You and Esme will be provided for. I hope one day you can forgive me, Pandora. Nothing you could have said or done would have made things turn out differently.
Give Esme a kiss for me.
Yours,
Harley
The paper fluttered to the floor; a fresh wave of grief overcame her. Had Harley taken his own life, or had he died in the fire? If only she had arrived at the jail sooner, or if the guard had let her through. Perhaps it would have turned out differently.
At least she had Esme. Pandora would make sure Esme knew how much Harley loved her. It wasn’t much, but for now, it was the only thing she could think of to do for Harley.
Chapter Sixteen
March 1929, Beaulieu-sur-Mer, France
The fire turned into one of the biggest in New York’s recent history, and the scandal too. The newspapers stayed full of it. Even when Pandora boarded the RMS Olympic to Europe, Harley’s and Porter’s names remained plastered across the headlines: “State Senator Front-Runner Porter Merrill and Bank Vice President Harley Enright Caught in Lewd Behavior,” “Fire Caused by Protestors outside Jail Destroys Three City Blocks,” “Five People Killed and Dozens Injured.”
She couldn’t believe Harley was dead. Every day, she crisscrossed the ship’s deck as if consumed by a fever, and wondered whether he killed himself or if the fire did it for him. She didn’t know which was worse. If only she had reached him in time, maybe she could have saved him. Even though their marriage was not what she had expected, she and Harley had still loved each other, even if just as best friends.
No one had ever been so supportive of her career. She loved talking to him about the boutique. His enthusiasm and belief in her had meant so much. How would she create new designs without his gentle praise and support?
And he had been such a good father. When Harley was with Esme, she was his sole focus. He could read to her for hours, and she often heard him singing to Esme when she was supposed to be asleep. Even Adele praised his devotion. Milton never had that kind of patience with his children.
Pandora missed him desperately.
She tried not to think about it, to concentrate on the crossing instead. But it was impossible. She yearned for him. She wanted him to be on the ship with her and Esme. To take Esme swimming in the swimming pool and read books in the library. She wanted to dine together in the Olympic’s two-story dining room and whisper when they saw the famous passengers, Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks.
And she longed for her boutique. The entire shop had burned to the ground. The feeling wasn’t anything like the pain of losing Harley, but it still tugged at her like a heavy weight. All the weeks and months of sitting at her sewing machine, all the glorious fabrics, the carefully chosen accessories, gone forever. She wondered if she would have the courage and strength to try again. For now, even thinking about finding a new space and hiring a new staff made her head ache.
She longed for Adele’s company too. Adele was on her way to San Francisco. Pandora could still picture the way Adele looked when they said goodbye. In the space of a few days, Adele changed from a beautiful older woman to a pale ghost. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and when Pandora hugged her, she felt thinner.
Milton seemed to almost shrink overnight. He stood on the dock when the ship sailed, Esme waving her plump fist furiously from the deck, and Pandora could see the tears in his eyes.
Since Harley’s death, Pandora wondered if she should free herself of her secret. But she couldn’t do it. Adele needed to think she had something left of Harley. The revelation would bring Milton more shame when he was still reeling from the articles in the newspaper. And there was Esme to think about. If Archie didn’t acknowledge Esme as his own and Esme ever found out, she would be devastated. It was better that she grow up hearing stories about Harley pushing her in her pram and taking her to meet the ponies.
She hadn’t had time to see Virginia before she left. She tried writing letters to Willie and Virginia and Archie, but she didn’t know what to say. Finally, she put away the writing paper. There would be time to write from the South of France. When she was sitting in the warm sun, gazing at the Mediterranean, she would feel better.
After disembarking in Southampton, they took the train and the ferry across the channel and finally a taxi from Nice to Beaulieu-sur-Mer where Suzanne Lenglen lived. Beaulieu-sur-Mer was a tiny village wrapped around the coast made popular by Queen Victoria at the end of the nineteenth century. There was a train station, along with more than a dozen hotels, facing the small harbor. The loveliest thing about it was the main square. The taxi driver insisted on stopping so Esme could have fresh lemonade. Citrus trees lined the sidewalk, and bougainvillea spilled out of window boxes. Vendors sold tomatoes and berries at the outdoor market, and in the middle of the square stood a wrought-iron music kiosk, where in the summer they held concerts.
After Esme drank her lemonade, the taxi climbed into the hills. From above, the Mediterranean became a turquoise blur edged with white like a piece of Wedgwood wedding china. Just when Pandora began to worry that Suzanne’s villa was so high up that she wouldn’t be able to walk to town, the car stopped in front of an orange stucco home with green shutters, surrounded by pine trees and a rubber tree whose gnarled roots dug into the dirt.
“Oh, it’s breathtaking,” Pandora said to Sally, as the taxi driver arranged their luggage on the steps.
Sally was a petite twenty-year-old from Queens. She had four younger siblings and was used to taking care of children. Esme adored her, and Pandora saw her almost as a friend, instead of merely a nanny.
“It’s so big; how can it belong to one woman?” Sally wondered.
“Suzanne Lenglen is the biggest tennis star in Europe; she can afford anything she wants.” Pandora smiled, breathing in the scent of pine needles. She felt a little better than she had on the ship. The warm sun and sea air calmed her nerves. “Why don’t you take Esme to look at the view. I’ll see if Suzanne is home.”
The interior was dark and cool, with a stone floor and wooden ceiling fans. The furniture seemed scattered about rather than arranged: a dark brown sofa next to a floral armchair in the living room, a long oak table and mismatched chairs in the dining room, and a small room that Pandora guessed was a study but was filled with Suzanne’s trophies.
She heard a voice and walked toward it through an arched doorway to the kitchen.
A man wearing an open-necked shirt and a striped apron hunched over the counter. He held a knife in one hand and a strange-looking vegetable in the other.
He resembled a French film star, with light brown hair and a small moustache. His eyes were hazel and he had tan, narrow cheekbones. He said something in French, but she shook her head and replied that she spoke only English.
“Come in, you have perfect timing,” he said again in accented English. “My hands are oily, and I can’t get a grip on this eggplant.”
Pandora held the eggplant on the cutting board while he sliced it with the knife.
“Thank you, I would have wrestled with it for ages.”
“Why didn’t you wash your hands first?” Pandora wondered.
“I put the olive oil on my hands on purpose.” He reached for a wooden bowl. “It’s the best way to mix a salad. Butter lettuce and mesclun and eggplant. It’s going to be delicious.”