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Authors: The Finer Things

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Catherine had to wait outside Blake’s office in the bank for several minutes while he finished a meeting with a client. Her coat on her lap, the envelope in her reticule, she sat impatiently in the small antechamber, ignoring the admiring glances of Blake’s young assistant. Finally the heavy oak door opened and Blake appeared, ushering out a small, dapper gentleman clad in tweeds. Catherine smiled to herself, as always, admiring Blake’s appearance. He was a very handsome man, and whenever she saw him she was reminded of it anew. No one was more dashing in a black suit. But he was also intelligent, forceful, and creative, and she was very proud of him.
He came forward, smiling. “What a pleasant surprise,” he said, kissing both of her gloved hands.
Catherine’s smile faded as she noticed the dark circles under his eyes. Again he appeared to have passed a restless night—or a late one. As Blake escorted her into his office, she said, “You seem a bit tired, Blake. Are you well?”
He closed the door. “As well as ever.”
“Ahh,” she said knowingly, keeping her tone light. “Someone must have passed an extraordinarily good night.”
He flashed his dimpled grin at her. “My dear, you are fishing, and I have no intention of telling you what I was up to last evening.”
She became very serious. “I am worried about you, Blake.”
His easy expression vanished. “I hope you have not come here to harp at me.”
“I do not harp.”
“You most certainly do.”
They stared at one another. Catherine sighed, and reached inside her reticule. She handed him the creased envelope. “I came because I have received a letter from Violette and I know you must want, or need, her address.”
Blake was frozen. But only for an instant. His mouth firming, he read the return label. “May I keep this?” His tone gave little away, having no emotional inflection.
“Of course.” Catherine studied him as Blake slipped the
envelope into the breast pocket of his ebony suit jacket. And then he moved behind his desk, although he did not sit. “What can I do for you today, Catherine?” he asked very formally—as if she were a client or a customer and not a dear old friend.
“Blake,” she said softly, “don’t you want to know what she has written me?”
“Not particularly.” He stared. His expression was very hard.
“She sounds as if she is happy. She has a charming flat, and a wonderful job at Maison Langdoc—an establishment I have shopped at myself. She is speaking some French, and reading Shakespeare.”
Blake lifted his eyebrows dismissively.
“I can’t believe that she is happy,” Catherine cried passionately.
“And I,” Blake said slowly, “do not care.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Catherine, I cannot control your thoughts, or your beliefs,” he said quite coldly. “If I am at all concerned, it is only because Violette is a fugitive from Her Majesty’s law, wanted for murder, and unable to return to this country without standing trial—a trial she would now, undoubtedly, lose. Of course, were she not legally my wife, I would not even be concerned about that.” His smile was as cold as his tone.
Catherine despaired. She finally said, “Will you write to her?”
Blake smiled, and it was a grim one. “No.”
 
Outside the wind sent up twisting swirls of snow, miniature cyclones blasting any pedestrians who might be unfortunate enough to be out and about. Although it was only noon, the streets were quite deserted, most Parisians having apparently decided to stay indoors for the winter’s first big snowstorm. Violette folded fabrics for lack of anything better to do, watching one lonely hansom approaching outside. Already the snow was fetlock-deep. There had not been a single customer in the shop since it had opened two hours ago.
The two other clerks were chatting in one corner of the salesroom, bursts of laughter punctuating their conversation. Violette had become friendly with both Paulette and Marie-Anne, two women her own age, but she was not in the mood to gossip about their suitors and the past weekend filled with parties and food and champagne. She could not imagine being happy like that.
“Violette,
ma belle.”
Madame Langdoc came downstairs and smiled at her. “Stop.
Arrêtez-vous.
You have folded and refolded since we opened today when tout
c’est bien
.”
Violette sighed. By now, Catherine had surely received her letter, as had the countess and Lady Allister. Every day when she returned to her flat, she checked for mail. So far, she had not received a single reply.
“I am going to close the shop today,” Madame declared. “This is a waste of everyone’s time, and later I will be worried that you girls shall not make it to your homes safely.”
That was how Madame was. Big-hearted to a fault. Worried about her “girls.” When Paulette had been sick a fortnight ago, Madame had spent hours at her bedside, arranging for the doctor to call on Paulette herself. Violette’s insides tightened. “Perhaps you are right,” Violette said, momentarily feeling ill.
But at that moment they both saw the hansom outside halting—right in front of the shop—and Violette was diverted. Its snow-covered door opened and a tall gentleman in a black greatcoat and brimmed hat leapt to the street. He seemed remarkably familiar, and as he strode directly to the front doors of the maison, Violette froze.
No, it was impossible.
He entered the shop, taking off his hat, his dark gaze piercing her immediately. It was Lord Farrow.
Violette did not move. She was stunned.
And he shook the snow from his coat, slowly smiling. “Lady Neville,” he said. “On a wretched day like today, it appears that I am in the nick of time.”
Violette suddenly smiled. She couldn’t help it; it was wonderful to see someone from home, even if it was the enigmatic Farrow. She came forward, suddenly joyous—and she had not felt that emotion in so very long. “My lord, how good to see you. What a wonderful surprise.”
He smiled at her, taking her hand and kissing it very firmly. Violette was not wearing gloves and the pressure of her mouth gave her a strange little jolt—one that made her pull her hand away instantly.
When he straightened, his gaze held hers. “I unearthed your whereabouts from Lady Allister, my dear. I was very afraid I would never see you again.”
Violette’s smile faded. Her pulse sped, with some alarm, and no small amount of surprise—both at her own reaction to his
sudden appearance in her new life—and to his words. “This is not a coincidence?” she asked.
“No,” he said flatly, “this is not a coincidence.”
THE
brasserie remained open in spite of the falling snow, which was so thick now that the brick and stone buildings across the street could not be seen, but inside the intimate wood-paneled brass-trimmed restaurant a huge fire blazed in the stone hearth, and most of the small tables were occupied with wining, dining, animated patrons who lived in the neighborhood. Violette faced Farrow from across a small, square table set with a snowy white tablecloth and a centerpiece of dried flowers tied with a lavender ribbon. He had ordered them a carafe of red wine and two portions of chicken fricassé, a baguette and butter.
Violette was still amazed by his presence in Paris. She was still trying to absorb what he had told her—that he had come to Maison Langdoc to see her specifically.
“You are as beautiful as ever,” Farrow said, pouring them both a glass of wine. “More so, in fact.” He smiled at her, although his gaze was penetrating. “I have thought about you often.”
Violette tensed. “You are too kind.”
“No, I am honest.” His regard was direct, his smile brief. He was an attractive man with a powerful presence and suddenly, painfully, he reminded her of Blake. “Violette, I would like to ask you something.”
She looked up uncertainly. “Please.”
“Why did you run away from London? Just days before your trial?” His gaze was searching.
“I did not kill Sir Thomas, if that is what you are thinking,” Violette said softly. She could not hold his gaze, it was too disturbing. “I had to leave. It had nothing to do with the trial.”
“I see,” he said. His tone caused her to look up. “Blake?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Perhaps this will work out for the best,” he mused. “I am very happy to be with you again, Violette.”
She met his brilliant eyes. Her heart skipped. She was not completely immune to him, no woman could be. “My lord,” she began carefully, “surely business affairs brought you to France?”
“When will you call me Robert?” he asked.
Violette felt herself flushing. “I am not sure that is appropriate.”
“Because you remain married to Blake?” he asked softly.
Violette glanced away. “We are in the process of obtaining a divorce.”
“Yes, I know.”
Violette started. “How do you know, my … Robert?”
He smiled, clearly pleased that she had used his given name. “Most of London knows, Violette, that Blake has petitioned the courts for a divorce against you.”
So he had begun the divorce proceedings. She found herself strangely frozen inside. Because she had left him, she had known that this was inevitable, since she had asked him to proceed. So why did it still hurt?
Farrow reached across the table and took her hands in his. “You will get over him, Violette. I shall make sure of it.”
Violette met his brilliant brown eyes. He was far more than handsome, he was charismatic, and she could feel his intensity and his determination. But she was no longer flattered, or even thrilled to see him. Yet she hardly wished him gone. Instead, she was afraid.
“What is it?”
“I am not sure,” she said slowly, “that I shall ever recover from loving Blake.”
He stared, unsmiling, and released her palms.
She met his gaze. “Now I am the one being honest.”
“Brutally so,” he said. He took a sip of wine. She could feel him thinking, choosing his words, deciding what to say, and what to hold back. “Business affairs did not bring me to Paris, Violette. You brought me to Paris.”
Violette had been about to reach for her wineglass, but with her hand extended, she froze. Their gazes locked.
“I am sorry you are hurt,” he said finally. “I do think Blake had a tendre for you. But I am a man, and I have had a tendre for you since we first met. I am not sorry you and Blake are divorcing; I am glad.”
She removed her hands to her lap. He was making himself very clear. She did not know what to do, or what to think.
Two steaming plates of savory chicken sautéed with tomatoes and herbs arrived. Farrow thanked the waiter. He did not pick up his fork. “I intend to spend some time in Paris this winter and this spring,” he said very seriously. “I am looking for a house to lease.”
Violette did not move.
“I promise,” he said, “I will not push you. I can see that you need to recover from the past. For now, I would be happy if you would agree to dine with me upon occasion, accompany me to the theater, or stroll with me when the weather permits. Do not send me away, Violette. I do not think I can take no for an answer.”
Violette wet her lips. This man had changed. He was very, very serious, and she had the strongest feeling that he had come to Paris, not in search of a mistress, but courting a bride. She almost told him, no, she could not see him, not ever again, because her heart belonged to another.
Instead, she heard herself say, her tone hoarse, “I would be pleased to accept your invitations when you choose to extend them, Robert.”
A fierce light lit up his eyes and he reached for her hand, gripping it tightly.
Violette tried to smile but failed. All she could think of was Blake.
And outside, the wind howled, the snow swirling on the frosted windowpanes.
 
The snowstorm was still howling when Violette arrived home. Ralph was employed in a factory not far from the Bastille. He was welding tools, which he hated, but his employer did not care about the weather, and did not close his premises because of the storm. However, because Ralph left for work at dawn, he was home by five every afternoon, far earlier than Violette. Their neighbors assumed that they were brother and sister. She made it a point not to speak with anyone.
Today, however, he was anxiously awaiting Violette when she finally climbed the three flights of stairs to their flat. He swung open the door before she could knock or use her keys. “Where have you been?” he exclaimed. “Don’t tell me Madame Langdoc stayed open this late in this weather.”
Violette entered their cheerful flat. The salon had several windows, all facing north, which meant it was usually filled with sunlight, even on a winter day. Colorful fabrics in reds
and pinks covered the furniture, and the rugs, though faded, were blue and green and gold, from Turkestan. The flat had been minimally furnished when she and Ralph had moved in, but Violette had acquired the rugs and some additional pink-and-white-striped chairs at several flea markets. It was charming and even roomy: Ralph had a room at the opposite end of the flat.
“She stayed open for a while,” Violette said truthfully, taking off her snow-drenched overcoat. There was no point in telling Ralph about Lord Farrow. She knew what his reaction would be and she was not in the mood to reassure him when she could not even reassure herself.
“I brought us some beef stew for supper,” Ralph said, eyeing her. “An’ fresh bread an’ a bottle of burgundy.”
Violette of course was not hungry, but she was not going to tell Ralph that either. When she did not reply, he followed her into her bedroom. “Wot’s wrong?” he asked.
She sat on her bed, atop a lovely pink and white handmade quilt, taking off her shoes. Her feet were now wet. “I am cold and tired,” she said.
“Yer so sad an’ I ’ate seein’ yew like this!” Ralph cried abruptly. “I wish yew’d niver met that bastard!”
His outburst made her want to weep. “I’m just tired,” she lied. Tired, confused, frightened … sad. So very, very sad.
He stared.
And she knew him well enough to now realize that something was wrong. “Ralph, why are you looking at me that way?”
He hesitated.
“Ralph?” Violette stood up in her stockinged feet.
“Yew got a letter. From London.”
Violette forgot to breathe.
Ralph turned and left her bedroom. When he returned, an oversized envelope was in his hand. He gave it to her. “I didn’t open it, but there’s an address on the back. It’s from Blake.”
Her heart lurched. Her head spun. Violette sank back down on the bed, clutching the envelope. Oh, God. She was more than afraid to open it, she was terrified.
But a tiny voice inside of her head whispered,
What if? What if he wanted her to come home?
Violette swallowed, breathing harshly now, and opened the envelope. She pulled out official-looking papers, some kind of contract, perhaps, or several contracts, and rifled through the
large envelope again, looking for a letter from Blake. The envelope was empty.
Shaking now, she picked up the sheaf of papers, noticing the date on the first page, which was December 12 of last year. Both her and Blake’s names were atop the page, which appeared to be a petition. She set it aside. It was followed by another document, dated January 18, 1859, which bore a wax seal on the upper-right-hand corner, and dear, dear God, the top of the document read, “Lord Theodore Edward Blake, Viscount of Neville, plaintiff,” and she thumbed past and through, trembling in every limb, looking, desperately, for a personal letter from him.
“Wot is it?” Ralph asked.
There was no letter. Violette could not believe it. Just the petition, and the second, longer, terribly frightening document following it.
“Violette? What are them papers?”
Violette licked her dry, parched lips. Her heart beat inside her breast like a drum, painfully, loudly. She picked up the papers. She forced herself to see through encroaching tears. And she wasn’t the most adept reader to begin with.
But she could read enough to understand what the documents meant. The first set of papers were a petition for divorce, filed by Blake on December 21 in the Court for Divorce and Matrimonial Causes, against her, the respondent, on the grounds of desertion and cruelty. Violette’s hands shaked. She could hardly read further. Desertion … cruelty.
Oh, God. How could he!
“Wot?” Ralph demanded.
And the second document, which was perhaps thirty or forty pages long, was the completed action of divorce. Today was February 1, but she and Blake had been divorced for three weeks now—and she had not even known it.
“He … He h-has divorced me,” Violette said huskily.
“Good,” Ralph spat. “Good riddance to ’im, I say!”
Violette burst into tears. Covering her face with her hands, she wept. Wracked by sobs.
“Gawd, I’m sorry.” Ralph sat beside her, putting his arm around her, trying to hold her close.
But Violette flung him away, lurching to her feet, her face ravaged with grief—and hostility. “Now what will I do?!” she screamed.
“Violette, luv,” Ralph began, standing, trying to touch her.
“No!” she shouted. And her face crumbled and she covered
her face with her hands again and wept, harder even than before.
Ralph cursed, helplessly watching, his fists jammed in the pockets of his stained gray trousers.
Violette finally dropped her hands. “I am pregnant, Ralph. I am pregnant with Blake’s baby.”
Ralph gaped.
 
It hadn’t been this way before, but he hated returning home.
In the past, he hadn’t minded the silence in his house, or dining alone. Now he minded very much.
Blake had finished supper, a meal that had probably been superb, except that he had not a clue, being as he hadn’t really tasted anything on his plate. He returned to his study, intending to do some paperwork until he was tired enough to sleep. He wasn’t sleeping well these days; he always seemed to be tired, a state of being which he ignored.
But the moment he sat down at his desk, he saw the envelope posted from France and froze. He paid little attention to the mail he received at home; everything of importance was sent to his offices at the bank. He had not a doubt whom the letter was from. But why in bloody hell would she write to him? They were divorced. They had been divorced for six weeks now. He hoped to never lay eyes on her again.
Blake hesitated, his gut telling him to ignore the missive, pretend that it did not exist. He tore open the seal and scanned the single paragraph.
He read:
Dear Blake,
I have received notification of our divorce and I thank you for taking care of it so swiftly. I also wish to thank you for the generous pension, which I did not expect.
Best Regards to you and your family, Violette.
He shoved the letter aside, aware that he was trembling and short of breath. What kind of letter was that? Why had she signed it in such a familiar manner? Why had the tone of the letter itself been so unfamiliar? She hadn’t even asked how he was, clearly she did not care—just as he did not care—and why was he so upset? So angry? And had she thought he would divorce her and leave her in Paris penniless? He had settled a
pension on her that left her spectacularly well off until the day she died. Unless, of course, she remarried.

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