The Paris Mistress by Mally Becker

Author:Mally Becker [Mally Becker]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Level Best Books
Published: 2023-12-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Madam. Monsieur. A servant has come for Princess Elizabeth’s packages.” A young woman with light brown hair severely pulled back beneath a mobcap slipped into the room. She wore a navy gown and a simple white apron.

“One moment, Renée,” Madame Fargeon snapped.

The servant winced at the rebuke. She hovered near the door.

“Perhaps Mister Fenimore used another name here,” Becca said. She didn’t have much time left. The couple would want to get back to their store in moments. “He was this tall.” She lifted her hand halfway up her forehead. “He had blond hair. A pleasant face. He was an American who lived in Paris. Did he come into your store a week ago? You would remember him. He’d fallen into the Seine. His clothes were wet.”

“Why would I let a man like that into my store?” Madame Fargeon pushed back. “We would lose customers. Do you think I am stupid?”

“Of course not, madam.” Becca kept her voice low and even. She was not here to fight. “Could he have stepped into this room without you knowing?”

“No one of that description came into our store. I would never have let them in,” Madame Fargeon said. “I am sorry we cannot help.”

“There was that one afternoon last week.” Monsieur Fargeon rubbed the side of his nose as if it would improve his memory. “You begged me to come to church with you to pray for your aunt. We were gone two hours.”

“That day, we left you and Émil in charge. Did you see a young man run through the store?” She asked Renée with amusement, as if the very idea was preposterous.

Becca supposed it was.

“Of course not, madam.” Renée curtsied, then dragged the back of her wrist along her forehead. The servant’s face was pale, which highlighted deep purple shadows beneath her wide-set green eyes.

“Of course not.” Madame Fargeon said. “Is he dead, this Mr. Fenimore? Over and over, you speak of him in the past. You say, ‘he was.’ He ‘had.’” She made the sign of the cross. “Am I right?”

From the corner of her eye, Becca watched the servant take one deep breath, a second. She swayed.

“I am afraid so, madam. He is dead,” Becca said.

“Dead?” Renée whispered. Her knees buckled. She sank to the wood floor.

Hannah reached her first. Renée’s navy skirt puddled below her knees, exposing knitted pink wool stockings with delicate embroidered flowers. Her eyes fluttered open by the time Becca reached her.

Renée struggled to stand, but Hannah gently pressed her shoulder to keep her seated. Augusta smoothed the young woman’s skirt over her shins.

“That was your man, Renée? And you let him into our store?” Madame Fargeon’s voice rose. “You lied to me?”

Renée shook her head again and again. “I would never. Not in the store.” She paused. “Behind it.”

Renée seemed little more than sixteen years of age. But Becca had never seen those exhausted shadows beneath the eyes of a child. Crouching near her now, Becca gauged that they were close in age, despite the servant’s round cheeks and childlike, perfect skin.

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