“See, is that not better, Miss Stanton?”
Much. A fact Clara found quite alarming, especially in conjunctionwith the sudden awareness of Mr. Arthur’s nearness and the way his calloused fingers grazed the top of her bare wrists. She withdrew her bandaged hands and cleared her throat. “What would truly make me feel better is to acquire a map of the Grande Île.” Maps she could control and understand. Unlike the odd fluttery sensation unsettling her stomach.
“I’ve always found the inhabitants of a given place to be more reliable than a scrap of paper. They know all the local landmarks and shortcuts and are often eager to help a bloke out.” Mr. Arthur surveyed the street. “Here. Let me show you. Come along, Mrs. S. Dawdling is for snails and slugs, as you say.”
Mr. Arthur led them to a shop abloom with flowers, which dear gardening Granny would’ve adored. Baskets of daisies hung from the eaves and boxes of petunias sat in windows, their petals of white and purple contrasting beautifully against the celadon walls cut with timber.
A workbench had been rolled outside, and there stood a woman of middling years. With a stiffened scowl and skin gray as her frock, she appeared a veritable coffin surrounded by bouquets of condolence. Toiling as though flowers were her bane, she clipped away soil-laden roots and grouped the posies into bunches, which she bound with twine and placed in a nearby cart. The only greeting extended them was the ominous snipping of her shears.
Clara gulped. This woman didn’t look eager to help a bloke out. She looked eager to put a bloke in the ground.
Mr. Arthur sauntered up to the workbench with unwarranted optimism, and after taking note of the shop sign in French, he addressed the dour woman in that language. “Bonjour, madame.These beautiful ladies and I are in dire need of directions, if you would be so kind as to lend us your expertise. Where, pray tell, is Gutenberg Square?”
Slivers of stems took to the air, fleeing the woman’s shears as she responded in clipped French. “I don’t know. Where is it?”
Mum huffed. “Feathers and figs, if we knew where it was, we wouldn’t be asking you, now would we?”
“Industrious workers rarely stray from the grindstone, Mrs. S. I’m sure this diligent lady doesn’t wish to fritter her time away with sightseeing. One square’s much the same as the next, you know.” Propping an elbow on the workbench, Mr. Arthur plied the woman with a lopsided grin. “All the same, I’d wager you overhear the wagging tongues of many an idle sightseer. Perhaps even one that’s been to Gutenberg Square. An intelligent woman such as yourself—”
The woman’s shears snipped a breath from Mr. Arthur’s nose. “Silence your silver tongue, or I’ll silence it for you. I don’t have time to waste on tourists with nothing to spend but flattery. I have a store to run and a landlord breathing down my neck for twenty francs I haven’t got.” The woman resumed her task. “I must be seeing to my own needs. Lord knows no one else will.” The metallic snip-snip-snipping failed to conceal a slight waver in her brusque voice. “Now be gone. All of you.”
Clara knew that waver all too well. Some man had left this woman alone and aggrieved, and she’d obviously rather be hanged than help one. She tugged on Mr. Arthur’s sleeve but not quickly enough to still his tongue.
“Right-oh, madame. I apologize for troubling you. As recompense for your precious time, I’d like to purchase three of the purple irises in your shop window.”
Dark glower unrelenting, the woman retreated into the shop. When she returned, she held the irises back and shoved an empty palm forward for payment.
Mr. Arthur withdrew a golden franc from his pocket and folded the woman’s fingers around the coin as though to assure her it wouldn’t be taken away.
Clara’s eyebrows vaulted. The twenty-franc piece far exceeded the value of three irises. Was he ... could he seriously be trying to pay the woman’s rent? Out of his own pocket?
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not—”
“Correct change? I know.” Mr. Arthur patted his overcoat. “But I’m afraid it’s my last franc. Do me a favor and keep it, will you? I’m rather tired of lugging old Napoleon III’s face around.”
The woman’s mouth fell agape.
Taking the irises, Mr. Arthur bestowed one on Mum and one on Clara, and the third he presented back to the grim florist. “For you, madame.”
She accepted it without a word, and they took their leave.
Clara twirled the purple iris in her fingers. “Know all the landmarks, he said. Eager to help, he said.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Mr. Arthur, how did you manage to find the surliest woman in Strasbourg?”
Mr. Arthur shrugged as they followed a curve in the cobbled path. “Perhaps I’m not the one who found her. Perhaps ... we were never lost.”
The narrow street opened into a square, and there in its center stood a statue.
It was Gutenberg, or rather a bronze likeness elevated on a towering granite base. Relief panels on the four sides of the base depicted the invention of the printing press, while above, Gutenberg held the fruit of his labor. A piece of paper on which was printed,Et la lumiere fut.
And there was light.
Beside the monument, a steam-driven carousel awash with giggling children twirled to the joyous tune of a calliope. Clara shook her head. All this time, Gutenberg Square had been just around the bend in the road. A map would’ve made that clear from the start, but it also might have caused her to select a faster route. One that bypassed a certain flower shop.
Perhaps Mr. Arthur was right. Perhaps they’d never been lost. Perhaps they’d been nudged along a path of God’s own choosing so a woman could cease fretting about her rent. Cease feeling forgotten because no one ever thought to give flowers to a florist.
The carousel slowed, and Clara’s gaze drifted to her iris. How many years had the woman lived unaware of the beauty just around the bend? Too embittered to hear the music. Too consumed with striving to meet her needs alone. An ache tugged at her chest. She didn’t want that to be her story.
She wanted to join the music.
