“Pretty much the same, I’m afraid,” Charlotte murmured, glancing hopefully at the gallery door.
“I’m sorry.” Marjory’s disappointment at the lack of gossip showed. Then she brightened once more. “I hear the new Lord MacLeod will be with us shortly. Will he be making a prolonged stay? I needn’t tell you how much speculation is going on,” she added, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I have no idea what Brad’s plans are.”
“Quite a job he has ahead of him,” Mrs. P. remarked, shaking her head wisely, avid to be the first to acquire any possible tidbits to pass on down the bush telegraph. “I hear he has a fiancée? One wonders what sort of female she is. Americans can be so very different, if you know what I mean.”
“Sylvia’s delightful.” Charlotte waxed enthusiastically. “Terribly efficient, and just the right person to be the new Lady MacLeod.”
“I see.” Mrs. P.’s shoulders drooped. “We must hope so, indeed. We wouldn’t want any changes in the village, now, would we?”
Charlotte murmured a vague assent, smiled brightly and frowned at her watch. “I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Pearson, but I’m expecting rather an important client in ten minutes. I simply have to run. Send the Colonel my best.”
“Goodness, of course. So selfish of me to be holding you back. Did that large Frenchwoman with the bun buy the necklace in the window? I saw her pass several times while I was at the butcher’s the other day. She seemed quite enamored. I told the Colonel I thought it was a go. Quite amazing that you’re able to command such elevated prices, Charlotte. Are you sure you shouldn’t consider—”
“Must run, Mrs. Pearson,” Charlotte interrupted blithely. “All’s well on the home front.”
“Ah. Good. Then I shall report back to the Colonel. He’ll be pleased.” Mrs. P. braced herself, balanced the creaking bike and readied for action, while Charlotte made good her escape.
She dashed inside the gallery, located in one of the crooked whitewashed houses bordering the main street, nestled between the bakery and the Celtic Café, run by her friend Rory MacLean. Leaning against the door, Charlotte let out a frustrated huff. “That woman,” she remarked to Moira Stuart, her lifelong friend who was now a goldsmith and manager of the gallery, “is simply awful.” Shaking her head, she stepped into the light, monochromatic space, dotted with glass showcases, halogen lights and burlap settings showing off her exclusive jewelry designs, then stopped short, surprised to see Armand de la Vallière, attired in tweed knickerbockers and a cap, examining her latest creation under a magnifying glass. She coughed, smothering the giggles that the sight of his costume always caused her. He looked like a fashion ad for a shooting weekend.
“Hello, Armand.”
“Ah, ma chère Charlotte.” Armand laid the delicately crafted platinum choker back in the showcase and hastened forward, raising her fingers to his lips. “Simply magnificent, chère cousine. You have surpassed yourself.”
“You like it?” Charlotte kissed him on both cheeks, unable to squelch the twinge of pride at Armand’s words. “Any sign of the Americans?” she asked Moira.
“Not yet.” Her friend’s eyes, shaded behind thick lenses, showed amusement. An Indian skirt and blouse and heavy leather sandals gave her the air of a tired hippie.
Charlotte turned back to Armand, grinning. “I’m glad you like the choker. I worked a long time on it. I think the jade works, don’t you?”
“Exquisite. Quite unique.”
“I have some other designs to show you. The ones I was telling you about the other day,” she said breathlessly, flinging her basket on a chair behind the desk that served as a counter.
“I would be delighted to view them. You have un talent exceptionel, Charlotte.”
“Do you really think so?” Charlotte asked earnestly, clear violet eyes sparkling with pleasure at his words. “Or are you just being terribly polite?”
“Now, now, young lady. You are fishing for compliments.” He wagged a finger at her. “If I were merely polite, I would murmur a few banalities. But non, Charlotte. It is time you faced your own ability and gave it wing.”
“It’s really just a hobby,” she mumbled, fiddling behind the desk, where she felt protected. “I didn’t even mean to take it this far. The gallery and the workshop, I mean.” She waved a hand vaguely. “It just sort of happened.”
“And so will the rest. It is inevitable, ma chère. There is no use hiding your light under a bushel. You are who and what you are. An artist of incredible flair. Your ability—I should say genius, rather—is indiscutable.”
“Oh, rubbish,” Charlotte scoffed, embarrassed, digging her hands deep into the pockets of her worn jeans and flushing, flattered despite herself. He was, after all, a Parisian designer, a man of taste, a connoisseur who knew the world of fashion and jewelry back to front. And since his arrival on the island two weeks earlier, he’d seemed genuinely enchanted with her work.
“I can assure you that I will not be alone in my opinion. Once your work is known to the world, you’ll soon see that I am right.” Armand nodded wisely, smoothed his fingers gently over her arm, and smiled. “I found it intriguing when our Oncle Eugène mentioned that you had taken up designing with apparent success. I now predict a brilliant and well-deserved future ahead for you, chère Charlotte. In fact, I would be honored if you would consider showing your jewelry with my fall collection in Paris.”
“Gosh, I don’t know.” Charlotte slumped, gaze shifting as she remembered all the troubles in her life. “I don’t really want a brilliant future, Armand. I just want to survive the present.” Success and the spotlight didn’t seem important compared to getting Genny walking properly again, or finding out what would happen to John’s condition.
“Give yourself a chance,” Armand murmured gently.
She shook herself, aware that she’d drifted off again into one of her daydreams, and plastered on a bright smile. “How about a quick coffee before my morning appointment?”
“Why not? To be in your company is always un plaisir.” Armand bowed gallantly and she laughed. He reminded her of a courtly Pink Panther. The walk, the talk, the tailored tweeds—even a walking stick and mole-skin waistcoat, she noticed. He should have looked ludicrous, yet somehow Armand managed to carry it off.
She took his arm affectionately and turned to Moira. “Hold the fort for a little, will you, Mo? I’ll be back in under an hour. And make sure you sell something to those Yanks,” she added, grinning. “I’ve got all the new supplies to pay for, not to mention the leaking pipe in the loo.”
“Peter’s coming to deal with it later.” Moira looked up from the accounts and smiled.
“Thank God for that. Come on, Armand. I’ll treat you to one of those sticky green cakes at Rory’s.”
“Mon Dieu, no, I beg you.” He shuddered.
“All right, just coffee then.”
“Merci. But I shall stick to tea. A much safer bet. The coffee—if that is what it really is—” he rolled his eyes “—is undrinkable, ma chère.”
“Oh, all right, be like that,” Charlotte teased, yanking the wraithlike figure by the arm and out onto the street. “If you’re not careful, I’ll tell Rory what you said.”
Armand’s lips curved and he caught her eye. “A truly gorgeous young man,” he murmured wistfully.
“And married, so hands off.”
“Charlotte! As though I would mix with the common herd!”
“Ha!” She threw back