Dare to Love

by Jennifer Wilde

  His expression was determined, his eyes fierce, and he continued to thrust. I imagined him conducting one of his overtures—in my mind I could hear the drums roll and the cymbals crash as his music grew louder, harsher, until finally he grew taut, his body rigid in that instant of suspension, and then he shuddered as the life force jetted out of him and he came down atop me, limp and spent and heavy. I cringed, enduring, and after a while he withdrew and got to his feet and fastened his breeches.

  I did not move from the bed, but watched as Wagner stepped over to the mirror to tug at the hem of his satin waistcoat and smooth the lapels of the elegant maroon jacket. He fooled with his neckcloth for a moment and then, satisfied with his appearance, turned to face me. Lips curling in that ever present sarcastic smile, he took a handful of bills from his pocket and tossed them onto the bed.

  “I’ve had better from tawdry whores who stroll the backstreets at midnight,” he informed me. “Your lack of talent in bed is exceeded only by your lack of talent on stage. I suggest you find a new trade.”

  He left then, and I closed my eyes and tried to compose myself. A few minutes later I summoned enough strength to put on my robe and go downstairs. Waking Hilde, the plump blonde maid, I told her I must have a hot bath immediately and she nodded groggily. Fifteen minutes later I was sitting in a tub of steaming hot water, scrubbing, scrubbing. The sun was shining when I returned to the bedroom. I dried my hair with a towel and then sat down to brush it, brushing vigorously until it crackled, releasing my anger with every stroke.

  Pulling my hair back I fastened it in a loose French roll, then began to dress. When Hilde brought in my breakfast tray, I thanked her and, taking the tray, forced myself to drink several cups of the scalding hot coffee. I looked at the clock and saw that it was almost nine.

  I moved briskly down the hall to Franz’ suite and opened the door without bothering to knock. He wasn’t in the sitting room, but his bedroom door was open and I saw him leaning over to fasten the clasp of one of his bags. He looked up. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me. Lifting the bag off the bed, he set it on the floor, then sauntered on into the sitting room.

  “All packed?” I inquired.

  “Almost.”

  “Then it’s true?”

  “I’m leaving, yes.”

  “With Wagner.”

  Franz nodded; his face was expressionless. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. The room was done in shades of white and gray and blue. A row of lovely blue and white Wedgewood plates stood on a rack above the mantle, and a Wedgewood box was on the table in front of the gray velvet sofa. The carpet was dark blue, the walls gleaming white. I observed these details with strange objectivity as I tried not to believe what was happening.

  “It was inevitable, Elena,” he said. “We should have parted a long time ago.”

  “Yes.”

  “You seem very calm, my dear.”

  “I’ve never been calmer in my life.”

  “I’m glad to see you taking it so well.”

  There was a moment of silence as we looked at each other, and then I stepped over to him and drew my hand back and slapped him across the face so hard that I almost sprained my wrist. Franz didn’t so much as wince. I stepped back, my palm stinging.

  “Satisfied?” he inquired.

  “Not entirely.”

  “Oh?”

  “You sent him to my room, didn’t you?”

  “I thought it might amuse you.”

  I slapped him again, even harder this time. He grimaced, but he made no move to restrain me. I stepped back, rubbing my wrist. The right side of his face burned a bright pink. Moving over to the table, I picked up the Wedgewood box and hurled it against the wall. It shattered with an explosion of sound.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  I whirled around and, taking down one of the plates from the mantle, I hurled it against the wall, too. It made even more noise. I took down another and shattered it. I was on the fifth plate when the door burst open and the proprietor rushed in with a horrified expression, throwing up his hands and babbling excitedly in German. I threw a plate at him. He covered his head with his arms and ducked, but Franz smiled his wry smile and told the man he would pay for the damage. The proprietor babbled something else and ran out of the room. I demolished the remaining plates and then, for good measure, tore the rack off the wall and heaved it across the room.

  “An admirable performance,” Franz said. “Are you quite finished?”

  “Not quite,” I fumed.

  My bosom was heaving. I took a deep breath, trying to compose myself. Franz watched me with that damnable amusement in his eyes. I pushed a strand of hair from my temple, went over to him and picked up a delicate vase. Planting my feet firmly on the carpet, I smashed it over his head with all the might I could muster. He made a gasping noise and almost lost his balance.

  “Now I’m finished,” I said.

  I turned and left the room, feeling sure that if I hadn’t knocked the breath out of him he would have burst into laughter. In my room, I sat and seethed and drank another cup of coffee, hoping to calm down. My conduct appalled me, but it had been satisfying, marvelously satisfying. I only wished I had been able to hit him twice as hard. About half an hour later, I heard horse hooves on the drive in front of the inn. I went out onto the balcony and looked down to see Wagner’s driver piling luggage into the open carriage.

  A moment later, Franz and Wagner strolled out toward the carriage, in a jolly mood, both of them. Franz said something I couldn’t make out and Wagner slapped him on the back and laughed heartily. I began to seethe again, the anger as good as new. As the men took their seats in the carriage, the driver climbed up on his perch in front and took up the reins. The grays stamped impatiently, eager to be off.

  As if he could feel the intensity of my stare, Wagner turned and looked up. When he saw me standing at the bannister, he gave Franz a nudge and then lifted his hand and waved merrily. A heavy pot of red geraniums rested on top of one of the bannister posts. I picked it up and smiled to see Wagner’s expression change from sarcastic mockery to stark horror. He threw his arms up over his head as I hurled the pot. It landed directly on top of him and broke into many little pieces. Had it not been for the protection of his arms, it would probably have cracked his skull. Startled by the noise, the horses reared and took off, almost pulling the driver from his perch. As the carriage bowled down the drive, Wagner frantically brushed clumps of dirt and shreds of geranium from his head and shoulders.

  I went back inside and spent the rest of the morning packing my things. It was a time-consuming job. Why did I always travel with so many clothes? I fervently wished Millie had been there to help and to provide an audience. How I longed to launch into a tirade against Franz and Wagner, for the anger was still raging inside. I prayed that their carriage would turn over on one of the mountain passes. I prayed that they would both catch some dreadful disease. I hoped they would be very, very happy together. They deserved each other!

  As I packed a final bag, there was a timid knock on the door and plump Hilde came into the room, her blue eyes wide with nervous curiosity.

  “You want de lunch?” she asked in halting English.

  “No thank you, Hilde. I’m not hungry.”

  “Jou are leavink, too?”

  I nodded. “I—Hilde, I wonder if you’d check and see if—if Mr. Liszt paid for my room, and could you have someone arrange for a carriage to take me to the nearest railway station?”

  “Ja,” she said.

  Hilde left and I sighed, and then a terrible realization came over me. I had almost no money. I had never taken a penny from Franz, but he had paid all our expenses. What little money I had was in a bank in Paris, and even that wouldn’t be enough to hire a carriage and pay for my ticket to Paris. I was stranded. And after my exhibition in Franz’ suite the proprietor wasn’t likely to be in any mood to extend credit. Cheeks ashen, I sank into a chair, and then, seeing the humor o
f the situation, I laughed to myself.

  Well, Elena, you’ve really gotten yourself into it this time, I thought, and you’ve only yourself to blame. Wait till the newspapers get hold of it … and they will!

  I sat there for a long time, feeling remarkably good-humored about it all. Remembering the horrified expression on Wagner’s face, I laughed again. I found myself thinking of Anthony. He would have appreciated the situation, would have had some jaunty, outrageous remark to make, and then he would have started bossing me around. Men. I had chosen some real treasures. Here I sat, the most celebrated temptress of two continents, a tempestuous, mercenary adventuress who was supposed to drive men mad, without a sou, stranded in an isolated German inn on the edge of the Black Forest, and there wasn’t a savior in sight. I wondered what would happen next.

  I hadn’t long to wait.

  I spent the day feeling alternately relieved and desperate. In the late afternoon I heard a carriage driving up the road, and I stepped out onto my balcony just in time to see a young man climbing out of the carriage and walking toward the entrance. The carriage was closed, a gorgeous mahogany vehicle pulled by four snowy white horses with red plumes affixed to their heads. On the side of the door facing me there was an elegant gold and white crest, and I could see red velvet curtains hanging inside the windows. The driver sitting on the seat in front wore spotless white livery adorned with an abundance of gold braid. I was extremely impressed.

  A few minutes later Hilde tapped on my door again, and when she came in her cheeks were flushed with excitement. She began to speak rapidly in German, making sweeping gestures. It was some time before I could calm her down enough to learn that a young Frenchman was downstairs in the sitting room and wished to see me. He was very beautiful and he had given her the warmest smile and had driven up in a magnificent carriage that was just like something out of a fairy tale. She’d never seen such a carriage in her life and she didn’t know who he was but he must be someone very important and very rich, too.

  “He wants to see me?”

  She nodded vigorously, blonde braids flopping.

  “Ja, Ja,” she exclaimed, and then she launched into another excited tirade in German as I gently eased her out of the room.

  I had no idea who he might be, but he would have to wait a while. My face and hair needed repairs. Fortunately, I hadn’t yet packed my cosmetics, and I sat down at the dressing table and spent twenty minutes redoing my hair and applying make-up. Finished, I stood up and adjusted the hang of my skirt, glad I had chosen this particular frock—a fetching pale lavender with black stripes—which was not as flamboyant as most of my things.

  Curious but composed, I descended the stairs. The young man was standing at the mantel as I entered the sitting room, his back to me. He was very tall and slender, and his thick, abundant hair was a very light brown, silvery brown, rich and wavy. Hearing my skirt rustle, he turned and smiled. I could see why Hilde had been so overwhelmed. He was indeed beautiful. Perhaps twenty-four years old, with clear blue eyes, a perfect Roman nose and full, curving lips. There was a deep cleft in his chin, and he had high, aristocratic cheekbones with slight hollows beneath them. His eyelids were heavy, his silver-brown brows beautifully curved.

  “Miss Lopez?”

  I nodded. He smiled. It was such a lovely smile. He was immediately engaging, a polite, friendly young man who, I suspected, was essentially shy and quite oblivious to his own beauty. He wore tall black boots, a dark blue suit and a waistcoat of sky blue satin embroidered with black and royal blue floral patterns. His neckcloth was black silk. Strong and virile, he had an innate gentility that was most refreshing.

  “Phillipe Du Gard, Madamoiselle,” he said, bowing. “I’ve come all the way from Barivna to abduct you.”

  “Oh?”

  “My orders are to bring you back with me by fair means or foul. I’m prepared to clamp my hand over your mouth and drag you out by force if necessary. Although”—Phillipe Du Gard smiled once more, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes—“I must confess I’ve never abducted anyone before.”

  “I’m sure you’d be very good at it”

  There was a shining quality about him, a youthful glow that was both touching and sad. He radiated an air of innocence and idealism. Though he appeared to be only a year or two older than I, he made me feel terribly worldly and experienced.

  “Perhaps I’d better explain,” he continued. “His royal highness, King Karl of Barivna, has just completed a magnificent new theater, all white and gold and red velvet within. He’s very proud of it, and his desire is that you be the first to perform there.”

  “I’m very flattered.”

  “When he saw you dance in Bonn, he said he knew he must have you to open his theater. He promised to send me packing if I failed to return with you.”

  “How did you know where to find me?” I asked.

  “The King himself told me to come here,” he replied, as though that explained everything. “He gave me explicit directions.”

  “I see.”

  “He said you were with Liszt and that you might not want to come with me.…”

  “Liszt and I are no longer—together.”

  Phillipe smiled. “Good,” he said. “Perhaps I won’t have to abduct you after all. Perhaps you’ll come willingly.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’d hate to have to use force. I would, though. I used to beat up my younger brother at least once a week. He was a terrible pest, chasing after me like a gnat.”

  “Surely you didn’t really beat him?”

  “Really. Thoroughly. At least once a week.”

  He was such a charming young man—so sweet, so handsome, his nature as yet unmarred by the ugliness of the world. He aroused a tender feeling inside of me, making me wish I were still that innocent young girl who had roamed over the moors of Cornwall with a heart full of dreams and illusions.

  “It’s a long journey to Barivna,” he informed me. “If we leave immediately we will have to drive until dark, spend the night at an inn and drive most of tomorrow. But there’s some lovely scenery and I’m sure you won’t be bored.”

  “I’m sure I won’t.”

  “Will you come peacefully, or shall I have to use force?”

  I smiled, absolutely enchanted by Monsieur Phillipe Du Gard, the most delightful savior imaginable.

  “I don’t think force will be necessary,” I replied.

  XXVII

  The sky, a pale blue canopy, stretched above spectacular mountain vistas as the carriage moved up yet another perilously steep road. Peering out the window, I saw gorgeous peaks in the distance covered with green and studded with white and gray boulders, while two feet from the road there was a sheer drop. The carriage shook, bouncing on its springs, and I couldn’t help being a bit nervous. Phillipe watched me, a teasing smile on his lips.

  “We’re not going to fall,” he assured me.

  “What if one of the wheels came off right now? We’d go careening over the edge and tumble down thousands of feet. It’s fortunate that you didn’t tell me about the mountain passes yesterday, Phillipe. I’d never have come with you.”

  “Yes you would have. Bound and gagged.”

  “And kicking furiously,” I added. “Look, there’s a cloud. I could almost reach out and touch it. I shan’t try. I don’t dare lean out the window. It might throw us off balance.”

  Phillipe laughed, enjoying himself almost as much as I was. He was a marvelous traveling companion, amiable, attentive and wonderful to look at. We had spent the night in a comfortable inn, and he had arranged everything in advance, clean, cozy rooms for both of us and one for the driver as well. Phillipe and I had dined in splendor. There had been caviar, pâté, champagne chilling in a silver bucket.

  We had stayed up talking until after midnight, and he told me how he, a young Frenchman, happened to have a position at Barivna’s Court. Phillipe had attended the university there and had fallen in love with the country. Through vario
us friends, word had gotten back to the king of Phillipe’s feelings for Barivna, and the king immediately sent for him and offered him a minor role at Court upon his graduation. Which Phillipe accepted with great pleasure.

  The carriage hit another deep rut and I said, “I hope there is not much more of this.”

  “The road will level off in a little while, and there’ll be no more dizzying drops, no more narrow curves. Barivna is situated in a large, lovely valley nestled right on top of the mountains. It’s completely surrounded by peaks, and there are half a dozen sparkling lakes.”

  “You really are fond of Barivna, aren’t you?”

  “I hate the thought of leaving it.”

  “Must you?”

  “I’ve no doubt Father will win eventually. He usually does.”

  Phillipe had grown up in Touraine where his father, Marquis Du Gard, maintained a large, ancient chateau surrounded by woodland. As a child Phillipe had swum naked in the Loire, scurried up trees to rob birds’ nests and had been the leader of a rowdy gang made up of children of the tenant farmers. When he reached his teens, he gave up pretending to be a pirate or a red Indian and developed an interest in poetry and music, disappointing his father who wanted him to stop wasting his time and learn to manage the estate. Marquis Du Gard had opposed Phillipe’s attending the university at Barivna from the start and was now demanding that he return to Touraine.

  “Have you a sweetheart in Barivna?” I inquired.

  A faint pink blush tinted his cheeks. “There’s no sweetheart,” he informed me.

  “Not even a rosy-cheeked barmaid?” I teased. “I understand the girls who work in the beer gardens are terribly fetching.”

  “I spend very little time in the beer gardens.”

  I smiled as Phillipe brushed a wave of silvery brown hair from his forehead. My first impression had been correct. Despite his personable manner and his adeptness at light banter, Phillipe was essentially shy and far more sensitive than one might expect.