First love, my mother had called my infatuation with Leon when she and my father stopped in Paris on the way from Russia to -Algiers. She’d smiled and smoothed down my hair and kissed me on the forehead. “Enjoy it, darling.”
Hearing her, my grandmother had frowned. “Love? Don’t put any stock in it. Marry well, Sandrine. Not often and never for love. That is the only way you’ll be happy. For the women in our family, love is a curse, not a blessing.”
Chapter 5
After drinking Monsieur Duplessi’s coffee and eating one of his croissants, I left Maison de la Lune without looking around as I’d wished to and without discovering what Monsieur Duplessi was doing there.
I needed to hurry back to the rented apartment before too much time passed. My grandmother would surely have returned, found me absent, and begun to worry as it was the first time I’d gone out without her.
As I shut the front door behind me, I whispered to Maison de la Lune that I’d return. Walking down the steps to the sidewalk, I wondered why I’d begun to think of the house as a living entity. Was it because I missed my father so much and he’d grown up there? Because I’d spent time there as a child and it was familiar to me as few things were anymore? Or was it because so much had happened to me in such a short time that I was slightly mad with grief?
On the walk from our ancient family home back to the apartment on rue de la Chaise, I worked out the small lie that I would tell my grandmother to excuse my absence. I’d say I hadn’t been able to shake a nightmare, and with her gone, I decided taking a walk might help.
As I’d expected, she had returned, but she was preoccupied with the dressmaker who was there pinning a new frock and accepted my explanation of needing fresh air without reservation.
That afternoon, the rain started as Grand-mère and I went out for our daily excursion. We spent the afternoon at the Louvre in the dusty Egyptian wing. It had fascinated me as a girl, and I found it just as compelling now. People in that ancient civilization had spent so much time and effort preparing for the journey to the afterlife. Did all those ablutions make death easier to bear?
“Would you like to visit Egypt one day?” my grandmother asked.
We were standing in front of the sarcophagus of Madja. The whitewashed outer coffin was highly decorated with a painting of the dead woman wearing a blue-and-yellow wig and an elaborate gold, carnelian, and lapis lazuli necklace. Her large, kohl-rimmed eyes and placid expression suggested an acceptance of death as something inevitable, perhaps even enviable.
“I’d love to,” I answered. “It must be very exotic. We used to visit the Egyptian rooms at the Metropolitan at home, and when we were in London, Papa took me to the British Museum and showed me the Rosetta Stone and explained how it was the key to finally understanding the entire cryptic Egyptian writing system. Did you know he was learning how to read hieroglyphics?”
“Maybe we should visit Egypt,” my grandmother said. “Paris is so cold and dreary this winter. Exceptionally so.”
The chance to visit Luxor and Alexandria and sail down the Nile should have excited me but instead filled me with dread. “Leave Paris?”
Grand-mère turned and gave me a sad smile. “I suppose you’ve had too much change too quickly, mon ange?”
As I nodded, I felt threatening tears spring to my eyes.
“But you know you can’t stay in Paris indefinitely,” she added.
“Why not?” I hadn’t expected this.
“You have a home and a husband in New York. A life there. You are young and beautiful.” She reached out and smoothed my auburn hair. While it wasn’t as fiery as hers, it had her reddish highlights. “You want to have children, don’t you?”
“Not with Benjamin, no!” I shook my head. “I’m never going back to him. I want to divorce him.”
“I would imagine you do. Sandrine, I think it best to tell you that I received a telegram from your father’s lawyer yesterday.”
“Mr. Lissauer? What did he say?”
“Your husband returned from his business trip to find you’d gone to visit friends in Virginia. When a week passed and you still weren’t home, he made inquiries and discovered you’d never been in Richmond. He is distraught and anxious about your safety. Knowing how close you and your father were, he reached out to Monsieur Lissauer to see if he had heard from you or had any information.”
I began to tremble. “Please don’t telegraph him back. Don’t tell Mr. Lissauer you know where I am.”
“I trust him, mon ange. Maybe he can help?”
“Don’t tell anyone, please. Promise.” My voice was shrill and despairing. People were looking over at us.
“All right. Perhaps it’s too soon to talk of these things.” She took my arm, and we walked away from the sarcophagus. “Let’s go have some chocolat chaud at Angelina’s. And perhaps a pastry.”
My grandmother’s news about Benjamin kept me up almost all night. Restless despite the comfortable bed and soft pillows, my mind turned over all my actions during those days before my departure. Had I been sloppy in my haste and left behind any clues as to where I was going? Had anyone other than William Lenox seen me? Was William back from his trip yet? It seemed unlikely, but if he was and had told Benjamin he’d seen me on the ship to England, was there any way someone could have tracked my journey from Southampton to Calais? Could I even be certain Benjamin didn’t know of my grandmother’s existence? It was supposed to be a tightly guarded secret, but what if my father had taken Benjamin into his confidence? Perhaps he’d decided it was a part of our family history his son-in-law should know. Wouldn’t my father have told me if he’d done that?
Finally I reassured myself that if Benjamin did know where I was, surely he wouldn’t be trying to find me but would already be here, demanding I return home with him.
By the time the night gave way to a pale dawn, I had convinced myself that, at least for the time being, I was safe here in Paris with my grandmother, and I allowed my mind to turn to thoughts of another man. I began to wonder about Julien Duplessi. Who was he, and why had he been left alone at my grandmother’s house? And why was I so curious about him?
Early the next morning, as I drank my tea in my bedroom, I heard my grandmother leave the apartment. It was not even ten o’clock.
Hurrying downstairs, I looked out the window in time to see her turn at the corner, heading, it appeared, toward rue des Saints-Pères and Maison de la Lune.
Little more than an hour later she returned, surprised to find me reading in the sitting room instead of in my bedroom.
“Good morning,” she said. “Are you feeling all right, Sandrine? It’s early for you to be downstairs.”
I nodded. “Fine, thank you. And early for you to go out,” I said, wanting so much for her to tell me where she’d been.
“I needed some things from the pharmacy, and there was no one to send. Once I was out, I thought I’d stop to have tea at Ladurée and bring you some macarons.”
She held out the pale green-and-gold box. Taking them, I thanked her. They had always been my favorite, and a wash of memories came over me of when I’d been here as a young girl. I kissed her. The scent of the cold winter morning on her skin made me think of Maison de la Lune again. Was she telling me the truth, or had she returned to the house and then gone to the patisserie to hide her real reason for leaving so early again?
Grand-mère went upstairs to her room, and I remained where I was, reading, or trying to. Why didn’t I just ask her?
I found my grandmother in her bedroom, sitting at her vanity, her jewel boxes open before her.
Seeing me, she gave me one of her most inviting smiles. Grand-mère was an expert at the art of expression, claiming it was always more seductive to speak with the lips or the eyes than with words.