This was a fun chapter to write.
CH 52
"My husband will not stray if I stay home from the ballet?" Hugo asked as we sat in his parlor Tuesday evening. He pretended to chew on his fingernails as if greatly concerned that his absence would lead to infidelity on my part within our make-believe union.
"A beauty such as yourself need not worry about my loyalty, my love," I answered. "You are the only woman for me."
Dorothea, who was leaving for her holiday in the morning, rolled her eyes at the two of us as she walked past the parlor.
"Oh, don't you make that face," Hugo admonished. "Any woman would be fortunate to have Phelan as their husband and even as a man I consider myself quite lucky even if it is a fantasy marriage. He's the love of my life, Dorothea."
"The love of your life? Have you been taking opium?" I dryly asked.
"No, of course not," Hugo said. "And what I said is the truth. You are a wonderful friend and in the most platonic way possible, you are the love of my life and I will not tolerate you sullying my feelings with your attempt at humor. Accept my profession of love."
"I accept."
He looked at me with a devilish twinkle in his eyes. "Your turn, my dear."
"I appreciate you, Hugo."
"You will not declare your love to me?" He batted his eyelashes at me, snorting with laughter at his own antics.
"You know I don't declare my love to anyone aside from Elvira."
"You and that damn bird," he groused.
"Careful! She bites!" Elvira squawked from my shoulder.
Hugo jumped. "You have encouraged her to be uncivil, I see."
"She is naturally this way, no prompting from me," I said as I turned my sketchbook toward Hugo. "What do you think?"
Hugo leaned forward and took the sketchbook from me, bottom lip jutted out and eyes narrowed. After several agonizing moments of him grunting and turning the sketchbook at different angles, he handed the book back to me and gave a nod of approval.
"Her left eye was slightly higher than the right and her chin wasn't as pointy, but other than that, this looks exactly like my mother. Eloise Duarte would be quite pleased with her likeness."
I frowned at the drawing. "I don't believe you were specific about the chin, but the eyes are definitely incorrect and quite frankly that is a blatant error on my part as I thought I made a note of that while you were speaking, but now I don't see it."
Hugo sighed. "Phelan, it was your first attempt at drawing someone solely based on description in quite some time. A minor mistake, not an earth-shattering fault. God knows if you'd asked me to draw someone in the same fashion it would look like a sausage left out on the street in July."
"I cannot make a minuscule mistake when it comes to creating a portrait of Beatrix," I said, scrubbing my hand down my face.
"You think Montlaur will take offense?"
"I think I will take offense if I give him something less than satisfactory."
"And I think for your first attempt in a year, you've done very well."
"I have two days before Bernard and Celeste board a train to Wissant. There isn't much time for errors."
"If you seek perfection in art, you'll always be disappointed. And if you argue with me, I will stab you in the thigh with a pen."
I raised a brow. "Hugo," I admonished. "That is grounds for divorce."
Hugo pretended to pout while Elvira screamed in protest on my behalf.
"Settle down, he isn't serious," I told Elvira, feeding her grapes from my satchel to appease my defensive little queen.
"You know, Marco was here this morning and he is also quite the perfectionist," Hugo said.
I attempted to remain indifferent to his words, but knew I looked up too quickly. "What are the two of you working on now?"
"Portraits still," Hugo said. "Marco is having a difficult time bringing life to eyes."
"Everyone struggles with something," I said under my breath.
"Indeed, and I do hope you see the irony of your own statement," Hugo said.
I barely looked up in response and Hugo dramatically groaned to himself. "I asked Marco to come by Saturday morning because I had a guest in mind," he added.
Immediately I felt my breath hitch. "Does he know?"
Hugo nodded once. "Yes, he is aware that you will be here with us."
"And he agreed?" I asked.
"You sound positively astonished that Marco would agree to a morning of painting with the two of us."
"After you told him who would be attending, did he agree at once or need a moment to consider?"
Hugo looked down his nose at me. "He agonized over his decision for ten minutes before I clobbered him with a canvas," he said dryly. "I asked if he would mind a guest joining us for Saturday. I told him that I had an artist in mind who was quite good at painting expressions and could perhaps offer suggestions. He asked if he might be familiar with the artist in question and I said that I assumed he knew Phelan Kimmer by name given that we met at your show, but as far as I knew he had not officially made your acquaintance."
"What did he say?"
"He said he looked forward to officially meeting you."
I smiled to myself, relieved that there were no apparent reservations on Marco's part. The feeling was mutual as I had longed to have a conversation with my son, with the boy whom I had not seen since he was an infant. It was long overdue and I assumed the initial meeting would be awkward at least at first, but I wanted to speak with him, to know what inspired his art and whatever facets of his life he would be willing to share.
"Do me a favor and act surprised when Marco asks for your advice," Hugo said. "He's a bit wary of sharing his portraits with anyone out of fear that they will not be good enough. Given that you're the professor who critiques portraits, I trust that you will be gracious when he asks for your assistance."
"Of course," I said. "I will do whatever I can to help him improve."
"Good." Hugo nodded in approval. "How is the nice young lady you ran into at Sterois?"
"Abigail? She's well. I'm seeing her for lunch tomorrow."
Hugo made no attempt to hide his interest. "Is that so?"
"Bernard is meeting us as well."
Hugo's expression soured. "Ah."
"Why are you making that face?"
"Why indeed. You already have a third wheel. Why don't you invite me and then you can go from the nice company of two to overcrowded with no possibility of the two of you–"
"It's lunch and nothing more," I assured him. "We had a lovely time at Val's home Sunday evening, I've stopped by her shop to help sort through some financial issues, and she already knows Bernard."
Hugo's shoulders slumped. "Oh, well that certainly is disappointing. Bernard Montlaur swooping in and–"
"I assure you, Hugo, it is nothing of the sort. Bernard and his wife knew Abigail and her husband. Bernard has since divorced and Abigail is widowed. The three of us are having lunch tomorrow and Abigail and I are attending an opera on Friday."
"The opera? Alone together? Now that certainly sounds like something."
I exhaled. "I suppose I should have told you earlier that I invited Abigail."
"Am I no longer invited?"
"Nothing of the sort. There are three seats together in an opera box and two at the rear of the orchestra."
Hugo inhaled and crossed his arms. "Well, I do hope this Abigail is prepared to sit with two strangers in an opera box since you invited me first."
I turned my head to the side, unamused by his juvenile behavior. "Hugo–"
He snorted at me like a prized racehorse. "You know I am not being serious, Phelan."
"The three of us can sit together in the opera box," I offered.
Hugo frowned at me and shook his pant leg pinned at the knee. "I'm afraid the three sets of stairs leading to the opera boxes is not quite something I feel confident in attempting by Friday. The stairs to my bedroom are difficult enough as it is."
"The orchestra seats are still available," I offered. "You'd have a wonderful view."
"You are very thoughtful, Phelan, but I believe I will be staying in for the night."
"It's only Tuesday. You can make a decision by Thursday."
"I've made my decision."
"Hugo, I am not attempting to replace you–"
"Nor do I feel replaced. Surely you understand nothing delights me more than you with female company. And not just any woman off the streets, but a nice young lady you have spent time with during the week on your arm at the opera."
"It's nothing," I assured him, despite feeling my pulse quicken at the thought of an evening spent at the theater. I swore I could still feel my lips against Abigail's forehead, the warmth of her flesh to mine as I brushed a kiss against her cheek, and the relief when Abigail said Bernard teased her like a sister. None of it should have mattered and yet I was thoroughly pleased.
"It could be something," Hugo replied.
I inhaled. "It doesn't need to be more than it is. We are perfectly content as friends. And besides, the only lady I need in my life is perched on my shoulder."
Hugo shook his head. "While I disagree about the bird, hearing that you are content is what matters."
"I am," I assured him.
The trouble was, I had not yet convinced myself those words were true.
oOo
Bernard met me in the hotel lobby at eight in the morning on Wednesday while Celeste remained blissfully asleep in the nicest accommodations Paris had to offer. The lobby fireplace provided ample warmth, the armchairs firm yet contouring, making the seating arrangement irresistible. Shortbread cookies, tea and coffee were delivered to the small table between us as well as an offering of cigars, which Bernard accepted.
I had a brand new sketchbook in hand and a set of graphites I'd never used, desiring a clean slate for my work.
"What do I gotta do?" Bernard asked. He sat deeply in the velvet chair, back curved, legs spread wide open, and the cigar dangling from his lips.
"Tell me about Beatrix," I said.
Quite honestly I would have preferred sketching his portrait instead as he proved quite the interesting subject sitting in the plush hotel lobby alcove, a prize fighter with his twisted features that made him look malicious while his blue eyes remained soft at the mention of his beloved daughter.
"She was perfect," he said.
Bernard sniffed and rearranged himself in the chair while I sat on the edge of mine with a throw pillow on my knee and the book resting in my left hand.
"Bea," Bernard said, picking at the scab on his lip. His knuckles were still quite bruised and swollen from the fight, and both of his hands were slightly bent. "My Bea, she had her mom's eyes, big and brown, but she had hair like mine, except long and thicker." He ran his hand over the top of his closely cropped pale blond hair. "She was always putting little braids in it, then those braids became knots and Helena wanted to just cut them out 'cause she didn't have no patience with a little girl being a little girl. So I'd sit in the parlor with Bea and take a comb and this slick…" He paused, rubbing his fingers together. "I ain't sure what it was. Not a bar of shampoo, but like cream that got all the tangles out and it smelled real good, like honey or something, in these glass bottles. I'd put that on the comb and run it through her hair until all the tangles was gone. And then a couple weeks later, Bea would have enough knots to house rats."
So far he'd given me nothing to draw, but I made notes to round out her personality that I hoped would help put finishing touches on the portrait.
"She had some freckles too, right here," he said, brushing both sides of his nose. "Her face was round like mine, but smaller."
"And no mustache, I gather?"
Bernard briefly looked at me as if he wasn't sure if he should chuckle or be offended. "If she did, it would look like Helena's."
The two of us chuckled while I began to draw the basic outline of Beatrix's face.
"That was mean, wasn't it?"
"I won't tell Helena if you don't."
Bernard tapped the side of his nose.
"I need as much detail as you are able to provide regarding Bea's appearance," I said. "Freckles, eyebrow shape, lips, cheeks…birthmarks or scars…"
Bernard took several puffs on his cigar. "That's the thing, Professor," he said, "some of the details ain't clear no more. I can picture her still, but sometimes it don't seem right, like maybe I've confused her with some other little girl I saw window shopping or on the train. Or walking through the lobby."
Before I could turn my head and follow his gaze, Celeste flopped onto the plush chaise in front of the fireplace and quite dramatically tilted her head back.
"Gentlemen," she said in breathy fashion, like a grown woman addressing her beau.
"Kid," Bernard grumbled.
"Cleaning Assistant," I replied.
"The drinking chocolate is quite divine," she said.
I looked over my shoulder and saw she had a ring of chocolate around her lips. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Bernard turn his head and heard him scoff.
"Go clean your face, you little chocolate devil," Bernard said. "And don't get chocolate all over their nice furniture."
"Yes, Bern," Celeste said as she stood and skipped her way through the lobby and into the ladies room.
"If it's easier, I can have Celeste pose and you can tell me what is similar and what's different between her and Beatrix. Perhaps that will help encourage your memory?"
"Can't hurt," Bernard answered.
Celeste returned a moment later freshened up, the edges of her mouth crimson from scrubbing away the chocolate. She sat beside Bernard, turning her face this way and that for an apparently chocolate inspection, which earned her a nod of approval.
"You mind sitting still for a couple moments?" Bernard asked. "The Professor is going to do a portrait of Bea, but since my little girl can't be here, we was wondering if you'd pose in her place."
Once she noticed my sketchbook in hand, Celeste lit up. She smiled and readily nodded. "Yes, of course. What do you need me to do?" she asked. "Where should I look?"
"Sit up straight," I said. "And face the windows for the best lighting."
Immediately she displayed her finest posture, chin up and hands folded in her lap as she turned toward the hotel entrance, smiling to herself.
"Rounder face," Bernard said. "Lighter eyebrows and eyelashes like mine. Dark eyes. Not as round as the kid. A little more…"
"Almond-shaped?" I guessed.
"No, I don't think so," he said. "This part here was more up," he said, gesturing on his own face.
"Upturned," I said, nodding.
"And her eyebrows were not really an upside down V, but more of a…" He gestured with his index finger. "Like a hill, kinda."
"Understood. Lips?"
Bernard squinted. "Kind of the same size on the top and bottom, but the top one had a divot in it, so it made kind of a V."
"Heart-shaped," I replied, which Bernard seemed to appreciate in regards to his daughter.
He tapped his chest. "Heart-shaped," he said with a nod. "Her nose was…" Bernard studied Celeste for a moment. "A little button just like yours, kid."
"Celestial," I said, jotting down my notes.
Celeste rubbed the tip of her nose. "My nose is called celestial? Almost like my name."
"That's what the shape is called, yes," I said.
"My Bea and my Celeste share a nose," Bernard said fondly as he took another puff from his cigar.
I glanced up from my notebook in time to see Celeste and Bernard exchange a look of endearment. Celeste placed her hand over her heart, cheeks flushing at Bernard's words.
Bernard's expression softened considerably. With the hardness from his features removed, he looked much younger, the gentleness of his true demeanor shining through. With a wink, he offered a crooked smile of assurance to Celeste, and I was certain he gazed at her in the same manner he had looked at Beatrix for the twelve years she had belonged to him.
Having no desire to interrupt their moment of silent affection, I sat further forward, adjusting where I sat so that I could continue the portrait without interrupting the two of them.
"My apologies, Professor." Celeste cleared her throat once she realized that she'd moved out of position.
"No harm whatsoever," I murmured as I continued to imagine what Beatrix Montlaur had looked like.
"Bern?" Celeste said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.
"Yeah, kid?"
"When do you think you might contact my aunt?" she asked. "Before we leave for Wissant or once we arrive?"
Bernard took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled. "I sent Drucina Frane a telegram already," he answered.
Celeste risked a glance in his direction, her eyes wide with surprise. "You did? Did she reply?"
Bernard removed his cigar from his lips and smashed the lit end into the copper ashtray on the table between him and Celeste.
"She did," Bernard said quietly.
The hopeful look in Celeste's eyes swiftly darkened to concern. "What did she say?"
Bernard ran his finger along the sides of his mustache, grooming it into place. "She said she ain't ready to raise a child at this time," he answered.
Celeste's lips slowly parted as disappointment clouded her features. Slowly she bowed her head and momentarily stared at her clasped hands. "I suppose I should have expected this given she's only met me a couple of times."
"Eh, now listen here, kid. I didn't want to tell you," Bernard told her. "I didn't want to upset you with that news, but you deserve the truth, even as much as it ain't something good."
Celeste closed her eyes and relaxed her hands. As she had learned from Bernard's meditation, she took a long deep breath, held it, and slowly exhaled. "Does this mean I am no longer able to ride on the train to Wissant with you?" she asked.
Bernard frowned. "Hell no, that ain't what it means at all, kid. Aunt Dricinda ain't got nothing to do with you traveling to Wissant. Just 'cause she don't want a kid don't mean…"
Celeste immediately looked up at Bernard, her hope restored, and I felt myself still in anticipation of Bernard's reply. He was most certainly a father who had lost his child and desire to still be a parent while Celeste was an orphan in need of the security of a father figure. There was no doubt in my mind that they both wanted the same thing.
"That don't mean I don't want you sticking around," he said. "If you want to stick around, that is."
"Then I can still have biscuits from Tilly's?"
"Yeah, of course. All the biscuits you can squeeze into your belly."
"And I can help you build bird houses?"
"I ain't making them alone, that's for damn sure. I can't be trusted to make good ones alone, especially since The Professor wants five and you talked The Retired Professor into one. You're good for six, yeah?"
Celeste smiled. "I'm good for six hundred."
Bernard chuckled. "Well ain't that a lofty goal."
"And while we are making birdhouses, can I still stay at the inn?"
"You can stay with me," Bernard answered. "If you want. I got plenty of room. Maybe a little too much room. It ain't a palace by no means, but it's too big for just me."
"You wouldn't mind?" Celeste questioned.
Bernard regarded her for a moment. "Not at all, kid."
"What if no one in my family wants to take me in?" she worried aloud. "What if six months from now no one answers?"
"I ain't gonna put you on the streets 'cause I got tired of you being around. That ain't how it is with me. I said I'd be your guardian and there's no set amount of time where you got to leave. If you stay for a week or the next ten years…" He shrugged. "I ain't going to complain. Unless you get chocolate all over my furniture, then I sure as hell am going to complain a little bit, but you could still stay. I won't get mad at you or nothin'. Just a little annoyed is all."
Celeste wrinkled her nose. "I won't get chocolate on the furniture," she promised. "And I won't stay for ten years, either."
"You gotta shake on the chocolate part," Bernard growled, jutting his hand out. "And I'll shake on letting you stay for…" He squinted as if in deep contemplation. "I'll let you stay until you're forty. How's that?"
Celeste made no hesitation offering her dainty hand. Bernard pumped it twice and nodded. "Professor, you see that?"
I glanced up at the two of them from my sketchbook. "I most certainly did. Quite binding by French laws."
"Good, we got a witness and everything. I guess you can stay, kid."
Celeste's expression brewed with uncontainable joy and relief until a smile stretched across her face. "Am I still needed, Professor? I would like to play the piano in the suite if you don't mind."
"I believe you have done an extraordinary job already and I can take it from here," I replied.
"May I return to the room and order another drinking chocolate?" she asked Bernard.
Bernard made a face. "You can return to the room, but you've had enough chocolate for the morning, yeah?"
Celeste shrugged. "I could drink another."
"But you ain't 'cause you'll be buzzing like a fly until you run outta steam and then you're gonna fall asleep at the ballet. Then who's going to explain what the hell is going on?"
"It isn't difficult to follow."
"Not for you 'cause you seen it before, but I ain't ever been to a ballet and I don't know nothing expect that no one talks the whole time, so you gotta be awake and ready to explain what's happening."
Celeste grinned back at Bernard. "I suppose no more drinking chocolate for now," she agreed, her hand squeezing his shoulder before she ran toward the lift.
She seemed far from disappointed that her request was denied, and I assumed that there was a bit of relief in having rules in place and decisions made on her behalf. After nine months alone, she could finally rely on someone to protect her rather than fending for herself.
Once she was out of the lobby and on her way to the room, Bernard nudged my chair with his foot and I looked up from my drawing.
"What are you smiling like a fool for?" he grumbled.
"Don't be daft. You know why."
"'Cause I told her the truth about her aunt?"
I shrugged. "Partly."
"And 'cause I didn't want her to go to Brussels and live with that nasty crone?"
"I think you've covered everything quite thoroughly without me saying a word."
Bernard reached for his cigar and examined the unlit end. "I'll take the kid to Brussels over the summer, before my next match," he said. "I'll let her visit her friends and see if she's happier in Brussels or Wissant."
"And if she chooses Brussels?" I asked.
"Then I guess I'll figure something out," he said. "But I hope to God she picks Wissant 'cause Brussels is like the pits of hell."
I cocked a brow. "What has Brussels ever done to Bernard Montlaur?"
He sank lower into his chair, appearing like an oversized, petulant child. "Last time I was there, I stepped out of a carriage and right into a big pile of horse shit, that's what."
"A fair assessment of an entire city," I said dryly, picturing his utter disdain for such unfortunate placement of his boot onto the ground.
"Well, you must have never stepped in horse shit before if you don't think that ruins your whole day."
I made it a habit of looking for puddles or piles of manure prior to exiting carriages, but didn't say a word to Bernard. After several minutes of silence, I finished my rough sketch and blew the bits of pencil dust from the page.
"Now, I want you to understand that this is not finished," I cautioned him. "Anything that is incorrect or needs adjustments because it doesn't suit the subject matter can be easily redone. I know we are on a bit of a time constraint as you leave tomorrow evening, but–"
Bernard grabbed the sketchbook from my hand and held it out in front of his face, his brow furrowed. For a long, agonizing moment he appeared quite disgusted, but as the seconds ticked by, I reminded myself he always looked quite disgruntled.
He looked over the top edge of the book at me, then back at the page, and for half a moment I expected him to rip the page out, crumple it up, and toss the sketchbook back at me.
"That's her," he said at last, his stern expression giving way to a smile of relief. "That's my Bea looking back at me. Same eyes, same expression, same everything. That's her on paper. How did you…?" His eyes welled with tears, which he quickly wiped away. "How did you manage this without ever seeing her?"
I sighed in relief once he smiled to himself. "Excellent guidance on your part and a willing model to give inspiration."
Bernard continued to stare at the page. "I can hear her voice talking to me just looking at this drawing of her." His smile widened. "You even made a little nest in her hair, I see, just like the tangles I told you about."
"For birds, not rodents," I said.
"'Cause she likes those damn birds." He paused and grunted. "From one bird enthusiast to another, eh?"
"I can take it out if you don't like it."
"No, I don't want you to do nothing else. I can keep this, yeah?"
"Of course, but I need it first."
"For what? It's perfect."
"I'll replicate it," I said, "into a painting if you'd like or a larger sketch on higher quality paper. This was merely the first attempt."
Almost protectively, Bernard drew the sketchbook closer to himself. "What are you going to do with this one?" he asked.
I realized immediately that he would not want the depiction of his daughter, even as a rough raft, destroyed. I myself had difficulty discarding the likenesses of my brother, even the ones that were done in haste. Back in my apartment I had dedicated two separate folders to Erik, dozens upon dozens of sketches and doodles I'd created over the years. My style had improved, but I couldn't part with the earliest attempts.
"I have every intention of giving you the original," I assured him, "but I'll need it until I've completed the larger work."
Bernard fished into his pocket and removed his wallet. "I only got about six thousand francs on me," he said. "I want to guarantee I can have this back."
My lips parted. I was certain at no point in my life I had ever carried more than five hundred francs on me at any given time.
"How much you want? Double that?" he asked, drawing out a stack of folded banknotes.
"No, I have no intention of charging you six thousand let alone twelve thousand francs for a rough sketch let alone a portrait of Beatrix."
"You name your price," he said. "Whatever you want, I'll pay for the sketch of my little girl. Anything. I don't care how much you want. I just want her back."
There was a sense of desperation and urgency in his voice when he spoke, and I wondered if he had offered a reward for his daughter's safe return, a plea by a worried father that had been denied by his daughter's killers.
"Not a single cent, especially for a rough draft," I replied. "Consider it a gift."
"Professor," Bernard growled. "You gotta take something for it. Please. You don't know what it means to me." His voice broke at the end, his blue eyes rimmed in red. "You got no idea what it feels like."
"I want you to have her portrait. Compensation isn't necessary."
Bernard scrubbed his hand down his face and looked at the sketch again. "I just want her back so bad. I know it ain't her, but it's as close as I'll ever be to seeing her face again."
"I understand." I took the notebook back from him. "And the greatest payment you can offer is your reaction. I am honored to give you whatever I can of Beatrix."
Bernard slowly nodded. "You ever draw your brother?" he asked.
"More than anyone or anything else," I said.
"You got one on you?"
"No, this is a new sketchbook. Beatrix has graced the very first page." I glanced at the satchel by my feet containing a different, older sketchbook with its dented corners and scuffed corners that was filled with images of Elizabeth, multiple students, and of course dozens of sketches of Erik from infanthood to what I imagined he looked like in his thirties.
"I'd like to see one sometime," Bernard said.
"I'll keep that in mind."
Bernard inhaled sharply. "I still wanna give you all the money in my wallet."
"I know, and this portrait is still my gift to you," I said firmly.
oOo
Abigail arrived at the restaurant we had decided on for lunch before me, mostly because it was next to her shop.
"You're late," she said, crossing her arms as I sat.
"I'm six minutes early," I said, checking my watch.
"Which for you is late."
"My sincerest apologies for arriving six minutes early and somehow being late."
"I ordered you a coffee," she said as the waiter approached and placed the cup on the table. "No cream or sugar?"
I nodded, thanking the waiter. "Correct."
"I should have ordered myself a coffee," she said, sipping her tea. "I've been up since four this morning."
I was certain Abigail would think four in the morning was extraordinarily early to me, but it had long since been my normal hour of starting my day.
"Couldn't sleep?" I guessed.
Abigail stifled a yawn. "I wanted to be up well before the children," she said. "Because I wanted to have a conversation with Clarence."
Abigail stared expectantly at me. She had no way of knowing how many mornings I walked around my apartment, tending to Elvira, while having full conversations with my brother, imagining how he would react to ridiculous questions asked by my first year students at the university or the mishaps we both witnessed at the theater during the latest production at the Opera Populaire.
"What did you wish to speak to him about?" I asked.
Her expression was filled with relief. "The shop," she answered. "The shelf, mostly. I wanted to tell him that I needed to throw away all of the unclaimed boxes. They've been sitting there for four years now. It's clear that the owners will not be coming forward–and I know that the original tailor won't be returning either." She wrapped her hands around her cup of tea and looked away from me. "I have to accept that Clarence is gone and no amount of clothing left to collect dust on the shelf will bring him back.
"That sounds silly, doesn't it?" she continued. "To finally come to terms with his death? I know Clarence is gone. I know he will never walk through the door again, but still I hope every time I look up that he will rush through and apologize for being late."
"I am the last person on earth whom you should consult when it comes to holding out hope for a miracle."
"But in your case, you should remain hopeful," Abigail said. "Until there is reason to believe otherwise."
"Perhaps." I shrugged.
The true toll of mental and emotional exhaustion had become more evident in recent weeks. I felt I was either closer to finding Erik again or standing on the edge of a complete breakdown that would justify Val's reasoning to send me into an institution for insanity.
"What did Clarence say in response?" I asked.
Abigail hesitated, clearly concerned I'd think she'd gone mad.
"I've had my fair share of conversations with Erik over the years," I confessed. "I will certainly not think less of you if you spoke to Clarence and imagined a reply."
She continued to turn the tea cup cradled between her hands, her milky white complexion flushed crimson. "He told me that the shop was mine to do as I pleased, and that one day we would see each other again." She smiled to herself. "And that Toby is with him."
"Is Toby your son?" I asked, having not heard the name previously as far as I could recall.
"Dog," she answered. "Toby was Clarence's dog before we got married. He moved here with us from Canada when he was quite aged already. I didn't think he would survive sailing across the ocean, but Clarence assured me that Toby would be just fine. That dog passed away a year before Clarence was killed, at the age of twenty-two. My husband loved that dog, probably more than he loved me. In fact, I believe Clarence's exact words were that he fancied me and adored Toby."
I lifted a brow. "How unfortunate that Toby is not still alive to join us for lunch. He sounds like a very fine chap."
"Then I would have two men enamored with a terrier."
I huffed. "I'm not much of a dog person."
"I could tell," Abigail said.
"How is that?"
Abigail inhaled. "There have been times I've watched you leave the shop with your purchases and a dog will walk past you. I've noticed it makes you uneasy, I suppose."
That was not the reply I had expected, and it made me wonder if others noticed my response to canines.
"Were you bitten as a child?" Abigail asked.
"Twice." My skin involuntarily prickled at her inquiry. "Once when I was around eight and again when I was fifteen," I answered.
"What happened?"
I had little recollection of what had transpired to cause the first incident other than I was running and the dogs were suddenly behind me.
"When I was a boy, I was running as I always did. There were two hounds baying in the distance, but I didn't think much of it. The sound was suddenly very close, and one of the dogs grabbed me by the boot and I fell. The other one bit me in the back of the head," I replied, feeling just above the nape of my neck where several punctures had left scars that had faded into my flesh, barely noticeable into my adulthood. "Their master was able to pull them both off of me, but not before he yelled at me for running away from the dogs. He said they bit me because I was mistaken for prey."
My aversion to dogs had been instantaneous, the terror of being attacked something that had stayed with me. I found that many people enjoyed being licked and sniffed by their canine companions, but the sensation of a dog's hot breath reminded me of the dog that had bitten me. I recalled the low, menacing growl, the rolling heat of its breath against the back of my head, and how I had frozen in anticipation of it realizing I was not a threat. I had thought for certain it would lick me as other dogs had done in the past, tail wagging as it buried its wet nose against the back of my neck affectionately.
Instead it had snarled when I moved, attempting to roll onto my side, and before I realized it wanted me to remain still, the dog sank its teeth into my scalp a half-second before the man grabbed it by the collar and tossed it several feet away. At the time, I wasn't sure the breed. It was a long, tri-colored dog with short legs and long ears.
"And then the second time I accidentally stepped on a sleeping dog's tail and it bit me in the shin. That was entirely my fault. I noticed the long ears, and somehow neglected to see the tail on the hound."
"You were bitten by two different hounds?"
"Bassets," I said. As far as I was concerned, the entire breed hated me.
"I understand not being fond of dogs after that," Abigail said. "I suppose I would hate them as well if I'd been bitten twice."
"It's not that I hate dogs," I quickly replied. "I just feel as though they are not fond of me, particularly hounds."
"They say that dogs can tell a man's true heart and intentions," Abigail said.
Inwardly I cringed. My aversions to canines had always been misconstrued as a character flaw, as if I had done something terrible to earn their malice or that dogs were able to see through flesh and bone to my blackened heart. They were justified in biting me, a cruel and soulless individual who hated dogs and who was hated in return.
"Toby loved everyone and everything, from old miserly men to newborn kittens. Either dogs are no good at judging character or Toby was the most forgiving creature on the earth, a saint in a furry body. I tend to believe that dogs are simply dogs, no divine abilities."
"I saved a dog a few years back from being beaten in an alley," I said suddenly.
"What happened?"
"A man working at the Salon Vive had the mongrel cornered during one of our critique meetings. It had been digging through a pile of refuse and apparently the man took offense to the dog's opportunistic attempt at finding food. Everyone else attempted to keep talking over the animal yelping for mercy, but I couldn't stand it. I walked out the back door, took the broom from the cowardly fool, and struck him while the dog ran away."
Abigail regarded me for a long moment in silence. "Despite being wary of dogs, you still saved one?"
I shrugged. "The prior incidents had nothing to do with that scrawny dog looking for scraps. He didn't deserve to be beaten to death for being hungry. He was merely attempting to survive."
I had seen my own childhood in that terrified dog, the whites of his eyes visible, his body twisted as he cowered in the corner of the alley, unable to escape the jabs to his chest and ribs or the broom handle whacking him over the head and back.
It was helpless, much as I had been beneath the weight of my uncle as he pressed his fingers into my damaged arm. The animal was terrified and experienced no mercy, same as my brother the last time I had seen him forced to stand beside our father on the beach, hair missing from his scalp and eyes ringed with bruises..
"You could have looked the other way and not intervened," Abigail said.
I shook my head. "That is done entirely too often by too many men who consider themselves gentlemen."
"You and Bern are a rare breed of noble men," she commented. "There is little wonder how the two of you became such swift friends."
"I must say, I was quite surprised the two of you knew one another."
"Clarence sponsored one of the boxing matches in Paris six or seven years ago. We couldn't afford it, but he thought it would be good advertising for the shop. He met Bern after the show, the two of them started to talk and Clarence said if Bern came by, he'd provide a year's worth of free clothing."
Both of my eyebrows shot up. "A year's worth?"
"That was also my reaction, and believe me, I wanted to strangle that man when he returned home and told me what he said. With such a foolish offer, he was surely going to put us out of business."
"Did Bernard take you up on the offer?"
Abigail shook her head. "He stopped in with Beatrix about two weeks later and said she had a special request."
"What was the request?"
"A dress for the doll she had received from her father on her birthday. Beatrix had this one dress she wore all of the time, and she wanted her doll to have the same style."
"The bird dress?"
Abigail readily nodded. "Of course Bern told you about her bird dress. I made two for her so that she would take a bath and put on a clean dress, otherwise she would have been a walking cloud of dust.
"Once Beatrix came in, my daughter was a bit jealous that Bea had this coveted doll we saw in the store window down the street. Gen had asked for it several times, but it wasn't something Clarence and I could afford. Bea was sweet enough to play Mothers with Gen and allowed my daughter to play with her doll.
"A few days later, Bern and Bea came to retrieve the two dresses and the doll clothes and Bern asked if I might be able to make an additional doll dress. Before I could reply, he called Gen over and handed her a box with that doll from the toy store down the street." Abigail exhaled and frowned. "Such a terrible shame about his daughter. Bea was truly a gift to Bernard."
"You knew his wife as well, correct?"
"Helena? Yes, but…" Abigail hesitated, appearing quite uncomfortable. "She wasn't like Bernard and Beatrix."
"How so?"
"Helena preferred the Bon Marche and shops in the Seventh arrondissement. The times that she accompanied her husband and daughter to the shop, you could tell that she was unhappy. She often complained about their residence up north, far removed from the glamour of large cities."
"In Wissant?"
Abigail nodded. "Yes, Wissant wasn't nice enough for her. Helena wanted jewels and furs and an estate on the slopes in Switzerland with a full staff, but Bernard wanted Beatrix to grow up in a more sensible community. He's never been one for gilded halls, I suppose. You are aware he never allowed his daughter to see him after the fights?"
I nodded.
"He always had Helena and Beatrix staying in some nice hotel while he had his matches in another city. He wanted to make sure that Bea didn't miss him while he was away, so he always made certain that she had something to keep her entertained where ever they went, and then when they were together, he'd have Bea show him around like she was a native and he was touring."
"He sent them ahead?"
"Yes, sometimes he would send them to the next town ahead of his fights so that Beatrix never saw the worst of what he did for a living. Sometimes if he could convince Helena, they'd return to Wissant while he had several matches in a row." Abigail wistfully smiled to herself. "If you had seen him with that little girl. Bern truly cherished every moment they spent together. It hurt his heart to be away from her for two weeks, but whenever they were together it was as if the fire in his soul had been rekindled.
"It's terrible of me to say, but Helena always seemed quite adamant about snuffing out the affection Bern had for their daughter."
"Bernard mentioned his wife had a difficult time after Beatrix was born."
Abigail rolled her eyes. "He's far kinder than me."
"I gather you didn't care for his wife?"
"Would it be rude of me to say not one bit?"
"Why, Madame Soward, aren't you in a mood?" I lightly asked, amused by her less than polite reply.
Abigail grunted. "I didn't care for the way Helena treated Bern or Beatrix when the three of them were together. Bern was always a wonderful provider for his family and Helena seemed to take pleasure in treating him poorly in front of others. Quite frankly, I always felt he deserved better."
I checked my pocket watch. "Perhaps he is bewitching the future Madame Montlaur as we speak. He's twenty minutes late."
"Bern is with Howard," Abigail replied. "My apologies, I should have told you he wasn't coming to meet us."
"Quite frankly I'm insulted that Bernard chose Howard over us."
"Oh, it was not a choice. Howard has been quite the loyal Montlaur follower for a number of years, and when Bern came in to try on the trousers for tonight's outing, he was accosted by my brother and practically forced out of the shop with his biggest admirer."
I feigned astonishment. "Was there no way to save Bernard from such a horrid fate?"
Abigail released the most magical laugh, the type of mirth she hadn't shown in several weeks. Her hand grasped my wrist as she shook her head at me. "You are terrible."
"Do you disagree?"
"Not one bit, which makes me equally terrible." Her gaze left mind and she glanced at my left arm. "Do you realize I haven't had to keep your hand for safe keeping this entire time?"
"Progress, I suppose," I answered, feeling somewhat disappointed that there had been no comforting physical contact between us.
"Yes," Abigail replied, although her tone gave no indication that she truly agreed. "I suppose it is." She forced a smile. "Are you looking forward to the ballet tonight?"
I gave a half-hearted shrug. "A pugilist, two teenage girls, and an art professor attending the ballet. It sounds like quite an interesting evening out."
"Indeed."
"I do believe Friday night at the opera will be far more enjoyable spent in your company."
Abigail blushed. "Speaking of the opera, what do you intend to wear?"
"Clothes," I dryly answered.
Abigail turned her head to the side, refusing to be amused by my words. "At least all eyes will be on the stage, Monsieur Kimmer, and we can avoid the worst scandal in all of Paris."
"As you are aware, the majority of my suits are blue," I said. "I am assuming I shall wear something ranging from dark to medium blue."
"Which is a wonderful color on you, no matter the shade," Abigail said. "And I also think an emerald green would look quite nice."
"I don't believe I have anything in that shade."
"Not yet."
I furrowed my brow. "Will something magically appear in my wardrobe Friday evening?"
"While speaking with Clarence, he suggested that I see if perhaps there was something in the unclaimed boxes that might be put to use rather than discarded. After all, he put in quite a lot of time into completing all of those garments. There was an exceptionally nice ensemble for a gentleman that I couldn't bear to throw away. The measurements were close to yours, but not exact as you are a good five inches taller. I should be able to alter it this evening." Abigail squeezed my wrist. "I have a dress in the same shade that I've not been able to wear out since an evening at the opera is not typically on the calendar of a widow with three children. Therefore, I would like to give you the suit so that I can wear my dress."
"I would be honored to complement your dress with the suit you altered."
"Good. If you come by this evening, I'll make sure the length is correct." She paused and regarded me for a moment. "Phelan, if I may say so, I have truly and thoroughly enjoyed the last few times we've had tea together."
"As have I."
"I wish–" She paused abruptly, her expression wavering. "I wish we had started out this way, rather than….rather than the way we did, I suppose. Perhaps there could have been something different."
I felt my heart stutter at her words, longing for more than I'd ever allowed myself. I felt the tug of regret, of wishing I'd done something differently-or been someone else entirely.
Abigail pulled her hand away and sat back. "Perhaps soon it will be you introducing me to your brother over tea."
"I would like that," I replied. "And I am certain he would be quite pleased to meet you as well."
"And then perhaps..." she regarded me for a brief moment, her face turning bright red. "And then I have no idea what I was about to say."
"I suppose there is no going back," I said.
"To the way things were?" she asked.
"To the beginning," I said. "Before we..." I turned my head to the side.
Abigail checked the clock on the wall for the time and pushed her empty tea cup away. "I must return to the shop."
"I need to return to the university."
Neither one of us was willing to be the first to spring to our feet and leave the cafe.
"Will your cleaning assistant be at the university today?" Abigail asked.
"She's having lunch with the first year students," I answered. "I suspect she will return for the next class as I believe she's become quite fond of them and them of her."
"I will have the rest of her order completed before tomorrow evening. I didn't want to send it on with the post."
"I'll let Celeste know when I see her," I said.
I started to stand, but felt someone behind me.
"What did you need to tell me, Kimmer?" a feminine voice questioned.