by Zia Wesley
It was the first time anyone had ever kissed her hand. She flushed scarlet, unable to respond, while thinking him the most beautiful young man she had ever seen. Her hand felt as if it were melting in his light grasp, and she could still feel the touch of his lips on her skin. “How do you do?” she whispered.
“Signore Cavalieri is my protégé from Rome. His portraits are quite the rage in Paris at the moment, and I have given him a studio in which to paint, on the topmost floor.”
“Perhaps your aunt will allow me to paint your portrait while you are here, Mademoiselle,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
Speechless, Aimée stared into the exotic eyes and made a small mewing sound in her throat.
“Right now I am sure that my niece would like to refresh herself after her long journey,” Sophie said, pulling the cord that summoned the servant, who once again materialized in the doorway. “Show Mademoiselle to her rooms, and close the doors behind you,” she added.
Aimée rose and attempted two awkward curtsies, one to Sophie and one to Signore Cavalieri, who had completely unnerved her.
The young man smiled broadly and bowed in response, while Sophie snapped open her fan and brought it to her face to conceal her annoyance.
Blushing, unsteady and aware that she had again somehow displeased her aunt, Aimée received another bow and stellar smile from Signore Cavalieri, then followed the servant out of the room. Her heart was beating faster than usual and her knees were shaking. She was thrilled by the thought that he might be a potential suitor, but why had her Aunt referred to him as her “protégé?” Whatever was that? She had been so mesmerized by his bold stare that she had barely heard her aunt’s words. Oh, Paris is wonderful.
When they were alone, Sophie crossed the room to the young man and cocked her head to the side. “Do not even think of it, Carlo. She is a virgin and needs to remain so. Also, she could never afford you.”
“Bella Sophia,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her close to him. “How could you think so of me? She is a child and you are the woman who makes my dreams come true, no?”
“I am the woman who scooped you out of the gutters of Rome and purchased that fine linen shirt you are wearing, not to mention a new raft of oil paintings.”
“Ah, bella Sophia,” he murmured.
Had Aimée witnessed this scene, she would have been surprised to see her cold, imposing aunt melting into the arms of her young Italian lover.
“I will paint the last moments of her innocence, before you sell her to the highest bidder, no?” Carlo said softly. Then he drew her even closer to his body and buried his face in the nape of her neck to gently bite her.
“If you wish, my love,” she replied with a low laugh. “If it makes you happy, Carlo.”
Chapter 7
Aimée proved to be a willing student, who quickly adopted every gesture and physical nuance imparted by her aunt. To Sophie, Aimée’s ability to mimic and assimilate so much so fast was a hopeful sign. She had learned to rein in many of her natural impulses, and no longer grinned like a monkey or laughed aloud. She was able to sit correctly and understood the intricacies of managing her skirts and other aspects of her complex wardrobe. With the help of a dance master, she had quickly learned all of the latest dances quite perfectly. She was light on her feet, with a flawless sense of rhythm and timing, and it was plain to see her enjoyment, which was perfectly acceptable when one danced.
Her walk, no doubt the result of being raised in the wild by natives, remained a problem. To Sophie’s eyes, the walk betrayed an intimate aspect of the girl’s nature that was inappropriate for one so young. It was a languid, fluid movement led by her hips swinging easily from side to side, with her back slightly arched and chest lifted. The undulating movement was a blatant display of innate sensuality that Sophie failed to comprehend in one who was still a virgin; a fact she had been surprised to learn when the ruse she had used to dissuade Carlo’s attentions turned out to be true. Voluminous skirts helped to conceal it, but a four-sided box that began at her throat and reached down to her ankles would be the only costume that could completely disguise it. Or a nun’s habit, Sophie thought.
As presentable as she may have become, the girl was persistent in her inability to master the most important attribute of all, the lack of which would surely prevent her from entering the choice echelons of society. Aimée was unable to grasp the art of wit.
In Parisian society, wit was everything. Anyone, male or female, who possessed the ability to fling a quip, bon mot or sly comment ruled the uppermost tiers of the city’s social set, often capturing the favor of the King himself. Those who excelled in this art were elevated so quickly for the sheer distraction they provided the bored monarch he often conferred titles of nobility upon them. Absolutely all social discourse was based upon the issuance and enjoyment of clever repartee, often at the cost of someone’s reputation. Verbal battles could silence a crowded drawing room and bring a party to a halt as a pair of the city’s cleverest personages, fencing with words, cut each other to shreds with their tongues. To Parisians, the only thing more exhilarating and dangerous was an actual duel. The repartee was applauded, and then discussed at gatherings for days or weeks to follow. The results were in no way benign. Such exchanges elevated or ruined one’s reputation, gained or lost favor with the King, and determined one’s standing, virtually one’s station in society.
Unfortunately, wit was almost impossible to teach. Certainly, it could be cultivated and honed in those who understood its nature, but it eluded those who could not first comprehend it. Regardless of how Sophie explained or demonstrated, the biting exchanges evaded Aimée’s grasp. Her kind nature and strict Catholic upbringing had taught her to respect others rather than ridicule them, and the entire concept of wit to her seemed no more than verbal cruelty. Try as she might, her mind could not comprehend its nuances. Consequently, the more dull-witted she appeared, the more lavishly Sophie dressed her. If the girl’s scintillating conversational skill would not attract a husband, her attractiveness and hefty dowry might.
Aimée approached the weeks of grueling lessons as if she were playing a serious game, one that would, if mastered, reward her with her heart’s desire—a husband to provide a family and a lofty place in Parisian society. This was her life’s goal, and nothing had ever been more important to her. She memorized every instruction, practiced sitting and walking in voluminous gowns supported by hoops, fitting the edge of her bottom onto the edge of a chair, just so, snapping her fan and turning her face in profile to one seated to her side to show it to best advantage. She was terribly frustrated by her inability to grasp the concept of wit, but she continued to try, despite how unfair and unkind it seemed. But, how important could that actually be? she thought. From Aimée’s perspective, the hardest thing she had had to learn was keeping her hands still while she spoke.
“It is vulgar to use one’s hands while conversing,” Aunt Sophie instructed. “Only peasants gesticulate thusly. We shall practice conversing whilst you sit upon them.”
Aimée tucked her hands beneath her and found it difficult to think clearly. I hate her, popped into her mind and made her laugh. I suppose I am thinking clearly after all.
Finally, after fifteen days of arduous practice, Sophie’s pupil was able to think and speak without moving her hands. She could also hide almost any feeling beneath either a placid gaze or a flick of her fan. The one she practiced hiding most was her dislike of her aunt. It seemed that all the woman cared about was appearance. She was, in Aimée’s estimation, the vainest being she had ever met. In all the time they had spent together Aimée had never once seen her aunt laugh. Her every movement and comment were carefully thought out and planned to evoke a specific response. No joy emitted in her conversation, or apparently in her life, and Aimée began to wonder if everyone in Paris acted this way. If that was true, their lives were not possibly as wonderful as she had always imagined. It was her first hint that somet
hing might be missing from the plan she had conceived of as her life’s dream.
Aimée enjoyed herself most during the hours spent sitting for her portrait in Signore Cavalieri’s atelier. He was neither an aristocrat nor a gentleman but he was the most perfectly beautiful and interesting man she had ever met. She wondered if the strength of her attraction was due to his being a foreigner or if she would find any Frenchman to be equally fascinating. What she did not know about him was that he had not actually been rescued from the gutters of Rome, as Sophie maintained. The rescue had been, more accurately, from the balcony of a bedchamber.
Giancarlo Vincenzo Cavalieri’s father had been a master plaster mason in Venice, where the boy was born. He began teaching young Giancarlo his trade when the boy was ten years old. His talent proved so exceptional that, two years later, his father sent him to Florence as apprentice to a friend, an artist who would teach him the art of painting frescos. By the time Giancarlo turned fifteen, he was receiving his own commissions. His exceptional talent, fueled by ambitious drive, insured a meteoric rise for three more years, until it was abruptly interrupted. The young artist was discovered in flagrante with the wife of a prominent Venetian.
He fled to Rome and with a recommendation from his old tutor, secured a position painting images for a famous commedia dell’arte troupe. Unfortunately, he soon found himself in another unsuitable position with another wayward wife. Following that debacle, it was suggested he ply his trade abroad, where a more modern attitude towards marriage and fidelity prevailed. It was common knowledge that French husbands were more accepting of their wives’ indiscretions—because they, too, were discretely juggling mistresses and paramours. When the opportunity to travel to Paris with the commedia presented itself, he eagerly accepted, and that is how he met Sophie de Rivery. Of course, he did not share all of the details of his journey with Aimée.
While he sketched and painted, he entertained her with fascinating stories of the glories of Rome, the wonders of Venice and the centuries of magnificent art in Florence.
“Of course you know Leonardo da Vinci?” he asked.
“I am sorry to say, I do not.”
“È vero? Truly? Era un uomo molto coraggioso. He was a very brave man with extraordinary vision and a great artist, not just a painter and sculptor. He was a thinker, un filosofo! I saw many of his drawings and some of his writings when I was a student in Firenze. He was able to imagine and make things, like the things we only dream of—flying machines and such.”
“Flying machines?” she asked, incredulously. “È vero?”
“Brava, signorina,” he laughed. “You speak to me in Italian now. Sì, è vero. Ah, I wish I could show you Italy.”
Aimée wondered, does the signore find me attractive? She imagined how exciting it would be to be courted by such a man. He was vivacious and so full of life that she marveled at the contrast between him and her aunt, who’s every word and gesture was carefully orchestrated. She loved it when he sang Italian songs at the top of his voice. And he cared nothing for protocol or manners, so she was not afraid of saying or doing anything wrong in his presence. She could be herself with him. The stillness required of her portrait sessions was welcome because she could stare at the triangular patch of bare skin on his chest. Sometimes she would become so engrossed she would completely miss whatever he was saying. His eyes, which at first appeared to be dark brown, were in fact a deep jade green with a starburst of gold in the iris. She secretly wished that he were an appropriate suitor rather than a poor painter with no station or social standing. It never occurred to her that her pompous aunt was equally attracted to the signore’s charms, or that he traded sexual favors for introductions to members of the king’s court and an elegant roof over his head.
When her portrait was finished, he led her into the atelier with her eyes shut. “Keep them closed until I say to open,” he instructed. “All right, now you may open.”
“Oh, signore, am I truly that lovely?” she asked without artifice.
“No, signorina, ma grazie. My brushes and paint could not capture your true beauty. It is only the best a poor artist may do.”
“Non è vero,” she said. “È molto bella. I must be the luckiest young woman in all of Paris.” Aimée considered the beautiful image a good omen. Painted on a six-inch oval of porcelain and enclosed in an intricately carved, gilded oval frame, her deep blue eyes gazed out directly, drawing the viewer in, and her creamy skin looked so realistic that Aimée fully expected it would feel warm to the touch. He had insisted on posing her in a simple, ecru silk gown, with a rose-colored satin sash. The only adornment was a small gold tiara with a six-pointed star atop her head, tied with an almost transparent silk scarf, which he wound once around her neck. Then he painted the scarf as if it were blowing in the wind. As an afterthought, he had draped an ermine cape over her shoulders but did not like the way it looked until he allowed it to slip almost completely off her right shoulder. In doing so, he had captured her essence—sensual innocence that was oddly regal.
“Grazie tanto, signore. I shall treasure it always,” she said.
“Prego, signorina. It is a souvenir of this small moment in your life. A moment that can, sadly, never last.”
She wanted to throw her arms around him and kiss him. Instead, she extended her hand for him to kiss and whispered, “Mille grazie.”
~ ~ ~
In the late morning of the same day, sixteen days after her arrival in Paris, Aimée heard the sound of the huge brass doorknocker echo through the house, and tiptoed to the upper stair landing to see who had arrived. Looking down onto the grand entry hall, she watched the houseman open the front door. In swept the dressmaker and her three assistants, weighed down with stacks of boxes surely filled with her new clothes. The entourage paraded up the stairs, peeking around the sides of the tall stacks of boxes to avoid tripping. They filed into Aimée’s suite of rooms, followed by Aimée herself, bouncing up and down on her toes and clapping her hands with excitement.
Sophie entered the suite to oversee the presentation, as she had overseen the entire design and fitting processes. Exasperated as usual by the girl’s open display of emotion she banged the floor several times with her walking stick and commanded, “Please! Control yourself, child.”
Aimée attempted to remain calm, but as each box was opened to display its contents, she found it impossible not to gasp or squeal with pleasure. Each dress, jacket, hat, pair of shoes and pair of gloves was a work of art. Even the whalebone corsets looked beautiful to her eyes. It took Sophie three hours to inspect and approve each piece of clothing while Aimée tried them on. When the dressmaker and her staff had gone, she gave Aimée the first and only compliment she would ever receive.
Aimée stood regarding her reflection in a large oval mirror. She wore an elegant, pale pink silk day gown sewn with vertical rows of dark green ribbons. A single flounce, draped with a garland of freshwater pearl clusters, graced the bottom of the skirt. The low cut bodice displayed her firm, round breasts, greatly enhanced by a tightly laced corset.
“Do you see how the proper accoutrements improve your natural assets?” Sophie asked.
Aimée was surprised to hear that Sophie thought she possessed any assets at all. “Oh yes, Madame. Thank you so much. Thank you a thousand times for my beautiful clothes.” The ensemble showed off her creamy white shoulders and bosom, and she thought she looked almost as lovely as her portrait.
“We must use your beauty to its full advantage, child, to compensate for the...” she paused, appearing to search for the appropriate words, “... the attributes in which you do not excel.”
Staring at her reflection, Aimée felt certain she would captivate everyone who gazed upon her, regardless of Sophie’s reservations. She made a small curtsey to her reflection and thought, “How do you do, my future husband?”
Sophie interrupted her fantasy. “Tomorrow I shall present you to a select assemblage of very important people at the home of my dear f
riend, the Countess de la Roche.”
Aimée’s hands flew to her mouth to stifle another gasp.
“Please refrain from making that horrid sound and gesture.” Sophie said irritably. “It will be a small reception for Madame de Polignac, who has recently returned from a visit to Austria.”
When Aimée made no response to the woman’s name, Sophie said, “I assume by your lack of response you are not familiar with Madame de Polignac.”
“No, Aunt, I am sorry. I am not.”
“Mon dieu. Does no important news ever reach that horrid jungle island? Madame de Polignac is the very closest friend and confidant of the Queen. You have heard of Queen Marie-Antoinette, have you not?”
Aimée began to gasp and caught herself. She cleared her throat delicately instead and smiled slightly with her mouth closed. “Yes, of course, Aunt, and I shall be happy to make her acquaintance.”
“Better,” Sophie said, pleased with the girl’s sedate response. “I think we had best devote the remainder of the day to lessons. We must be certain you have learned to control your emotions and comport yourself as a proper young lady. I will not present a heathen, Mademoiselle.” She rapped her silver-headed cane once on the wooden floor. “You may care nothing for your own reputation, but you will consider mine.”
“I promise I will not fail you or myself, Aunt. It is just difficult to hide my pleasure when I am so very happy. I do so appreciate your efforts on my behalf. I will not embarrass you, Aunt Sophie. I will succeed. I promise.”
“One hopes,” Sophie replied under her breath as she left the room.
Chapter 8
That night, Aimée was too excited about her forthcoming introduction to Paris society to sleep. She imagined herself making a grand entrance, as everyone fell silent at the sight of her, stunned by the magnificence of her ensemble, beauty and grace. Tomorrow would be the most important day of her life. How could she possibly sleep? She tossed and turned, imagining the crowd of women plying her with calling cards each hoping to be the first to introduce her to their sons. She envisioned dozens of invitations to elegant balls, surrounded by handsome young men wishing to court her. She could hear the music playing as she danced beneath crystal chandeliers. I shall never stop dancing. I must write to Rose, she thought. Or maybe I should wait until after tomorrow so I can tell her about meeting the queen’s dearest friend. She finally dozed off, dreaming of waltzing with a handsome young prince.
