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.”
“Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.” Susan linked her arm in Amelia’s and pulled her into a long, rectangular gallery with faded and scuffed parquet floors, elaborate white molding, and a graceful marble fireplace with a fire burning inside. The heat and cheer of the fire were matched by the chatting guests sprawled on mismatched French furniture with a few modern pieces sprinkled in. “Everyone, this is Amelia. Amelia, this is everyone.”
The tuxedo-clad men, and the women in chic knockoff evening dresses, stopped talking and raised their glasses in a collective “Hello!”
“What department do you work in?” Daniel returned with a wineglass and the open wine bottle and poured Amelia a healthy serving.
“She doesn’t work at the Embassy, she’s the Duchess of Windsor’s private secretary,” Susan corrected, loud enough for everyone to hear.
He stopped pouring and there was a noticeable lull in the conversation. The old desire to run and hide hit Amelia but she held her ground, facing the silence with poise and grace.
“You raid the ex-king’s wine cellar for this?” Daniel clinked his glass against hers and broke the spell.
“Something like that.” Wallis had sent the wine with her because she didn’t like the British aristocrat who’d given it to her. “I’ll do it again if I’m ever invited back.”
“Bring wine like this and you will be.”
Susan batted a hand at him. “Ignore him. Daniel works in the press office, that’s why he has no manners. You have to meet Lisa. She’s in the visa department and can do wonders if you ever need travel documents.”
“What’s it like working for the Windsors?” Lisa asked as soon as Susan maneuvered Amelia to the empty place on the sofa beside her. “Is she a dear or a monster like the newspapers say?”
“Don’t bother her about that,” Susan chided. “You don’t want to talk about your work. I’m sure she doesn’t want to talk about hers.”
“She’s probably the only one who can talk about her job; the rest of us are sworn to secrecy.” A tall man named Christopher dropped down on Amelia’s other side.
“Are you kidding, her privacy clause is probably stiffer than ours.” Lisa’s tortoiseshell glasses slid down her nose and she pushed them back up.
“Is it?” Christopher asked.
“What do you think?”
“See.” Lisa laughed. “I told you she has to keep more secrets than we do.”
“Then stop trying to pry them out of her.” Mr. Morton’s voice carried over the crowd as he crossed the room in a few long, strong strides. He stopped in front of Amelia and Christopher, towering over them, his dark tuxedo making him appear even more impressive. He tilted into a bow and motioned for her hand. “Mrs. Montague?”
“Amelia.” She slid her hand in his, enjoying his smooth skin and firm grasp.
“Robert.” He squeezed her fingers before letting go, his gaze never leaving hers, and the entire room fell away. She could’ve sat like that all night but he flicked a glance at Christopher, who looked back and forth between them before jumping to his feet.
“I’ll get another glass of wine. Can I get you one, Robert?”
