She stopped going out; she stopped trying. She paced the flat, or curled up and cried under her evening gowns in “le dressing,” though it was perfectly ridiculous to be miserable in the most fabulous city in the world. How she’d bragged to her friends! I’ll be in the romance capital of the world! Oh là là! Frenchmen will flirt with me! Oh là là! Champagne! Chocolat! You must visit! How embarrassed she was by the truth! She would die before she told her friends. Not that they rang or wrote. When Margaret left London, she’d fallen off the face of their earth.

This morning, the consul’s wife, a kindly woman, if a bit of a frump, had come to call. When Jameson announced her arrival, Margaret dashed to the mirror. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d washed her hair. Her eyes were bloodshot. She was ashamed of how pathetic she’d become, and would have had the butler refuse Mrs. Davies, but she was desperate for friends, and this was her first caller. She changed from her stained peignoir into a smart ivy dress. The consul’s wife took one look at Margaret and insisted she visit the Paris Library, this very afternoon. And now here she was.

There was an easy camaraderie here that she’d never seen before. Women didn’t ask “What does your husband do?” Rather, they wanted to know “What are you reading?” Margaret sighed. Yet more flurries of conversation that didn’t include her.

“Welcome to the Library.”

The librarian’s dress was drab, but she was pretty enough with her hair swept up by a black bow. Her eyes sparkled like the gems Marjorie Simpson’s second husband gave her for their third anniversary. Lawrence no longer gave Margaret jewelry like that.

“May I help you find something?”

Margaret gnawed on her stiff upper lip, wishing for once she could say what she wanted. Instead, she asked, “Would you have any books for my daughter? She’s four.”

The librarian tilted her head. “How about Bella the Goat?”

“You can’t know how relieved I am to be in a place where English is spoken. Paris is so foreign.” Margaret paused. That came out wrong. Everything she said came out wrong. “Of course, I realize that in France, I’m the foreign one.”

“You’ll fit in here,” the librarian soothed. “We have many subscribers from England and Canada.”

“Lovely. Would you happen to have anything for me?”

“A novel by Dorothy Whipple? The Priory is one of my favorites.”

Actually, Margaret had meant magazines. She hadn’t opened a book since dreary George Eliot at finishing school.

“Or Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day, a Cinderella story for grown-ups.”

Margaret could do with a fairy tale.

“If you’re having trouble understanding French, we have some wonderful books on grammar. Let’s see…”

Margaret was touched by this attention. At embassy events, when people chatted with Margaret, they kept one eye on her, the other on the room. The second they saw someone more important, they broke away midconversation.

“If you prefer,” the librarian added, “we have Vogue.”

She seemed disappointed, so Margaret said, “I’ll take the books.”

The librarian positively shimmered with enthusiasm. “Let’s go get them. I’m Odile, by the way.”

“I’m Margaret.”

But instead of moving toward the stacks, Odile climbed the stairs. Margaret followed, and as they passed through the “Employees Only” door, she asked, “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

In the tiny breakroom, Odile set the table with two mismatched teacups and a plate of plain scones. When the librarian turned to set the kettle on the hot plate, Margaret ran her finger over the rough surface of a scone, so like the ones her mum made. Yes, Paris was full of culinary delights, and she’d feasted on decadent pastries. Yet Margaret craved something familiar.

Odile sat and gestured to the seat beside her. “Raconte. It means ‘tell me.’?”

For the first time since arriving in Paris, Margaret felt happy, she felt at home.

CHAPTER 8

Odile

L’HEURE BLEUE, THAT magical time between day and night, had fallen. As subscribers checked out books and left for the day, stillness weaved its web over the tables and chairs. I loved the Library like this, when all was tranquil and it felt like mine.

In the thick leather ledger, I helped Boris tally how many subscribers had come in today (287), how many books had gone out (936), and details of library life (Another pregnant woman fainted—she read page 43 of Prospective Mother).

“It’s late,” he said. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I want to.”

Boris gestured to the empty reading room, his elegant hand covered in paper cuts. “Heaven, isn’t it?” And so began our nightly ballet, its choreography perfected over the last month. He made sure the windows were locked and closed the drapes; I dimmed the lights to warn the steadfast scholars in the reference room that the Library would soon close. Neither of us said anything as we realigned the chairs. There were problems to discuss, tasks to assign, but all that would wait until tomorrow. After a day spent answering questions, this silence was our reward. I wondered if Madame Simon was right, that he was an aristocrat. I wondered if he would ever trust me enough to tell me anything about his life.