‘Why did you bring me here?’ Martha asked, when he was out of earshot.
‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it? Although this isn’t the place – I mean, we’ll be going someplace else after this.’
‘Okay.’
She sounded anything but okay.
‘Here we are, sir. The Meisterstück Le Petit Prince edition.’
It was beautiful. A burgundy-coloured case with a tiny gold star on the clip.
‘As you can see, it’s engraved with a quote from the book.’
I read it aloud. ‘“On ne voit bien qu’avec le c?ur.”’
‘You speak French?’ she asked.
‘Just a smattering. I spent a summer working in a gite in the South of France.’
‘Okay,’ she repeated, her eyes widening before she stared at her feet.
‘It means that one sees clearly only with the heart.’
I could see that the words struck her in a way that I hadn’t predicted. Just like in the park, when I told her the story of the lost manuscripts, she became truly moved by it. I had grown used to the indulgent smiles and nods from ‘lay people’ when I talked about my passion, but she seemed genuinely interested. I struggled with the instinct to puff out my chest with pride. I don’t care what anyone said, quoting Antoine de Saint-Exupéry was impressive in any man’s language.
‘Shall I wrap it up for you?’ said the shopkeeper, interrupting the moment.
‘Erm, yes. How much is it?’
‘€799 inclusive of VAT.’
I gulped. I had wanted to impress her and now I had backed myself into a financially constrained corner. I didn’t know how to get out of it and in the end told him that it was a gift I would buy as a reward once I’d completed my paper. He simply stared at me with the dead eyes of a shopkeeper who knew I would never return.
‘But you know what, I will have one of those Moleskine notebooks!’ I said, assuming this would erase the entire episode from everyone’s memory. Except mine.
Chapter Thirteen
OPALINE
Paris, 1921
I immediately got up, packed all of my books and other belongings into my bag and fled down the stairs. I thought if I could just make it to the shop, Sylvia would know what to do, how to help. I waved away Madame Rousseau’s offer of breakfast and pushed the outer door open only to find myself coming face to face with my brother, who was waiting for me. He was not alone.
‘Here she is,’ he said, a new black walking cane in his grasp. ‘You see, Bingley, she is overcome with emotion.’
I stood there, open-mouthed, like an idiot, trying to take it all in. There was my brother, triumphant and relaxed, and this Bingley character looking eager and holding a large bouquet of flowers.
‘Well, don’t just stand there, man, give her the blasted things before they wilt!’
‘Miss Carlisle, I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance,’ he said, handing me the blooms.
Still, I said nothing, but gripped tightly the handle of my bag and wondered if I could outrun them.
‘Now don’t worry, Sister, good old Bingley here bears you no grudge for standing him up on the last occasion you two lovebirds were to meet.’
I couldn’t fathom his tone of voice. It was not my brother speaking but some imposter. With endless charm.
‘How did you find me?’ I asked, finally.
‘How do you think? Your dear friend Jane found a picture of you in a magazine and her husband was only too delighted to share it with your proud family.’
He must have seen the look on my face, how foolish I had been.
‘Oh, come now,’ he said, taking my arm firmly in his grasp. ‘We are men of the world, after all. We understand that you needed to spread your wings before marriage. Have one last hurrah. Isn’t that so, Bingley?’
‘Indeed, indeed,’ he agreed, eyeing me up and down as though I were his next meal. He was tall and ruddy with a hooked nose and a receding hairline. They both smelled of brandy, which explained their exaggerated behaviour. Everything seemed outrageously strange – the juxtaposition of my brother and his associate in my Paris. I hardly noticed them guiding me towards a hotel.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘I have to go to work.’
‘Work! We have a socialist in our midst, Bingley!’ my brother continued in this strange jovial voice that didn’t suit him. It was like the wolf talking to Red Riding Hood. ‘Of course, I should call you Lord Bingley,’ he said, ushering us both ahead of him and into a grand-looking foyer.
‘This is all very well—’ I began, but Lyndon once again hushed me with his effervescent monologue.
‘Champagne, we must celebrate!’
He gestured to a waiter who was serving an elderly couple their coffees in the foyer. I could tell he was insulted by my brother’s arrogance, but he simply nodded his head and arranged some chairs at a table for us.
‘I shall book my little sister a private room for this evening,’ he said, gesturing towards the concierge's desk. ‘Must uphold tradition and all that. There will be time enough for you both to become better acquainted after the wedding.’
Wedding? Surely he wasn’t suggesting that I marry this stranger. Of course I didn’t wish to create a scene in front of so many people so, as he turned to leave, I said in a low voice, ‘Lyndon, have you taken leave of your senses entirely?’
‘I’ll explain everything upstairs,’ he said, and all but pushed me down into my seat.
Alone with Lord Bingley, I did my best impression of a mute. He asked if I had enjoyed my time in Paris and I simply nodded and pulled my lips into something resembling a smile. The waiter returned and placed a bucket of ice on the small table beside us. He gently popped the cork of the champagne and poured a tiny amount into Bingley’s glass. Naturally, he had to taste it first and the whole charade left me inwardly screaming with impatience. Just pour the damn thing, I wanted to say. I needed a drink.
Bingley clinked my glass and toasted to our future. I smiled again, thinking of how our future would be as long-lived as it took me to escape my brother’s clutches. I saw Lyndon, still chatting to the concierge. My mind raced – perhaps I could get them both drunk and slip away unnoticed.
‘He’s quite the fellow, your brother.’
‘Quite.’
‘We served together in the army, you know.’
‘Oh?’
‘A man of rare conviction.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Why yes, Miss Carlisle. Opaline. I may call you Opaline.’
May you indeed, I thought, wondering how long I would have to endure this charade. A thought struck me of how Sylvia would mock this forced politeness at all costs. If only I were an American!
‘You learn a lot about someone’s character in the trenches. You have to make unpopular decisions.’
I knew what he was referring to. It had been a bone of contention between Lyndon and my father.
‘Yes, I am aware that my brother shot one of his men for cowardice,’ I said, no longer able to keep the fake smile on my face. The thought alone disgusted me – killing our own men, purely because their fear got the better of them.
‘One of his men? Oh, it was at least ten times that,’ he said, almost boasting. ‘You see, one must set an example when leading men.’