Chapter Six #2
She feared that no man, even if she dared let one close, could compare to how she had once felt with Alain.
He had gone away travelling after they parted so soon after their ill-fated wedding, to Italy, Egypt, maybe Greece…
she knew not where. He was building his own business, forging his own path, as she was, independent of their families.
She could not have contacted him even if she wanted to.
The more time that passed, the more she feared his memory rather than less, the more she thought of him.
And she could not let any man know her secrets. Not let any man hurt her again or make her feel small.
She busied herself with the tea things, trying to cover her thoughts. ‘He does seem very nice, Mary.’ She did not mention the vague disquiet she sometimes felt in his presence. Surely, if Mary liked him, Sandrine was imaging things? ‘But you know I could not possibly think of marriage.’
Aside from protecting her heart, she was already married, try as she might to forget that fact.
Mary laughed. ‘Oh, Sandrine, who said anything about marrying? I am finding it to be a surprisingly delightful state to be in, but it’s not for everyone, much as the world tries to persuade us it must be.
If you like Lord Charlecote, enjoy his company a little.
Let him flirt a bit with you! You are a very beautiful lady who brings such joy to so many with your creations, you deserve a little fun in return. ’
Sandrine threw up her hands. ‘Fun? What is that? I hardly remember such a word.’
‘Exactly. So come to the theatre with us.’
Sandrine suddenly decided that she would go. Mary was right. A little fun never hurt anyone. ‘Very well. I will!’
Mary smiled in smug happiness, and they took more tea, chatted more about upcoming parties, new fashion papers Sandrine had received from Paris, Adele’s plans for London.
By the time Mary departed, it was growing dark outside, and Sandrine set about closing the shop after the sales staff had gone.
She drew the blue satin draperies, closed the shutters, tidied the glass cases of ribbons and feathers and lace, smoothed the gowns on the mannequins.
It was her great pride, that shop; she had worked so hard to build every gleaming inch of it.
Was it enough? It had to be. And usually it was.
Bath was lovely in the winter, the honey-coloured walls veiled in lacy snow, the light diffused and pale golden as it fell over the roofs and railings, the wide greens, the glimpse of the river beyond. She’d been happy there, had made a home for herself. Today it seemed even brighter, sharper.
She smiled and hurried her steps when she glimpsed her little house at the end of the lane. It was nothing grand, just a narrow townhouse of pale cream stone in a row of them, but it was all hers, her sanctuary. Like the shop, she’d worked hard to build it.
Mrs Perkins, her gem of a housekeeper, opened the door, seemingly always knowing when Sandrine was approaching at the end of her workday. Golden light spilled out onto the front steps, turning the stone into a glittering treasure, welcoming her.
‘Madame,’ Mrs Perkins said, a smile lightening her stern-looking face beneath her lace cap. ‘We’re very glad to see you. It looks as if it might snow tonight.’
Sandrine glanced up at the darkening sky before she stepped inside that light, and unbuttoned her fur-edged pelisse.
The black and white tiled hallway led to doors to the drawing room and dining room beyond, a narrow staircase winding up to the bedchambers, and to her little painting studio.
It was not fashionably decorated, but crowded with books and old furniture of dark wood and deep cushions, paintings and vases from her parents’ house, bric-a-brac brought back from France, from visits to her mother, who had retired to Brittany after her father died. All just as she wanted. Her very own.
‘All the better for a nice, cosy fire, then, Mrs Perkins,’ she said cheerfully, handing her pelisse, matching little fur hat, and gloves to the housekeeper. ‘How were things today?’
‘Very peaceful, madame. Mrs Smythe has cassoulet for dinner, and a raspberry trifle, when you are ready.’
‘Merci. In an hour will suit. I’ll be staying at home this evening.
’ Christmas had been a busy season for the shop, and now it looked as though, with Mary in Bath, there would be more social invitations.
A chilly evening at the warmth of her own table sounded delightful, as did her cook’s raspberry trifle.
She made her way into the drawing room, where a fire did indeed crackle and dance merrily in the grate, illuminating the green walls and yellow-striped curtains, the shelves of leather-bound books, an open sketchbook on the table.
A stack of letters waited, bills that needed to be seen to, orders that needed response, probably even a letter from her mother that deserved an overdue answer.
She sat down in her favourite faded tapestry armchair by the fire and reached for the papers, but her thoughts drifted far away and couldn’t quite be summoned back.
It was lost in that image of Alain that came back to haunt her too often, of his dark grey eyes, his crooked smile. The way his touch had felt on her skin.
She tried so hard, so very hard, never to think of him. Never to think of that dreadful mistake she’d made when she was too young and sheltered to know better, to see how to protect herself. Sometimes, though, he came flying back to haunt her, so vivid and real.
Where was he now? What was he doing? His parents had since died, and Catherine d’Alency had married, she knew that much.
And Alain himself had been away from England for years, travelling, working, building his own life.
She did not know where he went. Sometimes she imagined him at ancient temples, crumbling pyramids, golden castles. Places where he seemed to belong.
Her own mother, happily settled in her little chateau in Brittany after her husband’s death, didn’t seem to care where Sandrine lived.
She had the ‘Comte d’Alency’ to claim as a relation, which took her far in her own local Society.
Sandrine wrote to her mother sometimes, starting after she had found a place at Madame Feydeau’s shop in Brighton years ago where she could learn the modiste’s trade, learn to translate what she had learned of colour and texture and fabric in her father’s warehouses into sellable creations.
Her mother assumed she lived in Bath now ‘for her health’, and thus not always with her husband as he travelled and built his fortune, and that seemed to satisfy her.
Sandrine laughed. In a way, of course, she was in Bath for her health.
To build up her life again, maintain her serenity.
Her mother did not need to know the secrets Sandrine held so close.
And the money from her inheritance from her grandmother, the interest, still appeared.
She assumed the same with Alain’s funds from the marriage settlement.
He had what he had needed from her. She had to forget him.
She heard the patter of quick, light steps on the staircase outside the drawing-room door, and put down the letters.
She had just risen and turned towards the doorway with a smile when a little girl burst in.
A little girl with glossy dark curls and dark grey eyes like her father.
A father she had been told travelled a great deal and so could not be with them.
She dashed across the pastel-floral carpet and threw her arms around Sandrine’s waist, hugging her tight, which was her customary greeting. Sandrine felt peace and contentment flow through her at that touch. ‘Marie! Ma chère, how was your day?’
‘Maman!’ Marie cried, her voice touched with a French lilt at the edges. ‘You are here at last! My day was splendid, I have so much to tell you…’