From a Paris Balcony(10)

 

It was a perfect summer’s morning—still cool with the promise of heat later in the day. Louisa adored the early mornings. She couldn’t abide the idea of staying in bed for too long. Today she had thrown her own windows open wide when she woke, breathing in the air scented with climbing roses.

 

Meg asked her to enter. The remains of her breakfast sat on a tray, along with a tiny posy of fresh petunias in a crystal vase.

 

“You are looking more and more at home here every time I see you.” Louisa smiled, moving into the pretty room with its polished floorboards, pale rug, and marble fireplace.

 

“Oh, I confess, I’m in heaven.” Meg stretched. Her long dark hair was still tousled and her cheeks were pink with good health.

 

“Are you coming for a ride?” Louisa went and stood by the window.

 

“Oh, goodness no. I’m supposed to be meeting with some of the neighbors. Then we’re off to the church. Lady Hamilton has my morning all planned.”

 

“Well, you’d best get going. Because the day will be half-over and you will have done nothing but indulge yourself in bed!”

 

“How delicious,” Meg sighed.

 

“I have to get out,” Louisa said, turning around all of a sudden. “It will be too gracious hot soon.”

 

“Go and enjoy it,” Meg said, but then her voice sank a little deeper. “How did Samuel’s departure go?”

 

Louisa let out a long breath. “It was fine. He had to go.”

 

Meg nodded, and for a moment, it was as if Louisa’s old friend were back—the one who used to listen to Louisa’s ideas, who shared some of them too. But Louisa had seen changes in Meg since their arrival in England, and once the other girl had fallen in love, she had stopped talking of such things at all.

 

Louisa had tossed in bed for most of the night. Her friend and her brother were both leaving her behind in different ways, but they were both happy. Louisa had finally decided that she would have to exercise some of the steel that her own mother had shown toward her. She would stick to her beliefs even harder. If she was going to be alone, why not be an explorer?

 

“I’m going out to the horses,” she said.

 

“Enjoy!” Meg trilled, leaning back on her white cotton pillows, taking up a letter from her tray.

 

“And you,” Louisa smiled.

 

Half an hour later, Louisa was sitting on a palomino mare in the courtyard outside the stone stables at the edge of the park. Something caught at the side of her eye. She turned the horse around on the spot, rather too fast, causing her to buck a little. She settled the mare quickly, but frowned.

 

“Morning.” A young man stood under the arched gates that led to the stables. He was dressed in jodhpurs, long black boots, and a riding jacket. He looked up at Louisa and raised a brow.

 

“Good morning.” Louisa hadn’t seen him before—hadn’t heard mention of more visitors arriving today. She frowned at him again. She wasn’t in the mood for interruptions, nor was she in the mood for talking with vacuous young men, even if this one was tall and dark with brown hair that was, appealingly for some reason, in slight disarray on top of his head.

 

She took in his brown eyes, strong eyebrows, finely crafted cheekbones, and square chin. He looked amused, as if he held some secret. And this annoyed Louisa for some reason too.

 

She frowned down at him. She would have to be polite for a few moments, she supposed.

 

“Louisa West,” he said. He sounded sardonic.

 

Her mare danced from side to side as if she were a pony in a circus. Louisa pulled gently on the reins and placed a little pressure into the stirrups to keep her charge still.

 

The young man strode closer and patted the horse on the neck.

 

“I’m Henry Duval,” he said, holding up a gloved hand.

 

Louisa started at two things—his name and his informal manner. Even in Boston, the way he had appeared out of the blue would be considered improper. Did he think he could take liberties with an American? But then, what did she care for convention?

 

Louisa patted the mare to soothe her further and slowly reached her own gloved hand down to Henry. She let her hand rest in his, but only for a second, before pulling away. She wanted to get going.

 

But then, he had said his name was Henry Duval. She had heard of him. There had been chatter among the girls back in London. What were the particulars? She cursed herself now for not taking in the details of idle gossip. Too often, her thoughts were off somewhere else. She looked at him with more interest. At least, he did not at first appear dull, like every other young man she had met.