Page 28 of A Secret Correspondence
Whatever reason he had for being in Locksley at this hour, it was not to spend the day driving about Hampshire with Marguerite. “You are kind to offer, but I am happy to take the post.”
Mr. Harding curled his lip in distaste. “My appointment fell through, and I have an entire day available. Please do not force my trip to Locksley to have been in vain.”
The temptation to accept was short-lived, and she quickly squashed it down. How would she explain her relationship to Paul? A French priest in exile who put off the church and turned to tutoring the moment he came to England? It would never do. This visit needed to be accomplished with delicacy. Riding into Southampton on Mr. Harding’s flashy curricle would only draw attention.
The briefest moment of desire filled her. She wanted to climb into the seat beside him and share a ride together, to speak openly in person as they did in their letters. But she shoved the feelings aside swiftly, covering them and reminding herself howimpossible that would be. Her desires meant little now in the face of reality.
“I thank you, monsieur, but I couldn’t possibly ask it of you.” Marguerite spoke firmly, grateful her disappointment didn’t bleed into her tone. Mr. Harding’s seat on the curricle was so high above her, a manifestation of the difference in their stations. She could see it so clearly from where she stood below him on the street. She wondered how he couldn’t seem to see it at all.
Mr. Harding looked as though he wanted to argue further, but the arrival of the post chaise forced him to move. He tipped his hat to her and commanded his horses to walk on. She watched him go, perfectly aware of the chasm that lay between them.
Marguerite climbed into the post with the other passengers, nestling in with the woman and men already inside, and took off.
Paul openedthe door after four heavy taps of his metal knocker. It was a relief to see his familiar brown eyes set in a wrinkled pale face. White hair fell in wisps around his forehead and wiry white side whiskers climbed down his ruddy cheeks.
“Marie-Louise, you are here,” he said, his accent heavy.
“It is Marguerite, Paul. Remember?”
“Oh, yes, yes. Come in before you catch your death, Marguerite.” He stepped aside, making room for her to pass him into the house. The narrow building was crowded on both sides by other homes and smelled strongly of cooked beef.
“Forgive me for coming without notice. I do hope this is not an imposition.”
“Never. I am always glad to see your beautiful face. Will you come in for tea?”
“That would be lovely.” She smiled up at him. He had one servant who lived in the house, and Marguerite assumed the woman was the reason for the stew bubbling in a kitchen downstairs.
“Let me speak to Mrs. Keel. You can sit in there.” He gestured to the small retiring room.
Marguerite let herself in the dim room and crossed toward the window. She drew open the drapes, coughing at the excess of dust that billowed out. Light poured through the street-facing window, highlighting the dust along the bookshelves and tables. The room had seen better times. Marguerite hurried to the sofa, situating herself so she would not be found analyzing the neglect when Paul returned.
Which took him a good deal longer than Marguerite had anticipated. He returned carrying a tray. “Mrs. Keel is elbow deep in the laundry. Will you pour?”
“I would be happy to.” She prepared Paul’s cup how she remembered he liked it, then passed it to him as he sat on the sofa, leaving space between them. “I have come seeking guidance, actually. I’m afraid I’ve had some strange occurrences this week, and I do not quite know what to make of them.”
Paul sipped his tea. “Go on.”
Marguerite took a drink of her tea and put the cup down. It was weak, but she understood that most households needed to re-use their tea leaves these days. She pulled the letters from her reticule and spread them on the table between them.
“This is only the beginning,” Paul read. “You may have the entire bottle.” He glanced up at her, his brown eyes creased in confusion. “What do they mean?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion. The first letter arrived, tucked in my locked shop door, with this ribbon inside.” She pulled out the ribbon and put it in Paul’s hand. “The second smells like my mother’s perfume.”
Paul’s eyes jumped to hers. “Charlotte,” he said reverently. Gesturing to the page, he reached for it, but paused. “May I?”
“Of course.”
Paul lifted the letter to his nose and closed his eyes, inhaling softly. “Jean-Claude and Charlotte. I can see them so clearly when I smell this. Who left these for you?”
“I do not know.”
“Oh,ma chére. Someone has your mother’s perfume? What could they possibly want from you?”
Hope, fleeting and desperate, bubbled in her chest. She looked into his dark brown eyes, searching for help. “I hoped you would have the answer to that. I was so young when we left France. I cannot understand what this ribbon means, or how someone would mean to threaten me with my mother’s perfume. What could the offer of her bottle mean?”
“There were no other letters?”
Marguerite thought of Mr. Harding’s letters, but they were not connected. “No, nothing.”
