Amelia quietly followed, eager to leave the Duke with some dignity. She returned to her desk and made arrangements for the luggage to be shipped back from the Norddeutscher Lloyd dock. A half hour later, Wallis sent her a note instructing her to cancel all of her afternoon appointments, even the hairdresser. This wasn’t like Wallis. The world could be coming to an end and her hair would be perfectly coiffed.

Amelia knocked on Wallis’s bedroom door and poked her head in. “It’s Amelia. I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“How kind of you to think of me. So few people do.” Wallis sat bolt upright on the sofa, eyes red, a tissue clutched in one hand, the other stroking Pookie. It was a strange picture of sadness and proper posture. She patted the cushion beside her and Amelia sat down. “I shouldn’t have spoken to David like that but he doesn’t understand how hard it’s been for me, always having to be perfect, never able to admit to anything except utter bliss and happiness and hated by everyone.” She wiped her damp cheeks with the tissue. “He grew up an adored prince, never wanting for anything. I’ve spent my whole life fighting for respect and every time I think I have it, someone steals it from me: Win, Alice Gordon, Mary Raffray, Felipe Aja Espil, Emerald Cunard.”

“Who?”

“The woman who supported me in England until David abdicated, and then she had the gall to say she didn’t know me. They were my friends when they thought it’d benefit them. They dropped me like a hot potato when it didn’t.” Wallis crumpled the tissue and set it with the others on the coffee table then tugged a fresh one from the box. “Do you know what it’s like to have everyone abandon you when you need them the most? It’s one of the loneliest feelings in the world.”

“I know. I thought after the elopement, people would simply accept it and everything would go back to the way it’d been before. It wasn’t great then either, but at least people spoke to me. The first time I went back to Baltimore, reality hit me smack in the face like a dead fish. I was naive to not see that coming.”

“Experience doesn’t make any difference. Look at me. I thought I could have all the fun and none of the pain but the piper must be paid and I pay him every day. Do you know what I loved most about Germany? For the first time in a long time I wasn’t David’s sole source of amusement and companionship; he had something useful to do, real purpose. You don’t know how stressful it is to constantly entertain him.”

“Maybe he needs a new hobby, such as house hunting? I could put together a list of available properties and he could inspect them.”

“I wouldn’t trust him to find a suitable house. David and I have very different tastes.”

“You don’t have to live where he chooses, but it’d get him out of the house for a while. You could suggest properties outside Paris. The extra driving will keep him away longer.”

Wallis studied Amelia with impressed admiration. “Your cleverness strikes again, and you’re right, house hunting will do us both a world of good. We can’t go on living in hotels. We need a place to put down roots, to build a proper future, then the past won’t matter so much. Contact the finest estate agents in Paris, tell them we’re on the hunt for a home worthy of a king.”

After taking notes on what Wallis wanted in a house, Amelia contacted realtors to help create a list of possible prospects. While she read the listings, she thought of house hunting in Wellesley and the joy of finally finding the right one. Jackson had purchased it immediately and she’d never asked him where the money had come from, there’d been no reason to back then. She’d assumed he’d made enough as an attorney or had been left enough by his deceased parents to support her and pay for the maid and the car. His parents had left him nothing but debts when they’d died. He’d stolen money to keep up the façade of a rich and successful lawyer and heir. Someone else’s money had paid for the furniture and the house, and all of it had been sold to pay his debts. Someday she’d have a home of her own again, but this time on her terms and her dime so no one could take it away from her.

Beneath the rental listings were the employment ones.

Lady seeks shorthand-typist or preferably secretarial position.

Lady desires secretarial position, experienced secretary, fine business capabilities, shorthand-typing (130/60), highly recommended.

Young Lady shorthand typist required with general knowledge of office routine. Commencing salary 30s to 35s according to ability.

Amelia had read a hundred of these in Baltimore, and placed a few before Aunt Bessie had struck on the Wallis idea.

Wallis.

She set down the newspaper, an idea coming to her. There must be hundreds of girls like her, graduates of secretarial schools eager to work somewhere more prestigious than a bank. With her new connections and experience, she could open her own secretarial agency someday. She’d have a business and income of her own and could help other women the way Wallis and Mrs. Bedaux had helped her. It was only a germ of an idea, and she had no idea how to make it a reality, but she’d figure it out and find a way to finally stand on her own two feet.

Chapter Eleven

Thanksgiving 1937

“I simply don’t understand why, with all the grand homes around Paris, we can’t find something suitable,” Wallis whispered to Mrs. Bedaux. They sat together in the pew of the American Church during the Thanksgiving service. Amelia sat behind them, listening to Ambassador Bullitt’s clear voice as he read a copy of President Roosevelt’s Thanksgiving address.

“‘I, Franklin D. Roosevelt, President of the United States of America, hereby designate Thursday, the twenty-fifth day of November 1937, as a day of national thanksgiving. The custom of observing a day of public thanksgiving began in Colonial times and has been given the sanction of national observance through many years. It is in keeping with all of our traditions that we, even as our fathers in olden days, give humble and hearty thanks for the bounty and the goodness of Divine Providence.’”

Amelia’s eyes misted with tears. The proclamation wasn’t as moving as the memory of the last Thanksgiving before Father had died. He had sat at one end of the long oak table in their Baltimore house carving the turkey while Mother had sat at the other chatting with the friends and relatives seated between them. Amelia couldn’t remember everyone who’d been there, but she remembered who’d attended Father’s funeral. The church for his service had looked like this one, with its massive wood and pipe organ behind the altar, the gothic marble arches, and the tall stained glass windows.

Amelia hadn’t enjoyed another happy Thanksgiving until her first with Jackson. Her turkey had been a dry disaster but he’d eaten it, pretending to enjoy it. They’d cuddled in front of the fireplace afterward, discussing how to decorate the house for Christmas and hoping there’d be a baby by next year. Nothing had come of their nights together. Aunt Bessie had said it was for the best. Amelia couldn’t care for a child and rebuild her life, but to have had one wonderful thing come out of that mess would’ve made her sacrifice to be with Jackson worth it. In the end, it had all been illusions and dreams.

Amelia touched her gloved finger to her eye to catch the tear before it fell. A white handkerchief appeared over her shoulder and she turned to see Mr. Morton leaning forward from the pew behind her. She smiled gratefully as she took his handkerchief. He settled back in his seat and she faced the altar, thankful someone had seen her pain.

“‘The harvests of our fields have been abundant and many men and women have been given the blessing of stable employment,’” Ambassador Bullitt continued. “‘A period unhappily marked in many parts of the world by strife and threat of war finds our people enjoying the blessing of peace. We have no selfish designs against other nations.’”

“I don’t intend for us to remain in exile or live like snails for the rest of our lives,” Wallis whispered to Mrs. Bedaux. “David wants to return to Fort Belvedere but we’ve been ordered not to darken dear Britain’s shores unless invited by the King. He and the Fat Scottish Cook are terrified David will come back and upset that milquetoast king’s so-called popularity. If he’s so popular, why is he worried about us?”

“A friend of ours in the South of France has a lovely château he’s looking to lease. It’d be perfect for you and His Royal Highness,” Mrs. Bedaux said. “You could be in by Christmas.”

“A winter house in the South of France sounds divine.”

After the service, they mingled with other American expatriates on the sidewalk outside the church, the crush of guests giving Wallis and David some protection from the photographers and newsreel cameras across the street.

“Mrs. Montague, it’s wonderful to see you again,” Miss Harper said, pretty in her powder-blue dress with matching hat. “Is everything all right? You looked so sad in the church.”

“All the talk of Thanksgiving made me a little homesick.”

“I know the perfect cure for that. I’m having an old-fashioned Thanksgiving dinner at my place tonight and I’d love for you to come. There’ll be nothing but Americans and it’ll feel just like home, except for the cramped garret and the bad heating. Mr. Morton will be there.”

“I will.” Mr. Morton stepped up beside Miss Harper. It’d been months since Amelia had last seen him but the same thrill raced through her today as the morning he’d introduced himself at the Hotel Meurice. He wore a navy suit cut well across his wide shoulders, his dark blond hair a touch shorter than the last time she’d seen him.

“Thank you again for your handkerchief.” She handed it back to him and his fingers brushed hers as he took it but she didn’t pull away. She shouldn’t be this electrified by him or think of him as anything more than another resource for her job, but she couldn’t help it. He was still the most charming man she’d met in Europe.

“My pleasure.” He tucked the silk in his breast pocket, politely ignoring the smudge of eye shadow on the corner.

“Tell me you’ll come,” Miss Harper insisted, forcing the two of them to look at someone besides each other. “Mr. Morton, tell her she must come.”

“No one can refuse Miss Harper’s Southern hospitality,” Mr. Morton said with more than polite persuasion, “and I’d like to chat again. You’ve had quite the exciting time since we last had lunch.”

“I have.” He’d been keeping tabs on her. Surely his interest in her was purely political.

“Then say you’ll be there,” Miss Harper pleaded. She glanced at Mr. Morton with a little too much enthusiasm and Amelia wasn’t sure if it was for the possibility of her joining them tonight or Mr. Morton. Amelia’s stomach dropped. She shouldn’t have let her imagination run wild, not when the two of them might be an item. Apparently, she’d learned nothing from the past three years. She was as bad as Wallis. “Pretty please?”

The old Amelia wanted to decline but this Amelia in her deep green velvet Nina Ricci dress with the matching picture hat couldn’t stand the thought of spending Thanksgiving alone in her room. So what if Mr. Morton and Miss Harper were a couple? There were other men in Paris and some of them might be there tonight. This could be her chance to cultivate a few friends, a gentleman or two to escort her to the theater or the art galleries and cafés Mr. Morton had told her about the last time they’d met. With Wallis and the Duke going to dinner with their American friends, she’d be a little daring, meet new people, and put a little of what she’d learned from Wallis into action. “I’d love to join you.”

Miss Harper’s apartment was in the rue du Conseiller Collingon in a quiet block of Haussmann buildings with their many windows, cream limestone walls, mansard slate roofs, and balconies protected by wrought-iron railings. A round-cheeked Frenchwoman let Amelia into number 21 and with bright talk and greetings directed Amelia to the curving staircase leading to the fourth floor. The old building had been divided into flats, the grandeur of better days concealed by dim lighting, chipped paint, and faded gilding. Amelia climbed the stairs, clutching the bottle of wine she’d brought as a gift but her steps slowed when she neared the top. All afternoon she’d debated backing out. If Mr. Morton knew about her past then everyone else here probably did too. She didn’t relish an evening of whispers and sideways glances.

I’ll be social and ignore anything bad anyone says. It’s what Wallis would do and she’d darn well do it too.

All of Amelia’s reservations vanished the second Miss Harper opened the front door. The scent of turkey, sage, and pumpkin pie hit her as strongly as the American music and the energy of the guests perched on the chairs and sofas. It’d been ages since she’d been around people her own age. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed it or how insulated her life with Wallis had become. She’d never been a grand socialite, but she’d had friends in Wellesley, at least until they’d learned about Jackson.

“Mrs. Montague, I’m so glad you could come.” Miss Harper enveloped her in a hug that smelled of cinnamon and champagne.

“Call me Amelia. This is for you.” She handed her the wine.

“I’m Susan. How kind of you to think of me.” Susan passed the bottle to a young man in an evening jacket with a slender pipe balanced precariously between his lips. “Daniel, you’re a wine man, see to this.”

He read the label. “Château Haut-Brion. Impressive.”