Chapter Ten #2
Sandrine led Francoise to one of the blue satin settees dotted around the salon, and took out a pile of French fashion papers for them to look through.
As they examined sleeves and trains and veils, she remembered her own wedding.
It was a memory she usually tried to push away, to forget, but today, with Alain so close, it was as vivid as yesterday.
The smell of the lilies, the nervous flutter in her stomach, the haze of everything through lace.
The hope that had bloomed so warm and fresh.
She shook her head to be rid of the old images, and gestured to one of the vendeuses to bring some tea. The girl reluctantly left the laughing circle clustered around Alain.
Sandrine turned to one of the latest illustrations. ‘This is the latest style in Paris. I think it would suit you very well indeed, though this sleeve—’
‘Oh!’ Francoise suddenly squeaked. She dug around behind her back, under the braid-edged velvet cushion, and brought out a doll. Its golden curls were tangled, its arm crooked, obviously well-loved. Francoise studied it, bemused. ‘Is this a new fashion doll?’
Of course it was not, with its faded lacy skirts and mussed hair.
It was Marie’s favourite. For a moment, Sandrine could not breathe.
She glanced at Alain where he chatted with her shopgirls, and knew she was not nearly ready to tell him what he must know, even though she knew she must. He deserved the chance to know his daughter.
She made herself laugh and took it from Francoise to tuck it away in a nearby basket.
‘Some patrons so like to bring their children. We sometimes make small fashions, too.’
Francoise sighed wistfully. ‘Such lucky little girls!’ Fortunately, she seemed to forget the doll immediately, and turned the page of the papers. ‘Oh, I do like this one. What a clever sort of layered skirt! Could this part be done in pink?’
‘It is your gown,’ Sandrine said with a laugh.
‘Perhaps I should visit you in your lodgings and bring more samples for us to go over, make a few sketches?’ She felt such reluctance to be in Alain’s own house, but surely it would be safe enough if she was working, doing what she knew best?
She wanted this gown to be the finest she’d ever made; then any debt between her and Alain would be finished, and they could part again. Surely…
Sandrine sat up late that night after Marie was tucked in bed, and sketched by lamplight, trying to lose herself in her work as she so often did.
When she was absorbed in line and colour, in trying to make the enticing visions in her head a beautiful reality, she forgot all else. She saw only movement and scenes.
Francoise deserved a glorious gown to begin her new life, and Sandrine had such ideas for her.
Flowing tulle, gleaming satin, lace flowers and glittering embroidery.
But there, in the quiet darkness of the night, she kept remembering her own gown.
The pale, girlish bows along the neckline, the edges of the overskirt sparkling with tiny pearls.
It had not been what she would choose now.
She was no longer that naive, romantic girl who dared to believe for one wondrous moment in ‘love at first sight’.
Or at least, she’d always believed that wasn’t her now.
She’d made her dream come true, one she’d believed back then could never be.
She had her own business, her work, her art.
It wasn’t painting, as she’d once wanted, but her gowns were art now, and she could use them to help other women find the confidence in themselves she’d once lacked.
It was a good life, and Alain had obviously made his own dreams of independence come true as well.
They had no place for each other in their new lives. She’d had to build a protective shell around herself, for her own sake—and especially for Marie’s. But now, seeing Alain again, being near him, gave her feelings she’d thought long buried. A sense of lightness, and longing.
And he had changed, too, just as she had. He had grown, hardened. There was a depth to his eyes she’d not seen before.
Maybe, just maybe, they had both changed enough to see how to start again? In a new way?
Sandrine tossed down her pencil and ran her hand over her face, tired and confused and trying to push away any hope that dared creep in. Hope had broken her heart before. She couldn’t afford that now.
They did have to make some kind of new beginning, of course, for Marie. He deserved to know the truth, and surely Marie deserved to know her father. It was only right. It scared Sandrine, but she somehow knew it had to be done. Her daughter needed that.
For herself, though…
She pushed away from the desk and went to the window to study the quiet street below.
The houses, all pale stone in the starlight, slept behind their curtains, and in the distance she could see the faint ripple of the river.
A carriage drew up at the house across the street, and a couple climbed down.
They leaned against each other sleepily as they returned from some ball or rout.
They paused to kiss, tenderly, wrapped up in only each other.
She felt such a longing for her young love, her young self. The echo of a past that felt endless, where every touch had seemed a promise. If only time would spool back, if only she and Alain had one more chance to love with the wild, unguarded fervour of youth. But she could only move forward now.