‘I shall book my little sister a private room for this evening,’ he said, gesturing towards the concierge's desk. ‘Must uphold tradition and all that. There will be time enough for you both to become better acquainted after the wedding.’
Wedding? Surely he wasn’t suggesting that I marry this stranger. Of course I didn’t wish to create a scene in front of so many people so, as he turned to leave, I said in a low voice, ‘Lyndon, have you taken leave of your senses entirely?’
‘I’ll explain everything upstairs,’ he said, and all but pushed me down into my seat.
Alone with Lord Bingley, I did my best impression of a mute. He asked if I had enjoyed my time in Paris and I simply nodded and pulled my lips into something resembling a smile. The waiter returned and placed a bucket of ice on the small table beside us. He gently popped the cork of the champagne and poured a tiny amount into Bingley’s glass. Naturally, he had to taste it first and the whole charade left me inwardly screaming with impatience. Just pour the damn thing, I wanted to say. I needed a drink.
Bingley clinked my glass and toasted to our future. I smiled again, thinking of how our future would be as long-lived as it took me to escape my brother’s clutches. I saw Lyndon, still chatting to the concierge. My mind raced – perhaps I could get them both drunk and slip away unnoticed.
‘He’s quite the fellow, your brother.’
‘Quite.’
‘We served together in the army, you know.’
‘Oh?’
‘A man of rare conviction.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Why yes, Miss Carlisle. Opaline. I may call you Opaline.’
May you indeed, I thought, wondering how long I would have to endure this charade. A thought struck me of how Sylvia would mock this forced politeness at all costs. If only I were an American!
‘You learn a lot about someone’s character in the trenches. You have to make unpopular decisions.’
I knew what he was referring to. It had been a bone of contention between Lyndon and my father.
‘Yes, I am aware that my brother shot one of his men for cowardice,’ I said, no longer able to keep the fake smile on my face. The thought alone disgusted me – killing our own men, purely because their fear got the better of them.
‘One of his men? Oh, it was at least ten times that,’ he said, almost boasting. ‘You see, one must set an example when leading men.’
‘An example?’
‘Earned himself a nickname: The Reaper.’ He widened his eyes and I felt a frisson of fear run along my spine.
Just then Lyndon returned, holding a room key in his hand.
‘Let’s get you settled,’ he said, lifting me by my arm.
I felt I had to comply until I could find the right opportunity to escape. We stepped into the elevator while the attendant closed the iron grill and pushed the button for us to ascend. No one spoke a word and I looked down at my shoes. I could see the rip in my stockings from the night before. Armand. Oh, my heart crumpled in on itself like a discarded love letter. I suddenly felt very weary. I longed to be inside the comforting surrounds of Shakespeare and Company, working with Sylvia, cataloguing the books, greeting the customers.
‘Troisième étage,’ the attendant informed us and opened the gate for us.
As we walked down the carpeted hallway lined with tall plants on either side, I tried to gather my thoughts, but it was pointless.
‘Here we are,’ Lyndon said. ‘I booked you the room next to ours.’
I walked in, about to put my bag on the bed, but came to my senses and turned to leave. ‘I can’t stay here, Lyndon.’
He stood in the doorway, blocking my path. ‘You will do as you are told, little sister.’ With a movement I hadn’t seen coming, he pushed me so hard into the wall opposite that I smacked my forehead and slumped to the floor, dazed.
As I sat there, he calmly closed the door and left.
I’m not sure how long I lay there, hugging my knees on the floor. It could have been twenty minutes or two hours.
‘Ménage!’ called the housekeeper.
I had no energy to reply, but the knocking was relentless.
‘S’il vous plait?’
I heaved myself up and unlocked the door. ‘What on earth … ?’
It was Armand.
He strode into the room and picked up my bag and coat. ‘Come quickly.’
‘But where … how?’
‘I’ll explain after, dépêches-toi!’ He grabbed my hand and made for the door.
We hurried down the corridor, in the opposite direction from which I’d come, to a back stair. I hadn’t time to think, only silently prayed that we would not get caught. He held my hand tightly and, once on the ground floor, we kept to the staff corridor and found ourselves running through the kitchen, where the chefs hardly had time to shout at us before we found a side door on to the street. We ran down the alleyway and crossed several cobbled streets, Armand winding his way through the shortcuts of the city like a street urchin. Past street vendors selling flowers and fruit, under bridges and then out on to a grand boulevard I recognised. We were heading towards Shakespeare and Company.
‘Wait, wait!’ I panted, out of breath. ‘Just … a moment,’ I said, grabbing a streetlamp for support.
Armand finally let go of my hand, which he’d had in a tight grip the entire time. Immediately, I felt the loss and as I glanced at his face, his brown eyes scanning the street, the night before came into sharp relief.
‘He knows about the bookshop,’ I said, ‘it’s the first place he will look for me.’
‘Sylvia wants you to come, she has a plan.’
‘You’ve spoken to her?’
‘This morning, I came to your lodging …’ he hesitated. ‘I couldn’t wait to see you.’ A brief smile lit his face. ‘That’s when I saw them take you, so I followed.’
‘But how did you know what room I was in?’
‘I didn’t,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I knocked on every door.’
‘Oh.’ I was somewhat taken aback.
‘Now we must hurry.’
Sylvia was awaiting my arrival at the back entrance. She gave me a quick, firm embrace, then handed me a key.
‘A friend of mine has a house outside Paris, near Tours. You can stay there until—’
‘You don’t understand, I have to leave. Permanently. What I have done, running out on this wedding—’
‘Wedding?’ Armand repeated.
I opened my mouth to explain but found that I did not have the wherewithal to speak.
‘How’s everyone at Stratford-on-Odéon today?’ Mr Joyce asked in his offbeat manner, poking his head around the door. My heart jumped – he must have wandered through from the front of the shop without any of us noticing.
‘There’s no time to explain, Jimmy. Opaline must leave the country immediately,’ said Sylvia.
After some suggestive winking in Armand’s direction, he casually suggested a swift exit to Dublin city.
‘I have only ever heard you complain of your country’ said Armand, which was quite true. We’d all heard him opine about Ireland's lack of culture and their ignorance at failing to recognise his genius.
‘Yes, but I’m a writer. An artist. I am obliged to curse my home. But no,’ he said, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette, ‘I think Ireland could suit you down to the ground.’