“Three,” Ève admitted. “I was not hurt on any occasion,” she added quickly.
“You might have been, the last time,” Richard replied. “Hook Nose would have propped you in front of him and tossed you at the gendarmes’ truncheons if I had not intervened.”
“Then it was as well you were there,” Ève replied lightly.
“It does not worry you, the danger of what you do?”
“What danger? I observe and I report back. As I sing at most cafes, I am seen by them as a harmless woman. That is why they have never tried to recruit me. Bertrand was right about that.”
“It seems they may be trying to recruit me,” Richard said softly.
“You sent him away with a flea in his ear,” Ève pointed out. “You are out of it.”
Richard picked up his wine glass. “You believe so, hmm?”
Ève shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. After tonight, I will not again ask you to take me anywhere. I had not anticipated your…” She hesitated.
“Notoriety?” Richard asked. “It is all right. You may say it.”
Ève grimaced. “No, I will not. I told you to forget about all of that and enjoy your evening. It is the least I can do for your company tonight.”
Richard’s smooth jaw shifted. His eyes narrowed even more. Then, it was as if he had come to a decision. He leaned back in his chair and sipped his wine. “Do you feel you are up to the challenge of distracting me, then?” There was a teasing note in his voice.
Ève hid her surprise, but not her pleasure in this sudden turn in his mood. He was putting aside his worries just as she had told him to. She must now meet him halfway. “I will attempt to be adequate distraction, at the least,” she promised him.
She spent the next hour doing her best to be charming company. She laughed and flattered his male pride. She avoided all mention of the family and England, and instead asked him about his time in the south of France.
“You have earned yourself a suntan while you were there,” she added. “Did you work in the vineyards, perhaps?”
“A lucky guess? Or did your father tell you that?” Richard asked, his brow lifting.
“There is nothing in the south but vineyards or the sea—and you do not appear to be a man who would loll about beside the sea. Not with those arms.”
He glanced down at his arms. “Perhaps I inherited my physique from my father.”
Ève shook her head. “No, your wrists tell me you have earned your physique the honest way.”
“Honest.” He considered that. “My wrists?” he added, glancing at his bare wrists where they protruded from his jacket, with no cuff to hide them.
“They are not the weak wrists of a gentleman.”
“Not all gentlemen have weak wrists.”
“None of them have tanned wrists. Were you picking grapes?”
“On three different vineyards in Bordeaux,” he replied. “In August, too.”
“The heat was very bad?”
“Not if one does not mind perspiration.”
Ève smiled. “But now it is May—you have been outdoors since August, or your flesh would be pale once more.”
Richard raised a brow. “Haying. And after that, building a barn.”
“Really? You climbed upon the roof and hammered nails?”
“I did.”
Ève paused to absorb that. Even without his tie or collar, Richard still looked too much like an English peer, in his tuxedo with its silk lapels and the crisp white shirt. His appearance the other night in the other café had been closer to the type of man who climbed upon barn roofs and picked grapes.
“Tell me about Bordeaux,” she pressed. “Is it as pretty as I’ve been told?”
“When the vines are in full bloom, yes, it is,” Richard said. He paused, and she could tell by the way his gaze shifted that he was drawing upon a memory. His voice dropped lower, and he said softly, almost wistfully, “The air there has none of the crispness or dampness of British air. It is warm and soft.” He drank, his thoughts still far away. “I did not have—” He glanced at her, as if he was suddenly aware of her presence and was awkward because of it. Then he squared his shoulders. “I did not have the money for a cab from the train station. The village did not have a cab I could rent. So I got directions from the station master and walked from the train station to the vineyard whose owner was looking for laborers for his harvest.” He paused. His gaze was back to the past once more. “I was not the only man on the train who was walking to the vineyard. There was a group of us and one of them shared his flask. Another had cheese in a cloth which he cut with his knife and handed out as we walked.”
Ève held still, even though a dozen questions occurred to her. She did not want to disrupt his story.
“We came to the top of a hill and could look down into a wide vale and I stopped walking so I could study the view. It was breathtaking. For as far as one could see, there were dark green lines of vines running up and down the land, divided into fields by hedges. Among them were the homes of the vineyard owners, surrounded by thick trees, with just a glimpse of white walls and dark rooftops. The sky was completely blue, with not a single cloud to mar the perfection, and the air bathed my face and I thought…”
Richard stirred, and his gaze came back to her. He picked up his wine.
“Thought what?” she coaxed.
His frown came back. “I thought the place was perfection, until I had completed my first day of work picking grapes.”
“The work was very hard?”
“It was tolerable,” he said. “Except that I had not done the work before and had no gloves. By the end of the first day, my hands were bleeding from the rough vines—some of them are more than a hundred years old and the old wood is sharp and tough.”
Ève glanced at the remains of the wine in her glass. It had not occurred to her until just now that the wine was there for her to drink because a man had painstakingly cut the bunches of grapes from the vine, then more men had squeezed the grapes and even more men had stored the juice to turn it into wine.
“Did you get a pair of gloves, after that?” Ève asked.
“I was not paid until the harvest was completed—the first one, that is. Then, yes, I acquired some gloves.”
Ève glanced at his hands, horror touching her. He had worked for days without gloves, with his hands constantly bleeding?
Richard rested his left hand on the table, palm up. “This hand was the worst,” he said.
Ève bent to peer at his palm. There were fine red lines, thicker lines and red, recently healed wounds all over his palm and fingers.
She sat back, appalled.
Richard’s gaze was steady as he returned his hand to his lap.
Then Ève remembered she was supposed to be distracting him. She shook off her dismay and sought for another topic. “What were you doing during the early summer?” she asked.
The conversation went on, as they shared a mousse and after, coffee and cheese. By then, a man with a violin had settled on a chair on the tiny stage at the back of the café. A lady in violet satin stepped up onto the stage, to a polite round of applause, which she acknowledged with a smile.
Ève listened with an appreciative ear as the woman sang many of the same songs that Ève did when she was hired for an evening of entertainment. This woman was professionally trained, unlike Ève. Ève had learned everything she knew about singing by listening to professional singers and copying their phrasing and breathing.
Richard leaned closer. “You are a better singer,” he murmured.
Ève smiled at him. “Thank you, but I know I am not.”
“Your voice is prettier.”
The woman did have an unfortunate burr in her voice. Ève smothered her giggle and tried to give the singer her attention once more, which was only polite.
As each song ended, the applause grew a little more. The singer’s song selection pleased the audience. Ève had also learned to sing the popular so
ngs, to earn an audience’s approval.
The dour men sitting together at the tables at the edge of the café seemed to be uninterested in the singer. They still murmured with their heads together, ignoring her, which seemed rude to Ève. But then, anarchists considered nothing in life to be sacrosanct, not even governments or kings. The more she learned about them, the more Ève agreed with Bertrand that the organization—for it was an organization, despite loathing any idea of organization—that the organization needed to be broken up, its members scattered and unable to come together ever again. They were dangerous people, who had no loyalties and therefore little moral compass to curb their excesses.
After six songs, the singer curtsied and assured the patrons she would return in a short while and stepped off the stage.
Ève stood. “Excuse me.”
Richard got to his feet, startling her. It had been a long while since a gentleman stood when she did.
She moved to the ladies’ room, scanning the faces of the men at the tables as she passed. Unlike most nights, the men glanced up as she passed, their eyes narrowed with speculation. Her heart jumped and hurried. She had been noticed. This was most unusual!
When she returned to her table a few minutes later, the men on the other side of the tables also considered her as she walked past.
Ève did not sit down when she reached the table. Richard was already on his feet once more. Ève gave him a smile which felt strained. “I think I would like to leave,” she told him.
“Certainly.” He reached for her wrap, which hung over the third chair at the table. “Something troubles you,” he murmured, as he put the wrap around her shoulders.
“Like you, I am suddenly in need of distraction from my thoughts,” she admitted in a low voice. “I would like to go somewhere where neither you nor I are known to anyone at all.”
Richard considered. “You mentioned dancing, earlier.”
“Yes.”
“There is a dance hall, La Salle De Danse Gay, in Montmartre,” he said.
“Yes. That is perfect. I have never been there.”
Richard nodded. “Neither have I. Very well.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
La Salle De Danse Gay did not open until ten o’clock each evening. It was nearly midnight when the cab Richard hailed arrived at the front doors and they went in. The hall was very large, with a full orchestra at the far end and small tables and chairs around the edges. The hall was full of dancers, some wearing silk and diamonds, the others simple day dresses. Some men wore tuxedos and others wore rumpled jackets which were likely the only ones they owned.
Richard and Ève stood just inside the doorway, surveying the dancers. Ève felt something relax inside her. “We fit in perfectly,” she murmured.
“Yes, we do,” Richard said. He picked up her hand and put it over his elbow. “Let’s find a table.”
“Oh, and let’s have champagne,” Ève said, as they skirted dancers energetically romping through a gallop.
They did both. Ève sipped the bubbling, cold liquid appreciatively. “Champagne is the only suitable drink when one is dancing.”
“You expected to dance, too?” Richard sounded alarmed.
Ève felt her jaw loosen. Then she saw a light in his eyes, one of mischief, and laughed.
He smiled, too.
“I don’t believe there is a single familiar face here,” Ève said, scanning the hall once more.
“Good,” Richard said firmly.
“Yes, that is good.”
He got to his feet. “Before a strange man steals you,” he said, holding out his hand.
Ève took a deep swallow of the champagne and took his hand. Richard swept her into the last half of the polonaise.
It was the start of a long night of dancing. They returned to their table for only a single dance at a time—just enough time to drink champagne, catch their breath, then return to the dancefloor once more.
Richard was a good dancer and knew all the dances, including the unpopular and half-forgotten staid marches and reels. He kept her on the dancefloor when most of the dancers returned to their seats, leaving only a dozen or fewer dancers to complete the reels. A proper society gentleman was expected to know all the dances, of course. Only, as the night extended, Ève had trouble remembering Richard was an upper-class British man and a former member of society. The only hint of his foreign upbringing was his accent.
They talked while they danced and the conversation was without effort and flowed easily. Ève found herself laughing more than once. Richard seemed determined to keep the mood light and even when she accidentally referred to his unfortunate past, he stepped around it and deftly changed the subject.
It was as if he intended to demonstrate he was not the morose man he had spoken of earlier in the evening.
The dance ended at four o’clock. Despite the orchestra standing and bowing, then packing their instruments away, the people in the hall seemed reluctant to leave. They clustered upon the floor, talking and laughing.
When Richard and Ève stepped out onto the footpath in front of the dancehall, Richard scanned the busy street for a cab he could hail.
Ève caught his arm. “Let’s walk,” she suggested. “I would like to take in the air for a while.” She was warm from the dancing, for the last sets had been waltzes and polkas.
They strolled down the street, heading south, which would bring them to the river, eventually.
“Thank you for this, Richard,” Ève murmured.
“For the evening? I believe it is I who should thank you. You were as diverting as promised.” His smile was easy. “I don’t think I have exerted so much effort in the pursuit of entertainment in a long time.”
For years, Ève guessed. She let it go. “I meant for the dance, actually. It was such a lovely idea. I haven’t danced until dawn for years—The last time was at Kirkaldy for the Christmas ball, when I was fifteen.”
“That was a long time ago,” Richard admitted. Unlike other accidental mentions of the family, this one did not seem to bother him. He made no attempt to change the subject. They moved down the sidewalk, among other pedestrians, for Paris rarely completely slept.
Notre Dame was ablaze with light as they passed it, and the gaslights along the streets still burned, too. Ève felt quite safe, especially with Richard beside her.
“If you do not mind me asking, Richard,” she said, “what do you think you will do when you leave Paris?”
He didn’t answer at once. After a few slow paces, he said, “I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps I may stay here until summer then, perhaps, Nice. In summer, there is work to be found on Riviera.”
“Much more than here in Paris,” Ève said in agreement. “Paris is almost empty in the summer, especially in August.” She hesitated. “You would not want to return to England?”
He didn’t bridle or grow offended. He didn’t shake his head, either. His glance was thoughtful, as he looked at her. “This night has demonstrated to me more than any other day I have spent in France that I am no longer that man. I am not needed there and have no need to return.”
“You mean the dance hall? Where no one knew you and you could relax.”
“Yes, exactly,” he said in agreement. He paused. “Although, I enjoyed dinner at the café, too,” he admitted.
“Despite Hook Nose?”
He laughed. “I am used to women drawing their skirts aside and men looking down their noses at me. Tonight is the first time my infamy has been considered a positive thing.”
“And if…if the bank had not collapsed, if Vaughn had not gone to jail…what would you be doing now?”
Richard took a long while to answer. There was no need to rush, though. The night was not uncomfortably cold and walking offset the small chill in the air.
The Seine was before them when Richard next spoke. He said softly, “I suspect that, had disaster not struck, I would be married, with children and a wife and a house in London. We would spend the season in L
ondon, the hunting season upon the estate and so on, for every year until I died.”
“You make it sound terrible,” Ève said softly.
“From where I stand, now, yes, it does seem terrible to me.” He frowned, watching the path beneath his feet. “What is the point of such a life, Ève? What is the point in any of it?”
Ève sighed.
He glanced at her and raised his brow. “Is that a sigh of agreement?”
“Of recognition,” she admitted. “You know who my parents were, yes?”
“Your father fought with Uncle Iefan.”
“They were both working-class people. I knew nothing about society and peers and…and the expectations which go with that life until I was much older. Because Papa Iefan and Mama Mairin adopted us, we could choose, if we wanted, to enter society—although not as formal debutantes, but still, we could attend the season and find husbands.”
“You declined,” Richard said softly.
“I did,” Ève said. “So did all of us—Adam, Daniel and Alicia. Perhaps it was our outsiders’ point of view. None of us could understand why anyone would choose that life. It seemed rather, well, frivolous.”
“On the surface, it is,” Richard said in agreement. “There is a purpose beneath it all. Several purposes, even.”
“Deeply buried and essentially just as pointless. The finding of husbands and the carrying on of the line.”
“You do not want your father’s line to carry on?”
“I want my life to mean more than to be merely a vessel for the passing of a bloodline,” Ève said, irritation coloring her tone.
“So…your work for Bertrand,” Richard said, new awareness in his voice.
“Yes, my work for Bertrand,” Ève said. “If I play even a small part in the downfall of the anarchists, then I will have achieved something meaningful.”
“Yet you hide your work from Uncle Iefan and Aunt Mairin. Will it still be meaningful, if no one knows what you have done?” His voice held a teasing note.
Ève managed to smile at him, even though her heart was hurrying. She had never voiced her ambitions to a living soul, not even Bertrand, who had seemed to sense their existence, anyway. Speaking the thoughts aloud took courage. “Bertrand will know and so will the anarchists, I suspect. Acknowledgement doesn’t matter. The doing of it is the point, do you see? And I hide what I do from my parents not because I am embarrassed about it, or that I believe they would not approve, but because I do not want them to worry about me.”
His Parisian Mistress (Scandalous Family--The Victorians Book 1) Page 7
