Chapter Eleven
Sandrine liked to think of the Assembly Rooms as a sort of second salon of work.
She could meet anyone there, current clients who needed new gowns for the next Season, possible clients who needed a boost of confidence, friends and rivals.
An evening there always promised such possibility.
Anyone could be there at all! Anything could happen when all of Bath gathered in the golden candlelight, the swirl of music and laughter.
She might even meet Alain there. But that was not why she dressed with a bit more care and concern that evening, not why she fussed with her hair and the curling tongs a bit longer.
Oh, no, no! Never that. She surely did not want him to notice her at all.
Everything had become so much more complicated since he had appeared in her life again, so much more confused.
If, however, he did see her in her new à la Diane gown of deep sapphire blue, it would not be the worst thing. If the past had been different, if they had met now instead of then, would things be different?
As Sandrine neared the honey-coloured stone building, glittering in the dusting of new snowfall, with its crush of carriages crowding close, she paused to study the pillared portico she’d entered so many times.
Welcoming amber light spilled from the windows as guests eagerly flocked towards its party-promise.
She studied the gowns, the fur-edged pelisses and small-brimmed hats, making note of new styles she could try. Ladies who would need her help.
Alain wasn’t among the crowds, not yet. She remembered how eager she had been to see him again after their unforgettable first meeting, how she had thrown herself so precipitously into wild emotions, into sparkling hope.
How just the thought of him would make her very toes tingle!
Now she had to be so careful, to remember Marie, remember the armour of her heart.
She gathered her fur-edged cloak closer around her and joined the flood of revellers making their way towards the elegant, pastel-pink and marble ballroom, the sun-yellow card room, the mint-green refreshment space.
She swam through the crowds on the stairs as they called out to each other, kissed powdered cheeks, exclaimed over the crush, the heat.
A few patrons eagerly stopped her, and she nodded and chatted and smiled, trying to be subtle, careless, as she looked for Alain.
The river of people spilled in a perfumed wave into the ballroom, crests of white muslin, bright silks, feathers, metallic embroidery, ribbons, all scattered and refracted. The music was beginning, adding its sparkle to the aura of fun.
No Alain yet. She took a glass of wine, and studied the fresh eddies of the crowd swirling past her as she mentally re-designed some of the gowns to flatter the wearers more.
She glimpsed Mary Campbell and her handsome husband, Charles, as they waltzed past on the dance floor.
They’d been married for months, and it was quite unfashionable to dance with one’s own spouse, but they smiled up at each other in such a palpable sunny glow of happiness that the whole room was blanketed in its warmth.
They stared blissfully into each other’s eyes, swirling and gliding as one, oblivious to all else.
And, if Sandrine did say so herself, Mary’s pale green gown looked quite superb, adding to that Goddess of Joy glow.
For a moment, she dared let herself imagine dancing with Alain like that. Floating in his arms across a dance floor, held close to his heart, his strength. Eyes only for one another, no past, no future to dread.
She turned away from the dancing couples and reached for more wine as she snapped her fan open with one hand, telling herself sternly that she was not the dreamy girl she had once been. Surely, if she reminded herself of that enough, it would sound true.
Suddenly, as if he was summoned by her daydreams of him, she glimpsed him through the crowd. As beautiful as a god, striding ahead in the world that belonged only to him.
Her painted-silk fan waved just a bit faster against her heated cheeks. He disappeared behind a column, and she spun away.
Lord Charlecote appeared beside her, bowing and smiling.
She remembered what Mary said about him, that he often asked after her, and she wished she could have found a man like him when she was young, fallen for him as she had for Alain.
He seemed so steady, so settled in life, and maybe her own years would have passed placidly, too.
Yes, he was surely all that ladies were told they should want.
Of good fortune, steady temper, respectable.
But if she had married such a man, she wouldn’t have Marie.
Wouldn’t have her work and the deep fulfilment it brought.
Life had such twists and turns, so different from what they were all told to expect.
But he did seem nice enough, and Sandrine needed all the friends she could find on her solitary path. ‘Good evening, Lord Charlecote! Are you enjoying the assembly?’
‘I am indeed, Madame Dumas. But I am sure I would enjoy it a great deal more if you might agree to dance with me?’
Sandrine thought of her daydream, floating on the dance floor with Alain. ‘I think it does seem so crowded, and I fear I’m a bit too overwhelmed to dance at the moment. I think I might enjoy a turn about the room, though.’
‘I should enjoy that very much, Madame Dumas. I’m afraid my dancing skills are not of the first stare!
’ He offered her his arm, and she slid her hand over his sleeve.
He smelled quite pleasant, of soap and snow, and he was lean and handsome, all that he should be.
Yet she felt sad there was no spark there, nothing like the heat she’d ever felt only for Alain.
Mary and Charles had finished their waltz, and now sipped lemonade near the fireplace.
Mary waved at Sandrine when she glimpsed them, and raised her brows at Lord Charlecote’s arm under Sandrine’s touch.
Sandrine bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Her friend was always a matchmaker, just as Sandrine was always a modiste.
Lord Charlecote nodded at the Campbells. ‘It is so nice to see dear Mrs. Campbell’s newfound happiness, is it not? After all she had brought to others!’
‘Very much. She and her sister have been such lovely friends to me, I’m delighted they both made such happy marriages themselves.
’ The St Aubins’ sisters had made more than suitable matches indeed; they had found husbands who valued them for who they were, even for their business sense, and it gave her such a pang to think of it.
‘It is quite enviable,’ Lord Charlecote said, and Sandrine thought he sounded rather sad. ‘Since I was widowed, I confess I have longed for nothing so much as domestic bliss and comfort. It is such a yearning.’
‘Indeed, I understand.’ She had begun to feel just such impossible yearning herself. ‘It’s sad we can’t all be as blessed as Mary and Charles have been.’
‘Exactly!’ He pressed her hand. ‘I could use just such a soft lady’s touch in my own life.’
‘I…’ Sandrine, whose work so depended on finding the right words at the right moment, to be descriptive, patient, kind, now had no words. ‘It is—is difficult, oui. I—I think I suddenly feel quite warm.’
He gave her an indulgent smile, pressed her hand again. She longed to snatch her hand away, to run into the crowd, and she hated a woman’s powerlessness in that moment. ‘I do know ladies are often so overcome by delicate emotions. I have surprised you, but surely you must have guessed my feelings?’
‘I—no,’ she said faintly.
That smile widened. ‘Shall I fetch some lemonade?’
‘Thank you, yes, how kind.’ At last he let her go, drifted away. She watched until he vanished, and she could draw a breath again.
She backed away, waiting until she could spin around and run for the withdrawing room, but a solid weight was behind her. She bumped into something tall, warm, and twirled about to find Alain in her path.
‘Sandrine!’ he said with a happy smile, that smile that had lingered in her dreams for so many years. That dashing smile of his! But was it all in her imagination now, her wild hopes that something might have changed? She had been so very mistaken in him before.
His smile flickered uncertainly. ‘I hoped you would be here tonight. I have been looking for you.’
And there was that excitement again, that wild hope. Had he really wanted to see her, even as she had him? ‘Have you?’ she said, making herself laugh. ‘I think it would be hard to find even an elephant in such a crush!’
He chuckled, that deep, warm, smooth sound that made her shiver. ‘Exactly. I feel like I know not a soul, since Francoise disappeared with her friend Adele, and there is nothing quite so lonely as a crowd.’
‘That is true.’ How often she’d felt so alone in the years without him. But she could never let him know that.
He glanced around, an empty wine glass dangling carelessly from his long fingers. ‘But I thought I saw you just now with your admirer.’
‘Admirer?’ She could barely seem to remember anything from before Alain had appeared.
‘A gentleman in a green coat. You seemed in very earnest conversation.’ He frowned, and she wondered if he could possibly be jealous.
For an instant, she was rather tempted to explore that hint of jealousy, to see where it might go, but she could not play such games. Not with him. ‘He is Lord Charlecote. A friend. Mary Campbell introduced us.’
He tilted his head as he watched her, trying to read her as he always could. ‘I am sure you have many admirers. How could they help themselves? You look so—so…’ His voice faded, as if he could not find the words. As if he was as lost as she was.
‘I am not free to have—admirers,’ she whispered. Yet he must have had many on his travels, just as he had in Bath. Women flocking around him in her own salon, at the theatre. Yes, she knew all too well how hard it was to resist him.