Page 13 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Ten

Marguerite set out early Monday morning for Locksley.

She placed a sign in her window to inform patrons she was not in for the day, tied her bonnet ribbons beneath her chin, and pulled on her warmest pelisse over her long-sleeved dress.

Her breath clouding before her face in puffs of chilly air, but the exercise was enjoyable.

By the time she reached the Locksley inn, she had a quarter-hour to spare before the post-chaise would arrive.

She hadn’t intended on visiting Paul today, so he was not expecting her.

It was entirely possible Marguerite would arrive at an empty house, but Paul had retired long ago from his work tutoring schoolboys, so the journey was worth the risk.

All throughout Saturday, after receiving the perfume-scented letter, then on Sunday, she had been pegged with the consistent, niggling thought that something was not right.

If anyone could look at these items and see what she was not seeing, it would be Paul. He was the only other person with all the knowledge Marguerite possessed—furthermore, he also had all the memories of their escape. What was hazy in Marguerite’s mind was solid and clear in Paul’s.

“Madame Perreau,” a voice called, slicing through her thoughts like a sharp knife and pulling her attention into the street.

Mr. Harding sat upon his curricle high above her, smiling down like she was a shiny ha’penny he’d found in the road.

His hat was placed at an angle over his golden hair, and a dark greatcoat covered what appeared to be a navy jacket and fawn breeches.

“What a pleasure it is to find you here this morning.”

A pleasure? Goodness, but the man would make her blush if she even remotely believed the things he said to her.

It took a great deal of effort for Marguerite to remind herself that Mr. Harding was a charmer.

Instead of giving him validation, she admired his horses and curricle.

“What a fine carriage you have, monsieur.”

“Thank you.” He glanced behind her, seeming to notice where she was and likely why. “Are you travel—that is, may I convey you somewhere?”

Whatever reason he had for being in Locksley at this hour, it was not to spend the day driving about Hampshire with Marguerite. “You are kind to offer, but I am happy to take the post.”

Mr. Harding curled his lip in distaste. “My appointment fell through, and I have an entire day available. Please do not force my trip to Locksley to have been in vain.”

The temptation to accept was short-lived, and she quickly squashed it down.

How would she explain her relationship to Paul?

A French priest in exile who put off the church and turned to tutoring the moment he came to England?

It would never do. This visit needed to be accomplished with delicacy.

Riding into Southampton on Mr. Harding’s flashy curricle would only draw attention.

The briefest moment of desire filled her.

She wanted to climb into the seat beside him and share a ride together, to speak openly in person as they did in their letters.

But she shoved the feelings aside swiftly, covering them and reminding herself how impossible that would be.

Her desires meant little now in the face of reality.

“I thank you, monsieur, but I couldn’t possibly ask it of you.

” Marguerite spoke firmly, grateful her disappointment didn’t bleed into her tone.

Mr. Harding’s seat on the curricle was so high above her, a manifestation of the difference in their stations.

She could see it so clearly from where she stood below him on the street.

She wondered how he couldn’t seem to see it at all.

Mr. Harding looked as though he wanted to argue further, but the arrival of the post chaise forced him to move. He tipped his hat to her and commanded his horses to walk on. She watched him go, perfectly aware of the chasm that lay between them.

Marguerite climbed into the post with the other passengers, nestling in with the woman and men already inside, and took off.

Paul opened the door after four heavy taps of his metal knocker. It was a relief to see his familiar brown eyes set in a wrinkled pale face. White hair fell in wisps around his forehead and wiry white side whiskers climbed down his ruddy cheeks.

“Marie-Louise, you are here,” he said, his accent heavy.

“It is Marguerite, Paul. Remember?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Come in before you catch your death, Marguerite.” He stepped aside, making room for her to pass him into the house. The narrow building was crowded on both sides by other homes and smelled strongly of cooked beef.

“Forgive me for coming without notice. I do hope this is not an imposition.”

“Never. I am always glad to see your beautiful face. Will you come in for tea? ”

“That would be lovely.” She smiled up at him. He had one servant who lived in the house, and Marguerite assumed the woman was the reason for the stew bubbling in a kitchen downstairs.

“Let me speak to Mrs. Keel. You can sit in there.” He gestured to the small retiring room.

Marguerite let herself in the dim room and crossed toward the window.

She drew open the drapes, coughing at the excess of dust that billowed out.

Light poured through the street-facing window, highlighting the dust along the bookshelves and tables.

The room had seen better times. Marguerite hurried to the sofa, situating herself so she would not be found analyzing the neglect when Paul returned.

Which took him a good deal longer than Marguerite had anticipated. He returned carrying a tray. “Mrs. Keel is elbow deep in the laundry. Will you pour?”

“I would be happy to.” She prepared Paul’s cup how she remembered he liked it, then passed it to him as he sat on the sofa, leaving space between them. “I have come seeking guidance, actually. I’m afraid I’ve had some strange occurrences this week, and I do not quite know what to make of them.”

Paul sipped his tea. “Go on.”

Marguerite took a drink of her tea and put the cup down. It was weak, but she understood that most households needed to re-use their tea leaves these days. She pulled the letters from her reticule and spread them on the table between them.

“This is only the beginning,” Paul read. “You may have the entire bottle.” He glanced up at her, his brown eyes creased in confusion. “What do they mean?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion. The first letter arrived, tucked in my locked shop door, with this ribbon inside.” She pulled out the ribbon and put it in Paul’s hand. “The second smells like my mother’s perfume. ”

Paul’s eyes jumped to hers. “Charlotte,” he said reverently. Gesturing to the page, he reached for it, but paused. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Paul lifted the letter to his nose and closed his eyes, inhaling softly. “Jean-Claude and Charlotte. I can see them so clearly when I smell this. Who left these for you?”

“I do not know.”

“Oh, ma chére . Someone has your mother’s perfume? What could they possibly want from you?”

Hope, fleeting and desperate, bubbled in her chest. She looked into his dark brown eyes, searching for help.

“I hoped you would have the answer to that. I was so young when we left France. I cannot understand what this ribbon means, or how someone would mean to threaten me with my mother’s perfume.

What could the offer of her bottle mean? ”

“There were no other letters?”

Marguerite thought of Mr. Harding’s letters, but they were not connected. “No, nothing.”

“Given the shortness of the sentences, I imagine this person has not completed their purpose. Perhaps they intend to give you an offer? You may have the entire bottle of your mother’s perfume if you do something for them in return.”

“Perhaps.” Marguerite had considered the same thing. “But what would they want from me? I have nothing to give.”

Paul looked at the letter again, his bristly eyebrows pulling together.

“Whoever this is, they know who your parents were, Marie-Louise. They know who you are.” He shook his head, leaning forward to put the paper on the table.

“The only possibility I could imagine is that this person believes you have your mother’s jewelry, or perhaps your father’s rings. ”

“They were all lost.” Marguerite frowned. “The second trunk never arrived.”

“We know that,” Paul said. He glanced down at the paper. “They must not. ”

She shook her head. “It is mere coincidence, I am sure, but I saw Armand Leclair Saturday.”

Paul tucked his chin. “Leclair? I do not know that name.”

“They lived near our house. We were playmates.” Marguerite gave him a small smile. “I suppose you would not have known them, for you were in hiding during the majority of your stay at our house, were you not?”

“I did not visit your house until your father notified me it was time for our escape.” He rubbed two fingers along the neck of his shirt, as though feeling for the ghost of his cassock. “Then I was relegated to that room for months until the fateful night. But that is behind us.”

Marguerite had hoped for more insight, for anything that could help her put the puzzle pieces together and understand what this person might want from her. There was so little information, she wasn’t entirely sure if they were intended as a threat or something else.

“Is it possible to locate the second trunk?” she asked. “Track the person who was supposed to send it to us?”

Paul shook his head. “It has been twenty years. My belief is that it ended that night on the bottom of the ocean. Or perhaps it was packed onto the wrong boat and sailed to India.”

Her thoughts were jumbled. “That is precisely what I mean, though. We changed our names upon reaching England—or, I did, I suppose. You had no need to. What if the person who accidentally received the trunk of my parents’ belongings held onto it, hoping to find me?

But they could not because I have gone by different names. ”

“Then they would have given it to you upon discovery, not tormented you with perfume.”

Marguerite’s body flushed cold. “You think the person sending me these items has my mother’s trunk?”

Paul’s expression turned pitying. “I think they knew what perfume your mother wore and purchased a bottle. It is not impossible to do, ma chére . You know this. I think you are building hope in your heart, and this person wants to frighten you.”

She picked up her teacup and took another long sip, but the drink had gone cold, tasting bitter on her tongue.

“Are you frightened?” Paul asked. “You may come here. Stay with us. Mrs. Keel would be glad for the company.”

She shook her head. “I am capable of caring for myself. This is concerning, but I am not afraid of this person.”

Paul reached across the sofa and took her hand, squeezing her fingers softly. “You have always been a strong one.”

Marguerite allowed his comfort to soothe her concerns. “Thank you. I am grateful for your support.”

He picked up the letters and folded them again before stacking them on the table.

“If you receive more of these, will you write to me? We can determine what this means together. In the meantime, you will be careful around the Leclair gentleman. Surely he knew of your parents’ wealth. It does not make me feel easy.”

Marguerite nodded. “Of course.” She picked up the letters and tucked them in her reticule. She smiled, trying to alter the mood in the room to one of happiness, hoping to leave Paul with a better feeling. “Now, tell me the latest news of Southampton.”