Chapter Twelve #3
They reached the front steps of a house, a small, calm, respectable-looking town house inscrutable behind its draperies, its polished front steps. He looked up at it, at the serenely gleaming windows that concealed so much, and felt her hand alight on his arm. Holding them both steady.
‘Do you want to go inside?’ she asked quietly.
‘Of course I do.’ But he hesitated on the first stone step. He had to tell her, assure her, even though he knew it would be a long road to that. ‘I was not there when you most needed me, Sandrine, but I want to be there now.’
Did she believe him? He couldn’t tell, not from the steadiness with which she studied him. She just opened the door.
She led him into a small hallway, a staircase winding above, a few doors opening into sitting rooms, dining rooms, paintings on the walls, a soft, faded carpet underfoot.
He remembered her parents’ grand London home, and his parents’ shabby dwelling there, the sense he’d always had of never being really at home.
Sandrine had created a very homely space, one all her own, filled with artistry.
The soft, welcoming blues and pale yellows created a haven of comfort, of rest.
‘Madame,’ a maidservant greeted them, studying Alain curiously.
‘Bonjour, Julie.’ Sandrine handed her the reticule, her hat and gloves, and gestured for Alain to take off his greatcoat. ‘Have Mademoiselle Sophie and Marie returned yet?’
‘Oui, madame, just now. I have sent up some cocoa to the nursery. Shall I call for them?’
‘No, don’t rush them. Could we have some tea in the drawing room?’
She turned, and led him into a small room, as elegant as everything else she touched with yellow and springtime blue, stacks of books, open workboxes, paintings in gilded frames.
Quite nervous, he found he couldn’t stand still, and wandered the perimeter of the pink and blue floral carpet to study the paintings on the blue-papered walls, the books on the shelves. French novels, poetry, art.
Sandrine sat down carefully on the edge of a blue and white striped settee, watching him warily.
‘You have made yourself a beautiful home,’ he said. ‘It feels so full of—of comfort and welcome.’
She laughed, and gestured to the stacks of books, the workboxes overflowing with ribbons. ‘You mean a mess?’
‘Not at all! I mean, it is yours, it could belong to no one else. It speaks of you. Of your elegance and beauty, your spirit that draws people in. Makes them feel seen.’
She looked away, her cheeks growing dark pink. She took up a cushion and fiddled with its tassels. ‘I fear I am the despair of my maids. Marie is allowed in any room, and she does tend to leave her dolls and toys around.’ She nudged at some blocks with the toe of her half-boot.
‘It’s not much like my parents’ house was,’ he murmured as he examined a cluster of framed miniatures on the fireplace mantel. ‘The comte and comtesse would never allow anything from the nursery into a drawing room.’
‘But you are the comte now,’ she said quietly.
‘So I am. But I don’t like to think about any of that.’ It was really that title, that useless old French title, that had brought them where they were. Sandrine’s father’s purchasing of it, his parents’ driving need to preserve it.
Sandrine seemed to think of that as well. She frowned down at the cushion. ‘Titles are only what we make of them.’
He nodded, remembering that she had said she wanted a Parisian shop of her own. ‘Surely being a comtesse could help you if you opened a business in France.’
She tilted her head back to study him, her eyes narrowed. ‘I suppose it could, yes.’
‘So I could help you in that small way?’ At last there was something useful he could do for her!
She shook her head. ‘Alain. You don’t have to do anything for me.’
‘But I do. I want to. Surely I owe you that?’ And so much more. He took a step towards her, longing to take her hand, to be next to her, but something held him back.
He could see she wanted to protest, but there was an echo of running feet on the staircase, the drawing room door pushed open. Sandrine rose to her feet, a wide smile spreading over her whole face, lighting up her eyes. She looked as radiant as a summer’s day.
‘Maman, Maman!’ A tiny, curly-haired whirlwind flew into the room and threw her arms around Sandrine’s waist. Her pink hair ribbon was quite undone, ends trailing from those dusky curls, and her white skirt hem was dusty above little kid boots.
Her plump cheeks glowed pink. Yet no spirit of mischief could disguise her rare, perfect beauty, her long neck and heart-shaped face, her dark blue eyes that were all d’Alency.
He could not breathe, could not move. Everything sharpened, intensified. His whole life felt it had come down to just this one second.
‘Mademoiselle Sophie took me to Sydney Gardens!’ she piped, her accent touched at the edges with the air of France.
She was oblivious to his presence, which Alain was glad of.
It gave him time to collect himself, to not frighten Marie with the intensity of his reaction.
‘We played with hoops! Can we go to Mollands this afternoon? I love it so! I was very, very good, I promise. I listened to Mademoiselle Sophie very carefully, and minded her.’
Sandrine held her close, protective as she studied Alain over Marie’s ruffled head. Her eyes were wide, wary. ‘Yes, we can go to Mollands very soon and get you some marzipan. But right now we have a guest.’
Marie spun around to stare at him with a surprised, curious stare. Her eyes were large, dark blue, as bright as a night star. It made him think of his mother, his sisters. The eyes he saw in the mirror every day.
Everything else in the world faded, vanished. He hardly noticed the maid coming in with the tea tray, didn’t hear the clatter of the silver and porcelain, didn’t hear Sandrine’s murmured instructions. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, he’d never been so nervous and speechless before.
Sandrine took her daughter’s little hand, and Marie drew back against her skirts. ‘Marie, chère, this is Monsieur le Comte d’Alency. Will you say bonjour?’
Marie blinked up at him, studying him most carefully, just as Sandrine did. He found he couldn’t stop studying her, either. He wanted to memorise every detail, fill every moment he’d missed. She was so beautiful.
Marie tiptoed forward and bobbed an admirable little curtsey, despite her wide, astonished eyes. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Comte. I am Mademoiselle Marie Dumas.’
‘I am most pleased indeed to meet you, Mademoiselle Marie.’ He bowed low to her, making her giggle, the most musical little sound. ‘Comment allez-vous?’
She laughed again, and it made her look just like her mother when she was delighted by something. It gave Alain a deep warm glow to see it. ‘Is a comte like a prince? I love my books about Cendrillon, but you do not look much like the paintings in them.’
He leaned close and said confidingly, ‘Do not tell the princes you know, but it is better.’
She looked quite delighted. ‘I want to know all about comtes, then! Do you have a castle?’
‘We should let our guest have his tea, Marie,’ Sandrine said.
Marie seized his hand in her small fingers, shocking him, flooding him with a new, rare, burning joy. ‘Shall us sit and talk, then?’ she said, tugging him towards the settee, as dignified as any dowager duchess.
‘I should love nothing better, mademoiselle,’ he answered in awe.
He perched on the edge of the settee with her, and glanced at Sandrine to find her looking worried.
He was filled with nothing but longing then, yearning to prove to her he could be trusted now, that he could hold on to this rare feeling forever and never let it slip away again. She and Marie were all he wanted now.