Chapter Three
Acooling breath of air drifted in through the bedroom window, carrying with it the coos and shuffle of pigeons along the zinc rooftops.
Hinges groaned in the courtyard below as someone folded back their shutters, while beyond the rooflines Paris was already going about its business as the bell of Sainte-Mérance struck the seventh hour.
The previous evening’s events turned over in Elizabeth’s mind as she dabbed the powder puff to her nose.
Clemmi had been waiting in the salon with the sherry already poured, apologising for Oliver’s absence before Elizabeth had even sat down – something urgent at the embassy, you know how it is – the same apology she’d offered at the station, and again over tea, each one delivered with the same bright assurance that everything was exactly as it should be.
Elizabeth had done her best to distract her friend, serving up every scrap of news she could muster over dinner, from the Pembroke wedding and Gigi’s self-appointed role as mistress of ceremonies, to Freddie Carstairs losing half his father’s estate at the tables in Monte Carlo.
And Clemmi had played her part beautifully, leaning in for the details and groaning at Freddie’s stupidity, though time and again her gaze had strayed past Elizabeth’s shoulder to the empty chair at the head of the table, lingering there a moment before she found her way back to the conversation.
She set down the powder puff and reached for her lipstick, her thoughts returning to Clemmi’s remark when she’d heard the Carstairs were passing the whole affair off as Freddie wintering abroad for his health.
The lengths families will go to, keeping up appearances …
as if everyone can’t already see straight through them.
Clemmi had laughed it off and moved on, but the remark had stayed with Elizabeth long after the coffee had gone cold.
For all her chatter, Clemmi had spent most of the meal pushing the food around her plate, only ever carrying the occasional sliver of chicken to her lips whenever she felt Elizabeth’s eye upon her.
She uncapped the gold tube and leaned into the mirror. The question of why Clemmi hadn’t told Oliver about her visit had been on the tip of her tongue more than once, but seeing her friend more like her old self, she’d let the moment pass.
It could wait … for now.
Elizabeth crossed to the armoire and ran her eye along the rail before lifting the crêpe de chine Molyneux from its hanger.
She stepped behind the silk-print privacy screen and slipped it over her head, the pale green crêpe falling in soft pleats from the dropped waistband that settled low on her hips.
Elizabeth turned before the triptych mirror, giving her appearance a final once-over, then pulled the door shut behind her.
The rich aroma of coffee filled the passage as she headed for the dining room. Oliver must have already left for the chancery; an early start to match his late nights, it would seem.
“Bonjour, milady.”
“Sylvie!” Elizabeth startled, her hand flying to her throat. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Oh! Pardonnez-moi, milady, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Sylvie shifted the empty tray in her hands.
“That’s quite all right, Sylvie. It’s just that everything is so quiet, I didn’t expect to see anyone.”
“Ah, Madame Sterling is still sleeping – the mornings are not easy for her now. Can I bring you some fresh tea, milady? And some breakfast?”
“Tea will be fine, just for now. Thank you.”
“Bien s?r, milady.” Sylvie bobbed her head and hurried off down the passage towards the kitchen.
Elizabeth continued on to the dining room and pushed open the double doors.
Oliver sat at the head of the table, his dark head bent over a sheaf of papers, a folded copy of Le Figaro at his elbow beside the remains of his breakfast. He raised his cup to his lips without looking up.
“Feeling better this morning, darling?”
“Perfectly so, thank you. Yourself?”
Oliver’s head snapped up, the cup clattering back onto its saucer as he sprang to his feet. “Elizabeth … I, er … I wasn’t…” He reached for Le Figaro, settling it over the loose pages beside his plate. “I thought you were Clemmi.”
“That much I’d gathered.” Elizabeth drew out the nearest chair and settled into it. “But please, don’t let me disturb you. I can see you’re busy.”
“It’s nothing … just some routine paperwork.” Oliver lowered himself back into his seat, squaring the edges of the newspaper against the tablecloth. “When was it you arrived?”
“Yesterday afternoon.” She’d never seen Oliver Sterling quite so rattled, and she was in no particular hurry to put him out of his misery. “Clemmi did tell you I was coming, didn’t she?”
“Yes … yes, of course. We’ve been so busy at the chancery this week, I must have muddled the dates.”
“I can just as easily stay at a hotel if it’s a problem. I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“Certainly not, Clemmi–we wouldn’t hear of it.”
Elizabeth knew perfectly well Clemmi had told him no such thing. But her friend’s confidence wasn’t hers to betray.
She angled her head to read the masthead. “Le Figaro. A friend of mine back in London used to write for them, just after the war.”
“Really?” Oliver settled back in his chair. “And what brought him to Paris?”
“She, actually. And I’m not entirely sure.”
“And what is it she does now?”
“She’s a journalist at The Times.”
“Impressive that she managed to land such a position. I can’t imagine it was easy.”
“Indeed, but Cybil is like a terrier with a bone once she gets wind of a story. She’ll keep digging away until she gets to the bottom of things.”
“How very admirable.” Oliver held her gaze a moment. “I can see why you and she are friends.” He reached for the coffee pot, refilling his cup. “And how long do we have the pleasure of your company?”
“That rather depends on Clemmi.” And how long she needs me for. But Elizabeth kept that part to herself.
“She’s quite in her element with you here, I’m sure.
Though I do hope you won’t be too indulgent with her; Dr Vernet insists she takes things easy, at least for the next few weeks.
” He set down the coffee pot, spooning three sugars into his cup before stirring.
“I did try to persuade her to return to Mayfield Manor, with me spending so much time at the chancery of late. But you know, Clemmi. She’ll tell you what she thinks you want to hear, then turn around and do exactly as she pleases. ”
“Pardonnez-moi, milady, I am sorry for the waiting. The kettle, it would not boil.” Sylvie entered with a tray, setting out the teapot, cup and saucer, and a small jug of milk. “Madame Sterling says in England there is a saying about a watched pot that never boils?”
“There is indeed Sylvie. Très bien.”
Oliver drained his cup and checked his wristwatch.
“You’ll have to forgive me, Elizabeth. Duty calls, I’m afraid.
” He rose and gathered his papers, folding Le Figaro around them before settling the bundle against his chest. At the doorway, he turned back.
“Sylvie, please remind my wife that I’ll be home early this evening. ”
Well, well. Mr Sterling deigning to join us for dinner. Would wonders never cease?
“And see that my evening suit is pressed. The Americans are hosting a reception at the H?tel de Castellane.”
Apparently not.
“Oui, monsieur. I will see to it.” Sylvie gathered Oliver’s cup and saucer onto her tray. “Will there be anything else, milady?”
“No, thank you, Sylvie.”
“Très bien, milady.” She laid Oliver’s knife and fork across his plate and added them to the tray.
Elizabeth lifted the teapot and poured, steam curling from the spout. What exactly did she know about Mr Oliver Sterling, the man she’d met on only two prior occasions before he’d whisked her best friend off to Paris?
“Has Oliver left already?” Clemmi wandered into the dining room, her blue silk dressing gown tied loosely at the waist, and settled into the chair opposite Elizabeth.
“I’m afraid you’ve just missed him.”
“He could have at least said goodbye; he knew I was awake.”
“Will you take some breakfast, madame?”
“I…” Clemmi threaded the dressing gown cord through her fingers, her skin blanching. “Perhaps a little later.”
“Might we have some toast, Sylvie?” Elizabeth filled a second cup and set it in front of Clemmi. “I find my appetite has finally caught up with me after all that travelling.”
“Bien s?r, milady.” Sylvie balanced the tray against her hip. “Oh, and Monsieur Sterling asked me to remind you, madame, he will be home early tonight, before la soirée chez les Américains.”
“Merci, Sylvie.” Clemmi waited until Sylvie’s footsteps had faded down the passage.
“The only reason he’s coming home early is so he can change into his white tie and go straight back out again.
” Her shoulders sagged against the chair back.
“It’s not as if he’s coming home to spend time with me, is it? ”
“I must say.” Elizabeth studied her friend over the rim of her teacup. “I’m rather surprised you’re not going with him.”
“That battle was fought and lost a week ago.” The cord slipped from Clemmi’s fingers. “Apparently it’s not an actual social event and Oliver will be working most of the evening.”
“In white tie?”
“That’s exactly what I said.” Clemmi wrapped her hands around her cup and lifted it to her lips.
“And what was his reply?”
“Something about a few sticking points – the French are digging their heels in over the loan agreements and the Americans are being just as bloody-minded. Oliver is hoping they might be able to settle their differences over a couple of glasses of Louis XIII.”
“Sticking points?”
“I’ve no idea, so don’t even ask me what they are. Wives aren’t privy to such sensitive information. It seems we can’t be trusted with anything more dangerous than a soufflé recipe.”
Sylvie returned with the toast rack, a dish of butter, and a covered plate. She caught Clemmi’s eye as she set the plate down, pulling a face. “Votre petit déjeuner, madame. From Cook.”
Clemmi recoiled, pressing the back of her hand to her lips as Sylvie lifted the cover, the stench of scorched fish in a greasy brine claiming the room in a single breath.
Elizabeth leaned over for a closer look. Three sardines lay nose to tail in a pool of oil, their beady little eyes staring up at her. “I didn’t know you had a cat.”
“We don’t.” Clemmi lowered her hand. “They’re for me.”
“But I thought you hated fish.”
“I do.” Clemmi swallowed hard. “But Dr Vernet says they’re good for me in my condition, so now Oliver has Cook prepare them three mornings a week.”
“Then how on earth do you manage to force them down?”
“I don’t.”
Sylvie set about the sardines, stripping the flesh from the bones until only the heads and tails remained. She retrieved a folded square of greaseproof paper from her apron pocket, wrapped the flesh, and tucked the parcel away. “Pour le chat.”
“But I thought you didn’t–”
“He’s a stray who’s moved into the courtyard. Sylvie’s taken quite the shine to him.” Clemmi reached for the toast rack and busied herself buttering a slice.
“I’m glad to see your appetite’s returned.” Elizabeth topped up both their cups. “So, what do you have planned for us today?”
“I thought we might pay a visit to Lanvin on the Faubourg Saint-Honoré.” Clemmi took a bite of her toast, a smile curving her lips. “And treat ourselves to something fabulous for this evening’s soirée.”
“And what happened to the battle fought and lost?”
“Let’s just say the troops have rallied.” Clemmi brushed the crumbs from her fingers and rose from her chair.
“Madame? If Monsieur Sterling should telephone while you are out, what shall I tell him?”
“Tell him … tell him Elizabeth and I have run off to join the circus.”