Page 23 of A Secret Correspondence
“Good day, Ruth.”
The men and women filtered into the shop, some going directly toward the wall of ribbons while others meandered about, admiring the fabrics. Wisps of conversation reached her ears, mostly English with an occasional French word, which revealed just who this group of people was.
Ruth pulled her gloves on as a gentleman opened the door from the outside and held it for her, then let himself in after she left.
Averyfamiliar-looking man. He was not terribly tall, with dark hair and a deep brown gaze. His defined jawline ended at a cleft chin, and his figure, though not broad, appeared healthy. Marguerite could not place how she knew him, but something about his face—or perhaps it was his eyes—tugged at hermemories the same way the damask ribbon had. She found the folded letter in her pocket and wanted to open it right there, to know if it held more of the same, or perhaps a further explanation.
Could it have been left by Mr. Harding? Had the man received her letter, discovered her identity, and written to her directly to break all contact?
She needed to take a deep breath and see these patrons out, then she could open the note.
The familiar gentleman approached Marguerite, forcing her heart into her throat. “Excuse me, mademoiselle?”
“Madame Perreau,” she corrected. “How may I help you, monsieur?”
A smile spread widely over his face, evidently delighted by her accent or her name. Perhaps both. “Pourrions-nous parler français?”
The very question she had been dreading. She did not wish to be seen as an outsider within her own village. “I prefer English, sir.”
His face fell, but he quickly corrected it. “Of course. It is more respectful of those who do not understand. I wondered, do you have any handkerchiefs?”
“I do.” She showed the gentleman where he might find them, then returned to the counter, hoping the distance would be a signal.
The man did not seem to read her signal. He approached the counter almost immediately. “My name is Armand Leclair.”
Shock permeated her body. Marguerite knew that name. She knew this man. Or rather, she had known him as a boy. His family had lived near hers, had been regular guests in her home. Did he recognize her as well? Was it possible after so many years? She had not immediately recognized him, not fully, not until she had heard his name.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said politely. She looked tothe rest of his party. The women were still debating over ribbons and the two men appeared bored. Were any of them also Leclairs? Armand had not been an only child. How many of his family had made it out of France alive?
“From what I know of my friends, we shall be here a great while.”
Marguerite smiled. Friends. So none of them were his sisters or younger brother. The chances of her being detected decreased. She spoke, maintaining a level voice with great effort. “It can be difficult to select the perfect color.”
“I learned to be patient a long time ago, and it is a skill which has served me well.”
“Your future wife will be quite grateful.”
Mr. Leclair flashed a smile. “I hope so. Tell me, Madame Perreau, will you be attending dinner this evening at the Faversham house?”
“No.” She did not expound. Surely the man understood why.
He looked disappointed.
Fortunately, one of his friends desired help at that moment, and Marguerite was called away to assist the ladies with their ribbon purchases. She wrapped them each in brown paper and tied them with twine. As they filed outside again, Mr. Leclair held the door for a beat longer, searching her face. The shop was empty while she stood at the other end, hands clasped lightly in front of her, body tensed beneath her calm exterior.
Armand searched her face. “You look familiar to me, though I do not know why. I hope to see you again, madame.” He bowed to her before closing the door. The bell chimed in the silence, filling the disquiet within her with the vibrations of sound.
What did his presence mean for her? So many years after her escape, surely it mattered not if she was discovered. But Paul’s warning rang out in her mind, his fierce hold on her thin shoulders, the wild look in his eyes as he made her promisenever to reveal her true name—how danger awaited her if she did.
A shiver crawled up Marguerite’s spine. Enough of that. She needed to know if Mr. Harding had left her a note. She promptly let herself into the parlor and closed the door.
Sitting on the sofa, she pulled out the letter. A wave of scent rolled from the paper as she unfolded it, knocking into her with force. She was thrown into a memory so fiercely, she would have cried out had she not been struggling to breathe.
It was her mother’s perfume.
Lifting the letter to her nose, she inhaled orange blossoms and was transported back to being young and curling up on her mother’s bed, sleeping there as she waited for her parents to return from a dinner or a ball. She remembered her mother climbing in beside her, the smell of her perfume surrounding them in a cloud. Oh, how comforted Marguerite felt to know all was right in the world again.
The memory, the scent, the feelings now tumbling over her one after another were overwhelming. She drew in a shaky breath and read the note left in the center of the page.
