CHAPTER NINE
Itinerary.
Paris.
Day 4: Our final day in Paris will begin with a morning bus tour of the city.
In the afternoon, we will say farewell with visits to those iconic places that have long been recognized as belonging to Paris and Paris alone. We shall tour the Pantheon, the Musée de Cluny and the Cathedral of Notre Dame as well as other notable sights as time allows.
DANTE NEVER WOULD have imagined it but Lady Wilhelmina Bascombe was merciless. She had taken on her role of tour hostess with a passion that was nothing short of terrifying. It seemed she was determined to fit every possible noteworthy sight of Paris into this last day.
The Americans didn’t seem to mind. Indeed, they moved with an enthusiastic speed he never would have expected from the fairer sex. His sister too embraced their unrelenting pace through the City of Light with a resolve he hadn’t realized she had. Although he suspected Roz thought the faster they went from place to place, the more difficult it would be for Mr. Goodwin to catch up with them.
A private omnibus complete with a knowledgeable tour guide had been hired for the morning. And while the gentleman attempted to show his clients as much of Paris as possible, at an impressive speed, it was the most relaxing part of the day. Thank God for the heavy traffic. Otherwise, memories of Paris might be nothing more than a never ending blur of tree-lined streets and mansard-roofed buildings.
They stopped for a too quick lunch at a fashionable café at the Palais Royal arcade facing the gardens and fountain. A lovely spot for a brief respite although Willie did find it necessary to point out the solar cannon fired by the sun. Information she gleaned from one of her many guidebooks. Admittedly, the miniature cannon was remarkable as it was set off by the sun precisely at noon and regulated the Palais Royal clocks as well as giving passersby an accurate way to adjust their own watches. Dante’s watch was already exact.
Unfortunately, in her zeal to detail the endless history of the area, she inadvertently mentioned that it was home to some of the most elegant shops in Paris. A mention which did not go unnoticed. Even Willie was hard-pressed to ignore the pleas of the determined Americans and the Countess of Richfield and so a delay of one hour was granted. Which would have been quite delightful if it had given him the opportunity to spend that hour alone with Willie. It was obvious at once that even though the two American mothers had been told of Goodwin’s presence and had promised Roz they too would keep a close watch on Harriet, the lure of shops not yet pillaged was irresistible to any of them, including his sister. Even Willie succumbed to the temptation of luxury for sale and it was left to him to keep an undistracted watch on his niece.
It was most regrettable. He wanted nothing more than a private word or hour or day with Willie. Dante wasn’t sure what had happened between them last night but there had been a moment of complete and utter awareness. When he had realized he did indeed want Willie in his life. And wanted her there far beyond Venice.
Dante wasn’t at all used to being confused, to not knowing his own mind. But at some point, the lady had become more important than the painting. Certainly his desire to reclaim the Portinari had not lessened, the need to restore the work to its rightful place had not dimmed, but something had changed. Shifted if you will. Willie Bascombe had apparently worked her way into—what? His heart perhaps? As much as he wanted the Portinari, he might possibly want her more. Which did complicate everything and could well be a disaster in the making. Still, he needn’t worry about it until they reached Venice. For now he would simply enjoy her company. Relish the occasional brush of her hand. Savor those moments when her blue eyes met his in a silent communication meant only for them.
After a brief visit to the Pantheon with its massive dome and Corinthian columns to pay homage to those brilliant literary minds laid to rest there—among them Voltaire, Rousseau and Victor Hugo—they stopped to admire the ornate fountains and the red-tinged Obelisk of Luxor at the Place de la Concorde—even though Willie pointed out they had seen everything from the morning bus tour. And they practically raced through the Musée de Cluny’s collection of medieval works. It was a travesty really, not to spend more time in admiration of the tapestries and altar pieces and sculptures in alabaster and marble, but time was limited and Willie had a schedule to adhere to. It was late afternoon by the time they reached Notre Dame, on the Île de la Cité, the island where Paris began.
Even Willie was awed by the immensity and beauty of the gothic sanctuary. The vaulted ceiling rose more than a hundred feet above them, supported by some seventy-five round columns. The carved wood and stone reliefs were illuminated faintly by the filtered light from the stained glass of the magnificent rose windows. One couldn’t help but wonder at all those—the kings and emperors and commoners—who had through the centuries been baptized or wed or crowned or mourned here in this sacred place. One could almost feel the spirits and the history in the very air itself. In spite of the number of tourists milling about, there was a sense of serenity and peace that belied the turbulent desecration that marked the cathedral’s long history. The girls too seemed subdued by the grandeur and the stillness of Notre Dame.
Once they had adjourned to the grand plaza in front of the cathedral, Willie addressed the group. “Now then, time was allocated for us to ascend to the gallery between the towers on the top of the cathedral. This is our last stop before we need to return to the hotel. I for one would very much like to climb to the top.” She glanced at her guidebook. “It’s a scant three hundred and seventy-eight steps and the view of Paris is reputed to be the best in the city.”
“Unless, of course, one counts the new Eiffel Tower.” A subtle challenge sounded in Harriet’s voice, not the first today. Apparently, challenging Willie was to be Harriet’s new purpose in life, in obvious retaliation for Willie spoiling her plans last night. Dante or—better yet—her mother needed to have a firm talk with the girl. “Surely, as it is so much higher than a mere church, the view is much better. And we’ve already seen that view.”
“It’s scarcely a mere church,” Willie said. “It’s considered one of the most noteworthy cathedrals in all of Europe. Why, it took nearly two hundred years to complete. The towers themselves are...” Willie’s brow furrowed.
“Approximately six hundred and forty years old,” Dante supplied.
Willie threw him an appreciative look and continued. “This is a view the people of Paris and visitors have enjoyed for hundreds of years. We would be remiss if we did not avail ourselves of the opportunity to see this city as so many have done before us.”
“I’m not sure I want to climb three hundred and seventy-eight steps,” Tillie said in an aside to her sister. “No matter how mere they are or how grand the view.”
“We could go to the morgue,” Harriet suggested innocently. He knew that look. He had seen it on her mother. “It’s nearby.”
“A morgue?” Marian gasped. “I don’t think that’s at all appropriate.”
“It’s in my guidebook, Mother,” Geneva said. “Apparently, bodies of those unknown persons who have perished in the river or wherever are laid on marble slabs cooled by flowing water. They’re on display in the clothes they were found in.”
Marian turned a horrified look on her daughter, “And you wish to see this?”
“I don’t. I’d much rather climb to the top of the towers. But if the others want to go...” Geneva shrugged.
“I do.” Excitement rang in Emma’s voice. “I think it sounds...educational.”
“I want to see it too,” Tillie joined in.
“Perhaps we should vote on where we go next?” Harriet glanced at the other girls. “Rule by democracy and all that.”
“You can vote on whatever you want,” Roz said. “I for one have no desire to see the dead unknowns of Paris.”
“Well then—” Harriet shook her head “—it seems to me the only thing to do is—”
“While climbing the towers is on our schedule, if most of you wish to go elsewhere—” Willie shrugged “—we will miss the view, of course, and the bells...”
“I think the only thing to do is divide and conquer,” Dante said quickly. It would be a dreadful shame if Willie didn’t see the great bell Emmanuel that was Quasimodo’s favorite. “We can meet back here in, oh, say an hour.”
“Half an hour,” Willie said under her breath. “We do have a schedule to keep.”
“I think three-quarters of an hour will probably do. If the girls really want to see the morgue, I’ll go with them. The rest of you can climb the towers.” Jane glanced at Roz. “If you agree.”
Roz cast Jane a grateful smile. “Of course.”
“We don’t need a chaperone.” Harriet glared. “We can go by ourselves.”
“Nonsense,” Jane said firmly. “I can’t think of anything more interesting than seeing the unclaimed dead of Paris. Why, the ladies at the literary society back home will be fascinated.” She nodded, hooked her elbow through Harriet’s and started off. “Come along, girls. We would hate to keep the dead waiting.”
“Good Lord, Mother,” Emma said under her breath.
“I know I want to be at the next literary society meeting.” Tillie snorted.
The twins followed their mother and Harriet while he and the others entered the north door of the cathedral. They proceeded up a stone spiral staircase, rather dim and somewhat tight to his way of thinking. After a brief climb, they paused in a fair-sized, high-ceilinged chamber then resumed their march up yet another set of spiral stairs. Geneva led the group with Willie right on her heels. Dante was next with Marian and Roz trailing behind. If one had a fear of tight spaces, he would not recommend this venture. It might have been an illusion but it did seem the space grew narrower with every step.
“I don’t suppose anyone is counting these steps.” Marian’s voice drifted up to him. “Surely we’re almost to the top. How many more steps are there?”
He couldn’t hear Roz’s response but it wasn’t necessary. He could well imagine what his sister thought of the endless climb upward.
At last sunlight appeared ahead. Geneva fairly bounded into the light followed quickly by Willie although how they still had the energy to do so was beyond him. Dante considered himself fairly fit but this climb was a challenge for anyone. Nonetheless, he reached the narrow terrace that stretched between the towers with no more than a slight breathlessness. Fortunately, there was no one else on the walkway as it was perhaps no deeper than ten feet. Geneva and Willie immediately headed for the belfry in the south tower to see the great bell. Dante decided it was best to wait for his sister and a few minutes later Roz and Marian staggered onto the walkway.
He studied the two women with concern. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” Marian waved off his question. “Thank you for asking.” She and Roz leaned on each other and sagged against the railing.
“The dead are looking better and better,” Roz muttered.
“But the view.” Awe rang in Marian’s voice.
It was indeed well worth the climb. The city of Paris stretched out beneath them in an endless panorama. It had been magnificent from the Eiffel Tower but here, on top of the ancient cathedral, one felt as if one was seeing Paris through the eyes of all who had come before.
The Seine wound its way through the city, a giant snake trapped by the more than two dozen arched stone bridges connecting one side of the city to the other. The rooftops and buildings blended in muted shades of stone and slate. One could see all the Île de la Cité and the towers of the great and ageless churches of the city: Saint-Severin and Sainte-Chapelle and the Basilica of Saint Clotilde. Here too was the Arc de Triomphe and the Louvre and Palais de Justice and the broad roof of the classically styled Madeleine. And rising in the distance, above all the time-worn monuments of Paris, the Eiffel Tower stood watch over the city. A graceful iron testament to man’s progress, silhouetted against the late-afternoon sky. Willie was right. It was a shame it was not intended to stand forever. And all within view—the old and the new—was framed by the chimera. Grotesque, mythical stone creatures—demons and birds and monsters; some half man, half beast; others truly unidentifiable as to species—glowering out over the city. One could also observe at close quarters the intricately executed stonework of the cathedral itself and the gargoyles, jutting with open mouths from the wall beneath them.
Roz stared at a nearby chimera and shuddered. “No wonder they called it the Dark Ages.”
“On the contrary, Roz,” Dante corrected, “work on the cathedral began in the twelfth century, the middle ages or the medieval period if you prefer.”
“I don’t care.”
He ignored her. “And while the gargoyles are original and designed to serve as drain spouts to keep the ravages of rain water away from the building, the chimera were added only about twenty years ago as part of a restoration effort.”
“How...fascinating,” Marian murmured.
Roz’s brows drew together. “Is it any wonder that you are not my favorite brother?”
He smiled. “I am your only brother.”
“Then my point is made,” she said sharply. “Do you know everything about everything?”
“Probably.” He chuckled.
“Lord save me from intelligent men,” she muttered.
“I myself prefer a man who simply thinks he’s intelligent,” Marian said casually. “My husband is an excellent example. The man might well be brilliant when it comes to business but in all other aspects of life he is...”
Roz stared at the other woman as if she hadn’t decided whether to agree or smack her and Dante took the opportunity to slip away. He refused to miss Willie’s reaction to Emmanuelle.
Geneva stepped out of the belfry door just as he reached it.
“Was the bell as impressive as expected, Miss Henderson?” He offered the girl a pleasant smile.
“It was a bell, Mr. Montague.” She studied him as if his intelligence was in doubt. “A very big bell but a bell nonetheless.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I’m not sure,” she said thoughtfully. “More, I suppose. Something to recall a tragic love story that never existed other than in fiction.”
“You’re speaking of The Hunchback?”
She nodded.
“It’s one of Lady Bascombe’s favorites, as well.”
“Yes, she told me. She too seemed rather disappointed.”
“It is just a bell,” he said gently.
“I know and it’s just a story. But...” She met his gaze directly. “Don’t you ever want things to be, well, more than they really are?”
He considered her for a moment. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
“I’m just being silly about this.” She shrugged.
“Not at all,” he said staunchly. “The mark of great literature is that the story stays with us forever. Indeed, we are so moved by it, it’s hard to believe it never truly happened.”
“What an interesting way to look at it.” She frowned thoughtfully. “You may well be right.”
He nodded a bow and bit back a smile. “Thank you, Miss Henderson.” He started around her toward the belfry.
“Mr. Montague?”
“Yes?”
“Could I have a word with you?” She glanced at her mother and lowered her voice. “Privately?”
“Of course.”
Geneva moved to the farthest point of the gallery away from her mother and Roz and lowered her voice. “May I ask you something? About Lady Bascombe?”
“Certainly.”
“Is she...” Geneva struggled to find the right words. “Well, is she disreputable?”
He frowned. “Why would you ask that?”
“Harry says she has a scandalous reputation and her mother never would have agreed to come on this trip with her if you hadn’t insisted.”
“Harriet said that, did she?”
Geneva nodded.
“Did she say anything else?”
“Not directly.” Geneva paused, obviously debating exactly how much she wanted to reveal. “But she did imply you were quite taken with Lady Bascombe. Which she said was to be expected as your heart had been broken—”
“My heart was not broken,” he said in a sharper tone than he had intended. But really—this again?
“Oh.” Geneva started. “And your pride? Harry said it was crushed.”
He heaved a frustrated sigh. No, he couldn’t leave this up to his sister. He would have to talk to her villainous offspring himself. “I assure you nothing was either broken or crushed.”
“Good.” She smiled. “You seem very nice. It would be a shame if you were hurt by some vixen.”
“While I do appreciate your concern, you may rest easy knowing I was not hurt, although I will admit that while my pride was not crushed it might have been the tiniest bit bruised. Quite honestly, Geneva, when all was said and done, I counted myself most fortunate.” He leaned closer and spoke quietly into her ear. “The vixen was not as nice as she had first appeared.”
Geneva giggled.
Dante straightened and smiled. “As for Lady Bascombe, she and her late husband did have a rather interesting reputation as a couple. But I can truthfully say I have never heard anything truly scandalous about Lady Bascombe herself.”
Geneva breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad. I think she’s wonderful.”
He nodded and tried not to grin. “As do I.”
Geneva studied him curiously then her eyes widened in realization. “Oh, I see.”
“What do you see?” he asked cautiously.
“Nothing.” She shook her head and pressed her lips together as if to keep the words from coming out but her eyes sparked with amusement. “Nothing at all.”
“Miss Henderson—”
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Montague, I need to join my mother.” She peered around him. “It appears Lady Richfield has made her escape and I’m certain my mother has any number of fascinating observations.” She grinned. “We would hate for her to accost some unsuspecting tourist.”
“I see your point,” he murmured but she had already skirted around him to join her mother.
He glanced around the walkway but didn’t spot his sister. Entirely possible she had gone into the belfry to see Emmanuelle. Or to hide. Willie stood by the stone railing on the far side of the walkway staring out over the city. He started toward her then stopped. She gazed in the direction of the Eiffel Tower and shaded her eyes against the sun with her hand. The light caught the errant strands of fair hair that had escaped from her overly pert hat and danced around her face in the faint breeze, turning them to threads of gold. It was as if she were a figurehead on a ship, facing the next voyage, heading to parts unknown.
She appeared deep in thought and he was reluctant to disturb her. Her expression was at once serene and determined. What was she thinking? Was she considering what she would do after she retrieved the Portinari? Or contemplating her next step in life? Or perhaps thinking about him? It was a surprisingly delightful idea.
“You’re going to have to tell her the truth, you know.” His sister’s quiet voice sounded behind him. “About the painting, I mean.”
“I knew what you meant.” He blew a long breath. “I have already come to that conclusion.” He hadn’t but as soon as he said the words he knew he had no other choice. He turned to face her. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
Roz arched a skeptical brow. “We leave for Monaco tonight and are there for four nights, then two nights in Genoa, two in Verona and then we are in Venice. That right moment had best come quickly.”
“I know.”
Roz hesitated, her gaze searching his. “As much as this is none of my concern—”
“Although that has never stopped you before.”
She ignored him. “Honesty is almost always best. You know that as well as I. It’s obvious you have feelings for this woman. You may wish to tell her that, as well.”
It was pointless to deny it. “And what do you suggest I tell her about first?”
“I would never presume to tell you that, my dear brother.” Roz shook her head. “Besides, it seems to me that regardless of what path you choose, you run the distinct risk of losing both the painting and the lady.”
His jaw tightened. “I am well aware of that.”
“As long as you’re aware of it.” She studied him curiously. “I have never seen you the least bit indecisive before. It’s rather disconcerting. As if the sun rose in the west instead of the east.”
“My apologies.”
“I truly have no idea what you confess first but I do know it will soon be too late.”
“I am not indecisive.” He scoffed.
“Good. Then you won’t mind this at all.” She smiled wickedly and called to the others. “Marian? Geneva?” Her smile was now a decided smirk. “My brother needs to have a few words with Willie so I suggest we start down before them.” She waved them toward the stairs.
Dante clenched his teeth. “Rosalind.”
“We shall see the two of you when we are back on firm earth and the word plummet is not constantly repeating in my head,” she said over her shoulder.
“You missed the bells, Dante.” Willie stepped up beside him. “They were quite impressive. Pity we have no time to see them now. We really should follow the others. We do have a schedule to keep and a train to catch.” She paused. “But your sister said you wished to speak with me?”
“I do.” This wasn’t the moment he would have picked but his sister had made that decision for him. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“A confession?” She grinned.
“Well, yes, you could call it a confession.”
“I love confessions.” She hooked her arm through his and they started toward the stairs. “But there’s really no need for it.”
“There isn’t?” he said slowly.
“Of course not.” She cast him a look that made his breath catch. “I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?” How on earth did she know?
“I do.” She nodded. “It’s what you started to say the other night when Rosalind interrupted us.”
“It is?” Bloody hell he couldn’t remember exactly what he had started to say but it certainly wasn’t about the Portinari.
“And there’s no need.” She shrugged. “I know.”
“You do?” If there’s one thing he had learned in business it was not to show his hand too soon.
“Of course I do.” They reached the stairs and she turned to him, a brilliant smile on her face. “I have a confession to make, as well.”
“Do you?”
“I do.” She drew a deep breath. “I suspect I am feeling very much the same way about you.”
“Oh?” This was not what he expected.
She raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Any thoughts of telling her about the painting flew in the wake of her revelation. “I’m not sure what to say.”
“Goodness, Dante.” She huffed. “When a woman admits she might well share your feelings, she might care for you, rather a lot really, against all good sense mind you, the appropriate response is to do something a bit more—”
Before she could finish, he pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips to hers. For a moment she hesitated then her arms wrapped around him and she met his kiss with her own. Her lips were warm and welcoming beneath his and he pulled her tighter against him. Her scent surrounded him, floral and slightly exotic. It was absurd, ridiculous but she tasted of sunlight and Paris and adventures not yet had. And tomorrow.
Dante had no idea what came over him but for the first time in his life he acted without giving his actions a second thought. Obviously he should try it more often.
At last he raised his head and smiled down at her. “Is that a more appropriate response?”
“Why, yes.” There was a delightfully breathless note in her voice. “I believe that was most appropriate. Surprising but...” She smiled up at him. “I have always adored surprises. Good ones anyway.”
“I’ve been wanting to do that from the moment we met at Victoria Station.” The moment the words left his lips he realized they were true.
“Kissing in public at Victoria Station? Goodness, Dante, it’s named for the queen. She would not look fondly on such an indiscretion. It would have been terribly inappropriate and quite scandalous.”
“But worth it I think.”
“I daresay I would have felt compelled to slap your face.”
“Still.” He grinned. “Worth it.”
She laughed. “We really should go down now.”
“Well, we do have a schedule.”
“And if we are to keep it, you should probably release me.”
“Probably but I rather like being here, with Paris spread out beneath us, rooftops sparkling in the sun and you in my arms.” He brushed his lips across hers then reluctantly released her and again they moved toward the stairs.
“Your sister is wrong, you know.” She cast him a wicked smile. “I don’t think you’re the least bit stuffy or overly proper.”
He laughed. “Well, I am on holiday.”
“There is that,” she said lightly and started down the narrow spiral stairs.
The descent was no easier than the climb and Dante was glad Willie was in front of him. He couldn’t stop grinning like a man possessed. Or a man in love.
The thought pulled him up short and he nearly tripped on the steps. Was he in love? He’d never been in love before, not really. He’d had a certain affection for Juliet and had indeed considered marriage as she would have been most appropriate but in spite of the claims of his sister and niece, his heart was not the least bit damaged when she ended it. In truth, he’d felt more relieved than anything aside from a bit of humiliation. This was different.
Still, it was absurd to think this was love. Why, he’d scarcely known her any time at all. Admittedly, with every day spent in Willie’s company, he liked her more and more. And certainly she lingered in his thoughts even when he wasn’t with her. And, yes, kissing her had been rather remarkable and he would like to do it again and again and...
And the idea of not seeing her, not being with her, not having her in his life twisted something deep inside him. Bloody hell, it did indeed feel like love. And she’d said she might well feel the same. But if he wanted to win her heart, he was going to have to tread carefully.
Dante had never questioned his intelligence or his honesty. One could argue that he hadn’t been dishonest with her. He had simply failed to mention his true purpose in accompanying her to Venice. Given his feelings now, that was obviously a mistake. An enormous mistake. But one he could certainly rectify. He would simply have to think of some way to confess everything about her—his—painting that wouldn’t destroy what might very likely be his—their—future. Surely he’d learned something about subtle deceit from Juliet.
Regardless, this was entirely different. His heart hadn’t been so much as bent when Juliet broke it off.
If he lost Willie, he was fairly certain it would break.