She didn’t add that Byron had been a real opinionated bastard.
Damien colored at this praise and then nodded once. The gesture lacked his usual grace, and she sensed his deep perturbation, though she couldn’t imagine why he would be upset by what she had said.
Perhaps he hadn’t been talking about his reviews. Maybe he meant his other writing. Before she could correct herself, he spoke again.
“Thank you,” he said. Then, changing the subject quickly: “Your own writing is rather brave. I suspect that you must bring your editor to elation. Or despair. His emotion is likely dependent upon whether he likes interfering with his writers’ thoughts or not.”
“He wouldn’t dare.” Then, against her better judgment and the unwritten rule about asking a critic why they like your work, she joked, “Why do you say I’m brave? Because I dare to use semicolons?”
“No. Because you dare to ask uncommon questions, dare to challenge history’s hasty and often self-interested conclusions. Because you dare to tell the truth about the people you examine, regardless of entrenched dogma or the literary sainthood conferred on a subject. You dare to say that the emperor has no clothes.” Damien’s dark eyes burned with the same intensity as his voice, and she didn’t doubt his sincerity. He added with a sudden smile, “Do you know how many people will be enraged by this biography?”
It was Brice’s turn to blush. She’d often been told that she was beautiful, often told she was clever, often told she had a nice turn of phrase for a historian. No one had ever thought to compliment her courage in telling the unpopular truths that sometimes came to light when she investigated historic personages. It was thrilling to hear it now.
“Thank you.” She cleared her throat. “I do know, actually. That’s why I always try to be thorough. And fair. It wouldn’t do to gore someone’s ox unless they truly deserved it. Or to canonize them if they are really villains. And, those lofty considerations aside, I have to be able to face my critics too.”
He nodded.
“Of course, I’m not so judgmental about people in everyday life,” she assured him.
“But I’m certain you are,” Damien answered. “We all are. It is just that you choose to accept many of society’s standards as your own and therefore forgive what might otherwise annoy you. It is also probable that you don’t bother to examine the people about you too closely. There are, after all, so many of them. And so many are boring.”
Brice thought about that and then nodded slowly. “Anyway, who wants to know all the flaws in our loved one?” she said. “Relationships are difficult enough. It’s best to keep a few illusions.”
“You are working on a biography of Ninon de Lenclos?” Damien asked, again switching topics abruptly. She had the feeling that his agile mind had raced ahead without her. If she stayed here long, she’d have to find some sort of yoga for the brain so she could be more flexible in their conversations. “That is a bold move indeed—to attempt to explain one of the world’s first feminists, who is also one of the world’s great enigmas.”
He leaned close, and Brice reflexively started to cover her notes, but then she decided she was being silly. He might be a critic, but he wouldn’t judge her rough drafts—assuming he could even read her messy comments, scrawled in shorthand.
“Yes. I’m afraid that she is my other pet obsession, and I am finally writing about her.”
“A worthy choice for an obsession.” Perhaps sensing her discomfort, Damien leaned back a few inches. “And what do you find most fascinating about la belle dame?”
“Everything,” Brice answered promptly. “She’s a mystery. I know what she did, but not why or how she did it.”
“For instance?” Now he sounded like a professor. Damien even steepled his fingers as leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked softly.
Brice’s eyes narrowed, but once again she chose to follow his conversational lead and see where it might take them. She had never really had the luxury of having someone with whom to discuss her thoughts.
“How could this woman have managed to retain her place as the great beauty and lover—and thinker—of seventeenth-century Parisian society for all those decades without being burned at the stake? Especially when the queen and the church were both after her. Why, she even admitted she sold her soul to a ‘dark man’ so that she could enjoy eternal beauty. And in spite of this heresy, Molière, reluctant Voltaire—even the great Cardinal Richelieu wanted to know her and were influenced by her views. Horace Walpole called her Notre-Dame des Amours. Queen Christina of Sweden befriended her, even though Ninon ran a scandalous school for lovemaking. The highest members of society were honored to sleep with her, or at least receive training at her hands. Hell’s bells! The last young man she refused as a lover, when she was sixty-five, killed himself!”
“That is probably because the Chevalier de Villiers was her natural son,” Damien pointed out apologetically. “It may not have been her charms that made him choose suicide. Finding out that the object of your desire is your own mother has had that ill effect before—as the Greeks will attest.”
“So the rumors say. But even if it’s true, it doesn’t contradict my point. She was still beautiful and desirable at sixty-five. And in spite of this very odd life, was she not thought to be the happiest creature who ever was? How did she manage it? She wasn’t sociopathic. Ninon had morals. She lived in an era of repression and yet thrived. And the legends of her beauty into old age! They didn’t do plastic surgery back then. There was no Botox, no dermabrasion. I’ve heard talk of her skin potions, but no recipes were ever found. I don’t buy this story of a dark man bringing her a magic elixir. Yet there must be some secret that everyone has overlooked. Certainly it wasn’t clean living—though she did bathe every day, which was a novelty at that time.”
Frustration colored Brice’s voice, and she forgot not to lecture on her favorite subject. “The trouble is that the further I get from her, the more difficulty I have backtracking to the truth. It’s like you said—history has built up a self-interested myth around her, and so far this cult of personality has pretty well defied direct investigation.”
“I understand,” Damien said slowly. “There have been biographies, of course—Dangeau’s memoirs, for one—but they were written too soon after Ninon’s death and by interested parties who were selective in reporting the hearsay. Even the well-intentioned works were saturated by the feelings of those who knew her, and were filled with secondhand reports of letters, events and so forth.”
“They drip with feeling,” Brice agreed. “Her students loved her—that is obvious. They wanted her memory to live on in gilded splendor. But women apparently loved her too. That’s baffling and flies in the face of everything I know about my sex. And again and again you hear that she was a creature completely at ease with herself and the world. That she was honest—always. How could that have been, given the time and place in which she lived?”
“Her lovers’ wives and mistresses appreciated her, one assumes, since they benefited indirectly from her teachings.”
“One would think. Especially if the instruction came before marriage,” Brice added. “After all, in those days, far too many men were raised by the-hand-is-quicker-than-the-eye method of foreplay.”
Damien laughed, his dark eye crinkling at the corners.
“Or ‘look, mum, no hands.’ The English were often accused of being bad lovers—cold ones,” he said.
“But I don’t agree that the trouble is climatic so much as cultural and literary,” Brice said fairly. “The isle has produced more than its fair share of romantics—and look at the Scots! They have even worse weather, so we can’t use that as an excuse.”
Damien smiled. “I agree. If the French aren’t thought of just as unpolished, but as lovers, I think we can thank the lovely Ninon for giving them such a splendid reputation. That is one part of her legacy that lives on.”
“Probably. But how can we know? There is no direct evidence, no firs
thand testimony that I can find. Not even a curriculum from her school. Of course, I should be used to it by now. The same thing happened with Byron when I began. All those early biographies are useless, concoctions of lies by people trying to profit from their association with him—sycophants, glory-stealers, would-be poets, women scorned.”
When she paused long enough to indicate that he should speak, Damien answered, “I agree.” Again, as had happened once or twice last night, she sensed part of him was far away, looking at something related to the topic under discussion but not quite ready to share the insight with her. It was frustrating. She could eavesdrop on the dead through their artifacts, but not on Damien Ruthven.
“I suppose it is dumb to be irritated with the dead, but they muddied the water for us scholars. And I hate having to know people secondhand.” Brice shoved her escaping hair back behind her ear. She had not mentioned her suspicions that Damien had a copy of Byron’s memoirs, but she made an indirect plea for him to share his information. “It’s like being a tourist. I am traveling through Ninon’s life with a biased guidebook that never allows me the chance to get off the bus and experience, or even understand, who these people were. Even when I have a supposedly direct quote, there is no way to know if it is accurate, or in what context it was written or said. If only more of their letters had been preserved. As it is, these secondhand accounts are too diluted to be of much use. It gives me a rough outline, but the subtle shadings are missing. I need—want—more.”
Damien’s gaze returned to her face and his thoughts to the present.
“Would you…” He paused, then said to himself, “But perhaps it’s unwise. It is early in our relationship to burden it with a matter of trust.”
“Would I what?” she prompted. Then she added: “And please know that I enjoy being burdened with confidences. At least, historical ones.”
“You would enter a conspiracy with me? You of the honest face?” He smiled a little.
“I know I don’t look as if I could conspire against poached eggs, but I assure you that I am quite able to participate in a discreet relationship.” She hoped he would understand the double meaning of that remark.
Damien nodded, suddenly serious again.
“Miss Ashton, if I share this with you, you must never say where you heard this story or came by your material. I would need your promise.”
Brice’s senses came on the alert. “Brice,” she corrected. “Yes. What is it? Something about Ninon? Or Byron?”
“Both,” he said. “And I mean it. I want your word. I will let you have copies to work with, but you must think of some plausible tale of how you attained them that does not involve me. I do not want to be mentioned in any context. Academic attention isn’t a complication I want or need. Frankly, I wouldn’t share this material now, except I suspect you may have some insights into a matter that has eluded me, and I would value your opinion.”
Brice thought about it for a moment, then reluctantly threw her passion for documentation to the winds. In spite of her flip words, usually she documented everything in painstaking detail and honesty. But if the material was worth it, she would lie about where she got it no matter how much pressure other scholars brought to bear. If it wasn’t worth it, then she wouldn’t even mention what she’d seen.
“Okay, I promise.”
“I have some of her letters—or perhaps copies of letters that are supposedly hers. I cannot be entirely certain that they are authentic, though they are all done in the same hand.” The words were fast and a little harsh, and Brice suspected a lot reluctant, even though he had been the one to bring the subject up. “It was not common knowledge, but Byron in the last years of his life conceived of a fascination with this woman, and he collected as many of her letters and as much of her writing that he could.”
Brice checked to make sure she wasn’t gaping. She then made sure she was still sitting down, because she suddenly felt faint and feared her knees would give way.
“What?” she heard herself ask in a faint voice. “You have this collection of Byron’s?”
“It’s been a while since I made a lady swoon. Usually I have to work a little harder,” Damien said almost to himself as he watched her sway in her chair. “Dash off an ode to her eyes at the very least.”
“You have letters from Ninon de Lenclos? Byron owned letters by Ninon de Lenclos?” Her voice was high, very nearly a squeak. “Byron was fascinated with Ninon de Lenclos?
“Yes to all three.” Damien continued to stare at her. “You better take a few deep breaths. You’ve turned a shade of white that matches the snow outside, and I am afraid that my household—though old-fashioned in many respects—does not contain smelling salts.”
Brice swallowed and followed his advice. She lowered her head to her knees. After half a dozen slow breaths she spoke again. This time her voice was almost normal.
“How did I not know this? Oh, God! What else have I missed about Byron? I have worked on this for nine years—how could I have missed this? There was only that one reference to her in Don Juan!”
“You didn’t miss much,” Damien answered quickly. “Not that I can see. So don’t start ripping your hair out and wailing mea culpas. Very little is known about his time in Greece. It was probably in his memoirs, and everyone would know about this if the things hadn’t been burned.”
“I’d like to shoot Hobhouse and Murray. Really. I mean that.” Brice sat up slowly. Her color was slightly better than a moment before, but she was still pale and didn’t try to stand.
“Yes, the thought occurred to me more than once too. Ah—would you like some brandy? Or tea?”
“You have letters…It’s like a miracle—more than I hoped for,” she muttered, not hearing his question. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s as though Fate arranged this chain of events. You got my book to review. You decided, against all normal practice, to write to me. Against all normal practice, I decided to visit you. Then this storm trapped me here in the city. You happen to see my notes for the next book and…” She trailed off. “This is downright spooky. You do understand what this means? That a scholar could go her entire life and not get a break like this? There will be professors in the halls of academe committing suicide when they find out what I have. Everyone but the CIA will be frantic to find out where the information came from.”
“It does rather look like destiny has taken a hand, does it not? And I am glad that you should be the instrument to share the knowledge with the world.” Damien’s tone was thoughtful and again a little amused. “There is one other treat waiting for you—a miniature of Ninon painted in a locket. I don’t think it is what you are expecting.”
“A portrait? You have a portrait? I’m going to have a heart attack,” Brice said, lowering her head again and resuming deep breathing. “No one has a portrait—except that one that is always copied. And there is that one bad pencil sketch.”
“Well, I have a different one. I’ll be back in a moment. Sit tight and don’t make Mace nervous. He hates it when people fall on the floor.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere,” Brice assured her host in a voice muffled by the wool of her skirt. Hearing herself, she made another effort to sit up and look like a professional biographer and not some wild-eyed mystic offered a look at the original burning bush. Besides, she was going to smear her eye makeup if she kept rubbing her face like this.
Perhaps sensing her perturbation, Mace came out from under Damien’s desk and curled up around her ankles, offering what comfort he could. He panted up at Brice until she leaned down to give his ear stubs a scratch.
“It was done in sixteen seventy-seven,” Damien said as he returned to the room, opening the delicate mahogany box he had fetched from his vault. He took out a small velvet pouch, pouring the contents into his hand. Then he said: “Merry Christmas, Brice Ashton. No more touristing for you. Get off the bus. I give you a glimpse of the real Ninon de Lenclos.”
Brice stood up, being careful
not to disturb Mace, who had rolled onto his back and was giving a fine impersonation of a dead dog. She righted the locket and opened it slowly, taking in the face of the woman she’d decided to investigate since her Byron biography had been finished.
Speak to me, ma belle dame.
Brice stared at Ninon’s portrait like it held a clue to the cure for graying hair. Ninon stared back, looking vaguely amused. Her eyes appeared oddly dark and contrasted strongly with the red-gold hair that framed her delicate face in ringlets that had been so trendy in the seventeenth century. Her mouth was shown as a bow with full lips—a real Kim Basinger pout—though such open sexuality was not the fashion of paintings of that era. And there was a definite cleft in her chin.
The nose was stronger than Brice expected. Ninon’s complexion was fair and of the peaches-and-cream variety, but seemed to be lit by a golden glow, much as though she had been painted by firelight.
Brice shivered, though unsure why. Maybe it was because she was looking at a woman who, though immortal, was nonetheless dead. It was something like encountering a real ghost.
“Her hair is very close to yours in color—a bit longer, though,” Damien said.
“But she has eyes like yours,” Brice remarked, glancing up. She added thoughtfully, as his gaze again arrested hers, “Until you, I had never met anyone with eyes so dark. I thought it unique. Yet it must be somewhat common, after all.”
It was more than that. Both Ninon and Damien wore similar expressions of remote amusement.
“Not common, I think. But not something that is solely mine.” He finally looked away and added, “There are other people who have such eyes.”
Brice made an effort to stop staring. It was difficult, though, because the small hairs of her arms were standing on end.
“Did the artist flatter her, do you think? She would have been fifty-seven when this was painted.” Brice’s voice was filled with awe.
“Who can say? But by all accounts, as you said yourself, she was fascinating and beautiful to the end. There was even wild talk in Paris about her making a deal with the devil to preserve her youth.”
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