She hadn’t realized the baron de Malliffet was a friend of her father’s, but an unexpected visit from a distinguished and gallant gentleman was a pleasant diversion from a routine that was becoming monotonous. She wrote her music and read, nurtured her plants, and waited for something exciting to happen to her though it was beginning to seem less and less likely that anything would.
The baron expressed dismay that she had no governess to look after her, but she explained that she no longer required a governess at the age of twenty-one, and she had a houseful of servants to attend to her needs. “Besides my Aunt Henriette visits frequently, and it’s not as though I’m a child anymore.”
“Indeed.” He grew still and thoughtful then and when he next spoke he seemed far more relaxed and friendly. And she was eager for friendship. “Still, you must be lonely here in this vast house all by yourself…”
She knew it wasn’t proper for him to stay, but he was excellent company, charming and solicitous. And she was flattered by his attention. She knew he was much sought after by unmarried young women of the haute monde.
He was at least twenty years older than she, but his hair was more brown than gray, and his chin was still firm. His small, disdainful mouth did not appeal to her, but his vivacious blue eyes suggested a keen intellect.
Besides, he was a family friend, and they shared so much in common. With their mutual passion for music, conversation flowed easily between them. He was a stranger, yet he seemed to understand so much.
That first night after they’d talked for hours, she timidly told him of her operatic ambitions. Instead of dismissing her aspirations as her father had done, he encouraged her. He told her he too composed music though it was more of a hobby than a profession for him. He’d studied at the Paris Conservatory.
“Is that where you met my father?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, how fortunate you both were.”
“I could teach you anything you might learn there in far less time.” He offered to accompany her on the piano while she sang.
She couldn’t believe her luck. His instant praise the moment he heard her voice gave her hope. When he placed his hand on her ribcage to demonstrate “singing from her diaphragm”, she was alarmed by his boldness, but she was also surprised to realize she didn’t mind. The contact felt rather nice.
When he returned the next day “to continue her training”, she was thrilled to see him again. She suspected the lessons were only an excuse for them to be together, a mutual unspoken pact. She’d never had an admirer before, and she felt heady from the attention.
Though she knew nothing about courtship, she was fairly certain his frequent visits were a sign of positive things to come. Perhaps this was the “right man” Aunt Henriette had been so confident she would meet someday.
His third visit lasted longer than the first two. When evening came, he suggested he stay for dinner. She believed he meant to propose to her, something she never imagined any man would do.
After dinner, he insisted they share a glass of sherry in the grand salon. She rarely drank wine and told him she didn’t think her parents would approve of that, but he told her she was being silly. She was, after all, not a child anymore.
So she shared a drink with him and listened while he explained why he’d never married. It had been difficult to conceal her inner excitement. Her instincts were correct. He would surely confess his love this night and ask for her hand.
His story grew long, and he kept refilling her glass. Then when she’d nearly given up hope he felt anything for her, he set her glass down and began to kiss her. She knew the events she’d anticipated were taking place out of order, but she didn’t want to insult or discourage the first man who’d ever paid any attention to her.
And she was curious. She found she liked his caresses as much as she liked his kisses. She knew his affection, indeed their entire association, would be viewed as improper by an outsider, but they were in love and surely exceptions could be made for love. It would all seem perfectly right in the end when she became his wife.
But something went terribly wrong. In the midst of all his sweet kisses, Philippe’s manner changed. Instead of being tender with her, his touch became lewd and forceful.
She didn’t like it, but he seemed not to care. She tried to disengage herself, as politely as possible. That only made him more unrelenting.
And then it was too late. He was inside her, intimately connected, yet somehow completely oblivious to her. And all pretense of love ended.
She felt as though she were trapped in a nightmare of her own making. In shock, she lay passively beneath him. She only wanted him to finish with her and go away, but her body grew cold and unyielding and refused to comply.
The more she retreated into herself, the more he seemed determined to elicit a reaction from her by hurting her. By the time he was done using her, she felt like someone else entirely, someone she didn’t know.
He seemed to think he knew her though as he stood over her with a contemptuous expression and buttoned his trousers. “Oh, don’t look so aggrieved. You’ve been imploring me with your eyes for days so I finally took pity on you and gave you what you needed. You’re a whore, just like your mother. I could tell the first time I saw you.”
She could scarcely make sense of his words as she lay motionless on the settee. It was a stylish but stiff piece of furniture meant for formal gatherings and polite conversation, not the sort of purpose it had just been put to.
She couldn’t fathom how it had happened. Their clandestine romance seemed so enchanting not a quarter of an hour ago. Now her silk skirts and petticoats were crumpled above her waist, and she felt a sickening sensation of alien fluid and soreness in the most private place possible.
He continued to study her as he straightened his tie. “I suppose you expect me to make you my wife now,” he grumbled as though she’d manipulated him somehow.
It was hard to believe she’d ever felt an attraction to him, that only this afternoon she’d been giddy at the thought that he might visit her again. How she loathed the sight of him now, particularly that insipid cleft in his chin. With shaking hands, she pushed her skirts down past her knees, the movement calling attention to pain in her wrists and neck.
She vaguely recalled he’d asked a question. Or was it merely a supposition? Whatever it was, the notion of binding herself forever to the man who’d just hurt and degraded her made bile rise to her throat. “I don’t expect anything from you, monsieur.”
He seemed surprised at first by her reply. Then he muttered, “Just as you please,” and strode from the room without another word. In a blur of tears and confusion, she heard the front door slam.
It was all her fault. There was no question in her mind about that. When she packed her valise and left home later that night, she believed she was sparing her family the taint of association with her. Now she realized she’d only been trying to distance herself from her shame. But she couldn’t because it lived within her and she carried it with her wherever she went.
* * *
By half-past six, Leo had begun to imagine the worst possible scenarios for Madeleine’s absence. There were all sorts of slick charmers on board, and she was far too trusting. The fact that she’d placed her life in his hands after knowing him for less than a day was a perfect example.
He slumped onto the tufted velvet settee, which was not nearly as comfortable as it looked, and picked up the novel she’d left on the side table, L’Assommoir. The author, Emile Zola, was one of his favorites. Zola seemed to understand what it was to be poor and desperate, the sacrifices and compromises one had to make to rise above, and the greed and corruption one encountered in the upper strata.
Society might be shocked by his brutal descriptions of reality, but that was for the best. The world didn’t need any more of the false expectations put forth by fairy tales.
It surprised him that she didn’t prefer lighter fare. Most women he knew liked the
sort of sweetly romantic books that skirted reality or practical guides to female arts and domestic matters. He picked up the story where she’d left off, but reading about the downward spiral of the main character did little to improve his mood.
The latch clicked open, drawing his attention to the entryway. Madeleine hastened inside and rested her head against the door to catch her breath. Her hair was in disarray, and the hem of her skirt was torn.
His blood pounded with an outrage he could not comprehend. Someone had accosted her, just as he’d feared. He should have taken better care of her. “Where were you just now?” His voice sounded harsh, almost accusatory.
She jumped, pressing her hand to her breasts. “You startled me. I didn’t expect to see you here.” In a single glance, the pain in her incredible blue eyes invaded his chest. She quickly looked away and proceeded to her bedroom.
Shaken, he tried to soften his tone as he followed behind her. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I was just walking.” She began to close the door, but he stepped into the entryway, preventing her from doing so.
“I don’t want you going about the ship without me from now on.”
She stared at his polished shoes, trespassing upon her private domain. “You are my employer, not my keeper.” Her voice was little more than a ragged whisper.
Clearly, she was upset and wished to be alone. Yet, for some unknowable reason, he could not relent. “It amounts to the same thing in your case. You are my responsibility now. Did you not agree to put yourself completely under my guidance?”
She finally looked up at him. “I didn’t anticipate that your guidance would curtail my freedom before we even reached our destination. I won’t be a prisoner in these rooms.”
Why could she not see that he was only looking out for her safety? “Don’t be so dramatic.”
She folded her arms before her. Rather than appearing defiant, her pose underscored her vulnerability. “What I’m being is realistic. Do you plan to act as my personal escort when we get to America as well? Will you go on tour with me? Prescreen my admirers? Your taste in friends doesn’t speak well of your judgment of character.”
“I suppose we’re back to Pembroke Treadway again. I told you already he’s not my friend.” A chilling thought occurred. “Is that why your hem is torn? Did he harass you just now?”
“No, of course not. My dress caught on a chair leg.”
Still, the conjured image made his temples throb. What was he doing? Why did he feel this fierce need to protect her, this unjustified jealousy? There was no way he could prevent other men from pursuing her. That was all part of being a star of the stage and the main reason he was going to the trouble of bringing her to America.
No, it was the only reason. That had to be the only reason. Men would want her, and he would most certainly profit from that. So why was he losing enthusiasm for the entire plan?
He wanted her for himself. He tried to push back the unacceptable notion into whatever dark corner of his brain had presented it, but the idea would not go.
It blossomed. He’d had drawn out affairs, but he’d never kept a mistress before. The notion of keeping her and having her any time he wished absorbed him for several fascinating moments.
Then reality intruded. She didn’t want him. She’d think he tricked her. She’d think him a lying scoundrel.
Maybe he was. Maybe somewhere deep inside, the seed of this design had always been there and everything he’d said and done since then had been one massive deception. That would make him a lecherous worm, just like his father.
The idea sickened him. He’d offered Madeleine a job, and he meant to keep his word. As soon as they got to Manhattan, he’d help her find a place to live, introduce her to Bart Elmer, the manager of The Elysian, and keep a professional distance from her thereafter.
“Forgive me. I’m unaccustomed to these peculiar circumstances we find ourselves in. I believe I’ve overstepped.” He focused upon her wide forehead, rather than her eyes. “You may rest assured it will not happen again.”
With a slight bow of his head, he stepped back from the threshold and closed her door. He only had two more days of this forced proximity to endure. Two more days, and he’d be able to think clearly again and avoid the mistake he was on the brink of making.
Chapter Nine
At the final formal dinner of the voyage, the waiters presented canvasback duck and terrapin with great fanfare. Mr. Treadway talked right through that course and the next, relating all the details Claudine never wanted to know about his stable of Thoroughbred racing horses and his social connections. His capacity for talking about himself was seemingly inexhaustible.
He acted as though they were longtime friends and he hadn’t recently accosted her. She nodded politely and concealed her revulsion to prevent Leo from suspecting anything. He’d overreact and nothing good would come of it. Once they disembarked, she’d never have to see Mr. Treadway again.
From the opposite side of the table, Mrs. Glendenning gazed at Claudine’s dress with envy in her feline gray eyes. “What a lovely gown.” Her comment sounded more like a rebuke than a compliment.
Claudine supposed she deserved it. Her beaded Nile green silk gown displayed a daring expanse of cleavage. She could have worn more modest attire, but ever since their argument, Leo acted as though she’d become invisible to him. And the more he ignored her, the more she craved his attention.
She’d gotten her reward. Just before they’d left the stateroom together, he’d looked at her in a way that both thrilled and terrified her. He desired her.
The unguarded moment lasted no more than a second, but that intensely brooding expression on his handsome face was now so firmly etched in her mind she was finding it difficult to think about anything else.
She only wished she knew what she wanted. The answer shifted by the hour, by the minute even. She longed to be closer to him: more than a friend, but not quite a lover. Not yet… Maybe never.
She wanted handholding, affectionate embraces, and innocent kisses. But Leo wasn’t the sort of man who could offer her that. Such a man probably didn’t exist.
The small army of waiters in white jackets emerged from the kitchen and dispersed among the tables, carrying aloft their trays of plum pudding with brandy sauce. Dinner would soon be at an end. In a short while she’d be alone with Leo, with no distractions from her confusing, conflicting impulses.
“You will attend the entertainment this evening, won’t you?” Mrs. Glendenning asked with a slight raise of her narrowly plucked blonde eyebrows.
It didn’t seem like a question, but Leo took it as such. “It depends. What sort of entertainment is it?”
“That’s to be a surprise.”
“Some sort of celebrity entertainer, I’ve heard, for the first-class passengers only,” Mr. Treadway said. “I don’t go in much for these popular spectacles, but I would like to see the music room. I haven’t been yet.” He turned suddenly to Claudine. “Have you? The décor is meant to be in the style of a sixteenth century French chateau. You might find it diverting, and you look as though you need a diversion. I’ll escort you.”
The man’s audacity rendered her speechless.
“That won’t be necessary,” Leo said, a tad too assertively for such circumstances. “That’s what brothers are for.”
Mr. Treadway and Mrs. Glendenning exchanged a knowing, cynical look.
The unspoken accusation led to a strained silence Claudine could not endure so she filled it with words. “The music room sounds remarkable. I can’t wait to see it.” In truth, she welcomed any delay in returning to the stateroom with Leo. The tension and uncertainty between them was becoming unbearable.
The music room was indeed a marvel with paneled rosewood walls and a stained glass dome segmented into signs of the zodiac. They shuffled along with the tide of inebriated, boisterous passengers and took their seats in the second row of plush chairs arranged before a truncated wooden sta
ge, empty except for a grand piano positioned off to one side.
Nothing happened on stage for at least a quarter of an hour while waiters served liquor and cigars to the increasingly drunk passengers. Then just when the grumbling and whining had peaked, the blue velvet curtains parted, and the ship’s captain, a barrel-chested, square-jawed, gray-haired man in a crisp white uniform walked to the center of the gaslit stage and gave an introduction, first in French, then in English, sentence after tedious sentence.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! We hope you have enjoyed your voyage with us. It has been an honor to serve you. Tonight is sadly our last night together, but we have a special treat in store for you. It has come to our attention that we have a rare talent aboard our ship, and he has agreed to share a sampling of his act with all of you. I am confident that tonight you will experience an event you will remember for the rest of your lives… So, without further ado, I give you THE GREAT SANTIAGO!”
The audience buzzed with excitement. The heavy blue curtains parted once again, and a short, dark-haired, mustachioed man in a black tailcoat suit and top hat stepped forward with a tall, excessively rouged, auburn-haired woman in a sparkling red gown.
“The Great Santiago will penetrate the mind of one member of our audience tonight,” the woman announced in thickly accented English.
“Sounds painful,” Leo whispered in Claudine’s ear. She squelched the urge to giggle.
“His revelation of the innermost secrets of others will leave you breathless with amazement,” the assistant continued in her exotic drawl. “Can we have a volunteer please?” She scanned the audience.
Claudine gauged the enthusiasm of the well-to-do passengers and tried to guess who might be so bold. Then she heard Mr. Treadway shout, “She’ll do it!” He was pointing at her.
Startled, she shot him a murderous look as curious faces turned in her direction.
The mind reader marched down the aisle toward her, pinning her with his beady black eyes. “The lovely lady in green shall be our first brave volunteer this evening!” He also spoke in English, but his accent was distinctly American, and his high-pitched voice was disagreeably whiny.
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