Page 49

It sounded like the end of the story, but Viv knew there was more. “And so she came to London?”

Adele smiled again. “Yes. Marie has a saying. Je renais de mes cendres. I am reborn from my ashes. Like our country.”

“But she did not stay. Why did she leave?”

“The London air. The soot and smoke made her daughter Améthyste very ill.”

It was plain to Viv that Adele’s visits were a tribute to a female friendship, like the one between Lady Melforth and Viv. From the corner of her eye, she saw a gentleman approaching with a rapid stride. He headed straight for them.

“Now, you know why I must come to her house. In Haiti we do not eat the food of forgetfulness. It helps me in London to remember the one who was good to me, who brought me many ladies as clients. Not all great ladies are as kind as she.”

“And your business?”

“It thrives thanks to her.”

The gentleman reached their bench and tipped his hat. He had a head of red curls, blue eyes in a freckled face, prominent ears, and a blade-sharp nose. “My love,” he said, addressing Adele. “I see you’ve made an acquaintance.”

“My husband, Bob Kirby, Miss Bradish.”

Bob offered Viv a little bow while she tried to collect her thoughts, at the overthrow of her own expectations.

“Has my girl been telling you about her queen?” he asked with merry eyes.

Viv nodded.

Bob offered a hand to Adele, who rose gracefully. “But has she told you we disagree a good deal about queens?”

“No.” Viv glanced at Adele to see how she was taking her husband’s humor and caught the flash of her eyes.

“We do,” said Bob. “She thinks a queen likely to bring stability to a nation, to reign a long time.”

“You must admit, my dear husband.” Adele took her husband’s arm. “That you men change governments as often as you change your neckcloths.”

Viv thanked Adele again and watched the husband-and-wife pair stroll away, their laughter blown back on the breeze in little bursts. When Viv had first seen Adele St. Clair, she had never imagined a Bob Kirby in her life, but Adele apparently felt no contradiction between her independence and her marriage. Her eyes lighted at her husband’s appearance, though he was far from handsome, and the two of them played teasing verbal games that they had obviously played before. Adele took her husband’s offered arm, and together they made a picture of marriage as Viv had not seen it. Adele’s rug had left a dry patch on the bench, and Viv pulled out her notebook and began to write.

She was sure she could convince Lady Melforth that the story of the heroic Queen Marie Christophe, a story of courage and resolve, hidden in a quiet corner of London, belonged in their guide. They could include Marie’s house in Walk Number Nine. But as Viv wrote of Adele St. Clair’s queen and benefactor, it was Adele’s story she found herself telling, the story of the protégé who had made her own way in the world. Adele was the model of the independent woman of London who deserved to be celebrated. Adele’s story would inspire the readers of their guide. Viv filled three pages of the little notebook with details, before she stopped to read over her notes.

Her portrait of Adele St. Clair had been written not for the Lady Melforth or the women of London. It had been written for Lark. He had led her to Adele St. Clair. She would not have written the story of Adele’s independence if she hadn’t met Lark. She closed her notebook. Lark was not her writing partner. She could not add Adele’s story to the guide without consulting Lady Melforth. Her partner was Lady Melforth. As Dodsley had said, Lady Melforth’s name would sell their book, not Viv’s.

She hugged the little notebook to her chest. She had become chilled sitting on the bench in the breeze. And she had yet to leave a message for Lark at what she believed to be his lodging. There would be a porter or a maid with whom she could leave her note. She scribbled a few lines on a page torn from her notebook, tucked away the notebook, and took up her umbrella.

When she turned to cross the road, she froze. Lark was standing on the opposite flag way, the wide busy thoroughfare between them. One of the great square omnibuses, a new invention from Paris, rumbled past. It must be the heavy vehicle that made the pavement under her feet tremble. Lark’s appearance was merely convenient. That was all. Now she need not find his lodging. She could simply explain their dinner party dilemma.

He made his easy, unhurried way through the traffic. “What brings you here?” he asked.

“Adele St. Clair,” she said.

“Ah. Did she tell you her story?”

“She’s remarkable.”

“More than her queen?”

She glanced at him, wondering at the ease with which he understood her. “To be sent to London alone by her family as a young girl and to keep her head, find her way, and make a successful business …”

“And a marriage,” he said.

“That, too.” Viv wasn’t going to admit to him how struck she had been by the way Adele and Bob teased one another.