The activity in the kitchen began to build. Each team approached the front, bearing trays of produce. Their work, Maurice explained, was crucial. The caramel was the mortar that would hold the creation together. They delivered the first pan to the front, and returned immediately to the stove, to make another batch before the first one cooled and became too hard to use.

Before Gui's eyes, a tower rose, cream-filled choux pastries the size of billiard b.a.l.l.s marching upward in a spiral. When the last pastry rested at the top of the cone, almost a metre high, they were called once more.

Josef was the only one tall enough to reach; he dipped a spoon into the copper pan and gently raised a ribbon of molten caramel. He whipped this through the air like a magician, allowing it to fall over the whole confection. It settled in golden strands, as thin as silk. Gui stared in awe, but was hustled away, to clean up before the afternoon.

'You will see it later.' Maurice nudged him towards the scullery, where almost every pan awaited cleaning. 'Better get busy, you lads are on serving duty.'

Emerging damp and sweaty into the cloakroom, Gui had just enough time to cram in a mouthful of bread, before Josef called his name.

'Serving uniform,' he grunted, shoving a stack of pristine new clothes into Gui's arms. 'Dirty them and you'll wish you hadn't been born.'

The outfit was similar to their everyday whites, but with gold b.u.t.tons marching down the double-breasted front, gold trim on the shoulders, a gold stripe down the leg and a starched cap, embroidered with the Clermont logo in green and gold.

'This is ridiculous,' Gui muttered, peering into the mirror along with several other boys. 'How are we supposed to do anything without getting dirty?'

'I'm not even going to move,' said one, staring terrified at the snowy ap.r.o.n, 'let alone go near all that chocolate.'

But of course the time came for them to return to work. They pa.s.sed back through the kitchens, enduring whistles from the other chefs. Maurice tipped him a wink. He was shaping two letters out of a substance that looked like gold clay. The confection stood almost finished. Gui gazed at it as he pa.s.sed: a towering masterpiece of caramel and pastry, adorned with sugar-work, glimmering beneath the lights.

He would have given anything to remain in the kitchen, but instead he was obliged to endure the commands and prods of the ptisserie's Matre d, a coiffed man who told them in no uncertain terms that they were little more than walking cake stands. The only thing that kept his mood from plummeting was the thought that he might see Jeanne at the party. Perhaps they would be able to sneak a moment alone together.

Before long, the door swung open, bringing with it a gust of spring air. The first guests had arrived. Afternoon sunlight clung to their coats. Slowly, the room filled and attendees began to drift past him, occasionally stopping to nibble at one of the chocolate shapes he offered up for their gloved fingers. The champagne flowed, laughter was pitched a tone higher than everyday speech, pearl beads struck silk hems. Gui had never seen so much wealth in one room, so much opulence; it was grotesque and exquisite.

Then he saw her, amongst a group of other women. She was dressed in a delicate gown, rose-pink. Silk flowers were pinned to her dark hair, hiding the cropped cut.

She was staring around the room for something. His heart leaped in delight when he realized that she was looking for him. He caught her eye and smiled, waving a hand to indicate his trussed-up uniform. She stifled a laugh.

Over the next few minutes, she managed to steer her aunt closer to where Gui had been stationed. He in turn edged further into the room. Finally, she contrived to linger over the tray of chocolates, as if contemplating which to choose.

'Mademoiselle,' Gui murmured with a smile.

'I like your uniform, du Frere,' she whispered, looking up through her lashes.

'Can you get away?'

Their faces were separated only by the width of the tray.

'Someone will see.'

'I thought you liked an adventure? Besides, who will notice?'

Jeanne shot him a shrewd smile.

'Aunt,' she called, as if bored, 'will you excuse me? I think I feel some of my hairpins coming loose.'

'Honestly, after how long it took!' the older woman fussed. 'Would you like me to see to them?'

'No, no,' Jeanne said, 'I shall fix them myself.'

She walked away sedately, patting her hair as she headed for the corridor towards the cloakroom. Gui had to be fast. He edged along the wall. Thankfully, the Matre d was nowhere to be seen. He shoved the tray of chocolates under a waiters' station and followed Jeanne, fully expecting to hear an angered shout behind him.

The corridor was thickly carpeted, hung with heavy brocade curtains that framed alcove windows. As he pa.s.sed the first one, a hand shot out to grasp his sleeve.

'Help me!' Jeanne commanded. She was loosening two huge, ornate ta.s.sels.

They came free and the curtains swung closed, hiding the couple from view. They were safe. Jeanne's cheeks were pink, breath quickened by daring.

'You look magnificent,' he whispered, his hand hovering at the shoulder of her elegant gown. 'I'm almost afraid to touch you.'

'I hate it.' She stepped nearer, reached up to brush his face. 'None of it is real, Gui.'

'What would they say if they saw you on the Left Bank?' He grinned. 'Stealing rides on trams, dancing at La Rotonde?'

Her laugh had a wild edge to it. He hesitated, then leaned in to kiss her, lightly at first but with growing intensity. His body thrilled at her closeness, at their stolen time together. She must have felt it too for she was kissing him back, shy no longer, her hands locked around his neck.

Her dress of silk and lace betrayed the warmth of her limbs. He gripped her tightly, one hand slipping down the side of her neck. Abruptly, she broke off, eyes bright and guarded. Maurice's cruel words came back to him: Who wants damaged goods when there are better ones on offer?

He placed his hand upon her neck, above the scar she tried so hard to conceal.

'I love you, Jeanne,' he whispered, his forehead against hers.

'I ...' She was swallowing back tears. 'I love you ...'

'Then marry me.' The words dropped from his mouth before he could think twice.

She pulled away, dazed.

'What did you say?'

It must have been the elation of the moment for he could only laugh and kiss her and laugh again.

'I don't know,' he managed eventually. 'I think I just asked you to marry me.'

Footsteps approached in the corridor and they fell silent, clutching each other.

'Jeanne?' someone called, dangerously close. Feet pa.s.sed, inches away, before receding.

'It's my aunt.' Jeanne was trembling. 'Hurry, you must go, I will distract her. Now!' she told him. 'Please, Gui, go!'

How he was able to make it through the door and step out into the ptisserie without notice was a mystery. His heart was thundering. A nervous sweat coated the inside of his clothes; his blood had turned to champagne, bubbling through his body in wild haste. He could still feel her lips, pressed to his as he asked her to marry him.

'What in G.o.d's name are you doing?' hissed Maurice, face like thunder, as he hauled Gui to the edge of the room.

'I'm sorry,' Gui stammered, too distracted to wonder why the chef was there. 'I was-'

'I know what you were doing, you brainless fool. I saw you both, sneaking in there. What are you thinking?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Gui noticed now that everyone, save for him and Maurice, were grouped together, the staff in orderly lines and the guests corralled, awaiting an announcement.

'You had better pray to G.o.d that I'm the only one who noticed,' whispered the older chef as they crept over to join the staff. Over his shoulder, Gui saw Jeanne emerge from the cloakrooms. Her aunt was whispering rapidly in her ear, towing her towards the centre of the room.

'It's none of your business,' Gui snapped as they slid into line, half hidden at the back.

'It is if you're going to ruin your life.'

'I'm not. I've asked her to marry me.'

Maurice's face went pale with shock as a gla.s.s chimed and a hush fell rapidly across the room.

The towering confection had been unveiled, the centre of attention. It sparkled with sugar, bright as amber. Two gold letters adorned the top: an 'L' and a 'J' interlocked.

Monsieur Clermont raised a hand.

'I bid you a warm welcome, one and all,' he announced. 'First and foremost on this happy day, I am delighted to make public a long-awaited engagement. Please raise your gla.s.ses in congratulations to my daughter Jeanne and her husband-to-be, Monsieur Leonard Burnett.'

Chapter Thirty-One.

May 1988 'May 1910,' I read aloud, 'Mademoiselle Clermont and du Frere in Stevenson's article, "A Boulevard Sensation" leads to closure of Ptisserie Clermont.' I throw the page down and rub at my eyes. 'But years later, my Grandpa Jim is still writing to this du Frere person. What does it all mean?'

I'm sprawled on the carpet in Alex's room. I know that there's something important in Hall's notes, in the collection of sc.r.a.ps and clues, but so far, any answers have eluded me.

'Well,' Alex says, 'I think we can be fairly certain what your scandal was, "Mademoiselle Clermont and du Frere"? It has to have been a love affair, right?'

'Yes, but how do we know for certain? Without the article itself ...' I trail off, staring glumly at the floor. Alex swivels to and fro on his desk chair.

'OK.' He spins in a circle. 'Run it past me again, what else do we have?'

I lay it all out before him on the floor, explaining as I go. The original photograph of my grandfather, with its reference to Clermont; the slip of paper from the gallery with an address for 'du Frere' in Bordeaux. I give him Allincourt's letter to read, and the paragraph in Lefevre's book. I explain how the group photograph taken outside the ptisserie came into my hands. Finally, I pa.s.s over the poste-restante letter from Grandpa Jim to Guillaume du Frere.

Alex takes it all in, examining each piece carefully. I can't help but smile as I watch him thinking, brow creased in concentration. As he pa.s.ses me the letter, our hands touch. I am definitely not imagining the strange jolt that runs through me.

'All right,' he says, 'read me Hall's note again, about when the article was written.'

'It says it was May 1910,' I tell him, a little fl.u.s.tered. 'Why?'

He joins me on the floor and scoops up the photograph of the group outside the ptisserie.

'This picture,' he squints, 'when do you think it was taken?'

'Not sure,' I peer closer. 'Some time in 1910 as well?'

'Yes, but it must have been taken before May of that year.'

'The tree,' I realize, tracing the shape at the edge of the frame, 'it's only just in leaf, so this must be spring, early April perhaps.'

Alex leans in beside me. His hair is sticking up at impossible angles and I have the uncontrollable urge to straighten it, to let my hand rest upon his back. He pulls the two photographs towards him, places them side-by-side.

'Here.' He jabs the ptisserie shot, then the two strangers in Grandpa Jim's photo with his finger. 'There's our Mademoiselle Clermont, in both photographs. If we a.s.sume the chap next to your grandpa is du Frere ...'

I'm still trying to get my feelings under control when Alex jumps to his feet and begins to rummage through the desk drawers. Eventually, he extracts a dusty magnifying cla.s.s.

'What's that for?' I ask.

Alex doesn't reply, kneeling down in front of the group photograph.

'I knew it,' he whispers, nose almost touching the paper. He shoves the magnifying gla.s.s into my hand, pulls me closer. I can feel every place our bodies touch, hip to shoulder, but I try to concentrate. 'There, next to the mademoiselle, what do you notice?'

Beside the girl is a young man, dressed identically to all the other chefs. I catch my breath and look between the two pictures; it is him, du Frere. He has the same dark curls, beneath the white chef's cap on his head, the same infectious half-smile, as though about to break into a grin. Yet in the ptisserie photograph he is the odd one out: his arms are not crossed like the others, but are blurred with movement. Next to him stands Mademoiselle Clermont.

'They're holding hands!' I burst. 'They were together, this is the proof.'

Alex and I nearly b.u.mp heads as I look up. Our faces are separated by barely an inch.

'Didn't I say?' His voice is soft, eyes flitting over my face. 'They were in love.'

I can feel my whole skin tingling. Then the phone rings, horribly loud and shrill. Alex leaps away to answer.

'What? Yeah, she's here.' He is beetroot red as he holds out the receiver. 'It's your friend Ca.s.s, I'll give you some privacy.'

He has fled through the door before I can protest. From the other end of the phone, I hear Ca.s.s laughing.

'Am I interrupting?' she asks innocently.

Chapter Thirty-Two.

April 1910 Something pounded in his ears; the noise of applause, sickeningly loud. Maurice had hold of his arm and was pulling him away. Through the crowd he saw Jeanne, another man's hand claiming her own, his lips meeting her cheek, all to the appreciation of the partygoers.

Maurice shoved him towards the kitchen door.

Through the chaos of silk-draped shoulders, Jeanne met his gaze. A smile was falling from her mouth. What did it matter, whether it was forced or genuine?