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***
People streamed along the street, hurrying to work, buying bread, or chatting with friends. Paris seemed even more crowded than London, not that she could remember a specific trip to London. Elizabeth fought the desire to shrink down on the bench as they entered the city. Perched on the high seat of the curricle, she felt as if she wore a sign proclaiming her to be an Englishwoman. It was nonsense, of course. She was wearing French clothing, and her face alone could not betray her national origin. As long as she was not called upon to speak, she was safe. Fortunately, she understood French far better than she spoke it; they had managed throughout the past two days with William speaking French while Elizabeth listened and nodded in appropriate places.
However, the sheer number of people in Paris made her apprehensive. Surely some of them would want to speak with Elizabeth. How could she avoid revealing her secret
? If their identities were revealed, the consequences would be bad enough for her, but far worse for William. The gendarmes were unlikely to be very harsh toward a woman, but they were imprisoning all Englishmen. William had been so good to Elizabeth, so patient; she could not be the cause of his downfall.
If anyone suspected, they would claim to be a Frenchman with an English wife, but Elizabeth foresaw many potential problems with the plan, not the least of which was that an Englishwoman living in France should speak better French.
To make matters worse, she had awakened that morning feeling far more weary and stiffer than the day before. She had experienced fewer coughing fits, but her breathing was more constricted, wheezing roughly in and out of her chest. Elizabeth strove to minimize the sounds and conceal her fatigue, but William’s solemn expression suggested that he was not fooled. A stiffness in his posture betrayed his anxiety.
She tried not to stare at him, but he was very handsome. At times she experienced such desire for him, as she had the previous night. But other times he seemed far too magnificent for her—like a fine silk gown one might admire in a shop window but knew would be far too dear. How had he ever fixed on her as the future companion of his life? It seemed impossible that such a creature would desire her.
Although she had only seen him in rough laborer’s clothing, she knew they did not suit him. His bearing was too commanding, his posture too erect for him to be anything other than a gentleman. William would be resplendent when dressed the part: in a waistcoat and jacket with a starched cravat neatly tied around his neck. Was such an image fixed in her mind as a memory?
His hands were strong as they handled the reins. She could not help recalling the night before as his fingers pressed into her skin—firm but caressing. Even his profile suggested the strength of his character: his determined mouth and sharp eyes. And then there was the unruly dark hair she longed to run her fingers through.
How had she managed to capture the attention of such a handsome man? Elizabeth had viewed herself in a mirror; she had her share of beauty but nothing out of the common way. Nor was there any reason to suspect William had married her for her dowry.
Recognizing her scrutiny, William gave her a quick, reassuring smile before returning his attention to negotiating the teeming Paris streets. At such moments she had no difficulty believing in his deepest love. Indeed, it was the only explanation for his behavior. Yet at other times she wondered. Would she discover one day that it was all some bizarre mistake or waking fantasy? Without her memories, everything seemed slightly unreal. Perhaps she was still lying unconscious in the Martins’ guest chamber, only dreaming of Paris.
On the outskirts of the city, William had stopped to ask a shopkeeper for directions to Rue DuVal. The neighborhood in which they now found themselves was neither for the most prosperous citizens nor the city’s poorest residents. Women on the street wore sensible, sturdy cotton dresses, and the men in drab brown jackets were most likely shopkeepers or clerks. Houses were small, even by London standards, but well maintained and neat, with boxes of summer flowers blooming at their windows.
William guided the horse down a narrow side street, little more than an alley; a sign tacked to one building proclaimed it to be Rue DuVal. Elizabeth allowed herself a sigh of relief; she was quite prepared to quit the curricle. He reined in the horse in front of number twenty-three, an unprepossessing townhouse little different from its neighbors. Lacy curtains adorned the windows facing the street, and the door had been painted a cheerful red.
“This is her house?” Elizabeth asked as William helped her down.
“Yes.” Darcy took a deep breath as he gave her his arm. “We can only pray she is at home.”
As at the Dreyfus farm, William positioned himself between the door and Elizabeth while he knocked. She did not know whether to be annoyed or touched by the unnecessary chivalry; surely his former governess was unlikely to be a source of danger.
The door was opened by a young man—probably in his late teens—tall and thin with dark hair. He was not dressed as a servant. A family member perhaps? William had said the governess had returned to France to nurse a widowed sister through her final illness; then she had remained in Paris to raise her niece and nephew.
“Good afternoon,” Darcy said politely in French. “Is Miss Laurent at home?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
“My name is for Miss Laurent. I am an old friend.”
The frown deepened. “Is she expecting your visit?”
William huffed out a laugh. “No, but I have no doubt she will be pleased to see me.”
The man hesitated, not opening the door to admit them, torn between protecting his aunt and his duty to visitors.
An older woman’s voice floated out from the depths of the house. “Who is it, Bernard?”
“He will not grant me his name, but he wishes to speak with you.”
“Nan!” William called out in English. “’Tis I.”
At these words a stout woman in her early sixties came bustling down the hallway. Her eyes went round with shock when she saw William. “It is you!” Instantly, her eyes darted around the street behind them to see if their presence had been noticed. “Bernard, let them in. Let them in at once!” She gestured urgently.
With a dubious expression, Bernard admitted William and Elizabeth. Only once the door was safely closed behind them did the woman fling her arms around William and embrace him as one might a child. Had the woman been younger, Elizabeth might have been seized by jealousy.
“Will!” she cried. “What an unexpected treat! Mon Dieu! You are in good looks, although a bit informally dressed.” The woman chuckled, but her torrent of words continued. “Why are you in Paris? And who is this lovely creature? And how is Georgiana? Is she with you? And—”
William laughed. “I will answer your questions, Nanny Laurent, if you will stop talking long enough to listen.”
