Belle - Lesley Pearse [220]
‘No, I won’t,’ Belle said. Then, sitting back in her seat, she closed her eyes and pretended she was going to sleep. She wanted to remember those words Etienne had said in French.
She could understand the first part, that he would brave fire, but she couldn’t translate the rest. The speed with which he came up with the sentence, together with his tears, suggested it was something she’d want to hear, yet if fire was the first thing that came into his head, surely that proved his wife was on his mind?
Belle would never be able to forget her shock and joy when Etienne came hurtling through the door at Pascal’s house. Even in her wildest hopes of rescue she had never once thought of him being her saviour, or that she’d ever see him again. But there were moments too when Philippe came into the room, and he and Etienne were tying Pascal up, that she thought she was dreaming it all. Then all at once she was in the hospital bed, with a doctor giving her something to sleep, and she thought she’d gone mad and imagined it all.
In the days that followed Etienne had been the one who brought her out of shock, distress and hopelessness. Once Noah told her about his wife and children she understood why he was the one person who had the power to help her deal with it all.
She couldn’t help but hope he held deep feelings for her. But perhaps that was just nature’s way of trying to compensate for the trauma she’d suffered. He certainly hadn’t said anything to encourage her hope.
In the last few days as he took her about Paris, he hadn’t so much as hinted that his affection for her was anything more than that of a friend or brother. He hadn’t kissed her again like he had on the way to New Orleans either.
Realistically she was also aware that her own feelings were possibly distorted. She might be placing him on a pedestal because he’d rescued her; he was also the only man who was never likely to throw her past back at her, and that was comforting.
Yet for all she knew, Pascal might have cast such a dark shadow over her that she might discover she was unable to give herself to any man ever again.
It was no good thinking Etienne’s tears meant he had fallen in love with her. He was still grieving, just as she was still haunted by her ordeal with Pascal. They had helped each other in their time of need, and perhaps that was all there was to it.
Belle and Noah walked out of Charing Cross railway station on to the concourse in the Strand in the early evening of the following day. They had stayed the night in Calais because Noah thought it would be too tiring for Belle to attempt to do the journey all in one day.
From the ferry she saw the white cliffs of Dover for the first time. She wondered how many English people over the years had felt choked up at the sight because it meant they were nearly home.
As the train chugged through the Kentish countryside, Belle marvelled at how lush and green everywhere was, and realized that the nearest she’d ever got to countryside before was in parks. It seemed extraordinary that she’d been to America and France, but had never seen a grazing cow or sheep until on this journey home.
As they drew closer to London Belle’s heart started to race, but as the train rattled over Hungerford Bridge and she saw the Thames gleaming pure silver in the sun, the dome of St Paul’s and Big Ben on the Houses of Parliament, she found it hard to stay in her seat for excitement.
The Strand was as busy as it always had been, but Belle noted there were far more motorcars now. Noah had been saying on the train that he wanted one, and he thought it would only be a year or two before they were more common than horses.
As they walked along the Strand and then crossed the road to go up through Covent Garden, Belle began walking faster and faster. ‘Slow down,’ Noah groaned, with