Paris, 1921

I immediately got up, packed all of my books and other belongings into my bag and fled down the stairs. I thought if I could just make it to the shop, Sylvia would know what to do, how to help. I waved away Madame Rousseau’s offer of breakfast and pushed the outer door open only to find myself coming face to face with my brother, who was waiting for me. He was not alone.

‘Here she is,’ he said, a new black walking cane in his grasp. ‘You see,

Bingley, she is overcome with emotion.’

I stood there, open-mouthed, like an idiot, trying to take it all in. There was my brother, triumphant and relaxed, and this Bingley character looking eager and holding a large bouquet of flowers.

‘Well, don’t just stand there, man, give her the blasted things before they wilt!’

‘Miss Carlisle, I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance,’ he said, handing me the blooms.

Still, I said nothing, but gripped tightly the handle of my bag and wondered if I could outrun them.

‘Now don’t worry, Sister, good old Bingley here bears you no grudge for standing him up on the last occasion you two lovebirds were to meet.’

I couldn’t fathom his tone of voice. It was not my brother speaking but some imposter. With endless charm.

‘How did you find me?’ I asked, finally.

‘How do you think? Your dear friend Jane found a picture of you in a magazine and her husband was only too delighted to share it with your proud family.’

He must have seen the look on my face, how foolish I had been.

‘Oh, come now,’ he said, taking my arm firmly in his grasp. ‘We are men of the world, after all. We understand that you needed to spread your wings before marriage. Have one last hurrah. Isn’t that so, Bingley?’

‘Indeed, indeed,’ he agreed, eyeing me up and down as though I were his next meal. He was tall and ruddy with a hooked nose and a receding hairline. They both smelled of brandy, which explained their exaggerated behaviour. Everything seemed outrageously strange – the juxtaposition of my brother and his associate in my Paris. I hardly noticed them guiding me towards a hotel.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘I have to go to work.’

‘Work! We have a socialist in our midst, Bingley!’ my brother continued in this strange jovial voice that didn’t suit him. It was like the wolf talking to Red Riding Hood. ‘Of course, I should call you Lord Bingley,’ he said, ushering us both ahead of him and into a grand-looking foyer.

‘This is all very well—’ I began, but Lyndon once again hushed me with his effervescent monologue.

‘Champagne, we must celebrate!’

He gestured to a waiter who was serving an elderly couple their coffees in the foyer. I could tell he was insulted by my brother’s arrogance, but he simply nodded his head and arranged some chairs at a table for us.

‘I shall book my little sister a private room for this evening,’ he said, gesturing towards the concierge’s desk. ‘Must uphold tradition and all that. There will be time enough for you both to become better acquainted after the wedding.’

Wedding? Surely he wasn’t suggesting that I marry this stranger. Of course I didn’t wish to create a scene in front of so many people so, as he turned to leave, I said in a low voice, ‘Lyndon, have you taken leave of your senses entirely?’

‘I’ll explain everything upstairs,’ he said, and all but pushed me down into my seat.

Alone with Lord Bingley, I did my best impression of a mute. He asked if I had enjoyed my time in Paris and I simply nodded and pulled my lips into something resembling a smile. The waiter returned and placed a bucket of ice on the small table beside us. He gently popped the cork of the champagne and poured a tiny amount into Bingley’s glass. Naturally, he had to taste it first and the whole charade left me inwardly screaming with impatience. Just pour the damn thing, I wanted to say. I needed a drink.

Bingley clinked my glass and toasted to our future. I smiled again, thinking of how our future would be as long-lived as it took me to escape my brother’s clutches. I saw Lyndon, still chatting to the concierge. My mind raced – perhaps I could get them both drunk and slip away unnoticed.

‘He’s quite the fellow, your brother.’ ‘Quite.’

‘We served together in the army, you know.’ ‘Oh?’

‘A man of rare conviction.’ ‘Is that so?’

‘Why yes, Miss Carlisle. Opaline. I may call you Opaline.’

May you indeed, I thought, wondering how long I would have to endure this charade. A thought struck me of how Sylvia would mock this forced

politeness at all costs. If only I were an American!

‘You learn a lot about someone’s character in the trenches. You have to make unpopular decisions.’

I knew what he was referring to. It had been a bone of contention between Lyndon and my father.

‘Yes, I am aware that my brother shot one of his men for cowardice,’ I said, no longer able to keep the fake smile on my face. The thought alone disgusted me – killing our own men, purely because their fear got the better of them.

‘One of his men? Oh, it was at least ten times that,’ he said, almost boasting. ‘You see, one must set an example when leading men.’

‘An example?’

‘Earned himself a nickname: The Reaper.’ He widened his eyes and I felt a frisson of fear run along my spine.

Just then Lyndon returned, holding a room key in his hand. ‘Let’s get you settled,’ he said, lifting me by my arm.

I felt I had to comply until I could find the right opportunity to escape. We stepped into the elevator while the attendant closed the iron grill and pushed the button for us to ascend. No one spoke a word and I looked down at my shoes. I could see the rip in my stockings from the night before. Armand. Oh, my heart crumpled in on itself like a discarded love letter. I suddenly felt very weary. I longed to be inside the comforting surrounds of Shakespeare and Company, working with Sylvia, cataloguing the books, greeting the customers.

‘Troisième étage,’ the attendant informed us and opened the gate for us.

As we walked down the carpeted hallway lined with tall plants on either side, I tried to gather my thoughts, but it was pointless.

‘Here we are,’ Lyndon said. ‘I booked you the room next to ours.’

I walked in, about to put my bag on the bed, but came to my senses and turned to leave. ‘I can’t stay here, Lyndon.’

He stood in the doorway, blocking my path. ‘You will do as you are told, little sister.’ With a movement I hadn’t seen coming, he pushed me so hard into the wall opposite that I smacked my forehead and slumped to the floor, dazed.

As I sat there, he calmly closed the door and left.

I’m not sure how long I lay there, hugging my knees on the floor. It could have been twenty minutes or two hours.

‘Ménage!’ called the housekeeper.

I had no energy to reply, but the knocking was relentless. ‘S’il vous plait?’

I heaved myself up and unlocked the door. ‘What on earth … ?’ It was Armand.

He strode into the room and picked up my bag and coat. ‘Come quickly.’

‘But where … how?’

‘I’ll explain after, dépêches-toi!’ He grabbed my hand and made for the door.

We hurried down the corridor, in the opposite direction from which I’d come, to a back stair. I hadn’t time to think, only silently prayed that we would not get caught. He held my hand tightly and, once on the ground floor, we kept to the staff corridor and found ourselves running through the kitchen, where the chefs hardly had time to shout at us before we found a side door on to the street. We ran down the alleyway and crossed several cobbled streets, Armand winding his way through the shortcuts of the city like a street urchin. Past street vendors selling flowers and fruit, under bridges and then out on to a grand boulevard I recognised. We were heading towards Shakespeare and Company.

‘Wait, wait!’ I panted, out of breath. ‘Just … a moment,’ I said, grabbing a streetlamp for support.

Armand finally let go of my hand, which he’d had in a tight grip the entire time. Immediately, I felt the loss and as I glanced at his face, his brown eyes scanning the street, the night before came into sharp relief.

‘He knows about the bookshop,’ I said, ‘it’s the first place he will look for me.’

‘Sylvia wants you to come, she has a plan.’ ‘You’ve spoken to her?’

‘This morning, I came to your lodging …’ he hesitated. ‘I couldn’t wait to see you.’ A brief smile lit his face. ‘That’s when I saw them take you, so I followed.’

‘But how did you know what room I was in?’

‘I didn’t,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘I knocked on every door.’ ‘Oh.’ I was somewhat taken aback.

‘Now we must hurry.’

Sylvia was awaiting my arrival at the back entrance. She gave me a quick, firm embrace, then handed me a key.

‘A friend of mine has a house outside Paris, near Tours. You can stay there until—’

‘You don’t understand, I have to leave. Permanently. What I have done, running out on this wedding—’

‘Wedding?’ Armand repeated.

I opened my mouth to explain but found that I did not have the wherewithal to speak.

‘How’s everyone at Stratford-on-Odéon today?’ Mr Joyce asked in his offbeat manner, poking his head around the door. My heart jumped – he must have wandered through from the front of the shop without any of us noticing.

‘There’s no time to explain, Jimmy. Opaline must leave the country immediately,’ said Sylvia.

After some suggestive winking in Armand’s direction, he casually suggested a swift exit to Dublin city.

‘I have only ever heard you complain of your country’ said Armand, which was quite true. We’d all heard him opine about Ireland’s lack of culture and their ignorance at failing to recognise his genius.

‘Yes, but I’m a writer. An artist. I am obliged to curse my home. But no,’ he said, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette, ‘I think Ireland could suit you down to the ground.’

I considered it. We spoke the same language. For heaven’s sake, it had been part of Britain until that business with the treaty.

‘Now that I think of it,’ Joyce said, snapping his fingers, ‘I’ve got a friend there who owns a nostalgia shop. A rare gentleman in these times, Mr Fitzpatrick. If you use my name, he’s sure to give you a job, might sort you out with lodgings too.’

‘It sounds like a bit of a long shot,’ I said. ‘What other option is there?’ Sylvia asked.

And that was that. Joyce was hurriedly scribbling the name and address of the shop, whilst promising to send his friend a telegram, so he could expect my arrival.

What he actually meant was that he would get Sylvia to do it.

Everything got lost in a blur of tears after that. I felt like I was breaking apart and no one was coming to put me back together.

‘Now, now, there’s no need for all that,’ Sylvia said, handing me an envelope with the address and my wages. ‘You’re a grown woman with a brain in your head, two good arms for carrying books and two strong legs to get you where you need to go.’

‘What will you do if my brother comes here looking for me?’ I asked. ‘Why, sell him a book, of course!’

Armand took me to the port and secured a crossing for me. As we stood together, waiting for my turn to embark, he removed a chain from around his neck. The golden, hand-shaped pendant sparkled brightly in the sunlight

.

‘It is called a hamsa,’ he explained. ‘In my culture, we believe it offers the wearer protection from the evil eye.’

‘Like an amulet?’

‘Exactement. As long as you wear it, you will always be safe.’ It was time to leave.

‘You have my address – it is the safest way to communicate with Sylvia.

Your brother knows nothing of me.’

I nodded. I hadn’t been aware that I’d been crying. I could now feel my tears drying on my cheek, or perhaps the sea air had caused them to evaporate. He took me in his warm embrace one last time. There was nothing left to say. He crossed the street and did not look back. I felt my heart descending rapidly, like an anchor into a bottomless sea.