We can only regret Mademoiselle C.'s lot, for although her only crime was naivety, du F. has now vanished, leaving her with a shattered reputation that may bear further fruit.

At the time of going to print, Ptisserie C. has not yet reopened its doors and we must wonder, after such a scandal, if it is at all likely to again.

J. G. Stevenson 'I don't know what to think,' I tell Alex over the phone. 'Perhaps du Frere was just trying to get his hands on her money.'

'Is that what the article says?'

'Yes, but then there's Grandpa Jim's letter. All that regret.'

There is silence on the other end of the phone as we both ponder the situation. After everything, I've found an answer, but it isn't the one I've been searching for; it still doesn't explain why Grandpa would keep his time in Paris a secret from me, why he wrote hundreds of letters to du Frere, even though he never received a reply. I feel as though I have unravelled a piece of string, only to be confronted by another unfathomable knot.

'What about the man who bought the painting?' Alex says abruptly. 'The "du Frere" from Bordeaux? Could it be the same man? Why don't you just ask him.'

'But he'd be what? in his nineties? He's probably long dead.'

'You have the address, right?'

'Yes, but what can I do? Call up Directory Inquiries in France and ask to speak to someone I've never met?'

I can almost hear Alex's answering grin over the phone line.

In the French language section of the library I find what I'm looking for: a telephone directory, several years out of date. I dial the number for Inquiries, working up the courage to ask for what I need in French.

The operator is impatient as I falter my way through a request, but quickly gives me a telephone number in Bordeaux for a G. du Frere. I am being put through before I can even think about what to say.

My heart thunders as the line clicks into life and starts to ring. Somewhere in France, in a house or a flat or a shop, a phone is trilling away. Four rings, five ... then the sound changes. Someone has answered. A man.

'Monsieur du Frere?' I hear myself ask.

'Oui, c'est moi.'

The voice is that of a young man, not a pensioner. I feel as though I've stepped into a dream, that my voice is travelling down a wire to emerge from a metal earpiece in 1910.

'Monsieur Guillaume du Frere?'

'Oui, qui est-la?'

Suddenly, it's too much. I'm making a terrible mistake. I'm digging up history that should never have been disturbed, hunting down people who did not want to be found by my grandfather seventy years ago. The young man repeats his question, more forcefully this time.

I slam down the phone.

My forehead is clammy with cold sweat. It couldn't have been him, the same Guillaume du Frere who is staring up at me from my grandfather's photograph. It's a good few minutes before I can pick up the receiver again.

Shaken as I am, the telephone directory has given me an idea. Perhaps there is another way to uncover what happened to Mademoiselle Clermont and du Frere.

This time, I ask Inquiries to put me through to the newspaper archives in Paris. I'm transferred to the library at the Rue de Richelieu. The receptionist there is much more helpful. Yes, they hold copies of newspapers from 1910, she tells me politely; yes they are available on microfilm, but they must be accessed in person.

I hang up. For a long while I sit staring at the silent phone. Accessed in person. Fifteen minutes later I'm standing outside Alex's door, a bag of Chelsea buns in hand.

His face lights up.

'P! What're you doing here? I thought you were on the phone to France.'

I can feel a mischievous smile growing on my face as I hand over the bag.

'I was. And then I had an idea.'

Alex stops with a bun mid-way to his mouth. 'Oh no,' he says, 'I know that look. What do you want?'

'Nothing much,' I tell him. 'I was just wondering whether you still have your moped.'

Chapter Thirty-Six.

April 1910 'Do you think anyone will suspect?'

They stood hidden in a doorway. There was not another soul on the streets, in the hinterland of dawn. Jeanne fiddled with a loose thread of her coat.

'I do not believe so,' she murmured. 'I said that the excitement of the party had worn me out. I locked the door. Patrice has the only other key, he promised to tell Father that he had checked in on me.'

'Does he ...?' Gui began, alarmed.

'He knows,' Jeanne looked him in the eye. 'I needed his help to get away yesterday. I think he suspected from the beginning, in a way.'

The ptisserie loomed above them. He wanted to take Jeanne in his arms, but the coming dawn had sobered them both, was transforming her into 'Mademoiselle Clermont' again.

He tried to smile. 'I wish you could have stayed longer.'

Sadness lurched across her face. 'I do too, more than anything.'

'We could have gone to Pigalle.'

She laughed then, but it was a lonely sound. A second later they were in each other's arms.

'What will we do?' whispered Jeanne.

'Let's leave now,' he said desperately. 'Take an early train and disappear. We can stay with my mother in Bordeaux.'

'I can't,' she captured his face in her hands, 'not yet, Gui. There may be a way to solve this without running like criminals. I just need to think.'

'If you go back in there, they will treat you like his fiancee.' He could not keep the anxiety from his voice. 'There will be wedding dress fittings and presents and fine jewellery-'

'Listen to me.' Her ice-blue eyes held him. 'We promised last night. You cannot back away from me now, Gui. I will not, no matter what happens.'

'I could never,' he swore.

'Then allow me a fortnight. Either we will think of a way to tell them or we will leave, but at least that will give me time to gather some money, make a few plans for our future.'

'Our future,' he repeated, almost laughing.

One kiss became another, until finally Gui had to turn away in order to let her go. She lingered on the step, looking back at him. It took all of his willpower not to follow her.

The sun was not yet up as he wandered the city. The grand boulevards were his own, the streets bare of their finery. He walked slowly, wanting to see every second of that blessed day through.

Back in his room, he was reluctant to disturb the air. The bottle of absinthe stood almost empty beside two gla.s.ses, sticky residue drying on the rim. A faint scent lingered, blossom and sweat. He pulled his blanket over his head and imagined that she was with him.

The next day he returned to the ptisserie. Easter and its celebrations had vanished like a snow flurry in July. He shrugged away the lost uniform, pleading ignorance, and although his pay was docked for it, no one commented on his absence.

'Feeling better, lad?' Maurice asked loudly for the benefit of the cloakroom.

Gui nodded stiffly, until he realized that Maurice had probably saved his skin by booting him out of sight when he did.

Besides, the anger he felt then was long gone, replaced by a fragile happiness. In the days that followed, he volunteered for all the tasks that would take him into the ptisserie itself, found excuses to linger behind the counter there, in order to catch a glimpse of Jeanne. She too had begun to appear downstairs more frequently. Three days after their night together, and even the quickest glimpse of her face was like cool oil for his burning chest.

He watched her drink chocolate with acquaintances, perusing the fashion plates and drawings of bouquets, as any bride-to-be might. Their wedding would be very different, he thought with a stab of guilt. No guests, no flowers, no silk dress covered with pearls. It would be anonymous in some forgotten parish church, on the run to the south.

She came to the counter, pretended not to see the waiter so that she could order from him instead. Their hands brushed as he pa.s.sed her a tiny plate.

'Thank you, Mademoiselle,' was all he could murmur.

Gui's attention in the kitchen began to suffer and twice he was penalized for ruined dishes. Ebersole put him on washing duty, but he didn't care. At least by the sinks he could be alone.

When there was a week to go, he found a note slipped into his jacket pocket, elegant writing signed with a 'J'.

Gui, Last night I spoke to my aunt and my father about severing the engagement to Monsieur Burnett. My father was furious, and threatened to keep me housebound until the wedding, and the very notion sent my aunt into such hysteria that I dare not mention it again. This morning I told them it was only a case of nerves, and I believe I have rea.s.sured them, but I must be careful, in case my father decides to make good on his threat. I shall start making plans for us. One week, my love.

J-.

He read it through at least five times, his nerves vanishing into a wave of happiness, at those two words, in her writing: my love. He desperately wanted to see her, to smile at her and mouth the words in return.

He had to find an excuse to slip into the cafe. She was there, he knew. She had breezed through the kitchen earlier, a delicate violet and cream gown rustling as she moved; it must have been after she left the note for him. Even the thought of it made him want to leap.

Maurice had been set to making rose-scented macarons that day, and Gui pleaded with him, grinning and cajoling until he was allowed to help. Soon, his excitement settled into concentration. The mixture was fragile, could crack and split in the ovens at the slightest mistake.

By the time the afternoon break rolled around, they had created thirty-six perfect sh.e.l.ls. Maurice slapped his shoulder, satisfied. Gui could tell that he was itching for a cigarette. Before them stood the remaining macaron mixture, waiting to be coloured and piped. Eyeing it, Gui had a wild idea.

He told the older chef go ahead and take his break first. If Maurice was suspicious, he didn't say anything as he left, already patting his pockets in search of cigarettes.

As soon as he was out of sight, Gui pulled the macaron mixture towards him, and took a deep breath. He whipped it back and forth, beads of sweat springing on his forehead as his arm muscles released and contracted. When it was almost ready, he reached up for the shelf where the spices and colours were kept. Carefully, he brought down the bottle of creme de violette, the jar of delicate, dried violets, their petals sparkling with sugar.

In tiny drops, he measured the purple liqueur into the mixture. He was acting on impulse, yet at the same time he felt certain, as though his first teacher, Monsieur Carme, was with him, guiding his steps. The scent reached up as he stirred, heady and sweet as a meadow, deep as lingering perfume in a midnight room. Hands shaking, he piped the mixture onto a tray in tiny rounds, enough to make six, one for each day that he and Jeanne would have to make it through before they could be together for the rest of their lives.

Maurice was delayed talking to Josef, and by the time he returned, Gui was putting the finishing touches to his creations, filling them with a vanilla cream from the cold room, balancing one, tiny, sugar-frosted violet flower upon each.

'What on earth are those?' the chef demanded, leaning in to inspect Gui's work. 'They look marvellous.'

'Special order,' mumbled Gui non-committally, though he couldn't help smiling with pride as he placed the delicate confections onto a tray and hurried for the ptisserie door. Maurice called his name as he went, but Gui pretended not to hear him.

His heart was thumping as he stepped into the opulent cafe, a wave of chatter rushing up to meet him. The tray of macarons rested on his hand. How could he get them to Jeanne? He looked around for a waiter, but they were all crowded around one particular table. A party of guests there had ordered a bottle of the best champagne. Gla.s.ses were being brought out, attention lavished.

He scanned the party. Jeanne's aunt was there, draped in furs. There was a red-haired woman, baring her teeth in laughter, a young blond man and there, dressed in her pale violet, was Jeanne. She was smiling, accepting a gla.s.s of champagne from someone. It was Leonard Burnett. He wore a fine-fitting coat, a pristine starched shirt, his black hair oiled. He had the look of his father. Taking Jeanne's fingers in his own, he kissed them lightly, before leaning in to speak to an older woman.

Gui's stomach started to roil. He felt grubby, peering through a window at a foreign world. The burns on his hands, the stains on his ap.r.o.n from a morning's work made him want to curl in on himself, even as jealousy howled. He did not see the man approaching until it was too late to turn away.

'Afternoon,' Burnett said easily, refolding the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. 'What are those things?'

Gui bit the inside of his mouth hard. He had no choice but to answer.

'Macarons, sir.'

'Fine, fine, I'll take them. Although I suppose she's eaten them a dozen times already.'

Mistaking Gui's hostile silence for polite interest, he glanced up, smiled. 'Mademoiselle Clermont,' he said. 'She only asked me to fetch her a chocolat chaud, but those little things will match her dress perfectly.'

Across the room, Jeanne was staring. Even from a distance he could see how white her face had become. There was bile in his throat.

'They're not for sale-'

A waiter returned and hurried towards them, horrified.

'What are you doing?' he hissed to Gui. 'Get back to the kitchen! I apologize, monsieur,' he gushed to Burnett, wrenching the tray of macarons out of Gui's grip. 'What can I get for you?'

'I just told this lad.'

'He is only a kitchen hand, sir,' the waiter continued, 'he is not permitted to serve the counter. I would be delighted to help.'

'Well, why didn't you say?' Burnett directed at Gui, fishing in his pocket. 'I didn't mean to interrupt your work. Here.' He flicked a coin towards him. 'Now, I'll take those six violet fancies ...'

Burning with rage and frustration, Gui returned to the kitchen, Burnett's coin stinging his palm. He took over the oven duty without being asked and worked so furiously that even Ebersole told him to take a break before too long. He couldn't bear the cloakroom, with its endless jibes, so he left the apprentices to their food and escaped into the alleyway.

It was here, he thought as he sat on the step. This is where we first spoke. How distant she had been then, with her pencil and ledger cold and sharp like one of the best kitchen knives.

Burnett's coin was still in his pocket. He flung it angrily to the stones, where it ricocheted away into the main street.

The spring afternoon calmed him. There was a breeze in the shade; it helped him remember Jeanne, her face close to his, tired and happy in the cold dawn as they pledged themselves to each other. He had closed his eyes when someone shouted a greeting. The sun was bright beyond the walls, turning the figure into a silhouette.

'It is you!' exclaimed Jim, striding forward, hand outstretched. Gui smiled in surprise and clambered to his feet to greet him. 'Nice whites.' The writer winked, jamming a cigarette into his mouth. 'You're looking a good deal cheerier, du Frere. And how is your delightful Jeanne?' Stevenson blew out a plume of smoke. 'Did you two lovebirds make up and get everything squared?'

Gui laughed, accepted a cigarette from the box and tucked it behind his ear.

'Yes, although she was the one who made it right, in the end. I'm doing my best to deserve her. I need to thank you, though, Jim, for listening.' Gui paused. If all went to plan, it might be a long time before he saw the writer again. 'I hope I can repay the favour one day.'