When I had been an awkward miss of sixteen, Allenham had bid me read this novel which he claimed had come to shape his understanding of the world and his own sensations of love. An edition of Mr Goethe’s Sorrows of Young Werther was put into my hand at the time I had placed myself under his protection, nearly three years past. The little tome I took into my lap was not this same book, but rather Allenham’s own. The sight of it brought an instant flow of tears to my eyes. I rubbed them from my cheeks as I began to idly thumb through the pages. My heart was too weary to read and so, with a sigh, I moved to shut it.

A curious thing then occurred. Indeed I cannot explain it except to credit Winged Fortuna for her intercession. The book slid from my hand and in grasping for it, it opened to the inside cover. There, pasted to the green and red marbled paper, was something of which I had never before taken note: a neatly engraved bookplate. Between two Corinthian columns sat a cartouche with the name, ‘Jean-Baptiste Marie Mariot’, and then the words, ‘L’Académie royale des inscriptions et belles-lettres’.

I drew in my breath.

Monsieur Mariot had been Lord Allenham’s bear leader, the tutor who had led him upon his Grand Tour as a boy of sixteen. My beloved had been a devoted pupil and was given to reminiscing fondly about his travels with this eminent scholar of antiquity, who, he had instructed me, resided at Paris. It was Mariot who had first introduced Allenham to works of philosophy, both ancient and modern. Indeed that very edition of Mr Goethe’s book had been a gift from his tutor’s collection, the first English translation. His lordship had prized it and, in Brussels, bequeathed it to me.

I ran my finger across the name. ‘Thank you, Fortuna,’ I whispered, before rising to my feet in search of pen and paper.

Chapter 5

UPON THAT DAY, all that I possessed was a single hope of finding my beloved. I folded it into a sheet of paper and sealed it. How it should make its way to the recipient I could not say. Indeed, I had no notion if this Monsieur Mariot still lived, or if he had grown infirm or blind or mad, or if he had abandoned his country with so many others. All that providence permitted me was to dispatch a letter and wait.

Of course, my Irish protector claimed to have many more possibilities at his disposal. He returned to me later that afternoon to announce he had penned no fewer than eight letters to his acquaintance in Paris.