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“It annoys you to be a guardian angel,” she said.
“Don’t be absurd. I’m nothing of the kind. Come, let’s see the rest of the place.”
They moved more quickly through the rest of the shop: the offices and work and storage areas. He would be eager to be gone, she thought. For a time the details of setting up a shop, the details of trade might have offered an interesting change of pace for him. But he was no tradesman. Money meant something entirely different to him, insofar as it meant anything. And she supposed he was tired as well of being the subject of tedious gossip, and tired of having his household disrupted.
Little did he know how small a disruption that had been, compared to what her family typically did. Her ancestors had torn whole families apart, lured the precious offspring of noblemen from their luxurious homes to vagabond lives at best, abandonment and ruin at worst.
She had seen all of the new place that mattered, she thought, when he led her, not back the way they’d come, toward the entrance, but to the stairs.
Then it dawned on her what she’d missed. The first floor was to contain work areas: a well lit studio for her, a handsome parlor for private consultations with clients, and private work spaces for Sophia and Leonie.
The second and third floors had been reserved as living quarters.
And that hadn’t crossed her mind, not once while she shopped today.
“Good grief, I hope you’ve a mattress or two you can spare from Clevedon House,” she said. “A table and chairs would be useful, too, though not crucial. We’ve camped before. I can’t believe I forgot to buy anything for us.”
“Let’s go up and see what’s needed,” he said. “Maybe the absconders left something.”
He led the way, carrying a lamp.
He didn’t pause at the first floor but continued up to the second.
At the top of the stairs, he paused. “Wait here,” he said.
He crossed to a door, and opened it. A moment or two later, the faint light of the lamp gave way to soft gaslight.
“Well, well,” he said. “Come, look at this.”
She went to the door and looked in. Then she stepped inside.
A sofa and chairs and tables. Curtains at the windows. A rug on the floor. None of it would have suited Clevedon House. The furnishings weren’t grand at all. But they reminded her of her cousin’s apartment in Paris. Quiet elegance. Comfort. Warmth. Not a showplace like the shop below, but a home.
“Oh, my,” she said, and it was all she could trust herself to say. Something pressed upon her heart, and it choked her.
From this pretty parlor he led her into a small dining parlor. Then he led her to a nursery, laid out with so much affection and understanding of Lucie that her heart ached. She had her own little table and chairs and a tea set. She had a little set of shelves to hold her books, and a painted chest to hold her toys and treasures.
Thence he led Marcelline to another, larger room.
“I thought you would prefer this room,” he said. “If it doesn’t suit, you ladies can always rearrange yourselves. But you’re the artist, and I thought you should not overlook the busy street but the garden—such as it is—and perhaps catch a glimpse of the Green Park, though you might have to stand on a chair to do it.”
She was a Noirot, and self-control was not a family strong suit. But she, like the others, had a formidable control over what she let the world see.
At that moment, it broke. “Oh, Clevedon, what have you done?” she said, and the thing pressing on her heart pushed a sob from her. And then, for the first time in years and years and years, she wept.
