He handed me half of the stack of papers. I pushed my teacup out of the way to make room, the pungent smell of the ink assaulting my nose again. “So that we could determine if there might be a connection between the de Courcelles and whoever had the talisman.”
He grinned that grin again. “Beauty and brains, Babs. Your husband was a very lucky man.” My stomach did funny flipping motions. I squirmed in my seat, hoping I wasn’t getting ill.
The waiter returned with a fresh cup of coffee and another pitcher of cream, along with more croissants for Drew, whose stomach had begun to rumble again. I focused my attention on the pile in front of me, finding quite a few mimeographs from Le Petit Parisien as well as from Le Figaro and Vogue. The largest article, a full page from the New York Times society page, featured a wedding photograph from 1893.
Curious, I pulled that one out to start, taking a fortifying sip of tea first. I studied the photograph of the couple, unable to take my eyes away from the bride. She was small in stature, or perhaps it was because the man standing beside her seemed to dominate the photo. He was tall and at least two decades older than his young bride. He wore a dark military uniform with medals and ribbons decorating the front pockets like a Christmas tree, his face angular and stern. Neither was smiling.
I leaned forward to look at the woman, seeing the spark behind her beauty. And perhaps a bit of defiance in the angle of her jaw, the light in her dark eyes, the way she stood a little in front of her husband. A pale hand rested in the crook of the man’s elbow, looking delicate and helpless. But something about the woman’s face made me quite convinced that she was neither. I sat back studying this odd couple and wondering what had brought these two together.
“What is it?” Drew was so close I could feel his breath on my neck in a not unpleasant way. “You made a noise in the back of your throat.”
“Did I?” I said absently as I skimmed the article. “It’s a wedding announcement for the Comte de Courcelles and an American, Wilhelmina Gold of New York.”
“The Golds of New York? Quite a famous family—I think they owned half of the city and probably still do. Lots of money there. I’m sure that has a lot to do with them getting married. He looks old enough to be her father.”
“I was thinking the same thing. It wasn’t uncommon for many of the aristocratic families in England and Europe to bolster their sagging coffers with new American money through marriage.”
“At least she got a beautiful chateau in the deal.” Drew pulled out a sheet from his own stack from what appeared to be an architectural design book showing the rendering of a fairy-tale castle, complete with banners fluttering from the turrets.
“Still,” I said, lost in thought, “I can’t imagine marrying for such a reason. I wonder if there could have been something else.”
“Besides the promise of becoming a wealthy widow while still young?” Drew asked.
“Possibly. But if the Golds were as wealthy as you suggest, Wilhelmina could have bought her own chateau. There’s just something about her that makes me think she’d need a better reason.”
I began flipping through the pile again, trying to sort by date and pulling out the oldest ones to read first. Drew slid a page toward me. “Well, our Comte de Courcelles—Sigismund—wasn’t a complete bore. His horse won the Grand Prix in 1902 so that’s something.”
“True, but I’m finding much more on Wilhelmina—called Minnie, by the way—than on Sigismund. Lots of photos in the gossip rags coupling her name with men other than her husband.” I skimmed yet another article in Le Figaro about Minnie de Courcelles née Gold then slid it over to Drew. “They had one daughter, Aurélie. She was raised at the Ritz, where her mother apparently lived.” I looked at Drew and immediately wished I hadn’t because my nose narrowly missed his.
“They were divorced?”
I shook my head. “Not that I’ve discovered so far. It appears that they might have been living separately since their daughter’s birth. I’m beginning to think that Sigismund preferred to rusticate out in the country, whereas Minnie preferred a more cosmopolitan life.”
“Ah. That would explain this one,” Drew said. “It’s all in French, but that’s her photograph with the name Comtesse de Courcelles in the caption, and I recognize the word Ritz. And Suite Royale. But that’s about it.”
I skimmed through the article, presumably from a gossip rag masquerading as a newspaper. “This is from 1938, before the last war, and it’s about the long-term residents at the Ritz. Apparently she lived there prior to the first war. It doesn’t mention her daughter, but there’s something about a granddaughter. A Marguerite Villon. There’s nothing about either woman’s personal life, but according to this, our Minnie liked to redecorate the suite often.”