Girl in Bath

by Catherine C. Heywood

  “Really, Liane,” Marie-Thérèse said, smacking her playfully.

  “I hope you’ll excuse my sister, Monica,” said Jonathan. “Liane has an interest in fashion that clouds her sense at times.”

  “It’s all right,” Monica said. To Liane, she said, “I understand. It’s too beautiful for me to do it justice.”

  “Certainly not,” Marie-Thérèse said. “It only wishes it could be as beautiful as its wearer. It’s so good to see you again, mademoiselle. Are you here for the races?”

  “We are,” Jonathan said.

  “Have you placed your bets?” Monica asked.

  “We have,” Marie-Thérèse said. “But I think I’m changing my mind.”

  Jonathan shook hands with the gentlemen. Then they moved on, promising to find them at the track.

  “Do they think we’re seeing each other now?” Monica asked.

  “I should think so. And the news will be of some interest to my parents.”

  “Are they so interested in who you see?”

  “Actually, no. My mother’s still in her drink over the details of the divorce complaint. But there are two items of note about you.”

  Monica suspected and still she asked. “What are those?”

  “You’re a mademoiselle still. And an unknown in the demimonde.”

  “And you want them to know about me?” This was a bit of news that might as well have knocked her over with a feather.

  “Strangely, I don’t not want them to know.” His smile was warm and curious, as if he couldn’t stop looking at her and couldn’t figure out why.

  Chapter 12

  Monica was a revelation. Much more than a perfect companion to him in bed, Jonathan wanted to spend time with her. Thought of her when he wasn’t. Cared about her well-being. Daphne he enjoyed as an amusement and the feeling was entirely mutual. Comely and quick-witted, lovely and experimental, she had been the perfect diversion after his divorce when Jos had left him on his knees, a begging half-man. But he had never been able to summon more than breezy affection for her. He’d thought it was because he was incapable. No matter their divorce, he loved Joselin and always would. Until Monica. He could tease her all he wanted about falling for him when the truth was he was falling for her, too.

  Just as soon as she returned from Nice, he would end his bed sport with Daphne. And he would talk with Jos about her peculiar request. Did she really think he should persuade Monica to pose for her? He supposed she did. After all, she would send for him and he would come running. He would have to make it clear that his abiding love for her had its limits.

  Monica was another matter. He’d dropped her off that Sunday night with great reluctance. Ravignan seemed a world away from Saint-Germain. Increasingly, he didn’t like being that far away from her. Still, they couldn’t be further apart than on the matter of her performing at the Moulin Rouge. He’d secured an audition before Charles Zidler. But he’d be damned if he would do anything more.

  Jonathan sat amidst a glossy lake of wood in the cavernous space that had once been the White Queen Dance Hall. Beyond the columns and archways, beyond the cathedral ceilings soaring with possibility, it was stripped and sad. But there were more than four months until they were scheduled to reopen, and the glittering adornment that spoke to the red-letter decadence they planned was to begin arriving any day.

  The electric lights burst on.

  “Damn!” Jonathan said, bending over and shielding his eyes. “Do you have to turn on all those lights? I’m blinded, man.”

  His investment partner strode into the space. Charles had insisted upon electric lights. Flicked them on at every opportunity as if he were responsible for supernatural light. Only the best and brightest for “Le Premiere Palais des Femmes,” he liked to say. Though Jonathan balked, he knew the bright lights would dazzle and entice.

  “How am I to see this girl you’d like me to consider?” Zidler asked.

  He slapped Jonathan’s leg and pulled up a chair, one hand smoothing over a rounding belly, the other fussing with his receding amber hair and mutton chops.

  Zidler was as bright and loud as the electric lights he favored. With his booming voice and unmatched presence, he might have been a ring master, and he walked into any room as if they’d been waiting for him.

  “How are you to see her now?” Jonathan asked.

  “I can see fine. Get used to it, man. It’s the way of the future.”

  By anyone’s measure, Jonathan Derassen and Charles Zidler were an odd pair, Jonathan as understated as Charles was bold. But they happened together one night at the Élysée Montmartre, watching the show with the same idea. Rather than be rivals, they struck up a partnership. After all, Jonathan needed Charles’s keen artistic vision and showmanship and Charles needed Jonathan’s contacts in le gratin and his money.

  Charles scuffed his foot along the floor. “It shines like a river, this finish. So tell me about her. Did you see her at the Élysée? Can she dance the can-can?”

  “Ah, no. Not at Élysée. She’s a singer. Primarily.”

  “‘A singer. Primarily.’ And you want her to perform here? At a dance hall?”

  “She’s a dancer, too. An all-around performer. I thought that’s what we wanted. Not just dance-line girls, but a spectacle.” He was torn between his desire to speak well of her—he felt a growing pride in her—and wanting her to go unnoticed. There was no way he could convince himself to see her performing here night after night with the men, his friends most likely, vying for her favors after the show. “She does have great legs, though.”

  “You’ve seen them, have you?” Charles asked, nudging him with a wink.

  “Yes.” Jonathan bristled.

  Charles pulled out his watch. “Well, where is she? I have a schedule to keep.” This was almost certainly an exaggeration. Zidler loved performers and would carve out almost any time to see one.

  Jonathan looked at his watch—five minutes past four. Monica wouldn’t be late for this audition. A worried feeling crept up his neck. He walked slowly back to the doors, peering closely at the high-gloss, chocolate-brown floors. They had just been finished. The malted milk smell of the varnish still hung heavily in the air, faintly sweet and addicting. Like the place, he hoped. It was Madame Pelletier. She was reluctant to allow the girls anything. If she hadn’t given Monica this time, he would have strong words for the obstinate woman.

  Finally he heard the clip-clop of horses on the stone street and exhaled. He hated to acknowledge just how much he missed her. Yet when he strode through the garden, he met his driver and not Monica.

  “Where is she, Louis?”

  “Gone, monsieur.”

  “‘Gone.’ What do you mean ‘gone?’ And her friend? Mademoiselle Thomas.”

  “Gone, as well.”

  “How can that be? She was supposed to be working.”

  “The madame was not very forthcoming, I’m afraid. Though I threatened her, I couldn’t very well manhandle her.”

  “No,” Jonathan acknowledged.

  “But she did give me this.” Louis handed him a note:

  Monsieur Derassen,

  I cannot give Mademoiselle Fauconnier the afternoon off.

  I fired her three days ago.

  I warned them.

  Mme. Pelletier

  Jonathan raced to Ravignan. The front door opened before he was out of the carriage. Madame Pelletier stood with open arms.

  “Monsieur, it is not my fault.”

  Jonathan glared, holding up the note and crowding her with his imposing frame.

  “You have a head for numbers, but I have a nose for linens. If I am known to employ sickly girls, I will be closed down.”

  “Sickly. Is Monica—”

  “Gabrielle. On Monday morning I caught Monica trying to treat some blood stains on her linens. And I told her. I told her, I tell you.”

  “So you fired them. Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know, monsieur.”

&nbs
p; “You don’t know. You don’t know?” he shouted. He went for the stairs, taking them two at a time. He bounded in on scantily-clad women working amidst a cloud of steam and lye. They froze.

  He stalked from room to room, sifting through beds and belongings, questioning each woman for their whereabouts. But he could find nothing to indicate where they’d gone. He headed for the door, Madame Pelletier scuttling beside him defiant, indignant, then begging.

  “You let a young woman and her sickly friend walk out these doors without so much as a ‘by your leave?’ I should strap you. Have you no heart, woman? My God! Who is your confessor? You should make haste to him before you’re struck down, because it would be a very short trip for you to Hell.”

  On the street, he bit to Louis, “Rue Cortot,” before climbing into the carriage and slamming the door.

  Chapter 13

  Three days earlier…

  “Gabby.”

  “I’m up,” Gabrielle said wearily, swallowing a cough.

  “You’re not up.”

  “I’m awake.” Gabby coughed again.

  It sounded like it was going to be one of her bad days. In truth, Gabby could have had a bad weekend, for all she knew. Monica had spent a glorious couple of days on Saint-Germain with Jonathan. When she finally came home late the previous night, Gabby was sound asleep.

  Despite everything she’d promised herself, Monica was falling for Jonathan. His wit and beauty, warm arms and a warmer bed, a man who moved her mind as he stirred her blood. The sex was an enlightenment. As he’d promised, he had revealed her to herself. To obey him made her body run to ooze like melting butter. Being bound somehow made her feel free. And the pain made the pleasure burn all the brighter. All of this was not to mention the finest clothes and food, a box at the opera, a day at the Boulogne. How nice it was to pass some hours with no worries or cares but for the lay of rich fabric, the taste of fine food, and the number of orgasms. He’d made it too embarrassingly easy to resist.

  Still, she bristled at the idea that she was submissive. Men had always held the presumption that women were the weaker sex and, therefore, meek creatures. How convenient that men had divorced themselves from the childbed. No one who was a party to that could claim women the weaker sex.

  Certainly some were like that, but she was not. That Jonathan thought so and she confirmed it every time she jumped to do his bidding was like a constant assault to her senses. There seemed a string between them that tied his commands to her obedience and when he pulled it, she got aroused. And the more time they spent together the more time she wanted to spend together.

  Performing at the Moulin Rouge would be a point of contention. She had an audition with Jonathan and Charles Zidler on Thursday. Whatever came of it—she still hadn’t any idea what she would do about the expectation she be a demimondaine—she would go forward with or without Jonathan Derassen. After all, it was only a lark. That’s what he’d promised. That was all a man who was still in love with his ex-wife could give. Monica would have to steel herself against him or end it. The choice was simple, really. She would be fine. Determined, she would tell herself this until it was so.

  She was tying her hair up when she glanced at Gabby, now sitting, but hunched and coughing. She appeared worse than ever.

  “Go back to sleep,” Monica said. “If I skip breakfast, I can make your deliveries, then hurry back in time to do mine. I shouldn’t be too late. I’ll get Zara to start the fires.” She looked out to the still-dark streets. She hated carrying the heavy baskets, especially in these early dark hours when the streets seemed too quiet, almost poised for something dangerous. But doing the deliveries had made her aware and strong, and her hips tough, more aware, stronger, and tougher than most could credit.

  She looked at Gabby as she slipped on her boots. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then answer. I’m doing you a favor, but I need your cooperation.”

  Monica stood above her friend like a chiding mother and that’s when she saw the blood on her hands. Without thinking, she yanked Gabby’s hand to inspect it closer, then dropped it immediately. Her gaze fell on Gabby’s pillow and sheets. There were small spatters of blood there, too.

  A cold chill of fear sluiced over her body.

  “Get up. Now, Gabrielle, get up! Don’t touch anything. Don’t—just—move, please. Wash your hands right now. I need to get these.”

  Monica stripped the blood-spattered linens from the bed. At closer inspection, they weren’t that bad. She could easily hide them while they soaked. But even as she went for more water and a bar of soap, she heard the house waking up. At any moment she might hear the indelicate steps of Madame Pelletier.

  Feeling like the walls were closing in on them, her mind raced. She stripped her bed and put her linens on Gabby’s. Then she sank into a chair in relief. Gabby was moving about, washing her face and fixing up her hair. Everything would be all right. For now. But she would have to find some time to bring Gabby to a doctor. They couldn’t very well send for one to come to the washhouse. She had no idea what a doctor cost, but she had some francs saved. They would be fine.

  Just then, Madame Pelletier poked her round head in.

  “You’re awake, then, girls.” She was turning to go to the next room when her eyes narrowed on Monica. “What’s the matter there?”

  “It’s nothing, madame,” Monica said. “My monthly course is all.”

  “Your monthly course? I meant that fine necklace of bruises around your neck.”

  Monica’s hands flew to her neck. She’d completely forgotten them. Gabby looked at her with disapproval.

  “These are nothing,” she uttered.

  “That upstanding nobleman choking you? Because if he is…” The thought trailed off because they all knew she’d do absolutely nothing that would threaten Jonathan’s financial support.

  “He isn’t ennobled and he’s not choking me.”

  “Oh, well. It seems the more money they have, the weirder their bed sport, am I right?”

  “Oui, madame.”

  Finally she noticed the linens. “Your monthly course, you say?”

  Monica nodded.

  All the lavandières knew Madame Pelletier took an unusual interest in their courses. She thought them all sluts and made sure they knew it.

  “Good. That fine gentleman will drop you faster than a hot fuck when he finds you pregnant with his bastard. If you can’t keep your legs closed—and clearly you can’t, spending the last couple nights with him like a sweet tart—I hope you’re using your vinegar sponge.”

  “Religiously, madame,” Monica said.

  “Religiously.” She snorted, then narrowed her eyes. “That’s a laugh.”

  When she left, Monica and Gabby exchanged a look.

  “I’m sorry,” Gabby said. “I don’t mean to get us in trouble.”

  “It’s not your fault. There’s no sense in worrying about it now. It’s going to be fine. We just need to get you to a doctor. Can you work today?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank God Jonathan insisted on shortening our hours. I don’t know what we’d do if we had to work until eleven each night without you being seen.”

  “Yes. He’s a fine one, isn’t he?” Gabby’s tone was sarcastic as she indicated Monica’s bruises.

  “It isn’t what it looks like.”

  “They’re not bruises? Did you give them to yourself?”

  “They don’t hurt. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “What are you doing, Monica? We uprooted our whole lives. I left my brother. You left a man who loved you. Now, it seems, you’ve just replaced one man with another. What’s worse, he hurts you.”

  “It’s not like that. It’s—I like it. We do some peculiar things in bed. But I want it.”

  “You. Want. It. He hurts you and you want it.”

  “Don’t judge me.”

  “I care about you, Monica. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
Her voice was raised and she fell into a coughing fit, blood spattered all over her hand.

  Monica felt immediately contrite as she sat her on her bed. “We’ll talk about this later. When you’re better.”

  “You’re falling in love with him.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Gabby indicated the fine dresses hanging near Monica’s bed. “Monica Fauconnier would not be taken care of by a man. This man, he isn’t taking care of you? Where are we going to have to run when Jonathan Derassen’s completely taken over your life?”

  “He hasn’t taken over my life and he’s not going to. He’s amusing. I enjoy spending time with him. That’s all.”

  Gabby gave her a skeptical look.

  “I should be here more,” Monica said. “For you.”

  “Don’t use me like that.”

  “For me, then. You’re right.” She only hated what Gabby said because she was right. Jonathan was taking care of her and she was letting him. And what could she have with a man who couldn’t love her? A lark? She seemed incapable of that. Maybe it was time to end their association. Better to feel a small loss now than to endure a greater hurt in the end. “I have an audition. This Thursday. I’ll end it with him then.”

  Finally Gabby’s eyes widened in delight. “An audition.”

  Monica nodded, a smile curling up the corners of her mouth.

  After Monica had cleaned the blood out of the linens, she and Gabby went on their laundry deliveries. It wouldn’t do for Madame Pelletier to be further curious about them. When they returned, they found the madame standing below the drying pillowcase.

  “That’s a neat trick,” she said.

  “Madame?”

  “Do you often bleed from your cunny onto your pillow?”

  Monica’s mind was frozen for a moment.

  “During your courses,” the madame prompted.

  “Uh, no,” Monica said, her throat so dry it seemed to be closing up. Madame Pelletier turned around, narrowing her eyes on Monica, then flicking to Gabby speculatively, then back. “I thought I would wash the whole set, madame. That’s all.”