Bordeaux 1870 –
Life is hard on the moor.
If Flore, a
shepherd’s daughter, is not married by autumn, she must go into service and
lose everything she holds dear.
Back form the French
army, the dashing Ricar has set her heart and body on fire. Will he propose to
her before it is too late?
Martial the
viscount’s son adores Flore from afar. Aware that she can never be his. When a
betrayal and a forest fire put Flore in danger, Martial seizes his chance,
grabs her hand and takes her to safety far away in the north of France, hoping
they might start afresh, but war looms. . .
Will it bring
them together or tear them apart?
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EXCERPT
Bateau-Mouche on the Seine
After
a quick lunch taken in reflective silence, Martial sat next to Flore on a
Bateau-Mouche they had boarded near Notre Dame, the boats yet another of the
emperor’s schemes to improve circulation through his beloved Paris. It was a
blustery day, but inside the space was warm and dry.
‘May I ask you a question?’ Flore
asked as the Bateau-Mouche steamed towards a medieval edifice of blackened
stone and slate.
‘Of course.’ A smile lifted the
corner of his lips. The elegant Parisienne he had tried to create had obviously
been a step too far. With the money he had lent her, Flore had purchased
ready-made garments that suited both her country accent and simple manners much
better.
‘What kind of work do you think I
could to do in—Utopia? I mean, I can stuff a goose and skin a rabbit, but these
aren’t exactly skills that are useful in a town, though I’m quite good at
counting money. What kind of place is it?’
‘I’m not quite sure, but it really
is vast, and I imagine, well, yes, there should definitely be—opportunities.’ Diou
biban, what could he say?
The boat veered to one side, narrowly
avoiding a huge coal barge. Angry hoots covered Flore’s reply. Something about
a shop.
Martial settled deeper into his seat with a sigh of
content and breathed in a long draft of river air. ‘Look over there, the Louvre
is coming up.’
‘What if there isn’t any work for me in—what’s the name
of the place again?’
‘Guise,’ Martial answered, marvelling at the Louvre the
emperor had turned into a museum. ‘Would you like to visit a museum? If so, we
should get off at the next stop. Is it something you would like to do?’
‘Yes.’ Flore gave a serious nod.
‘Then we should get off here.’ Martial pushed himself up
and held out a hand.
‘Huh? I thought we were going all the way to the Champs
Elysées?’
‘You just told me that you wanted to visit the Louvre
Museum.’
Flore gave him a puzzled look.
Had they been talking at cross purposes? Did Flore even
understand the concept of a museum? Martial sat down again, about to explain,
when Flore spoke, following her own train of thought. ‘If I can’t find a
position, what will I do then, all alone in the north?’
‘But you won’t be
alone. I’ll be there. Don’t worry. I’m sure that Monsieur Godin will’
‘But what if he doesn’t? I really think it’s best for me
to stay in Paris.’
‘Stay in Paris?’ Suddenly, the river lost all its appeal.
The flatboats slipping by, the sprawling Tuileries, the huge horses pulling
barges along the banks vanished from Martial’s field of vision, reduced to one
person, calmly proposing to disappear from his life.
‘Minnie will find me something.’
‘Minnie?’
‘The American dancer who lives in the room below mine,’
Flore insisted. ‘I mentioned her to you. She knows people, both in her theatre
and in the mattress shop next to it. Rue Trévise, perhaps you’ve heard of it.
It’s called—’
‘Wait.’ Martial swallowed hard, his carefully laid plans
tumbling around him like a house of cards. This simply could not be. He could
not let her go. It would mean losing his Émile, the female counterpart to
Rousseau’s guileless pupil. She was so bright, and with just a little guidance,
she could achieve so much. Without Flore, the whole utopian experiment would
make no sense. Life would make no sense. His hands hovered next to hers. Unable
to touch her, he took off his hat and kneaded the rim. ‘Listen, Paris is a
dangerous place for a girl on her own. If anything happened to you, I would never
forgive myself.’ He stared at his hat and replaced it on his head.
Flore turned away, her gaze on the columns of the Palais
Bourbon. Although they had reached their stop, neither of them moved. Martial’s
heart slowed down to the heavy chug of the wheel. Lost in a strange fog, he
found himself praying to the very God he had forsaken, praying for his turmoil
to end.
‘This is what we will do,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘If
Monsieur Godin cannot find you a position, I will personally bring you back to
Paris.’
Michèle Callard grew up in
France. A country girl at heart, she swapped her Paris flat for a cottage in
rural England where she lives with her Irish husband and the youngest of her
three sons.
She writes fast-paced novels
set in different regions of France, bursting with authentic characters, colours,
flavours and history.
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