Page 31 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Marguerite surprised herself and managed to sleep for a few hours after Samuel left.

The emotions had been so raw and heavy, Marguerite had only made it to the parlor.

She’d sat on the sofa beside Claude and promptly fell asleep.

When she woke, it was later than she would typically open, but she changed her gown, splashed water on her face, fixed her hair, and opened the shop.

It was important to treat today as any other. Oliver had laid it out in his plan, and she had agreed with him.

Each time the bell rang over the door, Marguerite hoped it would be Samuel, but she recognized the foolishness in such a dream.

She sat on her stool, her hands eager to be busy.

She couldn’t embroider at present, though.

When she was this tired, she feared she would ruin the stitching and put too many holes in the fabric.

She chose to sort her ribbons, pulling them from the long dowels and arranging them by color better. All the whites and creams were stacked on the counter when the bell rang out and she looked over her shoulder to see Paul enter the shop.

Marguerite dropped a spool of pale yellow ribbon. “Paul. ”

“Good day, ma chére ,” he said kindly, his eyes sparkling with affection. His familiar French accent was an immediate comfort, like sitting before a warm fire with a fresh cup of tea.

Her chest warmed at the refreshing sight of the small piece of home. Marguerite immediately crossed the shop with her arms outstretched. “The same to you. This is a pleasant surprise.”

Paul took her hands, squeezing softly before releasing them. He smiled, his side whiskers shifting with the motion. “It has been an age since I have come to visit you here, and I have not been able to stop thinking about you since you came by the house. You worried me, child.”

She shook her head softly, anxious to put his fears to rest. “Would you like some tea?”

“I shouldn’t like to take you from your customers.”

“It is no matter. I can put a sign in the window that I am closed, and we can share a pot in the parlor. I may even have ginger biscuits on hand.”

“Very well. You need not ask me twice.” His eyes twinkled as he led the way toward the parlor.

Marguerite put her sign in the window and locked her door. She picked up the yellow spool of ribbon and replaced it on the counter before following Paul. “Have you come alone?”

“Yes.” He ran his hand over his wiry side whiskers. “I hired a coach for the journey. It’s waiting at the inn.”

“Mrs. Leeks and her boys will take good care of it.”

“I am happy to hear that.”

She slipped into the kitchen to start a pot of tea to boil.

Marguerite was not used to entertaining, so it took her a moment to prepare her tray.

She breathed in the familiarity of old friends, the ease at which one could converse with those who had known one for the entirety of one’s life.

She arranged her few remaining ginger biscuits on a plate and contemplated how much to tell him of the additional notes.

It would not be good to worry Paul, and with Oliver’s plan, they would have things well in hand by that evening.

Yet he had traveled all this way because he needed to know how she fared.

Perhaps his insight and wisdom would be valuable.

Marguerite carried the tea service into the parlor and set it on the small table. She poured each cup, handing one to Paul. “How was your journey?”

“Blessedly uneventful. I did not relish such a long ride, but it passed quickly and without incident. I stopped to visit one of the lads I used to tutor, and it was nice to see him as well.”

“I am glad to hear it.” She sat back, sipping her hot tea. Paul had immediately put off his cassock when he reached England and taken a position tutoring boys. They paid better and supported him well, giving him a place to land. “Was it one I might know?”

“Frederick Peele.”

The name sounded familiar. She must have heard him speak of the man before—perhaps years ago when the man was a boy.

Paul took a sip, then set the cup down. “Now put this old man’s fears to rest. Has the scoundrel been dealt with?”

“I’m afraid not.” She took another sip, her gaze on the cup. “He has been relentless in his belief that I have these diamonds, and I have no way to contact the person and inform him he is mistaken.”

“You are aware the person is a man?”

“No. That is merely an assumption.” She took another sip. “What I know is that I do not have what they seek, and I do not know how to convey that.”

“Surely you can explain where to find them so the person leaves you alone.”

“How? I was eight when we fled, Paul. How am I to know where my mother hid her jewels? I would have assumed they would be in the trunk as well, but it appears the person has the trunk. ”

“Indeed,” he said, tilting his head to the side in agreement, his brows furrowed.

“What do you recall of the shipping company that Maman hired to convey our trunks to England?” she asked.

He screwed up his face in thought. “Next to nothing. It was not a company, but a privately owned fishing boat off the coast of Cornwall. The man had family in France and would dock to visit them occasionally. Your mother had heard of the family, for I believe they did much work in helping people flee France.”

Her hopes rose. “Do you recall the captain’s name?”

Paul shook his head. “No. I could have it written down at home. I will look and write to you if I find it.”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Her hope deflated, but she tried to keep her smile in place.

Paul seemed to sense her disappointment. “If you do not have the diamonds, I suppose you must give what you can.”

Marguerite moved to bring her teacup to her lips, but she stalled, her eyes flicking up. “You think I should appease the man?”

“I do not think they will be satisfied with nothing.” He looked down at his hand, then twisted off the ruby ring on his pinky. “It is not much, but this is the only jewel I have. Perhaps it will satisfy them?”

Satisfy the man hoping for fleur-de-lis diamonds? She thought it unlikely. Marguerite set her cup on the table. “I cannot accept it, Paul.”

“You must.” He set it on the tray with a clink. Then, digging in his pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and unwrapped it to reveal a small gold ring with a diamond in the center. “This was my mother’s. Together, these are all I have.”

“Paul,” she said on a breath. “Never. This man does not deserve such precious heirlooms.”

“Surely you understand you are more precious than any ring, ma chére . ”

She shook her head. “It matters not. I will not accept them. If he persists in his ridiculous claims, he will learn the truth of it. My mother’s fleur-de-lis diamonds did not make it across the Channel—not to my knowledge, at least.”

Paul raked his gaze over her face. He let out a small, dissatisfied grunt and lifted his teacup.

“How long do you plan to remain in Harewood?” she asked.

Paul glanced up in thought. “Until tomorrow, perhaps.”

Marguerite suppressed her grimace. If Paul was here, how would she escape to manage the trade and the capture of Armand Leclair? “Mrs. Leeks makes a wonderful dinner.”

“Perhaps we could share it.”

“That would have been lovely if I had not already committed to having dinner with some friends. Are you familiar with the Roses of Boone Park?”

Paul’s forehead creased. “I do not know the name, no.”

“They had invited me to spend the evening with them,” she said smoothly. It was not a lie, either. Though they would not be eating dinner at their grand estate.

Paul gave her a considering look, as though weighing his choices. “Perhaps I had better be on my way, then. If I leave soon, I can be back in my own bed this evening.”

“And Mrs. Keel’s cooking.”

Paul looked confused for only a moment before his eyes cleared. “Oh, yes. Of course. Though she won’t be expecting me. It will be inn fare on the road tonight, I reckon.”

Guilt stabbed at Marguerite. Paul had only visited her shop once before. He did not travel much, and to go such a distance for so short a visit seemed a shame. “You should stay,” she offered. “I can write to my friends and schedule our dinner for another night.”

Paul reached for her hand and held it. “You enjoy your friendships, Marie-Louise. I am glad you have them. Let this old man return to his familiar home.” He released her hand and brought his cup to his lips to drain the rest of the tea, then rose. “You will write to me the moment you have news?”

“Of course,” she promised. “I will visit again soon, as well.”

“I would enjoy that.”

Marguerite walked Paul to the door.

He took her hand and kissed the knuckles.

“I have not been a priest for a long time, ma chére , but some of those habits have not left me. It is not in my nature to pay much credence to station. But I will not easily forget the splendor you left behind in France. It was magnificent.” He looked around her shop, then into her eyes again.

“It is a shame what you have been reduced to. If anyone deserved to be dressed in jewels, it is one as lovely as you.”

Marguerite didn’t know what to make of this speech.

Perhaps due to her youth at the time, her memories of home were tied up in the losses she had endured, not the palatial house or the excess surrounding them.

She nodded, for thanking him felt strange.

It seemed to be meant as a compliment, but she could not, given the nature of what she was currently facing, accept it as one.

“I hope you travel safely.”

“Thank you,” he said, then slipped through the door.

Marguerite returned to the ribbon counter and put everything back on the dowel to finish sorting another time.

When she went to the parlor to clean up the tea tray, she noticed Paul’s rings sitting there, waiting for her.

A small smile curved over her lips. However misguided he seemed to be, he cared, and he was only trying to help.

She would not sacrifice his family jewelry—she would return the rings the next time she visited him.

But the gesture warmed her heart all the same.