Loving Leopold

By Diane Coia-Ramsay

It is 1897 and nineteen-year-old Parisienne, Amalie Bouchard, must move in with her aunt and uncle following the death of her parents. Although she is heiress to a substantial fortune, she cannot control her funds until she turns twenty-one. With a new century on the horizon, the heiress has no intention of marrying, instead preferring to view herself as a modern woman.

When Amalie arrives in London, she begins renovating her aunt and uncle’s outdated townhouse while her aunt becomes determined to see her niece happily married. At a dinner party ostensibly held to show off the newly renovated townhouse, sparks fly when Amalie meets one of the invited guests. Leopold Blakeley is a handsome, wealthy bachelor who Amalie’s aunt considers to be a perfect match for her niece despite his broody reputation and another female competing for his attention. After their conversation, Amalie is overcome with a whirlwind of emotions as Leopold makes his feelings known. But is London’s most unattainable bachelor charming enough to lure her away from Amalie’s plans for a life of freedom?

In this historical romance, an heiress determined to remain unmarried amid nineteenth century London meets a bachelor who may just change her mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jan 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781480898035

Diane Coia-Ramsay

Diane Coia Ramsay spent her formative years in UK where she discovered a great love of social history from the late Victorian era through the First World War, and the changes it brought about to forever change the pre-war classs system and sense of social values. She is the author of the Loving Leopold trilogy. Bernadette Barrymore is her fourth novel.

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Copyright © 2021 Diane Coia-Ramsay.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-9804-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9805-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-9803-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020920616

Archway Publishing rev. date: 01/11/2021

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 Leaving Paris Behind

Chapter 2 Life in London

Chapter 3 The Reluctant Dinner Guest

Chapter 4 Unexpected

Chapter 5 Weekend in the Country

Chapter 6 For Love or Money

Chapter 7 The Ball at Blakefield Castle

Chapter 8 A Month’s Reprieve

Chapter 9 What Really Happened

Chapter 10 Reflections and Revelations

Chapter 11 Family Ties

Chapter 12 Ups and Downs

Chapter 13 Explanations and Forgiveness

Chapter 14 Social Distancing

Chapter 15 Spare No Expense

Chapter 16 The Last Roundup

Chapter 17 The Wedding

Chapter 18 Return to Paris

Chapter 19 Married to Leopold

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CHAPTER 1

Leaving Paris Behind

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Why in heaven’s name did you have to invite your niece to come live with us? Your brother in Madeira has no family, and she could at the very least be useful to him for entertaining and such. Mrs. Edward March spoke to her husband with a considerable degree of vexation, miffed that she had not been consulted regarding such a monumental decision. Her consternation was mixed with concern that the renowned beauty of Amalie Bouchard would do little to further her chances of obtaining advantageous proposals of marriage for her two daughters of marriageable age, neither of whom, after two London seasons, had successfully secured an offer.

Edward and Henrietta, his wife of twenty-five years, resided in London’s Belgravia district with their two daughters, Annabelle and Judith. They were of moderate means and kept a small staff of servants.

Edward March’s younger sister, Marcia March, had been considered a rare beauty in her day and had stolen the heart of French financier Georges Bouchard on a business trip he had taken to London some twenty years ago. It had been a whirlwind romance, and within the space of two months, Marcia had become Madame Georges Bouchard and left London forever for her new life of luxury and contentment in a fine and well-appointed Parisian apartment. Marcia was as gay as Edward was somber, and within a short span of time, she had become a woman renowned for her exquisite taste in fashion and furnishings. In Paris, such taste was considered exceptional for an Englishwoman, even if she had married a Frenchman and was fluent in French.

Marcia’s soirees were legendary, with the finest cuisine and best entertainment, which usually resulted in her guests dancing long into the night before reluctantly taking their leave. Georges doted on his wife and could refuse her nothing. When their first and only child had been born only a year into their marriage, he had doted on her also. Their daughter, Amalie, had a sweet disposition and the kind of childish loveliness destined to develop into great beauty as she matured into a young woman.

The Bouchards only mixed with the best people, and before the tragic accident, they were already discussing potential future husbands for their cherished daughter. At nineteen years of age, Amalie was already considered one of Paris’s finest beauties, and her father had received several offers during her first season. However, Amalie’s parents had firmly decided great wealth and position as well as youth and manly vigor were necessary attributes for any potential suitor. Those qualities were not easily found in any one man, but their daughter was so special to them that nothing less was acceptable. Their discussions regarding their daughter’s future always took place out of her earshot since her beauty was matched only by her willfulness, and any and all plans of securing a husband were required, by necessity, to be done with utmost tact and diplomacy.

Mr. and Mrs. Edward March had visited Paris together but once in the past twenty years, when Amalie was twelve years of age. It had been a stay of short duration, with the excuse that Mrs. March had to get back to her daughters, who were never themselves brought to Paris to meet their cousin, nor was she taken to London to meet them.

The truth was that the sisters-in-law had little in common, and even as young women before the occasion of Marcia’s marriage, they never had gotten along particularly well. Marcia was everything Henrietta was not, and the latter often felt awkward and ungainly when compared to her sister-in-law’s elegance and poise. Consequently, she never felt the desire to further their acquaintance beyond the occasional letter.

Edward March, on the other hand, had visited his sister in Paris on several occasions over the years—supposedly on matters of business, but in truth, he found his sister and her friends quite entertaining, and he very much enjoyed the company of Marcia and her husband.

Amalie had gotten to know her uncle March well during the visits and longed for an opportunity to visit him and his family in London. She was uncertain how and when that could be accomplished, however, since, in twenty years, her mother had never returned to her homeland for a visit. She could never have imagined the opportunity would present itself shortly and under the worst of circumstances.

Mr. Edward March was as reasonable and generous as his wife was not, yet for twenty-five years, he had patiently managed her moods, vapors, tantrums, and hysterics, no doubt because he could still remember how he had loved her in the early years and how different she had been before budgeting and economizing had become their sole purpose in life. Their financial circumstances were indeed Mr. March’s fault; his ill-chosen investments and market speculations had reduced their circumstances considerably, to the extent that economies had to be made wherever and whenever possible in order to maintain his status and outward appearance as a gentleman of means.

It did not help his situation that his wife had brought a handsome dowry to their union and blamed him almost daily for his misuse of those funds. Although they were by no means struggling to survive, Edward was as anxious as his wife to have Judith and Annabelle comfortably settled as soon as possible. However, although both girls were healthy and even—if one was allowed to say—energetic and full of fun, neither was possessed with great beauty, and they had little to entice any potential suitor by way of a dowry.

That was the situation in the Marches’ London home the day the morning post brought a letter addressed to Mr. March that contained devastating news from Paris: the untimely deaths of both Marcia and Georges, who had been involved in a horrible carriage accident one rainy night in the suburbs of Paris. They had been on their way home from a weekend house party given by their influential friends Count and Countess Le Clair at their country chateau.

The news hit the Parisian newspapers: "Une Tragedie Horrible." The newspapers noted that their beautiful young daughter had been left an orphan and heiress at the tender age of nineteen.

Amalie Bouchard was certainly not without means, as her father had been a successful man of business, and until then, she had led a privileged life, doted upon by her parents as their only child. There was no doubting her poise and great beauty, which were equaled only by her kind heart and generous nature.

The correspondence containing the news was the source of several arguments at the March family home, many of which were overheard by both daughters and servants alike, who secreted themselves in various parts of the house for the best possible vantage point to hear all the commotion.

Finally, after several weeks of indecision, Edward and Henrietta received a letter written in Amalie’s own hand, requesting that she be allowed to take refuge in their home, if only for a short time, while she determined her future.

Mr. March had had enough. Henrietta, I will listen to no more of your protestations. I am traveling to Paris as soon as my passage can be booked. She is my only living relative other than my ne’er-do-well brother in Madeira. She is an innocent child alone in Paris, and a beautiful young woman of fortune could be easy prey for some unscrupulous Frenchman. God knows you, my darling wife, have had little good to say of her father and even less to say of their friends following your one visit to my sister’s home in Paris. He had grown red in the face, angry and exasperated. She is coming here to London, and that is that! he spluttered. Just as soon as I can arrange it!

At that point, Mrs. March thought it best to back down and go along with her husband’s decision. She knew him well enough to know that any further argument would be fruitless. Calm yourself, my dear, please, she said consolingly, her arguments exhausted. Amalie’s English seems to be very good, at least in the written form, and she must be in possession of a considerable fortune, or she will be when she reaches her majority. Will she be selling their town house? I recall it was substantial, very grand, with the finest furnishings.

Mr. March could not help but grimace at his wife’s last remark. The house is more in the form of a long-term lease; they do things differently in France, and all that is in the hands of her father’s solicitors. Her father was an only child, so there are no other relatives in France that I know of; perhaps there is a distant cousin or two. As for furnishings, as you put it, we can deal with that later, when the poor girl has moved on somewhat from the grief she must be experiencing at the present time. I am grieving myself at the loss of my only sister. There will be time enough to consider all these peripheries once we have her settled.

The beautiful and charming Amalie Bouchard had been destined to become the toast of Paris before the unforeseen tragedy took away not only her mother and father but also her optimism and innocence, which had been so zealously guarded by her doting parents. With lustrous honey-blonde hair and eyes often described as aquamarine, she seemed to have inherited the best of both of her parents’ finest attributes: her mother’s beauty and slim yet curvaceous figure and her father’s good sense and intelligence.

She was fortunate in that she never had known fear or cruelty. To Amalie, the world was full of beauty and kindness. If her father ever had desired a son, he certainly had shown no signs of it with the love he’d bestowed upon his daughter, nor had her mother.

By the time her uncle March was en route to Paris accompanied by her aunt March, whom she had met but once briefly and of whom her mother had had little good to say, Amalie had been the subject of many heated discussions among her father’s solicitors. Her dearest wish to reside with her mother’s friend Countess Eugenie Le Clair, who was the mother of her best friend, Beatrice, had been quickly shot down as impossible, even though all parties involved had thought it the best possible solution until she reached an age to make her own decision with regard to the matter. Amalie had therefore eventually written to her aunt and uncle, knowing that in less than two years, she would be in a position to make decisions regarding her own life and her future for herself.

Georges Bouchard had insisted his only daughter be well educated in matters of commerce and finance in addition to language and the classics, knowing that such education would stand by her in the future, though he could never have realized how relevant it would be. Amalie had not always appreciated the level of schoolwork he had bestowed upon her, but now that she was practically alone in the world, she was glad he had not listened to her protestations or to her mother, who’d feared that too much education was not beneficial for a young lady who had no need to make her own way in the world. Amalie was grateful to her father that her ample financial prospects would, in the future, allow her independence in making decisions, and she hoped her sound education would enable her to make sensible ones.

In her grief and profound sadness, Amalie spent much of her time in her bedchamber in the aftermath of her parents’ funeral, in the house that soon would no longer be hers. She was fortunate to have her beloved maid, Bridgette, in whom to confide, as one by one, her friends began to forsake the beautiful, sad young girl they knew to be destined for a new life in London, a city Amalie had only read about in books and periodicals. She had thought to visit one day but could never have foreseen that she would spend such a time under the care of her uncle and her aunt, who was unfamiliar to her.

At least it had been agreed after much persuasion that Bridgette could accompany her mistress. Her wages would be paid from Amalie’s inheritance. Bridgette spoke little English, but Amalie had had an English mother and governess, so her English was excellent, and her pronunciation was perfect. During their last months in their beloved Paris, she and Bridgette spent many hours locked up in Amalie’s chamber, with the young mistress now teacher to her maid.

Bridgette was in her mid-thirties and was still blessed with the same beautiful dark features and curvaceous figure that had turned heads in her younger days. Bridgette never hesitated to show off her attributes or express her opinions and was thus an object of envy below stairs. She had even at one time been the object of rumors about a brief affaire de coeur with the monsieur. Of course, those who knew better knew their master well enough to realize that such affections secrète would have been conducted away from the family home, if at all.

During the time of transition between countries, Amalie and Bridgette took to strolling along the streets and boulevards of Montmartre and the surrounding neighborhoods in Paris, with Amalie pointing out this object and that for the English translation. Bridgette turned out to be a quick learner, and the excursions passed the time with an element of excitement brought about by Amalie’s newfound freedom, since such expeditions would never have been permitted by her parents.

As they visited churches, museums, cafés, and open-air markets, the women committed the sights and sounds of Paris, as well as the delicious aromas permeating from every patisserie and boulangerie, to memory. Amalie recalled how her French father would tease her English mother about the atrocious food he had been made to endure at her parents’ home during their courtship, and her mother would say if that indeed had been the case, why had he never been away from their door? Those were the happiest of memories, and Amalie related the stories to her maid, who had borne witness to little of those happy days, since by the time of her employment, fortunes had improved to the extent that the treasured family moments together from the early days of Georges and Marcia’s marriage had given way to greater attention to status and position. The change had seemed to leave little time for the intimacy the family had at one time enjoyed.

Finally, the time came for Amalie’s aunt and uncle’s arrival. It was late summer and an especially wet and windy summer in Paris.

Upon their arrival, Mrs. March announced, Please call me Aunt Henrietta, my dear, for I am your aunt, and you must treat me as such. She then complained incessantly about the wet weather. I expected the climate in Paris to be more temperate, and unfortunately, I packed accordingly.

Amalie quickly grew accustomed to her aunt’s complaints, and she also observed that her aunt appeared to assess her parents’ possessions as if appraising their value. This seemed to embarrass her uncle, whom she instantly liked even more than on his previous visits. She heard him reprimand his wife for such observations in addition to her manner toward Amalie’s maid and companion, Bridgette, which was condescending and not in the least amicable.

Mrs. March was unfamiliar with the special status that Bridgette—an employed servant in her eyes—seemed to enjoy, even to the extent of sleeping in an adjoining room next to her young mistress. She was certain the special advantages would not continue in England, since she was being forced to take Bridgette into her home also. However, her husband, who had witnessed many times the affection between his niece and her maid, knew that in all likelihood, Bridgette soon would be sleeping once again close to her young mistress. He thought of Bridgette as a loving watchdog. He had no problem with it, and neither would his wife when she grew accustomed to having Bridgette around, for all her current complaining with regard to the situation.

Upon their eventual sad departure from her beloved Paris, Amalie hoped that in the immediate future, her cousins would be as kind and generous in their manner toward her and Bridgette as her uncle had been, for she believed they would be making their way back to Paris in a matter of less than two years.

Since Amalie considered the move to London to be of a temporary duration necessitated by her youth, she hoped the time would soon pass and determined she would endeavor to spend it as pleasantly and unobtrusively as possible in her aunt and uncle’s home until she was once again free to resume her life as she chose to live it. This was the thought that sustained her during the long and arduous journey from Paris to Calais and the choppy, unpleasant voyage from there to Dover, England.

Of course, at just nineteen, Amalie had no idea what truly awaited her upon her arrival at her aunt and uncle’s house in London, where she would be under the care primarily of her aunt March. As she soon would find out, her uncle was often out attending to business and, as a consequence, was rarely at home, except, it seemed, for Sunday dinner, which was invariably roast beef, bread pudding, and steamed vegetables. The food was not what she was used to in Paris, a city of culinary delights, and was exactly as her father had laughingly described it many times to her mother.

Later, her uncle March would spend more time at home, albeit mostly in his study, mainly due to the changes young Amalie Bouchard was to bring to his London home and family life.

When the small party finally left her home in Paris for the last time, Bridgette was instructed to ride atop the carriage beside the coachman. Amalie, at that point, knew nothing of steamed vegetables and roast beef. She only knew that her dearest maid should have been permitted to ride within the carriage with her and not exposed to the elements outside.

Many of Amalie’s family possessions had been sold, while more favored items of furniture and furnishings were placed in storage. Several paintings and decorative objets d’art, along with many of her personal belongings and considerable wardrobe, were being shipped to London. This was arranged while her aunt tutted disapprovingly about the money wasted on so many silks and satins too plentiful for one young woman while at the same time quietly assessing which items could be made over for her daughters. The robin’s-egg-blue silk? The rose-pink taffeta?

It was raining when they arrived in Dover, where they boarded the train to London. Several hours later, they arrived at the Marches’ town house. It had grown dark when they left the station, and this time, Bridgette, at Amalie’s insistence, had been permitted to travel within the hackney carriage. Amalie, in spite of her tiredness from the journey and all the emotional upheaval that had preceded it, was finally recovering some of her vivacity and verve.

The Marches’ house, upon first impression, was very dark, in spite of the massive chandelier that hung in the hallway. The crystals on the chandelier woefully needed cleaning, and Amalie wondered what her mother would have said to the servants if she had seen it neglected in such a manner. Amalie considered that perhaps since the ceilings were so high, there was no ladder available that was tall enough to reach the once beautiful object. She wondered why a workman had not been hired long ago to perform the task.

They were shown into the parlor by an elderly woman whom Amalie presumed correctly to be the housekeeper. There did not appear to be a butler or footman about. The room was dimly lit by gas lamps, which revealed heavy furnishings and dark upholstery, fern plants, and cluttered knickknacks aplenty. Amalie’s mother had had their apartments completely redone when Amalie was still a small child, and the rooms were light and airy, with motifs in the latest art nouveau fashion, which had taken Paris by storm a decade ago at least. Her aunt’s house had an air not quite of neglect but of faded glory. At one time, the furnishings and style of the accoutrements no doubt would have been considered quite à la mode, but that time, thought Amalie, had long since passed.

She suddenly found herself feeling a little sorry for her aunt, who seemed somehow diminished now, either by the journey or perhaps by the differences so apparent between the March house and her mother’s home they had left behind in Paris. For the first time, she realized her aunt’s abrupt manner and air of disapproval were driven more by her own disappointment in life than by anything she’d witnessed in Amalie’s parents’ Paris apartment.

Since the hour was late, Amalie was soon ushered up to her room with Bridgette carrying the bags in tow beside her. She was informed that Bridgette was to be shown to her quarters in the attic, which was accessed by the servants’ back staircase. Upon that occurrence, and not for the first time, Amalie wondered if she had been selfish to bring her maid to London. First the indignity of riding atop