The Ribbon Weaver

Chapter Twenty



With her hands on her hips and her head to one side, Amy stood eyeing the three evening dresses that she had hung on the wardrobe doors, wondering which one she should wear. Although the family was still officially in mourning, they were away from home and knew that Maude would have scoffed at the convention of dressing all in black.

As well as the green satin gown that she had worn to the theatre in London, Amy now possessed a further two. Mrs Forrester had insisted that she should have them, convinced that she would need at least three during her stay in Paris. So now she was spoiled for choice. The first of her newest gowns was a rich cornflower-blue colour. The second was a warm deep burgundy with a full skirt in a stiff taffeta, trimmed all around the neckline and the hem with fine silk ribbon.

If she wore the green she knew that she could wear the beautiful emerald and diamond necklace that the elderly mistress had bequeathed to her, but she dismissed that idea almost immediately, wishing to save it for a very special occasion. Eventually she decided on the taffeta. It was elegant in its simplicity, and once she was dressed and had pinned up her hair in a simple style, she eyed her image in the mirror with satisfaction, pleased with her choice. Even if she had not been, she was fully aware that it was too late to change her mind now, and so snatching up her shawl she tripped down the stairs to join the Forresters in the foyer. Josephine was standing at the bottom looking pretty in grey silk and pearls, and Samuel was looking extremely handsome in a dark dinner suit and a colourful cravat. He eyed Amy admiringly as she approached them.

‘Why, you look lovely, my dear,’ he complimented her, and Amy blushed happily. She was looking forward to the evening tremendously and could hardly wait for Monseiur Laroque’s carriage to arrive and take them to the château which lay, she had been told, beyond the north-west corner of Paris, in an idyllic small town called Neuilly-sur-Seine. Once it came, they swayed along the boulevards and through winding streets until eventually they began to leave the city behind. Some time later they drove through decorative wrought-iron gates and turned into the drive that led to Monsieur Laroque’s château. As they approached it, Amy was shocked to see that it was even larger than Forrester’s Folly. When the horses drew to a halt and the coachman assisted them down from the carriage, she stood open-mouthed at the sight before her. The sprawling château, lit by flaming torches set high on the portico, nestled into a deep oak wood, the stars twinkling in the night sky far above.

They were greeted at the door by a manservant, and found themselves in a magnificent vestibule. On either side of it an elegant staircase twisted upwards to a fine galleried landing, all lit by candles.

It was all too much. Amy’s excitement vanished and she gulped nervously, feeling like a fish out of water. It was at that moment that Monsieur Laroque appeared from one of the many doorways leading off from the hall. He hurried forward and greeted them in his usual way, with a firm handshake for Mr Forrester and a kiss on the hand for Josephine and Amy. Smiling broadly he then invited them to follow him and they entered an elaborately decorated drawing room. Two women immediately rose to greet them and Monsieur Laroque proudly drew the older of the two forward.

‘Monsieur Forrester, Mademoiselle Ernshaw, please to meet my wife, Edwige.’

Mr Forrester bowed politely as Amy bobbed her knee respectfully. Although Edwige Laroque was well past the first flush of youth she was still an extremely attractive woman. She was taller than Amy and slender with thick brunette hair that was piled high on her head, and the way she held herself suggested that she was from the upper class. But her dark eyes shone kindly as she flashed them a brilliant smile displaying a set of straight white teeth.

‘And this is my daughter, Adeline,’ Monsieur Laroque now told them as he introduced his daughter who had come to stand beside her mother. Amy found herself looking at a young woman who appeared to be about the same age as her. But there any similarity between them ended, for in looks they were as different as chalk from cheese. Adeline Laroque towered over Amy, and her hair was as black as a raven’s wing; she had just missed being beautiful, for her nose was a little too straight and her chin a little too prominent. Even so, her dark eyes, which were her best feature, sparkled with fun and as they smiled at each other, Amy instantly took a liking to her.

‘My son François has been delayed in Paris on business today, but I am expecting him to join us for dinner at any moment,’ Monsieur Laroque told them. ‘So we shall have a glass of wine whilst we wait for him – oui?’

They were soon all seated and the next half an hour passed pleasantly as they chatted about all manner of topics

The manservant who had admitted them eventually appeared at the door and muttered something to his master. Monsieur Laroque smiled apologetically.

‘Pierre informs me that dinner is about to be served. We can delay no longer, or the meal will be ruined. I am sure that François will join us as soon as he can, so come, let us eat.’ He took his wife and daughter, one on each arm, and sailed towards the door.

‘Please to follow me,’ he told his guests solemnly, and Mr Forrester copied his host and put his wife on one arm and Amy on the other.

Amy had to bite on her lip to stop herself laughing at the ceremony of it all as a picture of herself and her gran sitting at the kitchen table in the cottage eating a bowl of rabbit stew flashed into her mind. Everything was so grand here and she felt like pinching herself to check that this was really happening.

They had just entered the hallway when the enormous front doors burst open and a man whom Amy judged to be in his late twenties, almost tripped into the house. As she watched a servant take his outer garments and hand him a bowl in which to rinse his hands, time seemed to stand still and Amy’s mind was clear of anything but his face as she felt hot colour flood into her cheeks.

Monsieur Laroque turned to them.

‘Monsieur et Madame Forrester, Mademoiselle Ernshaw, I am proud to introduce you to my son, François. He apologises for being delayed in Paris but he has made a great effort to join us.’

François formally shook hands with them, but then as he turned to Amy and smiled down at her, their eyes locked.

He was without question the most handsome man she had ever set eyes on and her heart began to race.

He bent and kissed her hand, squeezing it gently before releasing it.

‘Please allow me to escort you to dinner, mademoiselle,’ he whispered, and taking her arm he tucked it firmly into his, leaving Amy with no other choice but to follow him.

The little procession then made its way into a beautiful dining room. The long table that stood in the centre of the room was laid with the finest silver and china, and in the centre of it stood a huge candelabra, its many candles casting dancing lights upon the tiny cut-glass vases full of flowers that were dotted here and there along its length. For now it was all lost on Amy and she had to concentrate very hard to stop herself from staring at François. Could she have known it, she was having the same effect upon him, and as he pushed the exquisitely served food about his plate he found that his appetite had completely vanished.

Maids in frilled snow-white aprons served the first course, which Amy eyed suspiciously. Seeing the look on her face, Monsieur Laroque said, ‘You must try this, chère mademoiselle. You cannot come to Paris without trying our two most famous delicacies. There, on that dish, are les cuisses de grenouilles, dipped in flour and fried in olive oil and crushed garlic. On the other dish are les escargots à la Bourguignonne, again lightly fried, but this time with parsley, garlic, butter and spices. Mmm.’ He kissed his fingers to add emphasis to his statement. ‘You have not lived until you have tried them,’ he assured her.

Amy was still not convinced and asked quietly, ‘What are these dishes in English?’

A titter rippled around the table as her host smiled at her mischievously.

‘In your language, my dear, they are frogs’ legs and snails.’

Amy quickly waved them away. ‘Thank you all the same but I think I will miss this course,’ she told the maid hurriedly, and everyone roared with laughter at the look of horror on her face.

There followed several courses, each more to Amy’s taste than the first. The next was brandade canapés, which Amy soon discovered was salt cod and potatoes puréed and served with crème fraiche and garnished with caviar. The main meal was poulet à la crème, chicken ‘which had been infused with thyme and wine, served with caramelised mushrooms, onions and shallots. For dessert there was a delicious and refreshing raspberry eau de vie sorbet that melted in the mouth but Amy, who was used to much simpler food, found it all a little rich and could scarcely swallow a morsel. She was afraid that her hosts would think her ungrateful, so it was a relief when the meal was finally over and Monsieur Laroque rose from the table to lead them all back to the sitting room.

They were offered coffee and yet more wine by a young French maid and once they had all been served they sat informally en famille as the two men discussed the political situation as well as the latest fashions with their wives. After a time Adeline rose, her long black hair gleaming in the moonlight that was spilling through the open French doors.

She said something in French to her parents before turning to their guests. ‘You will please be forgiving me,’ she said in clipped English. ‘But I had already made arrangements that could not be broken for the rest of this evening, and I must be leaving you. But I hope to be seeing you again very soon, yes?’

They smiled up at her so after saying their goodbyes she flashed them one last friendly smile and gathering up her skirts, she left the room.

Seizing his chance, François immediately turned to Amy and smiled charmingly, asking, ‘Would you care to take a walk around the grounds with me, Mademoiselle Ernshaw? The paths are well-lit and I think you would enjoy some fresh air.’

Amy looked at Josephine, who nodded. Madame Laroque told her, ‘Be sure to take your wrap, my dear. Although it is spring time the nights can still be chilly and I would not wish you to be catching the cold.’

Flustered, Amy joined François at the open doors. He draped her shawl about her shoulders and after then gallantly offering her his arm, they strolled from the house into the velvety blackness of the night.

He led her first towards the woods at the rear of the house and then, skirting the trees that stood motionless as if watching their progress, they gently strolled along. The moon was sailing high and the inky sky was scattered with stars that seemed to be winking down at them. Amy was ridiculously aware of the strong muscled arm beneath her small hand and grateful for the darkness that would disguise her blushes.

Eventually they came to a small plateau that jutted out from the hillside, and there they paused as she stared down at the city of Paris spread out far below them. Running through the centre of it, the River Seine caught and reflected the moonlight and Amy gasped in wonder at the wonderful sight. She felt as if she was floating on air and her eyes were as bright as the stars above them.

François silently surveyed the young woman at his side. She was so incredibly beautiful that she made his pulses race, and it was all he could do to stop himself from snatching her into his arms there and then.

‘Will you be staying in Paris for long, mademoiselle?’ he asked instead.

‘For four weeks,’ Amy informed him and he sighed with satisfaction.

‘That is good then. With your permission, I shall ask your Monsieur Forrester if he will permit me to show you the sights of Paris. There is much to be seen in the city and it would be sad if you were to return home without visiting them.’

Amy smiled shyly up into his handsome face. ‘I’d like that very much indeed. Thank you.’

Gently squeezing the hand that was tucked into his arm he returned her smile and they continued their stroll, each content in the other’s company.

By the time they rejoined their elders in the sitting room some time later, they were both starry-eyed and breathless, and Madame Laroque watched them with her lovely dark eyes alight with mischief.

François seemed relaxed and totally at ease in this charming young woman’s company, and for the rest of the evening his mother observed them tactfully, her woman’s instincts sensing an impending romance.

The following two weeks passed in a pleasurable blur for Amy. During the day she visited Monsieur Laroque’s salons, where with the help of an interpreter she talked to his designers, and gradually she gained enough confidence to put suggestions to Monsieur Laroque himself.

But the nights … oh, the wonderful nights. Amy was quite sure that she would never forget a single second of them for as long as she lived.

François would arrive at the Hotel Le Meurice, looking handsome and dashing, before whisking her away like a knight on a white charger accompanied by Adeline’s lady’s maid who would act as their chaperone at Madame Laroque’s insistence. It would not have been correct for a young woman to be escorted by a gentleman without a chaperone. However, Anaïs Babineux always stayed discreetly in the background and for most of the time Amy and François could almost forget she was there. He escorted her to the theatre, took her on a trip in a private boat along the River Seine, and gradually taught her to enjoy French cuisine. They fed the pigeons that were as common in Paris as the sparrows were back in her hometown, and in the middle of the third week, she and the Forresters were again invited to dine at the château.

It turned out to be another enjoyable evening and this time, Adeline stayed in and chatted to Amy.

As they were being driven home in Monsieur Laroque’s fine carriage, Mr Forrester observed Amy’s shining eyes and smiled.

‘Are you enjoying your stay in Paris, my dear?’ he asked kindly.

‘Oh yes, sir,’ Amy said without hesitation. ‘I wouldn’t have missed a single minute of it. I have so much to tell my gran when we get home that I shall scarcely know where to begin.’

He nodded, then on a slightly more serious note he continued, ‘You seem to be getting on extremely well with François.’ Josephine sat looking at Amy, waiting for her to reply as they bowled along.

Amy looked through the carriage window, unable to meet his eyes. ‘I do find him very good company,’ she admitted. ‘But I assure you he has always acted as a perfect gentleman and—’

Mr Forrester held up his hand to stop her flow of words. ‘You misunderstand me, Amy. I never meant to insinuate for a single moment that he would ever be anything less. Had I believed that, I would never have allowed him to be your escort. But you do realise, don’t you, that we will soon be returning home … and I would hate to see you get hurt.’

Her face dropped and she stared out of the carriage window miserably, all the joy suddenly gone from the evening.

The following day, as she sat at Monsieur Laroque’s desk with him in one of his salons, he suddenly sat back and steepling his fingers, he stared at her across the top of them. They had spent the last hour discussing aspects of her designs, and the more he saw of her ideas, the more impressed he was with the young Englishwoman sitting beside him.

‘I think, mademoiselle, that should you so wish it, you could go far in the fashion empire.’

Delighted with his compliment she flushed with pleasure.

‘Should you ever think of moving to Paris I would take you on as one of my personal designers in the blink of an eye.’ He was testing the ground but her answer when it came disappointed him.

‘I could never leave England, monsieur,’ she told him soberly. ‘Mr Forrester and his wife have been extremely kind to me and Mr Forrester is a good master. But I also have an elderly grandmother who I live with, and I could never leave her, ever.’

‘I see.’ Monsieur Laroque tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘Your loyalty to your master and your grandmother do you justice. But if that is your final decision and I cannot tempt you away from them all, then I am sure that Mr Forrester and I can come to some suitable arrangement about your designs that will be beneficial to us all.’

That evening, when François arrived at the hotel to collect her, he found Amy in a sombre mood and instantly decided that he must try and shake her out of it.

‘Come, ma petite,’ he urged. ‘Tell me what you would like to do this evening. I am yours to command.’

Amy sighed. ‘To be honest, François, I am feeling a little tired tonight.’ She blushed as she looked towards Anaïs Babineux, who was standing a discreet distance away. ‘I am so sorry that you have had a wasted journey but I think I should retire and have an early night.’

He looked crestfallen and she felt a little stab of guilt.

‘I really am sorry, François. Perhaps we could go out tomorrow evening? That is, if you have no other plans.’

‘Of course, of course,’ he assured her all too quickly. ‘I shall be here at the same time tomorrow then.’ Lifting her hand he kissed it tenderly. ‘Until tomorrow.’ He then turned and walked away with his shoulders slumped, and Anaïs followed him as Amy miserably made her way to her room.

Once there, she sat quietly staring from the window over the rue de Rivoli as Paris by night slowly came to life. So much had happened in such a short time that she was glad of some time alone so that she could think. It seemed that she rarely had time for thinking any more as she seemed to be constantly rushing from one place to another.

Since Mr Harvey had told them of Monsieur Laroque’s invitation back in London, her life had changed almost beyond belief. But then as she sat there it came to her that it had actually changed long before that – almost from the day Mr Forrester had promoted her to the status of designer. The life she lived now was a far cry indeed from the life she had lived with her gran and Toby before then, for who would ever have thought that she, little Amy Ernshaw, would ever be sitting here in a grand hotel room, dressed in clothes fit for a princess in the heart of Paris?

And then, of course, there was François. Just the thought of him made her heart beat faster, and again, Mr Forrester’s warning sounded in her ears. ‘I would hate to see you get hurt.’

What had he meant by that statement? Even as she asked herself the question the answer came to her loud and clear: she was falling in love with François, for no other man had ever made her feel as he did.

But then, her mind reasoned, what is love? If it was enjoying every second of a man’s company and missing him every second they were apart; if it was the strange tingling sensation that she got every time he was near and the longing she felt to kiss him, then yes, this was love.

Had Mr Forrester recognised how she felt even before she had, and tried to warn her gently that this love could only ever cause pain?

It was her kindly master’s words that had brought her back down to earth with a bump, and now as she analysed her feelings, she knew, just as Mr Forrester had known, that nothing could ever come of them.

Mr Forrester treated her as an equal, but even so he was still her master, albeit a generous one, and he always would be.

François Laroque was the heir to one of the wealthiest men in Paris, whilst she was the granddaughter of a lowly cottage-dwelling ribbon weaver. Amy knew that she owed everything to her gran. The woman had taught her values and to hold her head high and be proud of who she was. But even so, Amy now saw that she and Francois were socially poles apart.

The knowledge caused hot stinging tears to blind her. She had been a fool, allowing herself to be swept along on a tide of emotion and to have dreams far above her station. And now she must pay the price.

When François arrived at the hotel the next evening he found Amy waiting for him in the ground foyer and instantly noticed that she looked a little pale.

‘Are you unwell, ma petite?’ Concern was sharp in his voice as he took Amy’s hands in his own.

She smiled. ‘No, François, I am still just a little tired.’

‘Then what would you like to do this evening? I thought perhaps we could go to the theatre, or perhaps you would prefer to have dinner in a restaurant?’

Amy shook her head. ‘I thought it might be nice if we could just walk a little,’ she told him quietly.

He nodded. ‘Of course, if that is what you wish then it shall be so. And I think I know exactly where I shall take you. My uncle has a vineyard on the Ile de France. My carriage shall take us there and then we may walk to your heart’s content, n’est-ce pas?’

Despite herself, Amy smiled. The idea of seeing the vineyard was appealing so she allowed him to escort her out to his carriage, where Anaïs was waiting for them.

They rattled away through the busy city streets towards Notre Dame, and Amy felt herself beginning to relax. After all, what harm could there be in simply enjoying his company? she asked herself. Just as she had told Mr Forrester, François had never behaved as anything less than the perfect gentleman. He obviously thought of her as nothing more than a friend and as he could have no idea of her feelings for him, then where was the harm in spending some time together?

The carriage eventually pulled off the road and Amy peeped through the window with interest. She had never visited a vineyard before and was looking forward to it. They stopped outside a rambling villa, which looked far grander than she had expected it to be. It was a long low building with ivy climbing profusely up the walls and bright spring blooms in the flowerbeds beneath its many windows.

François helped her down from the carriage, saying, ‘Would you care to come in and meet my aunt and uncle?’

‘Not this evening, if you don’t mind,’ Amy said gently. ‘Let’s just walk. It’s such a beautiful evening.’

‘Very well, I shall just tell the coachman to inform them that we are here, and he can go to the kitchen to take some refreshments until we return. Anaïs might like to go with him.’

She smiled gratefully, and as he hurried away to the front of the coach she turned around and gazed about her. Here it felt as if she were a million miles away from the streets of Paris, for there was nothing to be heard but the sound of the night creatures and tall, dark vines stretching away into the darkness for as far as her eyes could see.

She saw the coachman climb down from his seat and, after a hurried word with François, he led the horses away to the stables at the rear of the villa, with Anaïs following close behind. François hurried back to her side.

‘Come.’ He pulled her arm gently through his. ‘I think you will enjoy it here. It is very peaceful. When I was a child I loved it here and would come whenever my maman would allow it.’ He laughed at his childhood memories. ‘I think sometimes I have been a great problem to my poor uncle, for I found the whole business of wine-making fascinating from start to finish, and I always insisted on helping, though in truth I was probably far more of a hindrance. I have tried everything – picking the grapes, treading them, and once I almost fell into one of the great vats where the crude wine ferments. I should not have been near it and my papa, as you English say, “tanned my behind”.’

As they strolled on, the towering grape vines closed around them.

‘The grapes, when they grow a little more, are of many different sizes and colours.’ He pointed them out, and when Amy nodded he went on, ‘This is how we are able to make the very dry to the very sweet wines. The stage of ripeness they are picked at decides the quality of the wine.’

Amy was impressed at his knowledge.

‘Once I thought I would own my own vineyards,’ he confided. ‘But then as I grew up I became interested in fashion and so, after all, I joined my papa in his business. Now I am very glad that I did, for had I not, I would never have met you.’

Amy felt her cheeks grow hot as they came to a little clearing in the vines. A wide stream ran through it and a small wooden bridge led to the vines on the other side.

‘You will always find vineyards built near running water,’ François explained to her as he led her on to the bridge. ‘As you will now be aware after your stay, we can often go for weeks here without rain, and when this happens the peasants who pick and tread the grapes water the vines with buckets from this stream. It is very back-breaking work but très nécessaire.’

When he drew her to a halt in the middle of the bridge they stared down into the water. The moonlight was dancing on its surface and they were enveloped in the warm balmy air. From somewhere far away they heard a nightingale serenading the moon and as François stared at her, Amy’s hair, which tonight was cascading loosely about her shoulders, was caught in the moonlight, which changed it from deepest auburn to molten gold.

‘I cannot believe that in less than a week you will be gone,’ he said sadly, and something in his voice made her turn and look directly into his eyes.

‘It is probably for the best,’ she replied. ‘I fear you have wasted far too much of your time on me and I am very grateful for it. I shall always remember your kindness.’

‘Kindness!’ His voice was heavy with annoyance. ‘Kindness – is that why you think I have escorted you? Because I am kind?’

‘Why, y … yes. Of course – why else?’

‘Why else? But surely you must know I am in love with you, Aimée. I have never been able to tell you before because Anaïs has always been present. I think I have been since the very first second I saw you. I was beginning to hope that you felt something for me too, but perhaps I was wrong?’ There was such anguish in his voice that her heart twisted in her chest.

‘You were not wrong, François,’ she admitted on a sob. ‘I do care about you a great deal. More than you could ever know. But it is better if we do not speak of our feelings, for nothing could come of this … ever.’

Her voice was flat and so full of finality that he took her by the shoulders and swung her about to face him. As she stared up at him he saw the tears glistening on her cheeks and a frown distorted his handsome face.

‘What is this you are saying? You tell me in one breath that you care for me and in the next that nothing can ever come of it. Why is this?’

‘Because we are worlds apart in class, that’s why,’ she said shakily. ‘Don’t you see? You have been brought up totally differently to me. You have had servants to wait on you hand and foot and the best education that money could buy. I have been brought up in a tiny cottage with two rooms up and two rooms down. The whole of my home would fit into the drawing room at your château and give you room to spare. Whilst you were with your private tutors and attending your fine private schools, I went one day a week to Sunday school and a few hours at the village school. The rest of my education came from Toby, our neighbour’s son, who works by day deep in the earth as a miner. He is very clever and wants to be a teacher one day. He used to come round to our cottage in the evenings to teach me my letters and my numbers. So there, do I really need to go on? That is why there can never be anything more than friendship between us. We are from different social classes, François. You are from what we call “the gentry” in England, the heir to a great fortune, whilst I am merely a servant.’

He stared at her dumbfounded.

‘B … but ma petite, love knows no class,’ he said. ‘We are all equal in this world. I love you for who you are, for what you are. Do you not see?’

As she stared into the depths of his eyes she felt herself weakening and quickly looked away.

‘François, if it were not for my gran, I would probably have spent the early part of my life in an orphanage or the workhouse. I could never leave her. Don’t you understand?’

‘Yes, yes, of course I understand, but there are ways around this. If you would not leave her then I would come to you. No problem is insurmountable.’

He suddenly pulled her to him and his lips pressed down hard on hers, and despite all her misgivings, Amy gave herself up to the joy of the moment. They clung together as if this was the only moment they would ever share, and when they finally drew apart, Amy was breathless and her heart was racing.

‘There,’ he said with a satisfied smile. ‘Now we shall have no more of this foolish talk. We shall take things slowly. But do not think that when you return to England, you will have seen the last of me. For I warn you, ma petite, when I want something I do not give up easily.’ His eyes were alive with mischief and Amy laughed aloud.

‘Well, we shall see. As my gran would say, “what will be, will be”.’ And then with their arms linked, the two lovers made their way back through the vines to the villa, to pay their compliments to their hosts.