The Last Dress from Paris(43)
She’s expecting to see the fully formed Batignolles dress she wore to the Jardin du Luxembourg that day, the gentle curve of her own body and the angled dip of her waist. But it is her own face that her eyes settle on first, and the vision is shocking, just as Antoine’s mother comes into sharp, unwelcome focus a mere ten steps behind him.
Knowing that she mustn’t let her face give them away, Alice smiles broadly but demands, “Put it away,” just as Madame du Parcq draws level with her son.
“Oh my goodness, please tell me you are not boring Madame Ainsley with your doodles, Antoine.” Her lips are pursed with irritation.
Antoine stuffs the sketch back into his pocket before his mother sees it, for once looking unsure of what to say next.
“It’s no problem at all, Madame du Parcq, really. I enjoyed the brief moment of calm, and I suspect Antoine may have been too shy to show me in front of all our guests.” Alice’s words seem to remind her of the numerous opportunities she is missing out on while she stands in the hallway scolding Antoine.
“Well, I for one am going back to the party, and I suggest you join me, Antoine. I’m sure Madame Ainsley has much more pressing things to attend to.” She turns on her heel and heads at speed back toward the salon.
“I will wait for you outside tonight,” Antoine whispers, “beyond the garden. Come to me when the party is finished.” There is such longing in his face, Alice can’t refuse him.
“It could be a very long wait.”
“I don’t care. I want to be with you.” Alice smiles, just as Madame du Parcq flings her head back over her shoulders toward them, checking Antoine is following, and registering the covert nature of Alice’s look. Antoine sighs deeply and leaves Alice wondering how on earth she will get through the next four hours.
* * *
? ? ?
As the party finally draws to a close, it is four a.m. and the last determined guests make their way out to the courtyard and their drivers. Alice is sure Antoine can’t possibly be waiting for her at this hour. As the hands crawled around the carriage clock in the salon this evening, she felt her excitement slowly ebb, her emotions plummeting from fevered expectation to a rising panic at what little time was left. Now, in the early hours of the morning, she feels the only place she should be heading is upstairs, for another night alone in that huge bed, until Albert finally drags himself away from the whiskey bottle. And even if Antoine is still outside, which seems entirely unlikely, can she really go through with their arrangement? Perhaps the lateness of the hour has done her an enormous favor, saved her from something she would surely regret. Because . . . what if he is still waiting?
If she meets Antoine tonight as promised, something will happen. She feels sure of it. They would be alone. It’s late; Albert will be occupied for hours. She can’t look at that sketch, see the way he has given such detailed, studied thought to how he views her, and promise herself she will return to the residence the same woman who stands here now. In a crowded room full of people, under the spotlight of Antoine’s attention, she was weakened. What will he do to her when they are alone? Has she already crossed a line? Most of the women who drank her champagne this evening would happily sit in judgment, confirming she has.
As she is saying goodbye to the Greek ambassador and his diminutive wife, she realizes Albert is nowhere to be seen and wonders if he has already made his way to the library.
“Ah, Patrice, did Albert get everything he needed in the library this evening?” Her brilliant butler has appeared to remove the last of the glassware and check for any discarded or forgotten items that will need to be returned to their owners later today.
“Oh, sorry, madame, I thought you knew.” Alice can see the faintest flicker of awkwardness on Patrice’s usually professional poker face.
“Knew what?”
“He said he had an engagement, madame. I believe he also mentioned it to Eloise, but perhaps she never got a moment to share the information with you?”
Alice pauses and considers apologizing to Patrice that he should be forced to impart this grubby detail to her. It’s glaringly obvious to both of them what a four a.m. engagement really is. But something about the way Patrice refuses to look sorry for Alice, to brand her as the victim, makes her rally.
Please let Antoine still be there is all Alice can think now. Please let him be waiting for me.
“Thank you, Patrice. May I ask one more thing of you before you finish this evening, please?”
“Anything, madame. I am in no hurry to be anywhere.” And this is why she loves Patrice so dearly. Because of course he wants to get home. He must be shattered, but nothing in his body language or his words would ever lead an observer to believe so.
“My full fur, my gloves, and my wool scarf. And my clutch, which is on the dressing table. Would you mind?”
“An excellent idea! I’ll be as quick as I can.” She watches as he disappears up the grand staircase, determined now that she must at least satisfy her curiosity. Did Antoine really wait all those hours for her?
* * *
? ? ?
She recognizes the outline of his silhouette immediately. He is sitting on a bench, reading a book by the light of a streetlamp, his head dipped well below the collar of his coat. It’s eerily quiet, the traffic and crowds of the nearby Champs-élysées all gone. As soon as he hears her footsteps, he stands.