A room had been reserved, and Brodie signed the register and inquired about the location of the telegraph office. We were then escorted to our room, smaller and modest in comparison to the suite I had stayed in previously.
Yet there was that familiar expression on Brodie’s face. It was much like a tortured prisoner as he glanced at the opulence of the furnishings along with the adjoining bathing chamber, as the attendant poured two glasses of fresh water at the table in the small drawing room.
It was quite a contrast to the inn we had stayed in the night before, or even the townhouse at Mayfair.
“It’s said that the Duke of Westminster wanted a place for those traveling to and from England that offered the same amenities as those they were familiar with.”
“Did he now? It would seem a bit overdone.”
“Somewhat more than Old Lodge,” I agreed, thinking of my great-aunt’s hunting lodge in the north of Scotland where at least a handful of ancestors had retreated for all sorts of hunting and other somewhat nefarious activities. And where the distillery house was for that very fine whisky.
It was a single-story lodge house with rough-hewn timbers, stone walls and slate floors. Thick wool rugs had been addedagainst cold winters, as well as an enormous fireplace in the main room where some warrior ancestor had undoubtedly stood beside the long table while roast deer was served.
One could almost hear tankards being slammed down on that table to call for more ale, or whisky as it were.
We had gone there after a particularly difficult case. It was there that he had proposed. And it was to Old Lodge I had gone these weeks past, alone.
It was a place that had connected us, two very different people. Perhaps too different? And yet...
It was there the night before, in that inn at Calais. Something that I might have dreamed, but wasn’t.
There had been no anger, nothing was said. There was only the sound of the wind as it came up around the inn, the hiss of the fire in the fireplace, and we both slept.
“I’ll send off a telegram to let Sir Avery know that we arrived.” He went to the door.
“Then we should find the address that was in that note.”
13 Rue Miron
The Montparnasse
The hotel provided a driver and Brodie gave him the address I had discovered in the note found among the ashes at Sir Collingwood’s residence.
In less than an hour, we had made our way along the edge of central Paris and arrived at the Rue Miron.
Number thirteen was a two-story apartment, in a row of other apartments built of brick with white plaster over, the number above the wrought iron-framed entrance.
It was an upper middle-class residence at the edge of the district preferred by writers and artists, with small niche artgalleries where struggling artists displayed their work. A place my sister had insisted we visit on days when there were no classes.
“The Montparnasse has several art galleries and cafés where writers and artists gather.”
“Know it well, do ye?”
“It was an interesting place to visit when I was able to escape with a handful of others from the Lycée St. Germain.”
St. Germain was one of a handful of private girls’ schools, attended by the daughters in certain English families, that taught more than acceptable social skills necessary for attracting a husband. It was where our great-aunt had attended as a young woman.
There was history regarding her own adventures there during a time of political unrest with the new Republic having established power throughout France, and an incident with a young patriot who had delivered fresh food to the school.
It was a chance encounter in the dining hall of the school when that young Frenchman decided to adorn a wall with an impassioned slogan that was still heard all over France twenty years after the new Republic was established.
In her own words,“It was a memorable encounter.”
Nothing more was ever said of it.
Yet when I had taken myself off to the Greek Isles after that first trip abroad, she had immediately sent someone to return me to London against any possible indiscretion. Someone with dark hair that hung over his collar, and that dark gaze that met mine now.
“Yer past experiences as a school girl? Escaping with a handful of others?” Brodie commented. “Other reckless young girls, no doubt, with no one about.”
