Gilbert Rochambeau stood on the platform at the Gare du Nord, waiting to board the train that would take him to Avignon. He felt some trepidation about returning to the south of France, despite having lived in the Camargue. His nerves had little to do with going home, though, and everything to do with the task he had set himself.
When it was his turn, Gilbert mounted the little steps to the second class carriage. He carried his walking-stick: the same one Claire had given him as a Christmas gift. It felt like a lifetime ago that she had presented him the blue-knobbed cane that he’d admired in Harrod’s. The stick was more than just an affectation; it helped him to walk straight and sure. The injury of his youth was no longer so obvious when he used the handsome stick. He found a window seat and put his valise in the rack overhead.
As the train pulled out of the station, Gilbert looked out the window toward the horizon. He had a few hours to master his fears … and to question his own folly, of course. If nothing else, the South would be a beautiful place to paint.
But it was not for painting that he was traveling south, although he pulled the little sketchbook from his pocket and sketched impressions of his fellow passengers. He would look briefly at this gentleman or that lady, sketch for a moment and then return his attention to the window.
As the train moved through Paris, he could not help remembering the days when he lived in the City of Light. First he’d dwelt at the Opera Garnier, as the late and wholly unlamented Francois Delacroix’s valet. How far he’d come from those days … those cringing, miserable days. Thank God, they were long behind him. Then as valet for Erik LeMaitre, the notorious Phantom of the Opera, … and majordomo for his wife, Claire.
They’d all become friends after a while. Erik’s reclusive behavior made it logical for Gilbert to accompany Claire anywhere she needed to go; it didn’t matter whether it was Paris or London, ladies must be escorted when they went. Sometimes it seemed as though Gilbert knew Claire better than did her own husband. He’d even kissed her once …
That memory was best put back on the shelf where it belonged, just in case. Better to focus on today, and on the days to come.
Gilbert Rochambeau was heading south for one reason, and one reason alone: to declare his love to Claire once and for all.