When not touring, he lived in a small room at the top of a terraced house in Leicester, his car and trailer parked at the rear by arrangement with his landlady. Rick, contentedly married but always hard up and complaining about the meagre wage O’Leary paid him, lived close by. The previous winter, during one such break in work, he had happened upon Mme de Morganet on one of the more restrained internet contact sites (Responsible Adults seeking Mature Friendship). At first he had deliberately not selected her link – her self-description made her sound eccentric, or desperate, or weird, and probably all three, while her photograph was ambiguously shadowed.
Rick, when he found out, egged him on. “At least she sounds exotic,” he said. “Might cheer you up a bit.”
After paying the fee, O’Leary exchanged several tentative emails with her. They elicited enough information from each other to feel a meeting should follow. It took several weeks to arrange, because soon after they made contact, O’Leary began a tour in the north of England. She was a harmless distraction while the work went on. He grew fond of her sometimes bizarre messages, which came as a welcome change in his workaday life.
O’Leary told her all the facts about himself that he knew to be true: that he was unmarried, not rich but not hard up, healthy, sane, not saddled with onerous debts or obligations, and that he was at an age she might consider suitable.
He learned that she was a childless widow, that she had been grief-stricken by the loss of her husband, but that he had left her well-provided-for with a house and an investment income from family securities. She described herself as interested in O’Leary’s skill as an illusionist, and said she would love to learn from him. More touchingly, she said that she was lonely and anxious to find a long-term partner. O’Leary told her, shyly, much the same.
Sitting alone in her drawing room, surrounded by the huge collection of antiques, he felt more ill at ease than he could ever remember. But then, unannounced and without any fuss or sense of ceremony, Mme de Morganet entered through the double doors. A gust of warm air followed her in and circled around him, bearing with it the merest hint of patchouli. He stood up to meet her.
They shook hands conventionally, exchanging names, then Mme de Morganet drew back from him. They stood apart, regarding each other frankly and intently, but not discourteously. Both smiled. Neither of them appeared to feel uncomfortable with this exploratory staring, nor that they were embarrassing the other.
That she was a handsome woman was instantly in no doubt. She appeared to be in her late thirties, although at first sight O’Leary could not be sure. Her raven hair, with a touch of silver, was set off by a bold streak of purple. Her stance was upright but informal, her long gown of dark-grey satin made sombre but also more feminine by black and purple ribbons. She wore a veil, pushed back above her face so that it rested on her hair. She wore black satin cocktail gloves, fingers exposed, with long lacy armlets. Her fingers were heavy with rings, all of them white gold or silver. Their claw settings held dark gems. She had put something on her face, too pale, while her eyes were lined too darkly. Her lips were glossed and deep red.
“Well, Mr O’Leary,” she said soon enough. “This is my house and I am pleased to welcome you to it.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “I am delighted to meet you at last. I’m sorry it has taken so long to arrange, but I enjoyed your emails.”
“And I yours. Please, let’s dispense with formalities. You must call me Louisa, and I shall call you Dennis.”
He nodded his acceptance of this and they smiled broadly. In spite of the attempt to break the ice, she spoke in measured, almost formal tones, as if reciting aloud, or addressing someone who might not understand. However, far from being intimidated by her, now that he was standing close to her O’Leary felt a sudden mad urge to sweep her into his arms.
She sat down on the settee with a deep rustling of satin, indicating he should sit beside her. He did so, but stayed at the far end. They began to converse, at first remarking conventionally on his journey and the unusually cold weather. The woman who had opened the door to him came in with a tray of tea things. Her tweed cap had disappeared. As they started on the buttered scones and delicate little cakes, O’Leary felt the atmosphere growing more cordial by the minute.
A quiet joy was rising in him. Louisa de Morganet was a mature, beautiful and intelligent woman, a romantic individualist in the way she liked to dress, but obviously modern and open-minded in outlook. Years of experience, and his own deceptive profession, had taught him never to accept at face value anything seen or quickly learned. He resolved to keep this in mind for the time being.
They asked questions about each other. O’Leary had rarely spoken about himself to anyone before. His harmless revelations about his past felt awkward and unnatural at first, but Louisa’s manner was so welcoming and candid that his inhibitions began to fade away.
She was in return forthcoming about herself. She told him how she had met her late husband, François, a Frenchman who worked in the London City branch of a Parisian bank. She indicated the framed photograph above the fireplace. François had a moustache, goatee beard and long sideburns, and was posed stiffly wearing a dark frock coat and with a cane in hand. He looked irritated by being photographed, and glared at the camera, ill at ease.
François, she said, had swept her off her feet, married her, taken her to his family home in Provence, where she discovered he came from a long line of aristocrats. They went on an extended tour of European countries, far to the east – Roumania and Bessarabia – thence to countries bordering the Mediterranean: Lebanon, Turkey and Greece. It was, she said, from meeting members of his family that she developed her taste for knowledge, the learning from others of practical and artistic skills. The de Morganets were academics and professionals, all polymaths. The family was extensive and widely dispersed.
When she and François returned to England they bought this house. She spoke warmly but distantly of him, and O’Leary realized that she must still be feeling her loss.
François de Morganet had contracted tuberculosis while they were on their travels. It afflicted him severely and he died within a year of their return.
Louisa looked mortified by her memories. “He was in so much pain, day and night, terrible discomfort. And the blood – so much blood! I shall never forget, never! Mon pauvre mari, mon chéri!”
She was staring into her lap, but then she raised her head, looked at the photograph above the fire.
O’Leary saw tears welling in her eyes, unnerving him, so he left the settee and wandered around the crowded room, easing his way between the many pieces. Soon, Louisa composed herself. She was standing when he turned back to her. She lightly touched his hand as they resumed their seats, and encouraged him to sit a little closer.
Outside, the dark of the evening had closed in, the wind blustering around the gables and roof pinnacles. The open fire, a mound of logs, blazed cheerfully. The serving woman quietly entered the drawing room and went around lighting the lamps, a number of gas mantles, but there were candles too. Once these were alight more scented essences drifted through the room.
“Mrs Acland – did you show our guest to his room?” Louisa said.
The woman was about to leave the drawing room. “No, madame, I brought him straight in here, as you asked.” She nodded, then closed the doors.