She made a small noise that might mean anything. His hand found her hip and turned her over.
“Pierre, I’m so tired,” she said.
To her surprise, he laughed and withdrew his hand, rolled on his back and switched off the lamp. “So am I, my dear. Very well. Let’s go to sleep.”
She stared at the faint gray outline of his nose. In the darkness, she couldn’t quite tell for certain, but he seemed to be smiling.
“What’s going on?” she whispered. “What does this mean?”
He laughed again, and it was not the way he had laughed at her earlier, like the edge of a saw. This laugh was soft and happy, like the laugh she remembered from their honeymoon.
“It means we are moving up in the world at last, my little wife,” Pierre said. “It means, for one thing, we will soon be moving out of this stupid dump to the kind of apartment even your grandmother will envy.”
Chapter Seven
Babs
The H?tel Ritz
Paris, France
April 1964
It was far from a dump, but it wasn’t Langford Hall, either. There were no drafts, or the sound of old, aching floors and walls gasping throughout the night. No sound of wind blowing down chimneys, and no windows rattling like ghostly visitors. No scratchy bed linens that had been left on the line in a rainstorm by Mrs. Finch rubbing against my skin. And no need for socks on my feet to keep out the chill as I slept. No, the Paris Ritz wasn’t anything like home.
Instead, plush carpeting swallowed all sound, and when I flipped a switch, the light was guaranteed to turn on without a flicker or pop. The pipes in the bathroom didn’t groan and rumble, and water was dispensed into the basin via a gold swan. I found I rather missed the gurgles, but as I sat in the heated water of the bath that was actually hot and remained so, I wondered if I missed it all because it was home, or because I didn’t belong at a place such as the Paris Ritz.
By the time I’d bathed—making sure not to use more than one towel and face cloth despite the veritable pile of them heaped on the heated towel rack—and dressed, I’d confirmed my decision from the previous day to go back to England. Sitting at the desk and using the provided Ritz stationery, I wrote a note to Mr. Bowdoin explaining how I’d made a mistake and would not be joining him for a rendezvous or anything else that evening, and then another to Miss Dubose thanking her for her kindness, but letting her know that I’d be on my way home to England by the time she received my note.
I packed up my meager belongings and stowed them carefully in my valise. It had taken me a while to find it, tucked very far back in the large closet, itself hidden behind door panels that blended with the wall, as if the staff had hoped to hide it forever.
I dressed in the same tweed traveling suit I’d worn the day before and stood facing the mirror for a full five minutes debating on whether or not to wear Diana’s scarf. In the end I knotted it at my chin, then left the room carrying my valise, pausing at the door briefly for one last glance at the tall ceilings, marble fireplace, and carved frescoes over the doors. Maybe if Kit had been with me, I would have seen it through the rose-tinted eyes of a woman in love. But now it looked only like a beautiful yet cold and sterile place to sleep.
The door shut softly behind me as I made my way to the mirror-paneled lift, the two sealed envelopes in my hand. When the lift opened into the lobby, I found myself tiptoeing toward the main desk as if I were escaping. Which, I realized, I was. From what or whom, I wasn’t quite sure.
I’d almost reached the desk when I heard a familiar voice behind me. My brogues spun in an ungainly way as I twisted around to find Miss Dubose perched elegantly on one of the armchairs neatly arranged in the long-windowed hallway. Once again, she was dressed impeccably in a silk coat dress in that lovely sunset color she’d worn the previous day. Her slim ankles were crossed and her little finger extended as she took a sip from what certainly looked like a Coca-Cola bottle. I’d never tasted it, preferring Bovril and tea.
When she caught me staring, she raised the bottle a little higher. “I can’t start my day without one of these, even in Paris. And they put in the salted peanuts just like I asked. Which goes to show you that you really can get anything you want at the Ritz.”
I nodded dumbly, wondering if I should hand her the note I’d written for her, or simply leave it at the front desk as I’d intended.
She took notice of my traveling attire. “Not everyone can get away with wearing all that tweed, bless your heart,” she said, her gaze once again taking in every inch of me as if she were Michelangelo and I a block of marble. Or a lump of clay. “At least you have on that lovely scarf. A gift, I’m thinking.”