“I had an errand to run at the British Embassy.” He shrugged out of his light overcoat and hung it on the rack beside the door. The crisp fall air was begging to nip in and steal the warmth of summer. “This arrived for you, Mrs. Bradford.”
“Mrs. Montague,” Amelia politely corrected as he handed her a package. The final poll deed for her name change had come through last week. It had felt strange to fill out the paperwork, to try and erase the last three years through an act of government, but Wallis was right. Shedding some of the past did help her breathe a little easier.
Amelia opened the package to find copies of Bottin Mondain and Tout Paris, along with a note from Mrs. Bedaux.
The French social registers are a must for making invitations and seating charts for dinners. I advise you to visit the American Embassy Chancery and obtain a copy of the diplomatic corps list to help you with guest lists. Please let me know if I can be of any assistance. Yours truly, Mrs. Bedaux
Between this and the Burke’s Peerage she’d sent, Amelia had quite the social reference library. She flipped through Tout Paris, admiring the advertisements for tailors and cafés and maps for each of Paris’s twenty arrondissements. She set the books aside and resumed typing the letter regarding Wallis’s donation to Lady Williams-Taylor’s fundraiser for the Bahamian Humane Society. A loud knock at the door startled them.
“That’ll be the postman.” Amelia rose to see to him. “He still insists on personally bringing me the registered letters to sign.”
“At least he’s finally chosen a reasonable hour to do it.”
“I’ll say.” The first week they’d been here, he’d knocked on her door at 7:30 every morning to get her signature.
“Bonjour, madame.” The postman handed her the receipt book to sign. “The Duke and Duchess return soon?”
“On Friday.” Amelia exchanged his receipt book for the letters, noting the one from Mr. Carter of Carter Ledyard & Milburn. Her stomach tightened. A letter from her Boston attorney was never good.
“Perhaps I’ll meet them?” The postman was as excited as the gawkers in the lobby, eager to catch a glimpse of the hotel’s rich and famous guests.
“Perhaps. À demain.” She closed the door and returned to her desk.
She read the letter from her attorney and her heart sank. She and ninety other entities had been named in a suit to recover the money Jackson and his two associates had looted from the investment trust at the height of their scheme. Hot tears blurred her eyes. What did the prosecutors think they were going to get out of her? Her meager eighty-dollar-a-year salary would barely put a dent in Jackson’s outstanding attorney fees, much less pay back even a small percent of the money Jackson had helped steal. Whatever hopes for independence she might gain from this position evaporated. She’d be in debt for the rest of her life.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Montague?” Mr. Forwood tugged the handkerchief from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
“Some unpleasant news from home.” She wiped her eyes and tucked the handkerchief in her pocket when Mr. Forwood waved away her attempt to return it.
Another knock at the door echoed through the room.
“I’ll see to it.” He closed the door behind him to give her a moment to compose herself, and she must. She had a full day of work ahead of her. She could fall to pieces in her bedroom tonight. She sat at her desk to write to her attorney about what to expect from this new development and how to proceed. It’d mean another hour of legal fees added to her already staggering bill but it was a pittance compared to what she’d owe if the court ruled against her.
“Mrs. Montague, a gentleman from the American Embassy is here to see you,” Mr. Forwood said when he returned. “Should I send him away?”
“No, I’ll speak with him.” It might be about the lawsuit.
She checked her makeup in a pocket mirror then walked into the sitting room with the same confidence she’d seen Wallis employ at Château de Candé. Amelia nearly lost her poise at the sight of the gentleman waiting for her. She’d expected another of the many middle-aged men with thinning hair and thick round glasses who’d visited here over the past three months. This man was neither. He was tall and slender, with a fine pin-striped suit filled out by his wide shoulders and buttoned snugly over his trim waist. With his square face, defined jaw, and dark blond hair parted on one side and carefully combed back, he reminded her of Errol Flynn but without the mustache.
“I’m Robert Morton, Foreign Service Officer for Ambassador Bullitt, the American Ambassador to France.” He held out his hand and she took it, impressed by his firm grip. “Mr. Bullitt is holding a reception in honor of Maître Suzanne Blum and he’d be honored if His Royal Highness and Her Grace could attend.” He handed her an invitation with the Windsors’ names in calligraphy on the front, but only the Duke was addressed as His Royal Highness.
“The Embassy isn’t using ‘Her Royal Highness’ for the Duchess,” she remarked.
“The British Embassy directed us not to employ the title with the Duchess.”
“I see.” Word had gone out from on high that the extra-chic title wasn’t to be used by anyone official. “Do men in your position usually hand deliver invitations?” None of the others had been sent with this much personal attention.
“I make it a habit to get to know the staff of people of note. I would’ve called sooner but I was in America on business this summer.” He produced a business card from his jacket pocket and held it out to her. “If there’s anything I can ever do for you, don’t hesitate to ask.”
She took the card, careful not to let her fingers brush his. It was masculine in its simplicity, with none of the frilly edging or script on the ones from the Paris couturiers, jewelers, and milliners who’d visited over the past few weeks. “I don’t suppose you have a copy of the diplomatic corps list?”
“I’ll send one over this afternoon.”
“I’ll be near the Chancery tomorrow. I don’t mind picking it up.” There was a boldface lie if she’d ever told one, but Mrs. Bedaux had said to make as many influential connections as possible. She was simply following her advice.
Amelia sat on a plush bench in the entrance hall of the U.S. Embassy Chancery in the Place de la Concorde, watching men in suits and military uniforms crisscross the white and black diamond marble floor. Some headed down the hallways while others climbed the white marble staircase with the brass railing.
“I don’t know what’s keeping Mr. Morton, but I’m sure he’ll be with you any moment,” Miss Harper, the receptionist behind the burled-wood desk, assured in a charming Southern accent. She was about Amelia’s age, with perfectly manicured red nails and a stylish mauve suit with a white collar as crisp as the stone arches carved in the walls. “Is there anything I can get for you? Water or tea?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.” Amelia picked a loose thread off the hem of her brown dress, wishing she looked as fashionable as Miss Harper. At least Amelia’s nails were done in a pretty pale pink. She’d purchased nail varnish and makeup her first week in Paris, doing what she could, despite her pitiful wardrobe and income, to look more stylish, but she wasn’t half as chic as Miss Harper. However, if a humble Embassy receptionist could dress this well then there was hope for her. “Actually, there is one thing you can do for me. I simply adore your suit. Is it Chanel?”
“Oh no, I can’t afford her pieces on my salary.” The young woman blushed, flattered to have her dress mistaken for the famous designer’s work. “I bought the material at Bucol, then took it to Madame de Wavrin in the Quartier du Sentier along with a picture of what I wanted and had it run up. All the girls here do it. It’s how we afford to look our best.” Miss Harper wrote down the information for Amelia and handed it to her. “Speak with Hillaire, tell her Miss Harper from the Embassy sent you.”
Amelia tucked the card in her purse. “Being new to Paris, you have no idea how much I appreciate this.”
“Oh, I do. Why, I felt like the biggest frump when I first arrived. It’s hard not to with all these Parisian women looking as if they’ve stepped out of Vogue. It must be especially hard for you working for someone as fashionable as the Duchess of Windsor.”
“You know who I am?” Amelia hadn’t mentioned her title when she’d given her name.
“Oh honey, there’s no anonymity in social and ambassadorial circles. When you’re done with Hillaire, visit Antoinette’s. I wrote her address down for you too. She’s a wonder with hair. And if you ever need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call and ask. If I can’t help you, I’ll find someone who can. I know how hard it is for a working girl to make her way in this city. You have to use every advantage you have.”
“I suppose I do.” Amelia had used her position to open doors at dressmakers, milliners, and even Madame Chanel’s on behalf of Wallis. The idea that she should use it for her own benefit hadn’t occurred to her until this moment.
“There’s Mr. Morton.”
He strolled across the lobby as if he were the ambassador and not simply a part of his staff. Amelia’s heart fluttered in her chest at the sight of him but she beat it down. This was a business visit, nothing more. She couldn’t afford for it to be anything else.
“Mrs. Montague, it’s a pleasure to see you again. Here’s the diplomatic corps list.” He handed her an envelope, the manila paper still warm from where he’d held it. “I’ve included lists for the other embassies so you don’t miss anyone important.”
“You’ve saved me a great deal of running around Paris.”
“I’m always eager to help a fellow American. I can share more information at lunch if you’d like? There’s a wonderful little café not far from here with the best prix fixe menu.”
“They don’t mind you knocking off?”
“I have a bit of freedom in this position, especially when it comes to dealing with the Duchess of Windsor’s assistant.”
I bet he told Miss Harper who I am. She had a pile of work waiting for her at the hotel but getting to know him was worth falling behind for, and with Wallis returning on Friday, she had to take advantage of this little freedom while it lasted. “It sounds delightful.”
“Miss Harper, I’ll be back in an hour if anyone is searching for me.”
“Yes, Mr. Morton.”
Mr. Morton escorted Amelia out of the Chancery entrance, across the front drive, and past the marine sentries standing guard at the iron and stone gates.
“I’m glad you and Miss Harper had a chance to meet. She’s a gem.” They strolled down rue Royale, past old buildings with upper-floor apartments and ground-floor shops, restaurants, and small cafés where white-coated waiters served coffee to tourists. He didn’t stop at one of these but led her toward the tree-lined Boulevard des Capucines. She didn’t mind the extra walk, grateful to be outdoors on a fine day and with someone so friendly. He slowed his long strides to match her shorter ones and she caught the citrus notes of his crisp cologne over the scent of petrol and fresh bread from the boulangeries. “She’s been here six months and already knows more people than I do.”
