“I thought he found me exciting,” I said, injured.
“Oh, he does, liebchen, he does! But sometimes a man craves a destructive stimulation, like laudanum. By returning to Paris, Roderick will be returning to the scene of his most powerful addiction. That is why I am so relieved that you will be there to help him find his way through this labyrinth.”
My confidence wavered for an instant at the gravity of his words, but I would not betray as much. “I am his helpmeet just as much as if we were already married,” I declared. “His peace of mind and happiness are what I most desire.”
My qualms had still not been laid to rest. But on this sunny September day, as Roderick, Mrs. Vise, and I rode in an open carriage we had hired upon arriving at the Gare de l’Est railway station, I was able to quell my doubts, at least temporarily. It was so thrilling to be in Paris again.
My last travels in France had taken place ten years ago, when Baron Haussmann’s controversial redesign of the city had not advanced to its present state, and I marveled at the elegant new buildings at the same time that I rejoiced to see sites I remembered from my last stay. One of the latter was the Porte Saint-Denis, the monumental stone arch that dated back two centuries. Her Majesty Queen Victoria herself had traveled through this gateway less than twenty years before, upon her entry into Paris for the Universal Exposition. Now our carriage was passing beneath it, and I craned my neck to see as much as I could of the elaborate carvings that commemorated Louis XIV’s victories over Germanic peoples along the Rhine.
“How busy all the streets are!” I exclaimed. The roadways were choked with carriages, and there were many yellow horse-drawn omnibuses, their open-air upper levels crowded with men passengers. “And how beautiful everything is. I would never have known the Prussian shelling had done so much damage.”
“Don’t forget the Communards, poor devils,” said Roderick, who was likewise gazing about with interest. “But it looks as though the city has been busy with repairs. I heard that even though they burnt the Hôtel de Ville to destroy the birth and marriage certificates, the facade was left almost intact.”
“Why on earth did they do that?” I asked, and then realized. “To put all citizens on equal footing.”
“Exactly. The ideal of liberté, egalité, fraternité is still alive here, despite the terrible price they paid.”
I shuddered. Newspaper accounts of the tragic Communard uprising were still fresh in my mind, though what had come to be called the Bloody Week had taken place more than two years ago now, in May 1871. The violent clash between the working class and the government had resulted in the deaths of thousands of citizens, and thousands more had been imprisoned or deported.
The newspaper stories were still so vivid in my mind that I almost expected to come upon barricades built from torn-up paving stones at every intersection. That, I realized, must be why there were so few cobbled streets left—nearly every street we traveled was paved in smooth asphaltum.
I could scarcely reconcile accounts of the turmoil with the crowds of Parisians and tourists alike. Pedestrians thronged the broad sidewalks and cafés, in couples and in groups, purchasing flowers from street vendors, taking refreshment at outdoor tables under café awnings. The mood was so convivial. “They must be celebrating the withdrawal of the German troops,” I said. “They have their city back at last.”
Roderick smiled at me. His mood seemed to improve with every block we traveled as we saw how beautiful and lively Paris still was, how well she had come through her trouble and tragedy. “Parisians are a resilient lot, Sybil,” he said.
I slipped my hand into his. “So are you, dear heart,” I said softly, and he leaned over and would have kissed me had Mrs. Vise not cleared her throat meaningfully.
“I don’t approve of those restaurants right on the street,” she said. “And who are these women out walking by themselves? They must be what the French call Cortez Annes.”
Roderick was quicker than I to work out what she meant. “I don’t think they’re courtesans, Mrs. Vise,” he said, with an admirably straight face. “I think they’re American tourists.”
“Oh. In that case, I suppose it’s all right. Our young women are fine, independent types.”
Roderick and I exchanged surreptitious smiles. Mrs. Vise would probably find plenty to be indignant about in Paris, but her loyalties as an American would prevent her from seeing anything amiss in the behavior of her countrywomen.
She had been highly indignant when I told her our plans to visit Paris. A den of vice, it was! A seething hotbed of whoredom, debauchery, and godlessness! A good Christian woman would never feel safe for an instant in that wicked land! Fortunately, however, these very same convictions persuaded her that I would need her protection in such an iniquitous place, so she overcame her own revulsion and dread in order to accompany me as chaperone. I hoped that neither of us would come to regret the decision, but now that we had actually arrived, she seemed more fascinated than horrified.
The first shadow over our arrival was cast when we reached Le Grand Hôtel. Despite having wired ahead for two suites of rooms, Roderick was informed that one had been canceled. As the city was thick with tourists, the concierge informed us rather loftily that he could not possibly make another suite materialize for us out of thin air. I think he would not have been so high-handed if he had recognized Roderick, but the bare-headed, hot-tempered American in front of him had clearly made a poor impression.
Roderick’s jaw set. I knew he spied the stimulating prospect of a shouting match with the concierge, whose monocle was radiating a self-satisfaction that practically dared Roderick to cross him.
“While you two are discussing the matter, I shall have a look at the suite,” I told him, and with Mrs. Vise in tow, I located the elevator—a convenience that was still a novelty, and a welcome one—and made my way to the one suite that had been secured.
The rooms had been designed to evoke an 18th-century salon, with herringbone wood floors, high ceilings, and elaborate moldings. Floor-length windows let in plenty of sunlight. Even the fireplace surrounds were beautifully carved, and furnishings and rugs bore gentle pastel hues. The hotel had opened only eleven years before and had been built to conform to the Haussmann style, with a facade of cream-colored stone and a zinc mansard roof. When I opened the French doors I had access to a beautiful wrought-iron balcony that ran the width of the building.
Even better, I had a splendid view of the magnificent new opera house, just across the street. Although not yet completed, it boasted a facade of breathtaking splendor. Its lavish ornamentation, which included columns, portrait busts, gilded sculptures, and other baroque features, was echoed in the design of the facing exterior side of the hotel so that it would harmonize with its magnificent neighbor.
Faced with such luxurious living quarters, however, Mrs. Vise gave one of her disapproving sniffs. “These rooms have not been cleaned properly,” she said, and when I looked in the direction in which she was staring I saw a pair of women’s open-heeled mules near the closed double doors that presumably led to the bedchamber.
How very odd. Had the suite not been prepared for us? I opened the double doors and walked in.
“Roderick?” a drowsy feminine voice inquired. “Est-ce que toi?”
Sunlight filtered through lace curtains to reveal a lump beneath the tufted blue satin counterpane of the bed. The spark of outrage I felt was quickly overcome by sheer curiosity.
“I am sorry to disappoint you,” I said, approaching the bed. “Roderick has been delayed.”
A slender hand pushed the counterpane back, and the woman in the bed raised herself on one elbow to study me. She was unquestionably beautiful. Glossy dark hair streamed down around her bare shoulders, and her eyes were velvety and dark. They assessed me as frankly as I did her. Her full red lips curved in a smile, and her sweet voice held an undertone of laughter when she said in prettily accented English, “You are not the audience I was expecting.”
A dimple showed in her smooth cheek. “A dress rehearsal! What a lovely idea.” Flinging back the bedclothes, she rose from the bed, and I realized that dress rehearsal was not the most apt of terms, for the woman wore nothing but black stockings with cerise garters.
Behind me, Mrs. Vise exclaimed, “The hussy!”
Julia de Lioncourt pursed her lovely mouth in confusion. “Why is that person addressing me?” she asked.
“This is my maid,” I said. “She is American, and new to France. I’m Sybil Ingram.”
“Of course!” Julia clasped my outstretched hand, looked me up and down again, and then drew me near and kissed me on both cheeks. She was, I had to admit, quite charming, and even though on a closer look I was nearly certain she was a few years older than me, her figure, which I could of course see in its entirety, was splendid. She was a bit rounder than me in the hips and bust, and together with her slender waist those curves lent her an enviable hourglass shape. She was just a little taller than I, so that in her stocking feet she was on eye level with me.
“How delightful to meet you,” she exclaimed. “I had heard that you were Roderick’s current mistress, of course, but I had no idea that your liaison was so serious that he would bring you with him. That changes things.”
“I am not his mistress,” I clarified. “I am his fiancée.”
Either she did not hear me or she did not think the distinction worth acknowledging. “But you are such a pretty thing!” she exclaimed in her piquant accent. “I can see why Roderick took a fancy to you. And I’m sure it’s no coincidence that we are so unlike,” she added confidingly, a twin to the first dimple appearing. “The dear boy was in such a taking when we parted that I can see why he would become infatuated with a woman who is my complete opposite.”
If that was meant as an insult, it fell wide of the mark, for I was proud to be this woman’s opposite in character. Rather than pointing this out, I said, “He takes a much more serious view of your parting of the ways.” A view that I shared, I did not add.
She shrugged and turned to retrieve her chemise, which I now saw had been flung over the back of a tufted-satin armchair atop a heap of garments. I was treated to a view of her back side, which I had to admit was quite as lovely as the front, before the chemise dropped into place—rather to my relief. “Can your maid lace me up?” she inquired.
But Mrs. Vise had made herself scarce. “So you have decided to stage a different reunion scene?” I asked in turn.
Her laugh was a delightful little trill. “Your presence does alter the scenario a bit, mon chou. You can tell him later exactly what he missed. In fact,” she added, dropping her voice into a silkily confidential tone, “you can act it out for him. I know he’ll appreciate that.”
I had no intention of letting her know that Roderick and I had not advanced to that degree of intimacy. Absolutely no intention. But I must have dropped my eyes or somehow betrayed my thought, for Julia gave a dramatic gasp and exclaimed, “Are you making him wait? How delicious! He must be beside himself.”
“That isn’t it at all. Since we are to be married—well—”
But she clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, well played, Sybil Ingram! You have won my admiration. It is sheer brilliance not to let him bed you until he is thoroughly on the hook.”
“It isn’t a tactic,” I snapped, all the more sharply because I was so embarrassed. Never had I imagined discussing so intimate a topic with this woman of all people.
She put her head on one side and arched her delicate black eyebrows. “No? Truly? Sometimes I forget how conventional Englishwomen are.” Shaking her head, she resumed her toilette and began hooking up a cerise satin corset. Presenting her back to me as though it was the most natural thing in the world for me to lace her, she continued, “All the same, with you being an actress, I can hardly believe it. Who are your people? Were they in the theater?”
“No,” I said grudgingly, working at her laces. “Nothing so exciting. My father was a clerk.”
“Ah, that explains it. That stern bourgeois morality. Such fierce standards of respectability! Tighter, if you please, Miss Ingram. This dress has only a twenty-inch waist.”
When I had tied off her laces, I helped her put on her corset cover, under-petticoat, steel-hooped crinolette, another petticoat, and a silk underskirt. She evidently wore no drawers, and I wondered whether this was a common omission in France or a personal preference. Finally came the dress, a peacock-blue patterned silk confection trimmed in cerise ruching, with an elaborately swagged overskirt. It was unmistakably French, and I would have enjoyed having one like it in my own wardrobe.
As an actress I was naturally interested in what a person’s clothing said about her, whether the message was intentional or inadvertent. Just as a costume on stage illuminated the personality and life circumstances of a character, so could ordinary garb on friends and passersby. My tendency to closely observe clothing had only been enhanced by my adventures since leaving the theater. As all of my wardrobe had burned along with Brooke House, Roderick’s family home, I had had to do my best to replace it with what resources were at hand. I had had new things made up for me in Vienna, but none had the same glamour as the beautiful garments that had been made for me in years past by my old friend Clara Graves. But Clara was now a baroness and had left her days as a seamstress behind, and the lovely gowns she had created were never to be replaced.
Julia’s wardrobe reflected certain qualities that I already knew to be true of her: boldness, confidence in her feminine power to attract, a desire to draw attention and admiration. But her ensemble also bespoke a purely French élan, and I was drawn to it instantly. My serviceable garments no longer satisfied me; I wanted to be the vivid presence I once had been. I almost asked her who her seamstress was, but then I reflected that it would be better not to be in debt to her even in so minor a matter.
As I helped her fasten up the hooks and buttons, I wondered aloud, “How did you manage to disrobe when you arrived?”
“I brought my maid with me, obviously.”
Such foresight! Had she carried out this kind of expedition before? “And where is she now?”
“I sent her away, of course. How funny you are with all your questions!”
“I apologize if I’m being too personal. Never having conducted a rendezvous like this, I confess to being quite curious.”
“Not one, vraiment? I can hardly believe it!” Shaking her head, she murmured, “How little joy your life must contain, Miss Ingram.”
Her expression of tender solicitude made me laugh. “I would hardly say that. And in any case, considering how intimately acquainted we have become, you may as well call me Sybil.”
Before she could respond, swift, heavy footfalls in the corridor heralded Roderick’s arrival. As soon as he strode into the room, before I could warn him, Julia ran to embrace him.
“Roderick, mon vrai chevalier, you have come to rescue me! I have been so distraught.”
At the sight of her he went stock still. He neither avoided her embrace nor returned it, but instead merely endured it, his eyes fixed on the distance like a Christian martyr in the arena. Since he did not bend an iota to meet her, she could not reach high enough to kiss him.
“You don’t look it,” he said shortly. “Well, now that we’ve come all this way, what do you want of me?”
She laughed. “Silly man, wanting to talk about serious matters when you haven’t even told me that you missed me. Have I changed since we last met? You are as handsome as ever.”
But he was immune to blandishments. “If you don’t want to discuss business now, you might let Sybil and me get settled.” To me he added, “The porters should be bringing your trunks any moment. I’m just one floor up, if—”
Julia gave
a little gasp and giggle. Something in her expression made Roderick demand, “Is it your doing that one of our suites was canceled?”
“I am so sorry,” she said, her eyes widening with apparent contrition. “I made a foolish assumption. Still, no one will care if the two of you share a suite.”
It wasn’t what other people thought that bothered me. “Perhaps it isn’t cause for comment here in France,” I said, “but in England it’s much less usual for unmarried men and women to share accommodations. Even when they are actors.”
Julia gave one of her graceful, exquisitely French shrugs. “We are forced to be more practical here. In France it is such a tedious and costly process to get married that most couples simply do not wait.”
That couldn’t be right. Could it? An entire nation where marriage was so inconvenient that it became an afterthought? Perhaps she was just trying to shock me again. I was woefully aware that she would not even have to make an effort in order to do so. I was hardly more cosmopolitan than Mrs. Vise compared to her.
She was smiling indulgently at my no doubt scandalized expression. “I shall have to remember that your English sensibilities are more delicate than mine. Let me speak to the concierge—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Roderick interrupted. “I was able to reclaim the second suite. There’s no need for you to speak—or do anything else—to the concierge.”
But she was not offended by his implication, as I most certainly would have been. She only gave her delightful laugh and said, “Roderick, you must not be such a grincheux or Sybil will leave you for someone with more joie de vivre.”
“Sybil, is it?” His voice was grim. “I gather the two of you have become well acquainted already.”
“We are practically sisters! Is that not so, mon chou?”
Seeing Roderick’s tension gave me a pang, so I did not respond in kind. “Julia, now that we’re here, would you like to tell us what you think we can do to help you?”
The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2) Page 4
