11
Fiona
I wasat the piano practicing my scales when Gabriella came in from running errands. Her cheeks flushed from the heat and her hair in disarray, she started speaking in rapid French the moment she entered the room. I didn’t get most of it but from what I could gather, she’d picked up cheese and bread and it was hot outside.
“And here is a letter to you from Colorado.” She placed it on top of the piano.
“Thank you.” My stomach lurched at the handwriting. A letter from Li. He must have gotten my letter. Hopefully I hadn’t worried him. After I sent it, I thought about how it might alarm him and wished I hadn’t mentioned Mr. Basset. Weeks had passed since I put it in the post. Thus far, Mr. Basset had complied with my request. He hadn’t touched me. However, that didn’t mean he didn’t make not-so-subtle innuendoes. For the most part, I ignored them and focused on his instruction. Sadly, it was very good. I was making marked improvement in my breath control and power. As much as I despised him, I had to admit he was good at what he did.
I opened the letter with trembling fingers and read through it twice. Was it possible? He was coming here? I was heavy with guilt and sank into one of the leather chairs. I should never have said anything about Mr. Basset. Had I done it purposely? To draw him here?
I got up and paced from one end of the room to the other and back again. What did all this mean? Was my safety the real reason he was leaving everything? Did it matter? He was coming to me. He was already on his way. I held the letter against my chest before bringing it to my nose to smell for Li’s scent. Nothing. But what did I think it would smell like after weeks on a ship?
A ship. He was probably on the ship over the ocean at this very moment. Two more weeks and he could be sitting right here in front of me.
“Gabriella,” I called out.
She scurried in from the kitchen, her face tense. I’d frightened her with my shouting. “Are you in need of me?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, laughing. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” I waved the letter at her. “My friend is coming. We must get the room ready for him.”
“This is friend of your heart?”
“Yes, but you mustn’t let on that you know,” I said. “He doesn’t feel the same way.”
She looked at me blankly. I grabbed the English-to-French dictionary and looked up unrequited. “Sans réciprocité,” I said to her.
“Ah, vous devez être très triste.” She wiped under her eyes as if she were crying.
Whatever she’d said, she had the idea. I flipped to sadness to find the French word. “Oui, tristesse.”
“Il doit vous aimer, pour faire tout ce chemin.” Gabriella gave me a knowing nod.
“I don’t know what you said.”
She waved her hand dismissively and then grinned. “He will like French food. My food, yes?”
“I know he will.” Spontaneously, I grabbed her into a quick hug. “I can’t wait for you to meet him.”
That night Jamesand I sat outside under an awning at the café below my apartment. The night was warm and muggy and smelled of perspiration, red wine, and the aromas from the kitchen of garlic, onions, and butter. James, handsome in a summer suit, had been entertaining me with stories from his youth, spent mostly in the English countryside. As I listened to tales of traipsing through meadows playing games with his friends, catching frogs and frolicking with his dogs, it became evident that our childhoods were not that different.
Since our first meeting, James and I had spent many evenings together, eating or on evenings when the weather was nice, walking along the river.
“Someday I hope to repay you for your kindness,” James had said one night.
“You will,” I’d said. “These things have a way of coming back around.” I had a running tab with Henri and an understanding with James that I could not allow him to suffer when I had enough to feed us both.
“Fiona, have I lost you with my boring stories?” James asked now as I set my water glass aside.
I straightened and smiled at him from across the table. “Not at all. I was thinking how similar our childhoods were, despite the miles between us. My brothers were fond of searching for frogs, and we all ran around outside playing games. There were sleigh rides in the winters and ice-skating on our pond in town.” A wistful tone had come into my voice.
“You’re homesick,” James said.
“I shouldn’t be, but I am, even though I’m having a lovely time. Do you ever want to go home to England? At some point?"
“Well, the weather sounds better than the dreary rain that colored my youth in gray.” James nodded at the waiter who had come with our second course.
I’d ordered a chicken dish made with white wine, carrots, potatoes, and onions. Steam rose from the plate, bringing the scent of rosemary to my nose, which reminded me of home. I could see Lizzie in the kitchen chopping vegetables, taking me away from Paris for a moment. Smells of home.
James’s steak came with a dollop of herb butter that melted over the meat and formed pools on his plate.
He cut into his steak. Blood rushed from the sides, meeting the butter but not merging. Like oil and water, butter and blood don’t quite mix.
“I don’t know. There wasn’t much there for me. My parents would like me to come home and make a good match. One that would save us. But I would like to go to America.”
America? I set that aside to think about in a moment. I watched him as he ducked his chin and cut another piece from his meat. “I don’t understand. What do you mean by a good match?”
“If I were to marry into a family with money, then I would be able to save our estate. As you know, my family has titles but our money’s dried up and we’re hanging on by the grace of God. For centuries, the men in my family have not worked or done anything useful. Without income, money dwindles until there’s nothing left.” He looked up, eyes twinkling. “There’s your economic lesson for today.”
I smiled back at him, but my heart felt heavy. What would his family do if he did not find a good match? “Will you marry only for money? What of love?”
“I’d like it if those two qualities aligned in the same woman, but I’m not entirely hopeful.”
“Have you ever loved anyone before?” I asked.
“Other than heroines in books, no.”
“Is that why you’re interested in me? Because of Papa’s money? Answer honestly. I can’t blame you for self-preservation.” I wouldn’t be hurt if the answer was yes. But if so, then perhaps that would explain why there were no sparks between us.
“Absolutely not. I enjoy your company.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at me without a hint of cunning.
I nodded. “I enjoy yours as well.”