The Paris Apartment, page 23
Lia laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Lead the way.”
They retraced their steps back to his car and entered Millbrook through a very ordinary-looking rear door. As they stepped into the cool interior, Gabriel let his eyes adjust to the light after the brightness of the morning. They were in the family rooms, as the maintenance and custodial staff liked to call them—the suite of a half-dozen modern rooms where his grandfather lived and any family that came to visit stayed. In the rest of the house, the hall and ballrooms, library and guest rooms, music room and morning rooms had been painstakingly restored to their former Regency-era glory, making it popular with filmmakers and those wishing for a fairly-tale setting for their nuptials. Part of the original kitchens had even been restored, while the other, separate half had been renovated to provide a state-of-the-art kitchen for event caterers.
The kitchen that Gabriel and Lia were now in was a small, simple one, featuring modern maple cabinetry, marble countertops, and stainless-steel appliances. He started for the narrow door on the far side only to be brought up short by a figure that sailed through with an exclamation of delight.
“Gabriel!” the woman greeted him with a broad smile. “I’m so happy you are here. It’s been too long since you visited us.”
“I know,” Gabriel agreed, embracing the woman and inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla that he had always associated with her.
“And you brought a guest.” She pulled back and turned her radiant smile on Lia.
“Abigail, this is Aurelia Leclaire. She is a client,” he said, “who is…helping me with some research.”
“Call me Lia, please.” Lia stepped forward and extended her hand.
“And this is Abigail Denworth,” Gabriel added. “The soul responsible for keeping Millbrook upright and all Seymours sane since 1972.”
“I’m the housekeeper,” Abigail laughed, ignoring Lia’s extended hand and enveloping her in a welcoming hug.
“She’s family,” Gabriel corrected.
Abigail released Lia and patted her chestnut hair that was liberally threaded with grey. “If you’re hoping to see your grandfather, he’s in the reading room,” she told him, her blue eyes twinkling. “He’s already speculating what new book you’ve brought him this time.”
Gabriel smiled. It was a long-standing tradition. “I’ve actually brought him something a little different. Some old photos.”
“Oh? What sort of photos?”
“Some pictures of his sister from before the war.” And during, he thought, though he didn’t voice that.
“Oh, he’ll like that, I think.” Abigail clasped her hands together. “Such a bond, that William had with his sister. Like two peas in a pod, my mum often said. She spoke of Sophie often.”
“Abigail’s mum was the housekeeper at Millbrook before Abigail took over her duties,” Gabriel explained to Lia.
“Could I see the photos?” Abigail asked. “I love looking at bits of history from this house.”
“Of course.” Lia pulled the familiar folder from her backpack and handed Abigail one of the photos in its protective sleeve.
Abigail pulled a pair of reading glasses from her sweater pocket and settled them on the bridge of her nose. “Oh yes, this is Sophie,” she murmured. “Though she looks like a film star here. I’ve never seen photos of her like this before—the ones your grandfather keeps here at Millbrook are mostly childhood photos and those taken before she left for Poland. Wherever did you get this?”
Lia glanced at him, and Gabriel nodded.
“I don’t suppose the name Estelle Allard means anything to you?” Lia asked.
“I don’t think so,” Abigail said. “Who is she?”
“She was my grandmother,” Lia told her. “And I found that picture in her apartment after she passed. In Paris.”
The housekeeper’s forehead creased. “Good heavens. What a small world. They must have been friends, yes?” She tapped the edge of the photo. “I think Sophie studied in Paris.”
“She did,” Gabriel confirmed. “In 1933 and ’34.”
Abigail turned the photo over and squinted at the date written in faded ink in the corner. “Wait. This photo says 1942. That can’t be right. Sophie died before that. In the bombing of Warsaw.”
Gabriel grimaced. “I’m not so sure anymore. That she died in Warsaw, that is.”
“You think she’s alive?” The housekeeper’s head came up so quickly that her glasses slid down her nose.
“No. I don’t think that, though I can’t really prove anything one way or the other at the moment.”
“Heavens. How…extraordinary.” Abigail took off her glasses and handed the photo back to Lia. “And you’ve come to ask your grandfather about it?”
“Yes. There is an issue of…some artwork wrapped up in this anomaly. Property we’re trying to return to rightful owners. My father doesn’t know anything. About the art or the photos. I was hoping Grandfather might.”
The housekeeper was shaking her head. “He doesn’t speak of those years. Of the war, or anything that went on during it.”
“I know. I’m hoping he might now.”
“You be careful. I don’t know what you’re thinking or what those photos mean but William’s heart is old and tired, and I’m not sure it could stand being broken all over again where his sister is concerned,” Abigail warned. “My mum told me that the loss of his parents was one thing but it was the loss of his sister that almost accomplished what the prison camps had failed to do.”
Gabriel shifted his bag on his shoulder. “I rather wish we could talk to your mum.”
“Aye,” Abigail agreed. “My knowledge of the war and all its tragedies and hardships is a secondhand account. Mum lived here through it all. Looked after a number of children that were sent here from London for safekeeping, as well as a few soldiers who came here to recover. She kept clippings and letters and leaflets and photos so that I might understand the uncertainty and the chaos of that time. If the war did anything, it turned Mum into a packrat, not willing to throw anything away. Though her efforts certainly kept me from ever being ungrateful for what I had growing up.”
“Where?” Lia asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Abigail swung around to look at Lia.
“Where did your mum keep all of those things that she shared with you? Do you still have them?”
The housekeeper blinked. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about all of that in years. I suppose anything that Mum might have saved would be up in the attic. We go up from time to time to look for pieces for the house, but I’ve never looked for anything Mum might have kept. Never had reason to.”
“Could we take a look?” Gabriel asked.
Abigail shrugged. “No matter to me. It is your house, after all. But fair warning, stay out of the way of the wedding planners and guests or you’ll have Elaine breathing fire down your neck.”
Gabriel chuckled. “We’ve been warned.”
“I don’t know what she would have kept during the war that would tell you anything about your family that you probably don’t already know,” Abigail said dubiously.
“Worth a look, I think.” Gabriel shrugged. “We’ll pop in to see Grandfather and then take a look this afternoon when he’s napping.”
“Will you tell me if you find anything?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Well, good luck, then,” Abigail said. “And remind your grandfather that lunch will be served at one.”
Gabriel led Lia into the modest room they’d always called the reading room. The long, tall windows faced southwest, making the room almost perpetually bright, even on the days when the sun was hidden by banks of rolling cloud. Between each window, an equally tall bookcase stood, filled not with the leather-bound tomes that graced the study in the restored section of the house, but with well-worn, dog-eared novels that had been loved many times over.
Two comfortable couches sat kitty-corner to each other, an odd assortment of plaid throws draped over the dark grey cushions, and end tables covered in framed photographs flanked each. Mismatched wing-backed chairs were edged close to the windows, a collection of cross-stitched cushions depicting dogs and what Gabriel thought might be a chicken resting against the backs. A small television sat against one wall, though Gabriel couldn’t remember ever watching much TV in this room, even growing up. It was a room for visiting or reading or deliberating over the wooden chessboard that had a place of honour on a table between the two couches.
William Seymour was sitting in a wheelchair by the farthest window, his eyes closed. Yet even at his advanced age, Gabriel could still see glimpses of the young man he had once been. His shoulders were still broad, his fingers long and graceful. The color in his complexion suggested he might have just come in from outside, and even the deep lines of his face did not detract from an aquiline nose and a square jaw.
He was wearing a pair of noise-cancelling headphones over his fringe of white hair.
“Is he asleep?” Lia whispered from behind Gabriel.
“No.” Gabriel shook his head.
William suddenly barked out a laugh, a rough, harsh sound.
“He’s listening to a book.” Gabriel stepped into the room and knocked as loudly as he could on the door as he did so.
His grandfather’s eyes popped open behind round spectacles, and his face immediately creased into a delighted smile. “Gabriel,” he said, fumbling with the portable player that rested in his lap. He pulled the headphones from his head. “Abigail said you had arrived. I’m so glad you’re here.” His voice was gravelly, age roughening his words.
“Me too.” Gabriel crossed the room and bent to embrace him. “I’m sorry I haven’t been up to Millbrook more as of late.”
“Bah,” William said, waving his hand. “You’re busy, and I’m glad for it. Young men should be busy. When you get to my age, there is plenty of time to sit in the sun and listen to others tell tales.”
“What are you listening to?” Gabriel asked.
“Cornwell. I do so enjoy the adventures.” His blue eyes shifted past Gabriel to Lia and a sly smile spread across his face and a bushy white eyebrow lifted. He put his headphones aside as Lia advanced into the room. “Abigail mentioned you had brought a guest. Do introduce us.”
“Of course.” Gabriel turned to Lia. “This is Miss Aurelia Leclaire, visiting from Paris.”
“It is so wonderful to meet you, Mr. Seymour,” Lia said, coming forward. She took his grandfather’s outstretched hand and kissed both his cheeks.
“A pleasure to meet you as well,” he rasped. “Forgive me for not rising.” He stuck out his left leg, a pinned trouser folded over midcalf. “The old peg leg was achy so I didn’t put my robot leg on today.” He gestured to one of the wing-backed chairs beside him. “Please, won’t you be seated?”
“Thank you.” Lia smiled and settled herself in the chair, placing the folder in her lap.
“Would you like a refreshment?” his grandfather asked her, ever the gentleman. “I could see if Abigail might be kind enough to bring in some tea?”
“No thank you,” Lia said easily. “I’m saving myself for lunch.”
“At one o’clock,” William said. “She asked you to remind me, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“I’m fairly certain lunch has been served at Millbrook at one o’clock since 1859,” he grumbled. “When I forget that, then I give Gabriel permission to put me out to pasture.”
Gabriel made a face and dragged a footstool from one of the couches over to the window. He sat down in the sunshine.
“Are you an artist by trade, Miss Leclaire?” William asked.
“No. An engineer. Chemical,” she added when his brows rose again.
“Indeed? What a fascinating field of study.” William sounded delighted with this revelation.
And judging by his expression, his grandfather was already imagining Lia’s portrait in the hall with every other brilliant woman a Seymour male had managed to marry.
“I love my work,” Lia told him.
“As you should.” William looked back and forth between them. “Tell me how you two met.”
“Lia is a client, Grandfather. I am doing some appraisal and restoration work for her.”
“Oh?” William’s attention transferred to Lia. “Then tell me about the art my grandson is working on for you.”
“A fairly large collection of Impressionists,” she said. “Degas, Pissarro, amongst others. Also some landscapes. A few Turners.”
“Impressive, Miss Leclaire. How long have you been collecting?”
“I haven’t. It was my grandmother’s collection,” she started. “We think.”
“You think?”
“I found it hidden in an apartment in Paris. Until recently, I wasn’t aware of the existence of either apartment or art collection.”
“Hmph.” William set his headphones aside on the small table next to his chair. “Sounds intriguing. I’d like to see the collection. Especially the Turners. I’m an artist myself, you know.”
“Yes,” Lia said. “I knew that.”
Gabriel watched his grandfather’s face for any sort of reaction to the revelation of a hidden art hoard in a Paris apartment where his sister may have been. But he saw nothing beyond expected interest.
“Gabriel is an artist too,” William told Lia, sounding for all the world like he had just announced Gabriel’s ascension to the throne of England. “He won’t have shown you his art, but you should see it. This boy here has talent, and I think he should—”
“I’ve seen it.”
“You have?” William narrowed his eyes at Gabriel. “He tends to hide that fact behind all of his fancy screens and chemicals and machines.”
“I saw it by accident,” Lia admitted. “But I’ve seen it all the same, and I agree wholeheartedly. He is extraordinarily talented.”
“Are you listening, Gabriel?” his grandfather demanded.
Gabriel looked out the window, pretending to be absorbed by something beyond the glass, acutely uncomfortable with the turn this conversation had taken.
“When he was younger, he spoke of nothing but becoming an artist,” William continued. “Exhibiting his work all over the world.”
“Indeed?” Lia sounded contemplative. “So what happened?”
“I grew up,” Gabriel growled. “And learned how to make a living. I believe we’ve been over this.”
“He could sell his work,” William insisted. “Should be selling his work.”
“I bought two of his pieces,” Lia offered. She still sounded thoughtful.
“You did?” William’s voice rose in disbelief.
“I did,” Lia confirmed.
“Well, it’s about damn time,” his grandfather said with clear delight. “I thought I would meet my maker before I saw that happen.” He thumped the arm of his chair with his hand. “I thought he’d hide his talent forever.”
“I’m not hiding.” There was more defensiveness in his protest than he had intended. “I’m not hiding,” Gabriel repeated.
“Then promise me you’ll exhibit your work—just once—and I can die a happy man.”
Gabriel stood and moved away from the window.
“Promise me, Gabriel,” his grandfather nagged.
“Fine. I promise.”
“Good.”
“Miss Leclaire plans to exhibit her collection,” Gabriel said, firmly changing the subject. “In Paris. We think some of the art may have been hidden prior to the war.”
William sniffed, giving Gabriel a look that told him he had fooled no one. “Well, you can send me photos, I suppose.”
“We actually have some photos that I’d like to show you now,” Gabriel said. “We’re hoping you may be able to tell us a little bit about them.”
“Oh?” His grandfather leaned forward.
Gabriel walked over to where Lia sat and took the folder from her. He crouched at the side of William’s chair and opened it. “We found these in Lia’s grandmère’s apartment, too, along with the art,” he told him. “We think that these are photos of Sophie. Your sister.”
This time, there was no missing William’s reaction. His ruddy face paled, his body stilling.
Gabriel laid the first photo on his lap, one of the glossy, Hollywood-style shots.
William stared down at it without making any effort to pick it up.
“Is that her?” Gabriel asked. “Aunt Sophie?”
Finally William lifted the photo. His fingers traced the edge of her face. “It looks like her.” His voice was barely audible. “But I don’t understand why these would be in your grandmother’s apartment. Were they friends?”
“I’m not sure,” Lia said. “Did she ever mention a woman named Estelle Allard to you?”
William shook his head. “No.”
“Ever mention anything about paintings that were hidden in Paris?”
“No.” His answer was faint.
“There are more photos.” Gently, Gabriel laid out the rest of the Hollywood collection.
“She looks different,” William said, picking each one up in fingers that were trembling before putting them back down. “Different than I remember.”
Gabriel nodded. “What about this one?” He put the small, battered photo of Sophie astride the leggy horse on top of the blanket.
William was shaking his head. “No, this isn’t her. These all look like her but it’s not her.”
“How can you be sure?” Gabriel asked.
“Sophie didn’t ride. Horses, that is. She never rode when we were kids. The neighbours—the Stantons—had horses, down the road. They’d let me ride their old mare whenever I asked, but Sophie never came. Didn’t trust horses, she said.”
“Do you think that maybe she could have learned later on? Maybe when she was working in Poland?”
William picked up the picture. “No. She would have told me. She sent me letters,” he said. “Even when I enlisted and was moved around, her letters found me. Eventually. And that’s something she would have told me if only because I was such a brat to her about it. That’s not her.”
Gabriel extracted the last photo in the folder. “I think it is. Because this one was with it.” He put the picture of Millbrook on his grandfather’s lap.
