Girl in Bath

by Catherine C. Heywood

  Monica wanted to gag herself with the woman’s own preening claim. She pulled a shawl around her and went to go downstairs when Madame Pelletier stopped her.

  “You might want to freshen up some, dear. He’s quite fine, that gentleman.”

  “We’ve met, madame. He’s more than aware of my circumstance.”

  Madame Pelletier’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve met, have you? What does he want with you? I run a respectable business here. This is no brothel. Need I remind you what happened to Michelle? She got herself pregnant.”

  Monica leaned in to the woman. “I don’t know if it works that way, madame. I know you’re Catholic and she was hardly the Virgin Mother, you would agree.”

  Madame Pelletier pursed her lips. “You’ve got a mouth on you.”

  Monica found Monsieur Derassen in a charcoal suit with a matching top hat tucked under an arm. He stood smartly and gave her a radiant smile that made her feel warm and loose as if thawing chilled skin.

  After they exchanged pleasantries, he said, “A little bird told me you might be free this evening.”

  She smirked. “Did it? What a nosy little thing.”

  “Would you be so kind as to take a walk with me?”

  “A walk?”

  “Perhaps even share a meal.”

  Monica peeked out the window. “Have you got Marie-Thérèse tucked in your carriage?”

  Jonathan made a show of looking out at it. “Not today.”

  “Hm.”

  “Yes. Hm.”

  Monica was changing into a dress as Gabby hovered. It was a day dress and so ridiculously outdated it could only look inadequate beside Monsieur Derassen’s haute couture. But it was the only proper dress she had. The gold she wore to sing was from Salis’s own collection.

  “Where are you going?” Gabby asked.

  “For a walk.”

  “With his sister?”

  “No.”

  “Still, that sounds nice. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll join you.”

  “I do mind.”

  “You’re going to speak with him about an audition.”

  “I suppose. Yes.”

  “You. Suppose. What are you doing? You’ve told me you’re not like other performers, women who only use the stage to get into a wealthy man’s bed. This is exactly what you’re doing.”

  “I’m not climbing into his bed,” Monica said, refashioning her hair in a tidier bun. “We’re going for a walk—”

  “A walk—”

  “Perhaps a bite to eat.”

  “What does he want with you?”

  “Maybe he likes my singing.”

  “If he liked your singing, he would have offered you an audition. It’s your body he wants. He’ll cut you loose when he tires of you. Do you think to supplant Madame Kohl? She’s rumored to be as daring in the bedroom as she is elegant in the salons. He’ll never leave her. He’s using you.”

  “For what?” Monica stood at the door, her anger rising. She knew everything Gabby said was true. “If he’s so enchanted by Madame Kohl.”

  Gabby shrugged.

  “Thank you for your confidence in me.”

  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Chapter 4

  Jonathan offered his arm and they ambled slowly through the winding streets. As the sun fell closer to the horizon, the evening sky was striations of blush, taupe, and gray. The air, which had been pleasant under a sixty-degree sun in the ripe afternoon, now had a slight chill. But he was warm and Monica found herself leaning into him.

  “I can’t help but wonder,” he began, “what makes the city’s most sought-after figure model become a washerwoman. Of course, no offense intended to your position.”

  “Of course,” she mocked. After a pause, “I’m sorry to disappoint you, monsieur—”

  “Please. Call me Jonathan. I hope it’s all right if I call you Monica.”

  “There’s no great mystery. Merely a small truth that becomes embellished for want of more. We were dear to one another and had a falling out. Things were said in the heat of hurt that can never be unsaid. And I never aspired to be a figure model.”

  “Does he know where you are?”

  “He knows.” She looked at him, his eyes cool amidst the warmth of his face. He met her gaze. “Why do you care so much?”

  “I don’t know. I find you a curiosity. The painting is all I know.”

  They sat for dinner tucked into a quiet corner café. He had the good grace not to notice or comment on her dated dress.

  After taking a sip of wine, she said, “I wonder what Madame Kohl would say if she should see us here.”

  He smiled mischievously. “You know about her, do you?”

  “I do.” She squared her shoulders. “And Madame Caron.”

  “You have kept abreast of me. I think I’m flattered.”

  “My friend keeps abreast.”

  “The tiny ball of disapproval?”

  “That’s the one. And a man in your position begs attention, whether he wants it or not.”

  He nodded. “True. As to the other, I have a healthy appetite for beautiful women. And at thirty-two, I’m hardly a young man.”

  “Quite a healthy appetite, I hear. I’m afraid I can’t indulge you in that way, monsieur. If I misled you, I do apologize.”

  “You didn’t mislead me, Monica. You’ve been refreshingly plain.”

  “And still you invest in Madame Pelletier’s blanchisserie.”

  Comically he looked up and tapped a finger on his chin. “Did I invest in a blanchisserie? I can hardly think why I should do that. But I do have interests in many properties.” He paused. “Are we speaking frankly?” He leaned forward, his eyes flitting all over her face, the soft candlelight making his beard appear fiery.

  “I think so.” Her mouth went dry and she took another sip of her wine, caressing the glass nervously.

  “If you were a grisette, I could approach you on fair terms. At the very least help you to rise, if that was your wish. But that doesn’t seem to be your wish, Monica. So, tell me, what is?”

  “I’m not. Nor do I have any desire to be a lorette or a courtesan.”

  “May I ask why?”

  She felt as flaming hot with anger as his beard and stood, dropping her napkin on the table.

  He grabbed her hand firmly. “Sit.”

  He hadn’t even looked at her. Yet his steely grip, not painful but unyielding, and the strange commanding tenor of his voice, it made her knees weak. She dropped too easily back into her chair.

  Gently he pulled her chin up and looked her in the eye. Why had her chin been down? She’d never been a coquette who feigned humility and obedience in the face of a handsome man. Yet with him…

  “Don’t be narrow to suit something I suspect doesn’t serve you. For a woman in your position, what I’m offering you is quite simply the world.”

  “But not respect.”

  “When weighed against all the rest, is that so important a thing?”

  Unflinching, she met his gaze. “It is to me.”

  His face pinched in puzzlement. “Are you a virgin?”

  “I think you know I’m not.”

  “Why, then, this false modesty? Means are made in such ways.”

  “Ends are made in such ways.”

  He tipped his head and made a face as if saying touché. “I could help you, Monica. I would very much like to help you if I can.”

  “That’s kind of you. And as I said, I am flattered, but—”

  “But, nothing. Your financial straits are dire. You’re beautiful, intelligent, amusing, articulate, talented. The picture of a woman destined to be a great courtesan.” He leaned in, his warm breath falling on her ear before saying, “I could make you a woman of independent means.”

  Though it wasn’t the first time she’d been propositioned for the demimonde, the suggestion coming from him, a man her body crackled with intensity to be around, was perhaps the most forthright and vul
gar she’d ever heard. Even the whisper in her ear had made her wet.

  “And keep me in an apartment on the Rue Leblanc next door to Madame Kohl?”

  “Forget about her for a moment.”

  Monica chuckled. “You’re so arrogant, monsieur.”

  “And you like it.”

  She did.

  “And infuriating,” she added.

  “Then we’re well-matched,” he said. “Because I have never been more intrigued and equally infuriated by a woman as you.”

  “Well, then I’ve done my part.” She made a mocking bow.

  After dinner, they walked up the hill. The Basilica of the Sacré-Coeur stood at the summit. Still under construction, its milky-white travertine was encaged by iron latticework. A contradictory thing to see, as paradoxical as the summit upon which it stood.

  In the five years she’d been back and as close as she’d been, Monica hadn’t dared to come to this hilltop that had known so much horror. Was it here? she thought as she dragged her feet. Or perhaps here? She would never know and didn’t want to know. Mont des Martyrs, indeed.

  The church, they’d been told, was a penance for the anarchist district. A memorial too, for those who’d lost their lives. Maria Souza Fauconnier gave all she could spare to see it built. Even in her joy-swallowing grief, Monica’s mother was dedicated to seeing that bloody place consecrated to the sacred heart of Christ.

  Penance and memory and Christ’s love. The Catholic Church could say whatever it wanted. But those in the district who still harbored rebellious hearts knew better. The city wanted order and a reunification with its guiding church. What better place, what better way, than to turn this siege-guns peak into an unquestioned place of peace.

  Monica was torn. Their cause had been just. But the means…and the end… She swallowed a hardened lump of tears threatening to crest.

  The sun was setting as they stopped at a railing. Paris stretched before them salmon-tinged under gathering flint and periwinkle clouds. Jonathan grasped the railing, his fingers brushing hers.

  “Are you all right?”

  So lost in her painful thoughts, she’d nearly forgotten he was there. “I’m fine, monsieur,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile.

  “You’re shaking. Are you cold?” He took off his suit coat.

  She supposed she was shaking, but wouldn’t admit to why. “Chilled, perhaps.”

  He wrapped her in his coat, which smelled of his clean scent—a blend of citrus, chamomile, and earthy tobacco. Layered. A rich man’s scent.

  Several minutes passed in silence. Somehow the weight of it made him grow. He crowded into the corners of her sadness and anger, making her light and hot, making her heart pulse in her core.

  “I believe I’ve made myself clear as to what I want,” he finally said.

  “You have.”

  “But the mystery remains. What do you want, Monica? And how can I give it to you?”

  “You could help me…with something.”

  He turned to face her, resting on the railing. “Tell me. Please.”

  “I’d like a chance to audition for you and Monsieur Zidler.”

  “I see.” He paused. “But there is a problem. Our girls will be in the demimonde. At the café you cut that idea to shreds.”

  “Surely not all of them.”

  He nodded, but she couldn’t tell if it was assenting or thinking.

  “If stars are courtesans and courtesans, stars, we want the brightest on our stage. We’ll cater to le gratin. If they want a night’s entertainment, something more bohemian and decadent, the Moulin Rouge will be the place. Decadence but high-class. Spectacular and diverting. And when it’s over, the night doesn’t have to end. If we can pull it off, it will be radical. But we need our entertainment to be…well, entertaining, you see.”

  “‘Entertaining.’ Yes, I see very well.” She felt an iciness seep into her body. Straightening her back, she turned from the railing.

  “Wait.” He took her hand and stroked it. “I’m not sure you do.”

  “As you said, I’m no virgin, monsieur. I do. Tell me, is it in a girl’s contract?”

  “Nothing so spelled out as that. But since you’re not naïve, how did you come to think you could perform without making yourself available? That is why women take to the stage, Monica. To secure a wealthy benefactor such as myself. Surely you know that.”

  She did and had confronted it, at times even tried to talk herself out of her dreams because of it.

  “That expectation is changing,” she said.

  “Perhaps. Still it remains.”

  “I’m a good actress. A good dancer and a talented singer. You said so yourself. I want to perform. And I don’t think I should have to sleep with a man to do it.”

  “Will you let me think about it?”

  She nodded. He moved to stand behind her. The tickle of his beard and fullness of his lips dragged slowly across her nape. It felt like a tension line to her muscles had been cut and she sagged into him and exhaled.

  “You’ve put me in a delicate position.” He pressed small kisses in a neat row along her nape, then up to the hollow below an ear. “You won’t have sex to sing, but I wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes on you.” He pressed his arousal to her bottom and she sucked in a breath. She could feel her blood trickling steadily to her sex, filling it. Glancing around, she saw the walks that ringed the church seemed to be deserted for now. But anyone could come at any moment.

  His fingers laced through hers, stilling her. “Relax.” He took her lobe in his mouth and suckled. “What’ll they see?”

  She swallowed. Her sex felt so tingly and full, her mouth was agape to catch her breath. What’ll they see? They’ll see how much she wanted him.

  He urged her to turn around, his eyes narrowing on her lips. “May I have one small favor?” He dragged two fingertips over her lips back and forth, back and forth. Unconsciously, she opened her mouth and his eyes widened. “Perfect.” He slid the pads of his fingers to her tongue and she kissed them. “Oh,” he breathed as if in wonder. “You’re going to be perfect.” Her skin puckered exquisitely as if reaching for more praise.

  Two fingers tipping her chin, he leaned in and kissed her. He was no fumbling boy desperately jabbing at her lips, but measured and seductive, his mouth moving over hers rhythmically, his tongue sliding in so that she could almost feel him inside her already.

  An arm slid around her waist and a hand skimmed down her chest lightly cupping a breast. He pressed his sex to hers, layers of fabric between them, and slowly rubbed, mimicking his tongue as it continued to thrust. Her body felt enflamed as her breathing grew faint.

  When he finally pulled back, she couldn’t help the moan that escaped. He smiled warmly as he cupped her cheek.

  “Something for you to think about,” he said with a smirk.

  Chapter 5

  The next day Jonathan was walking under the great glass dome of the Salon de Paris for the vernissage when he spotted Monica. In the same powder-blue day dress she wore the day before, she walked arm in arm with another young woman, blonde, waiflike, and nearly missed beside the beautiful and statuesque woman who was growing in his mind by the moment. All he could think of was how eagerly she collapsed into that chair for him, how willing she was to take his fingers in her mouth, that soft, sucking kiss to their tips, the way her breath hitched as he played. She was submissive; he had little doubt. Even as he felt his heartrate quicken, he was infinitely aware of Daphne on his arm.

  “Ow!” she said, rubbing her arm. “Jon, you’re holding on much too tight. What’s got into you?”

  “Sorry, darling.” He pulled himself away. “I’ll get us some champagne. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Daphne put a handkerchief to her nose. “Why not? I’m nearly intoxicated by the varnish fumes as it is. A glass of champagne might send me right to the floor. I’ll be an easy mark tonight.”

  Jonathan laughed, too loudly he could tel
l. And still he couldn’t stop. This was comical. How could she be here? he thought. Then he knew and spun, searching frantically. Where’s Talac? He scanned the ladders and the artists applying their final coats. This preview was very exclusive. Only the artists themselves and their honored guests.

  He grabbed two glasses of champagne off a tray floating by, then went in search of Talac. Yet when he found Monica, she was not with Aubrey Talac, but another man he didn’t recognize. They were laughing, their bodies easy, intimate, so familiar.

  “Mademoiselle Fauconnier.”

  She turned to him and her bright smile slipped. “Monsieur Derassen. Fancy running into you here.”

  “Yes. My ex-wife has some paintings here.”

  “Madame Caron. Of course. A woman painter. It isn’t done. Why, it’s downright scandalous. For a woman to have such ambitions so clearly outside her sex.”

  The barb was not subtle and they exchanged tight smiles.

  “Yes, well, these artist-types do like to be free and experimental.”

  “Do they? But not so free as all that.”

  “Who do we have here?” Jonathan asked, indicating the man who stood proudly by a painting. It was a scene of naked bathers by a riverside, the subtle use of geometric shape providing definition to the figures.

  “Daan Thomas,” the man said, extending a hand which Jonathan shook. “I’m Gabrielle’s brother.” He put an arm around the waiflike young woman.

  “An old and dear friend,” Monica added.

  Of course Jonathan wondered just how old and dear. But he also didn’t get the sense that the man had designs on Monica or that he was in any way a rival. He relaxed.

  “It’s a handsome piece, Monsieur Thomas. Is it your first here?”

  “I had one some years back, but it didn’t make the same impression I hope this one will.”

  “I think it will. You’re quite a talent. Really.”

  “And you can take that for truth, Daan,” Monica interjected. “Monsieur Derassen does have an eye for talent. With only one word from him, you could make your mark.”