‘Hence the cages. So, do they lock you in while you read, is that it?’
At that moment, I thought I heard someone calling my name. But I didn’t turn around.
‘Mon Opale.’
My body stiffened. I didn’t dare hope.
‘Bonjour,’ Mr Ravel said to whoever stood behind us.
I turned around to see Armand, more handsome than my memory could ever do him justice, his dark features all the more beautiful here. It was all I could do not to fall into his arms and, but for the fact that Mr Ravel was beside me, I dare say I would have. Instead, we embraced and kissed on each cheek.
‘Mr Ravel, may I introduce my … fellow book dealer, Mr Hassan.’
The two men shook hands and I found myself at a complete loss as to how I should handle the situation. My hand cradled my belly instinctively. Here stood the father of my child, but social etiquette prevented me from uttering a word. Mr Ravel had been so kind and chivalrous, how could I tell him to leave?
‘Mr Ravel, I beg your forgiveness, but I have a very important business matter to discuss with Mademoiselle—’
‘Gray!’ I shouted.
The two men looked at me.
‘He always pronounces it incorrectly,’ I stammered, feeling utterly stupid.
‘Of course,’ Mr Ravel bowed slightly in the most respectful way that I felt a pang of guilt at simply abandoning him.
‘And do call in to my shop,’ I said, hoping that he would.
He smiled kindly and was gone.
Armand took my hand and led me into one of the open cages. I let my body lean against the ladder that was placed there for reaching books on the higher shelf and he pressed himself against me, his mouth on my neck, like a vampire himself. We didn’t speak; the only sound was our breathing and the occasional turn of a page from the readers outside.
‘Wait, wait. Stop,’ I said, panting slightly. ‘What are you doing here?’
He looked up at me and smiled, his deep brown eyes lit by rays of the afternoon sun, revealing flecks of amber. I knew then I loved him. I loved him madly. But I wasn’t sure if he ever could or would love me.
‘I’m after a book, of course,’ he grinned and pulled the top of my blouse down revealing the white curve of my breast.
Not for me, then. He kissed me and I forgot myself momentarily.
‘No, I mean what are you doing in Ireland? Why didn’t you send a telegram?’
He stepped back slightly and sat on the desk opposite, where some old books lay open. His body language changed; he picked up a pen and fidgeted with it. When he looked at me, there was an air of disappointment in his eyes that I had spoiled the moment with my question. I’m not sure I had ever observed him so keenly, but then, I was never carrying his child before. An uncomfortable truth formed first as a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and his lack of response confirmed it in my thoughts.
‘You weren’t going to tell me you were here, were you?’
He got up again, all charm.
‘It’s not that, Opaline. You know what it’s like, following a lead. I had not planned to come here, but a collector requested a very specific manuscript—’
I’d heard enough. I straightened my blouse and was struggling with the doors of the cage when I felt his arms around me.
‘Please, Mon Opale, there’s no need for such hysteria. I’m here now. Let’s not ruin it.’
I sighed deeply, then turned around to face him.
‘I have something to tell you,’ I said, unsure of how exactly I was going to do it.
‘Marvellous, we shall meet tonight for dinner. But now I have work to do.’
He looked so pleased with himself and I realised how much I liked being the one to make him happy.
Perhaps he would want the baby after all.
I arranged that he should come to the shop for an aperitif. My excitement made me giddy and ditsy – I dropped a glass and scratched one of my favourite records while preparing the shop for his arrival. It was overwhelming, Armand being in Ireland. I wanted him to love it as much as I did, so everything had to be exactly right.
Not long after the cuckoo clock announced that it was eight o’clock, I heard the handle of the door opening and the sound of his shoes scuffing the tiles. Mother had always said that punctuality said a lot about a person. I smoothed my hair behind my ears and climbed the stairs to the shop.
‘Opaline?’
‘Yes, j’arrive.’ I hadn’t spoken French in so long, it sounded strange and I blushed. When I reached the top of the stairs I saw him standing there in a dark suit, his hair damp from the rain outside. ‘Come in,’ I said, even though he was already inside. I was so nervous and I began rushing around and generally fussing with drinks and chairs and frothy conversation about the books on the shelves and Mr Fitzpatrick’s antiques. In a silly way, I suppose I wanted him to be proud of what I had accomplished.
Eventually he put his hand on mine and asked me to sit beside him. I immediately filled the silence with yet more casual conversation, as though we were two complete strangers.
‘So where are you staying?’
‘The Shelbourne.’
Of course. Only the best for Armand. Or rather his employers.
‘What is it? You are not yourself.’
I took a deep breath. I could no longer put it off.
‘There’s something important I have to tell you and I just don’t quite know how to put it.’
He smiled.
‘With words, of course.’
I returned his smile, but my doubts grew.
‘You know I had the impression you were hiding a great secret, ever since I met you in England.’
‘Really? Oh, Armand.’
Did he already know? Perhaps he had come to Ireland for me after all.
‘One can always tell,’ he said assuredly.
‘Can you?’ I covered my stomach.
‘Of course! You found the manuscript you were looking for, didn’t you? It doesn’t take a genius to work out why you were at Honresfield. It’s something to do with the Bront?s, is it not?’
My heart sank, but I kept the smile frozen on my face.
‘Oh. Why, yes. You know me too well.’
I sat there, smiling inanely like an idiot while he smiled politely back.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Aren’t you going to show it to me?’
Wasn’t I going to show it to him? I repeated the words in my head. It was, after all, the discovery I had been simply dying to tell someone about. And here I was with one of Europe’s greatest book scouts, one of a small, select group of people who could truly grasp the significance and sheer luck of my achievement, and yet I hesitated. In that second, my conscience revealed to me the truth I had been trying to not see, ever since we’d first met. I didn’t trust him. And yet now, here I was, faced with a choice of telling him about the baby or the manuscript. I had to decide what I was willing to risk.
I chose the manuscript.
‘Wait there,’ I said, as I took the sewing box from the drawer. I insisted we both wear cotton gloves to handle it and while he examined the notebook, I told him the story of how I found Mrs Brown in London and that my last-minute decision to buy this piece of memorabilia resulted in the discovery of Emily’s manuscript. He wasn’t to know it, but his reaction would decide everything for me.