard to imagine there was ever anyone else.”
My thoughts flickered to Charles, and then to Edward. “Oh, I don’t know that it’s such a surprise. Is it really possible to fall in love only once?”
Madeleine grinned. “Well, now I’m looking forward to Venice more than ever. I want to meet this mysterious Matthias Morelli. See what he’s all about. To Venice, then!” She raised her glass in a toast.
I raised my glass in return as the setting sun cast a golden glow over the table. “To Venice. And whatever might be waiting for us there.”
Madeleine leaned back in her chair. “I think a delicious story is what’s waiting for us.”
I bit back a smile. “You sound just like Nellie Bly.”
She folded her arms across her chest and smiled. “I know. And hopefully I’ll soon be writing just like her, too.”