He flicks through the clothes in the wardrobe. Lifts each painting and inspects it. He mumbles to himself as he goes. He kneels in front of the travelling trunk and lifts the lid. I sit on the bed and open the bedside table. The first drawer has a bible and a comb. In the second drawer is an envelope.
I open it and find a letter, and I settle back on the bed to read.
My dearest,
I write to you with an ache deep in my heart. I wish I was with you. I wish to be free of him, the constraints of writing his way,and to follow my heart. Do you wish for the same?
You are the keeper of my secrets. Our secret. While our love affair must remain private and I must burn every letter you send to me, I pray that one day we will be in each other’s arms again. I hope that day comes soon. After your last visit, he became suspicious. Aggressive. Perhaps it was the happiness radiating from me. The smile I could not swallow.Should we make plans, audacious plans, for my escape to join you in Paris at the hotel? I warn you, I will come with nothing except my heart and soul and an abundance of love. Your parents, are they still supportive?
I cannot wait one more day.
Please say yes. This life is impossible without you.
Je t’aime.
‘Noah.’
He turns to me.
‘A love letter! She found love after being so cruelly treated by her husband, who’d already slept with the help, I might add.’
‘With who?’
‘It doesn’t say. They were obviously being careful as there are no names on it at all.’
I pass him the letter and he reads it. Once he’s finished, he hands it back to me and I return it to the envelope.
‘What does she mean, she’ll come with nothing?’
‘I suppose her husband would keep everything, as would have been the case back then. Especially if she wasn’t planning on telling him. In one of her notebooks, an entry said she had to leave for her sanity and that he’d do his best to besmirch her name. And something along the lines of he couldn’t take away the words she’d yet to write but she vowed never to write another novel so he couldn’t profit from her.’
‘Ah. So he had control of her career.’
‘Oui. She mentions “the constraints of writing his way” as though she had no power, even in her writing,’ I say. ‘And no control of her life.’
‘So she came here. To stay with L. L. Toussaint. Who is L. L., that’s the next question. The son of the owner of L’Hotel du Parc?’
‘There is no men’s clothing in this suite. Nothing here at all that points to a masculine presence.’ I gaze around the room full of women’s belongings and it all clicks into place. ‘The daughter! L. L. was a woman. They lived inthisroom together. That’s why the women’s clothing is different sizes, different styles. Did our writer wear plain clothing in an effort to disappear, blend in, in case her husband came looking and made enquiries? And it’s why she asks in the love letter if L. L.’s parents were still supportive. She means supportive of their relationship, their romance. The women probably felt the need to hide their love from strangers, or society at least. Our writer clearly hoped to find sanctuary here with L. L. and her family, a family who, by the sounds of it, were understanding, which is rather refreshing for the time.’
Noah gives me a slow, warm smile. ‘Oui!It makes perfect sense. Paris back then was more progressive than a lot of places but love between two women would probably have still been very much hidden for the most part, disguised, except when they were among trusted friends. We need to find out more about L. L., confirm she is the daughter of the owners, and hopefully that will lead to finding out the identity of our writer.’
My heart expands sensing that these two women made their way back to each other, despite all the obstacles they must have faced at the time. There’s a part of me that already feels protective of them and their story, I only wish we had confirmation we’re on the right track.
‘Anais! Where are you?’ Manon calls, her voice shrill. What now?
‘I better go see what that’s about.’ Have Noah and I called a truce? It certainly feels that way, and we make our way downstairs together. When we’re wrapped up in the suite nineteen mystery, he’s less bossy, less big-headed.
25
3 DECEMBER
Manon and I drive to Galeries Lafayette in the 9th arrondissement near Opera Garnier to find the perfect star for our tree. While I much prefer shopping at all the Christmas markets across Paris, Manon convinced me we’d find what we need here.
Every window in the department store is extravagantly decorated with Christmas scenes. The shopping centre is famous for its floating Christmas tree that sits under the glass Neo Byzantine dome. We visit all the displays while humming Christmas carols. It’s impossible not to be swept away in the magic and the need to recreate it at The Secret Library Hotel.
We choose a few small ornaments for the tree and find the perfect glittery star. Manon exclaims over two life-sized Nutcrackers, and I do my best to keep her moving. ‘But we need them!’ She’s like a child on Christmas morning, surrounded by all these luxury ornate decorations. ‘They’ll guard both sides of the entry, standing like Christmas sentries to welcome our future guests!’
‘They’re frightfully expensive.’
