The medical school became the perfect home for both Annabelle and Consuelo, with sixty loving uncles fussing over her every chance they got. They brought her little presents, played with her, and one or the other of them was always holding her or bouncing her on their knee. It was a happy life for her.

Annabelle eventually had to give up the house in Antibes, when the owners decided to sell it, and she was sad to say good-bye to Gaston and Florine. But Brigitte stayed with them, and the cottage on the château grounds was comfortable enough for them.

Once in a while, as she watched Consuelo flourish, Annabelle thought of contacting the viscount’s family. Now that she had her own child, she wondered if his parents would want some sort of last link to their son through his daughter. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She didn’t want to share Consuelo with anyone. The baby looked exactly like her, as though no one else had contributed to her birth. Everyone who saw her said that she was the portrait of Annabelle in every way.

The years of Annabelle’s medical studies drifted past her at lightning speed. She was so busy and engaged in what she was doing that it felt as though in the blink of an eye it was over, although she had worked so hard to get there.

Annabelle turned thirty the month she graduated from Dr. Graumont’s medical college as a physician. And Consuelo had just turned five in April. Leaving the college, and the cottage where they had lived, was like leaving home again. It was both exciting and painful. Annabelle had decided to go to Paris, and had applied for an association with the Hôtel-Dieu de Paris Hospital near Notre Dame on the Île de la Cité. It was the oldest hospital in the city. She was planning to open an office of general medicine. She had always hoped to work for Dr. de Bré, but he had died the previous spring. And her last tie with home had been severed a month before she graduated. She got a letter from the president of her father’s bank, to tell her that Josiah had died in Mexico in February, and Henry Orson shortly afterward. The man who handled her affairs at the bank thought she would want to know and had enclosed a letter Josiah had left for her. Josiah had been forty-nine years old.

His death, and his letter, brought a flood of memories back to her, and a tidal wave of sadness. It had been eight years since he had left her, and she had come to Europe, seven since their divorce. The letter from him was tender and nostalgic. He had written it close to the end. He said he had been happy in Mexico with Henry, but that he always thought of her with love, and regret for the terrible things he had done to her, and that he hoped she had found happiness too and would one day forgive him. As she read it, she felt as though the world she had grown up in and shared with him no longer existed. She had no ties to any of it anymore. Her life was in France, with her baby, and her profession. Her bridges had long since been burned. The only thing she had left in the States was the house in Newport, which had stood empty for eight years, still tended by her parents’ loving servants. She doubted she would ever see it again, but hadn’t had the heart to sell it yet, and she didn’t have to. Her parents had left her more than enough to live on and assure Consuelo’s future and her own. One day, when she got up the courage, she would sell their old summer cottage. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it yet. Just as she couldn’t bring herself to contact the errant viscount’s parents. She and Consuelo existed in their own world alone.

It was painful leaving the medical college and the friends she’d made there. All of her fellow graduates were dispersing to various parts of France. Many were staying in the South, and she had never been close to the only one going to Paris. For all the years she’d been in Europe, she had made no romantic alliance. She was too busy working for the war effort, and then with her studies and her daughter. She was a dignified young widow, and now she would be a dedicated doctor. There was no room in her life for anything else, and she wanted it that way. Josiah had broken her heart, and Consuelo’s father had destroyed the rest. She wanted no man in her life, and no one other than her daughter. Consuelo, and her work, were all she needed.

Annabelle and Consuelo took the train to Paris in June with Brigitte, who was thrilled to go to the city with them. Annabelle hadn’t been to Paris in years, and it was a bustling city now. They arrived at the Gare de Lyon station, and took a taxi to the hotel on the Left Bank where Annabelle had made a reservation. It was a small establishment Dr. Graumont had recommended to her, which was suitable for two women and a child. He had cautioned her about the dangers of Paris. Annabelle noticed that their cab driver was Russian, and had a distinguished look. Many of the noble White Russians were in Paris now, driving taxis, and working at menial jobs, after the Bolshevik Revolution and the murder of the czar’s family.

It was a thrill when she signed herself into the hotel as Docteur Worthington. Her eyes lit up like a child’s. She was still the beautiful young woman she had been when she arrived in Europe, and when she played with Consuelo, she looked like a girl again. But beneath the youthful spirit was a responsible, serious woman, someone others could confide in, and entrust their health and lives to. Her manner with patients had been the envy of her fellow students and colleagues and had won all her professors’ respect. Dr. Graumont knew that she would make an excellent physician, and be a tribute to his school.

They settled into the hotel. Dr. Graumont was going to send their things later, once they found a house. Annabelle wanted a place where she could establish her medical practice and see patients.

The day after they got to Paris, she went to the Hôtel-Dieu de Paris Hospital, to see about their permission to allow her to put patients there, while Brigitte took Consuelo to the Luxembourg Gardens. The beautiful blond child clapped her hands in excitement when she met her mother back at the hotel.

“We saw a camel, Mama!” Consuelo said, describing it to her, as Brigitte and her mother laughed. “I wanted to ride it, but they wouldn’t let me,” she pouted, and then burst into delighted giggles again. She was an enchanting child.

The Hôtel-Dieu Hospital’s permission had been granted with Dr. Graumont’s recommendation. It was an important step for Annabelle. She took Consuelo and Brigitte to dinner at the Hôtel Meurice as a special treat, and one of the Russian taxi drivers drove them all around Paris to see the sights of the city at night all lit up. It was a far cry from when Annabelle had arrived there during the war, brokenhearted and freshly shunned in New York. This was the beginning of a whole new life that she had worked hard for.

They finally went back to the hotel at ten o’clock. Consuelo had fallen asleep in the taxi, and Annabelle carried her upstairs and set her gently down on the bed. And then she went back to her own room and looked out the window into the Paris night. She hadn’t felt this young and excited in years. She could hardly wait to begin work, but she had to find a house first.

For the next three weeks Annabelle felt as though she were seeing every house in Paris, on the Right Bank and the Left, while Brigitte took Consuelo to every park in Paris-Bagatelle, the Luxembourg Gardens, the Bois de Boulogne, and rode the carousel. The three of them went out to dinner every night. It was the most fun Annabelle had had in years, and was a whole new grown-up life for her.

Between seeing houses, Annabelle went shopping for a new wardrobe, serious enough for a doctor, but stylish enough for a Parisian woman. It reminded her of when she had shopped with her mother for her trousseau, and she told her own Consuelo about it. The little girl loved hearing stories of her grandmother and grandfather and Uncle Robert. It gave her a sense of belonging to more people than just her mother, and always made Annabelle’s heart ache a little for the family she couldn’t give her. But they had each other, and she always reminded Consuelo that it was all they needed. Consuelo commented solemnly that they needed a dog as well. Everyone in Paris had one, and Annabelle promised that when they found a house, they’d get a dog too. They were happy days for all of them, and Brigitte was enjoying herself, flirting with one of the bellboys at the hotel. She had just turned twenty-one and was a very pretty girl.

By the end of July, Annabelle was getting seriously discouraged. They still hadn’t found a house. Everything they saw was either too big or too small, and didn’t have the right set-up for her medical practice. It felt like she was never going to find what they needed. And then, finally, she found the perfect place on a narrow street in the sixteenth arrondissement. It was a small but elegant little house with a front courtyard and a back garden, and a unit with a separate entrance where she could see patients. It was in excellent condition, and was an estate being sold by the bank. And Annabelle liked the fact that it had a dignified look. It seemed wonderfully suitable for a doctor. And there was a small park nearby where Consuelo could play with other children.

Annabelle made an offer on the house immediately, met the asking price established by the bank, and took possession of it at the end of August. In the meantime, she ordered furniture, linens, china, some adorable children’s antiques for Consuelo’s room, and some lovely things for her own rooms and some simple furniture for Brigitte. She bought some serious-looking furniture for her office, and spent September purchasing the medical equipment she needed to run an office. She went to the printers and ordered stationery, and hired a medical secretary who said she had worked at the Abbaye de Royaumont as well, although Annabelle had never met her. Hélène was a quiet older woman, who had worked for several doctors before the war, and was delighted to help Annabelle start her practice.