“It’s what you said,” I shot back. “One more person who doesn’t want the burden of having me around.”
“Now you’re twisting what I’m saying.”
“I heard your maman say that she didn’t think my place was here.” I swung my legs out of the window. “Don’t worry. I’ll find someone who does. I’ll find someone who cares.”
I slid down the roof to my own window, only realizing after that Luc hadn’t answered my question about the painting, the whole reason I’d gone looking for him. But what did I expect him to say? Confess that he’d kept things from me? Confess that, all along, my mother had been a train ride away?
I opened the door to my room. The little brown-eyed maid was in the hallway right outside my door, looking concerned. Clearly, she’d heard the shouting all the way from Luc’s room upstairs. “Please tell Madame that I am feeling unwell tonight. I won’t take any supper, thank you. Tell her I will be going to bed early.”
The maid left and I pulled my small travel valise from the wardrobe. I filled it quickly, watching the door, afraid she would come back in. I buttoned up my new gray jacket and tucked in my little purse of money. From the valise, I took a yellowed envelope. In the corner was an inked fleur-de-lis. I opened it and, in my coat and hat, read the short note inside, though I could recite it by heart.
My Clare, I must go, to see the world, to find the art that I lost long ago. It’s no longer in Scotland. I’ll wilt away here if I stay. Forgive me.
I folded the note, folded the envelope, and put it in my coat pocket. Maybe she found that art. Maybe I could find her.
I slipped from my room and down the back staircase to the kitchen. Marthe was out cutting herbs, so no one saw me leave the kitchen and Mille Mots.
I only had the faintest idea of how to get to the train station. When Madame had brought me to Mille Mots all those weeks ago, it had been in a borrowed automobile, my first. I retraced my steps as best I could, along the river, through a village, up a ridge, until I saw the gleam of train tracks in the distance.
The waiting room at the station was empty, but there was one more train to Paris due.
“You can wait outside on the platform,” the stationmaster said.
I patted my pocket to be sure I had my small purse and stepped outside.
But the station wasn’t empty. I saw, in the shadow of the platform, a pale suit.
“Mademoiselle.” Luc’s friend stepped from the shadow, wheeling a motorbike. “Or, as we say in my country, ‘fräulein.’ ” He touched his chest. “Stefan Bauer.”
“Ah, yes.” I looked back over my shoulder. “How do you do?”
He followed my glance. “Are you being followed, fräulein?”
“Yes.” I shifted the valise in my hands. “I mean, no.”
“May I?” He gestured towards my bag.
I hesitated, then handed it to him. “I’m going to Paris, too.”
“How exciting for you.” His English was so correct, like I imagined the king’s to be. “Visiting friends?”
Hands behind my back, I crossed my fingers. “Visiting family.”
He leaned forward, almost confidentially. “All alone? You are brave, fräulein.”
“I’m not alone right now, sir.” I hoped I sounded confident.
“No, you are not.” He offered an arm. “You are certainly not.”
Stefan Bauer was a gentleman. After he loaded his motorbike, he led me onto the train. He found a quiet carriage and spread out a clean handkerchief for me to sit on. I watched as he hung his hat and patted his jacket pockets, finding a little candy tin. Though the car was empty, he sat right next to me and offered a sweet.
“The family you are visiting…Luc did not say you had family who lived in Paris.”
I pressed my pocket to hear the crinkle of the envelope. “My mother is there.” He glanced down at my hand over the pocket. “I just have to find her.”
“Fräulein.” He took my hand in his. It was cool and dry, like paper. “You have my help.”
“I do?”
He inched closer. “I told you before, you are not alone.”
His kindness unraveled me. Holding tight to his hand, I began to cry.
They weren’t the sort of tears I’d been saving up since Father’s death, but tears of frustration and loneliness that had been building since I left Mille Mots. I cried because maybe I could have found my mother weeks ago, if someone had only told me, and I cried because, for a guilty instant, I wondered if I really wanted to.
“Please no tears. I could not bear it.” Mr. Bauer cupped my face and wiped an eye with a thumb. “There, please.”
His hands smelled clean, like soap. “You’re so kind, sir.”
“Please, I am Stefan.” He smiled. “We are friends now, aren’t we?”
I bit my lip.
“I would very much like you to be my friend, fräulein.”
I decided. “Then I will tell you the truth. I don’t know where my mother is, not exactly.” I sniffed. “You see, there’s a painting.”
