Archive of Our Own

On a bright spring morning, two young women stood at the rail of a steamship transporting passengers from Dover to Calais. One was tall, with curly dark hair that came only a little past her shoulders. The other was short and a little bit plump, with straight, light-brown hair pinned back in a jeweled clasp that she furtively checked with one hand every now and again. They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at the shore of France, barely visible in the distance. 

“And when we meet people, what will you say?” asked the tall one.

“You’re Sara Crewe,” said the short one. “An heiress from London, and my -- my friend. My friend?”

“Yes. And you are?”

“I am Becky, your friend and companion.” 

“You’re perfect, Becky.”

“Thank you, miss.” Becky’s eyes went wide, briefly, at her mistake. “I mean, thank you, Sara. What if I do that in front of people?”

“If you slip up in French, that won’t matter, everyone will understand that you’re only just learning the language. And if you slip up in English in front of French people, no one’s likely to notice. The only person you really need to be careful around is Mrs. Croyden.”

“But she’s our chaperone! She’ll be around most of the time -- oh, here she comes now.”

Sara turned with a polite smile. She was already regretting the necessity of hiring a chaperone for herself and Becky, but a few weeks before their planned trip, Uncle Tom had had a flare-up of some of his old health problems. Ram Dass, of course, would stay with him and care for him, but Uncle Tom had insisted Sara not postpone her visit to France yet again. 

A young English lady was not supposed to travel by herself. Mrs. Carmichael had other pressing plans for the spring, and so Sara had interviewed a series of respectable older women who could escort her to France, looking for someone unimpeachable but also incurious, because she’d already hatched a plan.

She could, naturally, bring Becky along as an attendant. For a young lady to bring her personal maid on an extended journey was unexceptional. But what Sara wanted was to bring Becky as a companion. And in the years since they’d both left Miss Minchin’s Seminary, Becky had learned to speak with a more refined accent, and had waited on Sara at enough fancy events to know how to imitate upper-class, or at least wealthy-middle-class, airs. 

Whenever Sara went to the British Museum, or the new British Museum of Natural History, Becky always listened hungrily afterwards as Sara described the antiquities or natural artifacts she’d seen, and as she imagined her trip to France, Sara started to think about how wonderful it would be if Becky could simply come with her to see the works within the Louvre. Not as a servant, always a few steps behind, but as a friend, companion, equal.

There wasn't much Sara missed from her days in the attic, but there was this: being one of two little girls, with Becky. 

“If you come as my friend, we could tour everything together,” Sara said, explaining the idea to Becky. “You could see everything for yourself.”

“I’d hate to shame you, Miss,” Becky said. “If I said the wrong thing, made people think I was stupid…”

“Oh, but you see, Becky, in France they think everyone who doesn’t speak French is stupid! You’re just learning, but they’d still think you cleverer than -- well, than Ermengarde.”

Ermengarde had never managed to learn more than “bonjour” and “au revoir” and “merci” and mostly “bonjour” came out as “bone joo” and “merci” came out as “mercy,” and she’d bid a deeply relieved goodbye to her time in school. She and Sara had tea together most weeks, and Ermengarde had a suitor that Sara didn’t think much of but seemed to make Ermengarde quite happy.

“Wouldn’t you like to bring Ermengarde?” Becky asked. “She’d be much more suitable than me, miss.”

“Ermengarde wouldn’t enjoy herself,” Sara said. “Not properly. Not like you would.” Sara had to admit that while she loved Ermengarde dearly, she didn’t want her as a companion in France -- Ermengarde would undoubtedly spend far too much time fussing about how things weren’t sensible (by which she would mean “not like they are in England”) and requiring Sara to reassure her. 

No one would ever mistake Becky for a Frenchwoman, but when she discovered that Sara took pleasure in speaking French to someone who could answer back, she delighted in committing new phrases to memory. She did not learn her French from a book, but from listening to Sara and repeating what she heard. And Becky relished new experiences. Becky was the companion Sara wanted in France, and when she saw how much Sara wanted this, she said -- a little doubtfully -- “I’ll try my best for you, miss.”

“You must learn to call me Sara,” Sara said. “Speak to me as Ermengarde does.”

“I’ll try my best for you, Sara.”

After interviewing a half-dozen staid widows, Sara chose Mrs. Croyden because she showed absolutely no curiosity whatsoever about Sara’s shy friend.  By the time they boarded the steamship to Calais, Sara was beginning to worry that Mrs. Croyden would turn out to be something of a trial. She was the sort of person who checked her bag to make sure she hadn’t somehow misplaced the money from Mr. Carrisford so many times that she made Becky nervous she’d somehow lose her own passport and ticket; Sara was now carrying both Becky’s passport and her own, as well as their train tickets from Calais to Paris.

“Are you two ladies coming in for tea?” Mrs. Croyden asked.

“Must we?” Sara asked. “I haven’t been on a ship since I was seven, and Becky’s never traveled before. I’d like to watch the land get closer.”

“If you wish to stay out here you may,” Mrs. Croyden said. “When we arrive, come to the lounge and wait for me there. I’ll need to find someone to help manage our luggage. Do you have your tickets and your passports?”

“Of course,” Sara said, forcing a smile and not checking her bag again. At least Mrs. Croyden wasn’t ordering them inside; perhaps she’d be less fussy on this trip than Sara was beginning to fear. 

“I’ll just go have a cup of tea myself, then,” Mrs. Croyden said, and took herself off.

When the ship docked, they went down to the lounge. It was quite empty, as everyone was busily getting in line to present their passports and enter France. They waited, and they waited a bit longer, and finally they went in search of Mrs. Croyden and their luggage.

Both had vanished.

“What are we going to do, miss -- Sara?” Becky whispered as they joined the long line of fellow passengers disembarking.

“She must be here somewhere, surely,” Sara said. “We can ask the man when we present our passports.”

“What if we don’t find her?”

“Well,” Sara said, speculatively. “In that case, surely it would be sensible to go to Paris, as we planned, where Uncle Tom would expect us to go, and write to him. Sensible and proper. Don’t you think, Becky?”

“Sensible -- yes, miss. Sara. Proper -- I’m not sure.”

“Well,” Sara said, turning her eyes to the French flag that waved gently in the spring breeze. “No one could fault us for it, surely.”

The man who took their passports was not sure if he’d seen Mrs. Croyden, and a brief examination of the log of entry showed that no one by that name had entered France. 

“Maybe she is still on the ship,” Becky said.

“Then how did all our luggage vanish?” Sara said. “No. I think we misjudged Mrs. Croyden. I think that there is no record of this person because there is no such person.”

“If you wish to make a report to the gendarmes…” the man offered.

Sara was tempted to just go to the train, but Becky said, “What if she was kidnapped?” and so they dutifully gave the gendarmes a description of Mrs. Croyden and their luggage, and caught the next train to Paris. They’d be arriving a little later in the evening, but it couldn’t be helped.

Sara had been imagining Paris for as long as she could remember, and describing her imagined Paris to Becky for years. And yet, it was still completely different from what either had expected -- especially stepping off a train with nothing but the clothes they were wearing and the money in Sara’s handbag. Where London was frequently so foggy that gas lamps burned all day and barely lifted the gloom, Paris blazed with light even at night. The spring air was crisp and clear and in the distance, they could hear music playing. 

The plan, when they left London, had involved going directly to the hotel, but they had no luggage to manage now -- so when Sara saw Becky’s face light up and turn toward the music, she suggested they go for a stroll, first. And after finding the street musician and watching him with his accordion for a quarter hour, they found a tiny cafe serving pies made of goat cheese and fresh herbs, and only once they’d eaten did they find a cab to take them to the hotel in Saint-Germain-des-Prés where they’d planned to stay, just in case Mrs. Croyden turned up after all.

In the dim hotel lobby, Sara attempted to explain the situation with their missing chaperone. The woman minding the hotel desk clearly only cared whether they had money to pay for their room, and was quite concerned that their supply of francs was very scanty. “I have English pounds,” Sara said. “I will find a bank tomorrow to change them into francs, madam.” One might expect that a hotelier would be rather familiar with foreign currency, but this woman sniffed at their Pounds Sterling as if she doubted it was money at all. In the end, though, she gave them a key and a candle and dispatched them to a room on the very highest floor.

“I don’t think she likes us,” Becky said, as they made their way up. “What are we going to do without our luggage?”

“I did bring money of my own. We’ll find a dressmaker tomorrow for some new clothes. We’ll have to be a bit more frugal than we might be otherwise, because I don’t have a great deal of money, but I’m sure Mr. Carmichael will see to it that we get more once our letter arrives explaining what happened.”

“Or he’ll tell us we ought to come home.”

“Well, but even in that case he’ll surely send us money for a ticket. Tonight we’ll have to sleep in our underclothes, though. At least it’s warm.”

Becky helped Sara to undress, and hung up her dress. Every night, Becky brushed Sara’s hair -- she'd had Sara's hairbrush in her bag, along with a few other necessities that unfortunately did not include nightgowns. When she'd worked the knots from the sea breezes out of Sara's hair, she laid the brush aside and ran her hands over Sara's shoulders. Sara would hunch her shoulders any time there were difficulties, and it had been a rather trying day. Becky pressed firm circles into Sara's shoulders and neck, warming them until Sara let the tension go. Sara closed her eyes, relaxing under Becky's hands. 

Finally, they blew out the candle and lay down side-by-side in the bed, which was soft and comfortable. Sara pulled up the coverlet. 

“I must write Uncle Tom first thing tomorrow,” Sara murmured. “Or at least as soon as I’ve changed some pounds to francs…”

Paris by morning sunlight was, if possible, even more beautiful than Paris by gas-lamp. Sara and Becky dressed quickly and went out in search of a bureau that handled foreign currency, a post office where they could send a letter back to London, a cafe where they could have breakfast, and a dressmaker, in that order. The currency was easily managed; the post office wound up delayed until they’d had breakfast; the dressmaker turned out to have her own opinions about what fabrics and colors would suit them best, but at the very least agreed to have some new clothes available for them in another day, and nightgowns for each of them ready before she closed that evening.

“Can we see the Bastille?” Becky asked, her eyes bright, as they left the dressmaker. “Is it terrible that I’d like to?”

“If it is, then anyone who went to tour the Tower of London after they read that novel about Lady Jane Grey would have to answer for it! --But the Revolutionaries tore it down to the ground. There isn’t any Bastille left. I’ll take you to see the Conciergerie -- you can see it from the outside, at least. That’s where Marie Antoinette was kept as a prisoner before her death.”

The Conciergerie was on the Île de la Cité -- the same tiny island in the River Seine that held the Notre-Dame Cathedral. And as they crossed the bridge to the island, Becky grabbed Sara’s arm in sudden excitement. “Is that it, miss? The Cathedral where that poor hunchback lived?”

“Yes, Becky, would you like to see it?”

The churches in their neighborhood in London were staid, solid edifices with the sort of beauty that was always carefully contained: a stone carving here, a stained glass window there. Becky fell silent as they went into the cathedral, staring in absolute wonder at the rose windows high above their heads. 

Back in the spring sunlight, they went next to the Conciergerie. “We can’t go in this one,” Sara said, eyeing the gendarmes at the door. But the Conciergerie was next door to yet another church, one Sara had read about but not in nearly as much detail as she’d read about Notre-Dame or the Louvre -- and this did appear to be open.

The Sainte-Chapelle chapel was the chapel used by the French royal family, when there was one. It was a tiny palace of glass, like stepping inside a box of gems, the stained glass stretching straight up to the high arch of the ceiling. This time, it wasn’t just Becky who gasped, awestruck, at the beauty before her. The two stood side-by-side, clasping hands and staring around them, speechless.

“It’s like your stories about fairyland,” Becky whispered, finally.

“Becky,” Sara whispered back. “It’s not like my stories about fairyland. I had no idea anything could be this beautiful.”

In the end, they had to hurry back to Saint-Germain-des-Prés in order to claim their nightdresses before the dressmaker locked up. After a quick trip up to their room, they went out to find a cafe for their supper.

It was another beautiful night, and young men and women were gathered around tables that spilled out onto sidewalks. The cafes were crowded, and Becky and Sara were seated shoulder-to-shoulder with another pair of women, not much older than they were. The other women shuffled their chairs to the side slightly to make room and gave them a friendly enough sort of look.

“Bonjour,” Sara said. “Nous sommes des visiteurs de Londres.”

“So surely you must speak English,” one of the other women said in an American accent.

“Oh, yes, quite,” Sara said. “I’m Sara, and this is my friend--” despite all her coaching, she stumbled over that, slightly, she was not used to introducing Becky that way -- “Becky, and as I said, we’re from London.”

“My name is Katharine, and this is my friend Alice, and we are from Boston, Massachusetts.”

Katharine and Alice turned out to be professors at a women’s college named Wellesley, taking a semester off to travel. Katharine taught history, and Alice taught literature. 

“An entire college for women?” Sara asked, intrigued. “What sorts of things can people study there?”

“Anything,” Katharine said. “Philosophy, ancient literature, natural sciences -- anything.”

“I love history,” Sara said. “The history of France is my favorite, but I’ll read just about anything.”

“You could come study at Wellesley!” Katharine said. “Becky, what sorts of things do you like to study?”

Becky froze for a moment, glanced at Sara, and said, “I also like history, when Sara’s the one telling me about it. And I like any book that tells a good story. We saw Notre-Dame today!”

That turned the conversation to things they should see in Paris. Alice described her favorite wonders of the Louvre, and Katharine recommended the very new Musée Carnavalet, which showcased the history of Paris itself. Not too far away, in the Latin Quarter, were two enormous and beautiful gardens, and the Arena of Lutèce, an actual Roman ruin that had been uncovered during some construction work some years back, and preserved in part through the efforts of Victor Hugo. 

At Alice's recommendation, they ordered beef in the style of Burgundy, which had turned out to be a rich stew of beef, onions, and wine, the beef cooked gently until it was so tender it almost melted, with that narrow, crusty bread the French ate with everything to sop up the juices. For dessert, at Katharine's suggestion, they'd had chocolate mousse, which was almost like a custard. "But so light, it tastes like someone whipped clouds into it," Becky said, forgetting to be self-conscious as she closed her eyes and let it melt on her tongue. 

“We should invite them to the Salon,” Alice said as dinner wound down.

“Oh, that’s an excellent idea,” Katharine said. “Tomorrow night, if you’re free? ...a group gathers weekly for conversation in the home of Madame Dupont, she lives just a short walk from here. I’ll write down the address. Come at eight, so we can bring you in and introduce you.” 

Sara, familiar with the concept of a Salon, could barely contain her excitement. Becky was less certain. Alice winked at her and said, “Have your Sara tell you about Bluestockings. It’s that sort of Salon.”

Bluestockings, Sara explained as they climbed the stairs to their room, were women intellectuals. A hundred years ago, or a bit more, there’d been a Blue Stocking Society, organized by women who wished to discuss things like books. A few men came, too, including a publisher too poor to afford the formal attire, so he wore ordinary workman’s clothing, which included blue stockings. The bluestockings believed in the education of women, but also that interesting conversation might be had with people regardless of whether they had the money for fine clothes.

“I see,” Becky said. She helped Sara into her nightdress. “Are you sure you’d like me to come with you? I don’t have a lot of book learning. If the conversation’s in French, I won’t understand much of it, and if it’s in English, someone might find me out. I was worried about those Americans tonight, but they didn’t seem to notice a thing.”

Sara thought that over. The Americans had noticed something, she was fairly certain, but she wasn’t sure what. What had that wink meant? And your Sara, the way Alice said it … she just was not sure.

It was a cooler night tonight, and Becky was shivering when they climbed under the covers. “Oh, Becky, this won’t do,” Sara said. “Let me warm you up.” Becky snuggled up against her, and Sara wrapped one arm over her waist and felt Becky’s shivering ease. “Let’s go see the ruins tomorrow. And then see if they’ve finished our frocks, because even if we could come in our ‘blue stockings’ to the Salon, I’d rather be properly dressed.” They slept twined together, Becky resting her head on Sara's arm.

Madame Dupont’s Salon was entirely women. The Madame in her name implied she was married, or had been at one time, but the only evidence of a husband was a single photograph in a silver frame. The women at the salon were mostly a bit older than Sara and Becky, with one truly ancient old lady with a lined face and white hair. Madame Dupont herself looked to be in her fifties. 

Katharine and Alice introduced Sara and Becky, explaining they were from London, and recently arrived in Paris. Chairs were brought in and refreshments were served. Someone finally asked Sara how they’d managed a trip unaccompanied. “Oh, we had a chaperone,” Sara said. “We misplaced her on the way. Or she misplaced herself.” She described their arrival in Calais, and the discovery that their chaperone had disappeared with the luggage.

“You’re certain it wasn’t merely a miscommunication?”

“If it had been, I’d have expected her to turn up at the hotel by now.”

“Did you consider just staying on the ship and going straight back to Dover?” asked one of the Englishwomen at the salon. “That’s probably what I’d have done when I was your age. Had you ever been to France before?”

“Well, we did consider it,” Sara said. “But I speak French well -- my mother was French, though I never met her -- and had some money with me, so we weren’t entirely without resources. I hadn’t ever been to France before, but I did have to move to England for the first time when I was a child of seven, and my Papa sent me to school. I spent my early childhood in India. I thought it couldn’t possibly be any more terrifying than that. ”

“Did the two of you meet in school?” Alice asked.

Sara and Becky glanced at each other involuntarily. “Yes,” Sara said. It was accurate , if not exactly true.  

“But if your mother is French, surely you have family here,” the very old woman said. “What was your mother’s name?”

“Her name was Marguerite Delacour,” Sara said. “She died when I was born. It’s possible I have some cousins here. She was from Paris and lived near here, but I don’t know exactly where.”

Madame Dupont and the elderly lady exchanged glances. “Have you a picture of your mother?” Madame Dupont asked.

“No, I’m sorry. My Papa did, but none of his possessions came to me after he died -- when he died, everyone thought he’d lost all his money, so of course things like photographs were not shipped all the way from India.”

A few more questions from Madame Dupont and she found herself telling the rest of the story -- how she’d been kept on as a “charity pupil,” sent out on errands in all weather, slept in the unheated attic -- only to find out years later that the fortune wasn’t lost after all. Sara had not lost her ability to captivate an audience with a story; everyone listened with rapt attention, sighing with delight over the magical transformation of the attic.

“Becky, were you also a charity pupil?” Alice asked. “Or one of the regular ones?”

Becky’s eyes went wide, and she blurted out the truth: “Neither. I was the scullery maid.”

There was a pause, but instead of shock or laughter, Alice said, “Oh, how fascinating. Tell us your story, Becky, and how you and Sara became friends?”

“Indeed,” the old lady said, when Becky still hesitated. “You must remember you are in France, in Le République , and we do not view these things in the same way the English do.”

Becky looked around, at the faces full of curiosity, took a sip of her tea and a deep breath, and said, “I grew up in a workhouse.”

“Like the orphan Oliver Twist!” Alice said.

“Much like,” Becky said, since Sara had read her the Dickens story. “There wasn’t anywhere near enough to eat, and they taught us to read but not really to write, and at fourteen they sent us out into whatever jobs they could find for us. I was sent to work as a scullery maid at the school. I used to save Sara’s room for last when I was cleaning -- that’s when she was still a proper student. A parlor boarder. One day I fell asleep, and instead of being cross, Sara gave me cake and told me a story. And we started to plan it so that when we could arrange it, I’d come to her room last and she’d give me something to eat and tell me a bit more of the story.”

“When I lost my fortune, Becky was my only friend, for a while,” Sara said.

“There was Ermengarde,” Becky pointed out.

“Yes, but … well, yes. But you were always there.”

“We used to tap on the attic wall,” Becky said. “We pretended we were prisoners in the Bastille.”

There was some laughter at that, but not the unkind sort.

“Then the magic happened in the attic, and I could scarcely believe it. And then Sara found out her fortune wasn’t lost after all, and Mr. Carrisford became her guardian, and I thought I’d lost her...but no, she wanted me to come join her in her new life.” Becky hesitated once again and added, “But when we came to France she asked me to come as her friend, and not just -- not as her maid. So here I am.”

“What a beautiful story,” Katharine said, a little bit misty-eyed. “Becky, you should study at Wellesley too. Both of you. You’d meet others -- well, Wellesley is where the ‘Boston marriage’ was invented.”

“The what?” Becky said.

“You know. When two women live together, without men to bother them.” She winked.

“Did Katharine not explain when she invited you?” Madame Dupont asked. “We are all Sapphists here.”

Neither Becky nor Sara had ever heard this term, but Sara had read the poetry of Sappho, and she unraveled what Madame Dupont was telling her, and felt her ears go pink. Becky looked at Sara and said nothing. Madame Dupont patted Becky on the hand and said, “You’re both quite welcome here. I’ll see to the refreshments.” And the conversation turned to other things, and into French, and Sara was occupied whispering translations to Becky.

“What is a Sapphist?” Becky whispered as they took tiny intricate cakes off a tray that Madame Dupont’s maid brought around.

“I’ll tell you later,” Sara whispered back.

It was very late when they returned to their hotel and made their sleepy way up the dark stairs.

“Right,” Becky said when they reached their room. “Sapphists. You said you’d explain. Is it something horrible?”

“It’s not -- I don’t think it’s horrible. Mrs. Carmichael would not approve, though. I don’t think Uncle Tom -- well, from hints he’s dropped a few times, I think he might be -- right, I’m all tangled up. There’s a poet, Sappho. She was an ancient Greek, from the Isle of Lesbos. I studied her poetry when I studied Greek, and she wrote her love poetry to another woman. Sapphists -- I think she means that they’re women who love other women. Not just as friends. The way men do.”

Sara fell silent, glad that the near-darkness made her flaming face more difficult to see. Becky didn’t say anything, and she was less glad that the near-darkness made Becky’s expression more difficult to see. Was it disgust? Horror?

“Anyway, I think Alice and Katharine must have assumed that we were like that. And Becky -- I am like that. I’ve known for a while. When Ermengarde started telling me about her suitor, I thought quite a lot about whether I should like a suitor. It wouldn’t be hard to have a suitor, as an heiress, and I could marry and still keep control of my own fortune. But I’ve never looked at a man, and felt the way Ermengarde does. When Ermengarde looks at her suitor, she wants to kiss him, and be held in his arms. I’ve felt that way -- but only about women.”

“I think I understand,” Becky said softly.

In the glow of the candle, Becky unbuttoned Sara’s dress and helped her out of it, hanging it up. And then, because dresses like this were not meant for one person to put on and off, Sara unbuttoned Becky, and Becky took off her own dress, and Sara averted her eyes, for the first time in a while, not letting herself look at Becky’s smooth skin, at the curve of her breasts, and hips, and the roundness of her stomach, now that she was well-fed instead of starved. Becky slipped the nightgown over her head and got into bed, and Sara climbed in next to her, feeling awkward as she never had before. She blew out the candle, and the room was completely dark, and silent for long enough that Sara thought surely Becky had gone to sleep.

“Do you feel that way about me?” Becky asked.

Sara had been dreading this question since they’d left the Salon.

“Oh, Becky,” she said. “Of course I do, and of course I don’t mind if you don’t feel that way about me, and--”

In the dark, Becky put her arm over Sara, and pulled her close, face to face, and kissed her.

Sara’s body flushed warm and she felt something stir within her that was like what Ermengarde had described feeling when she was with her suitor. Becky held her like she would never let her go and after a few minutes they wriggled out of their nightdresses to be together skin against skin.

“I don’t quite know how to do this,” Sara whispered. “There aren’t any books. There aren’t any books that I’ve seen, at least.”

“Just touch me,” Becky whispered back. "Touch me everywhere." And Sara did.

The Louvre had once been the royal palace, and the artworks within matched the grandeur of the building. Both Sara and Becky were left breathless by the Grand Gallery filled with paintings done by the masters Sara had read about in her studies.

“Can we come back again?” Becky asked. “I don’t think I can possibly look at all of these in one day. A person wants to really look, sometimes.”

“Oh, Becky, we can certainly come back,” Sara said.

In the sculpture gallery, they studied the exquisite white marble figures, and Becky suddenly grasped Sara’s arm. 

“That’s Sappho,” she said. “The one you told me about.”

They looked for a long moment at the figure of the woman, wreathed in linen and clutching a scroll. Across from them, also looking at the statue, were two women they did not know. From across the statue, their eyes met, and one of the women gave them a secret smile, and Sara thought she knew why.

Paris in the springtime is filled with young love, and Becky and Sara wandered the streets in a haze of happiness. They sampled foods from eclairs to cheeses to coffee. They walked through the Jardin du Luxembourg and gazed at the stunning Medici Fountain, and visited the newer but just as impressive Fontaine Saint-Michel, a beautiful fountain with a sculpture of the Archangel. They visited the new Musée Carnavalet. 

Most nights, though...they retired early.

A bit over a week after they arrived in Paris, they were surprised to find Uncle Tom waiting with Ram Dass in the lobby of their hotel.

“Uncle Tom!” Sara exclaimed, and kissed him on the cheek. “Whatever are you doing here? Oh, you shouldn’t have come, your health! ...But I’m so glad to see you!”

“Of course I came, when I heard you’d been abandoned!” Tom said. “I had visions of you lost, alone, without recourse.”

“I wasn’t alone, though,” Sara said with an affectionate laugh. “I had Becky with me. But I’m glad you came after all. I should like to show you all the beautiful places we’ve found! Even if you’ve been to Paris and seen them all before, I don’t imagine Ram Dass has.” She repeated her greeting in Hindustani, and asked Ram Dass about the journey.

Ram Dass sighed. The journey had been passable; he had worried about Sahib Carrisford, but it had been clear from the moment Sara’s letter arrived that the Sahib would work himself into a worse state worrying about her than he would if allowed to travel.

“I didn’t mean to worry him so,” Sara said. 

“He said that Ralph had left you with a woman who betrayed you,” Ram Dass said. “And that now he’d done the same, sending you off with the lady who ran off with your baggage.”

“Oh, Uncle Tom,” Sara said, and kissed him again. “I have so much to tell you.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” he said. “But I also have one small surprise for you -- I have arranged, later this week, a trip to see Versailles. So that we can all see that , for the first time, together.”

“All of us?” Sara asked, a little hesitantly.

“All of us,” Uncle Tom said. “You and Becky, and Ram Dass and I, will all see it together.”

Becky looked a little daunted at this, and Sara took her hand and smiled. When she looked up, Uncle Tom was smiling at both of them, tenderly.

“And for now?" he said. "Let us -- the four of us -- go to dinner."

THE END