Once I was up on the big mare, it was as though a burden was lifted from my heart. I asked her only for a gentle walk: no tricks or haute ecole. I was happy that she would be loved and cared for; she had been through so much already.
After a half hour or so, I took Josephine back into the stable and dismounted. The same young groom hurried to unsaddle her and began currying her; his hands were quick, yet gentle.
“Thank you so much for looking after her,” I said. “She is very special.”
“Yes, madame. This is a beautiful, good horse. I like her very much.” That was obvious to me, and I felt even more relief at leaving the mare with Zareh’s household.
I said my goodbyes to Josephine and Zareh dropped me off at the Place des Vosges. I had no idea what would await me when I went inside; I could only hope that my afternoon away would have allowed Erik and Gilbert to achieve a truce.
From the pages of Erik’s journal:
I could conceive of only one way to explain my pain and jealousy to both Claire and Rochambeau. When she came in from her afternoon ride, I met Claire at the door wearing my Persian trousers and loose shirt, but no mask.
“Come upstairs with me, Claire,” I said quietly, extending my hand to her. She took it and followed me upstairs.
I pushed open our bedroom door; Gilbert was seated on Claire’s vanity chair, just as I had instructed him. His eyes were wide with confusion.
“Please, Claire, I would like you to undress now.” I kept my tone as calm as possible.
“Erik, I cannot ...” she protested.
“Just do it. Gilbert has seen you in your night rail; surely the sight of your corset and stockings will not prove his undoing.”
With an air of puzzlement, she did as I asked. I noticed how tightly her corset was laced; she had not been eating much of late and was slimming to a fetishist’s dream. I preferred her more rounded silhouette, but so be it.
“To your vanity, please, my dear. Gilbert is going to unpin and brush out your hair. I know how you like that.” I could not keep the hint of sadness from my voice.
When Claire’s locks were hanging smoothly down her back, almost reaching her tightly cinched waist, I looked Gilbert in the eye.
“A beautiful picture, is she not? Now, you may watch and see what my life has been like. Treated like a eunuch in Persia, and watching from afar as other men kissed the woman I love.”
Claire stood silent in the middle of the room. I took her in my arms and bent down to kiss her. I felt so melancholy and cruel as her lips met mine. She began to sob in my arms and I held her, crooning gently. At last, I looked up at Gilbert; his eyes were downcast.
“You now stand where I have stood, mon ami. You know what it is to have someone you love out of your reach, and to know you have overstepped your bounds in trying to change things. And now, let us truly not talk of this again. We have a move to plan.”
“I will stay behind,” Gilbert whispered.
I realized that he at last truly comprehended my position concerning his infatuation with Claire, and assured him it was not necessary.
“We will need you there, Gilbert.”
* * * * *
When Erik walked out of the room, Gilbert followed him. I had never felt so used, and yet so guilty at the same time. I had done nothing wrong, but Erik’s behavior had been just as cruel to me as it had been to Gilbert. How dare he humiliate me so!
I began to pin my hair back into place, annoyed that it had been used as part of a punishment. I finished dressing quickly and strode out of the house, hat in hand. This would not happen again.
It was early evening and the shop at Les Halles where I might have accomplished my mission was closed. Instead, I went to the opera house and sought out Antoinette. I told her what had happened and what I wanted. She, in turn, simply shook her head and took me to the wigmaker.
CHAPTER 35
From the pages of Erik’s journal:
I do not know what possessed me to humiliate Claire and Gilbert that way. Gilbert repaired to his room and Claire dressed and left the house. It was nearly two hours before she let herself back in, wearing a cloak that I recognized as one of Antoinette’s. It was a fancy cloak, with wiring to hold the hood away from a lady’s evening coiffure.
“Claire, my love, where have you been? I have been so worried.”
She removed the cloak then, and I was astonished at what I saw. Her chestnut brown locks had been cut to shoulder length, and arranged in a tousle of curls by someone very skilled with hot tongs and hairpins. She opened her reticule and held out five francs to me.
“The wigmaker at the opera house gave me this in exchange for your possession.” Her tone was icy and, when I did not take the coins, she dropped them at my feet. “I would not want my hair to be the cause of any further conflict.”
She turned away from me and headed for the stairs; Gilbert came out of his room upon hearing her voice and took in her altered appearance as she sailed past him, leaving both of us gaping in her wake.
* * * * *
Dear god, I thought as I looked at my reflection in the mirror, what have I done? It had been the wigmaker’s idea to curl my hair after he cut off my long braid and paid me for it. Several more snips here and there to shape and even the length. Hot tongs and pearl-topped hairpins to hold the curls in position. Even my brows had been reshaped; I did not look like myself at all.
I added a touch of color to my mouth and kohl around my eyes. If they wanted to treat me like a trifling whore between themselves, at least I would look the part.
I stripped down to corset and stockings again and was rifling my wardrobe for a dinner dress when Erik entered the room and closed the door behind himself. He was still unmasked, his shirt open at the collar, and his eyes dark with desire as they raked over me.
“My god, Claire,” he said quietly under my defiant gaze. “Do you have any idea how you look?”
“Rather like an unfashionable strumpet just at the moment, I should think.”
“Oh, no, my dear,” he responded. “You have no idea.” He unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way. “No, my dear ... you look like a creature from Faerie. Your nape begs to be kissed, and those curls cry out to be caressed by a lover’s fingers.”
He crossed the room, and soon his actions matched his words. Despite myself, I shivered with desire as his sinful mouth caressed my neck and shoulders. He led me over to the bed and sat me on the edge.”
“Lie back, vixen,” he whispered, and knelt between my thighs. He ran his fingers through the curls at my mons. “You have behaved rather badly today, I am afraid. But then, so have I. Permit me to make it up to you.”
Then he set his mouth to me. Every stroke of his hot tongue on my flesh was agony and ecstasy at the same time. Each sensation was magnified beyond anything I had ever experienced; my ire had inflamed me more than I had thought possible.
When I climaxed, I was amazed at the strength of the waves that came over me. I had not even removed corset and stockings, and Erik had not entered me. Still, I was shaken by the depth of my pleasure. I caressed Erik’s hair.
“If you thought to make yourself unattractive to me, Claire,” he said raggedly, joining me on the bed, “you have failed miserably. It is not your hair; it is you.”
He opened his trousers and slid deep inside me. He held my hands pinned over my head and nipped at my earlobes and throat while he pounded deep into my sex. His own climax was hard and explosive as he tensed within me.
“And now, hoyden, you should dress for dinner.” He slid out of me, trailing his fingers across my climax-drenched mons and sensually licking just the tips. “We will continue with this later tonight.”
CHAPTER 36
London, England
September 1889
In hindsight, it was amazing how quickly the weeks passed from that time until we moved into our fashionable London home. Pierre, now sleek and plump, was generally found entwining himself around my ankles as I set t
he new house to rights. Zareh managed to remove some of Erik’s furnishings from below the Opera House and moved them into the townhouse for us. My favorite piece was the beautifully carved bed with its motif of nymphs and satyrs, now upstairs in the master suite. Yet again, our life was one of potential scandal; Erik and I did not keep separate boudoirs in the English fashion.
I had a hard time accustoming myself to having a staff. There was our driver, Michael Stubbins, with a handsome horse he called Blackjack. Michael’s smiling wife Maggie was our cook. Their daughter, 10-year-old Dolly, was learning from her mother and functioned as our downstairs maid. Their 15-year-old son, Jamie, was learning under Michael’s tutelage to be an hostler. Gilbert continued as Erik’s valet and our majordomo. I initially refused a maid of my own, as I had enough of a challenge asking others to do for me what I’d always done for myself. However, Erik insisted and so it was that I met Maggie’s sister Honor. I was grateful when I saw a light in Gilbert’s eyes upon meeting Honor for the first time; the quiet, red-haired girl clearly approved of him, for she returned his smile and watched him make his way up the stairs.
We had barely settled in to the house when neighbors began calling, leaving visiting cards in a salver on the foyer sideboard. I dreaded the afternoons when I was “at home” to guests. Our first caller was Lady Alice Harrington, who lived two houses away; she had iron-colored hair, a jaw to match, and a bosom like the prow of a ship. She left a calling card, and invited us to a musical evening at their home just a few nights hence. Lady Harrington informed us that her daughter, Olympia, would be performing several songs and asked that we prepare something ourselves, should we be so inclined, to share with the gathering.
I purchased my own visiting cards, which proved to be something of an ordeal. At the stationery counter at Selfridges Department Store, I ordered my two sets, plain ivory stock with “Madame Erik LeMaitre” on the front and an address on the back of one set. The other set was blank on the reverse; those were for people to whom I did not wish to be at home. I thought the custom unspeakably impolite, but was told by the shop girl that this was what was done. She also explained, in an exasperated tone, that I could only have my own name, Claire, on the card if I were widowed.
As I walked away after paying for my purchase and arranging for its delivery, I could not help overhearing the girl’s remark about “that bloody ignorant French woman.”
Before long the musical evening was upon us. I was quite excited about the event and Honor prepared my toilette with care. I wore a wine-colored gown with jet beaded trim; dark ruby jewels accented my throat and hair. Erik was his usual elegant self in evening attire and kid leather mask.
I never told Alice why Erik wore the mask. She had once made a presumptuous remark about “an injury in the Crimea, I suppose,” and I did nothing to dissuade her from the notion. Erik would have been a very young boy at the time of the Crimean war, but it did not matter to me what the woman believed. As we went through the reception line, I surmised that her other guests had been told the same tale, as few of them looked twice at the mask. Erik was as charming as an ambassador during the light supper we enjoyed before going into the music room.
The first performance of the evening was by the Honorable Miss Olympia. She sang Joseph Strauss’s “Laughing Song” passably enough, but Erik cringed during some of the obligatos. His finely tuned ear made him a harsh critic, but he applauded politely with the rest. Many other guests also contributed, playing piano or violin.
At length, Alice turned to me. “Well, Claire, will you or your husband perform for us this evening?”
“I would be honored, Madame Harrington,” Erik replied, “to play and sing a piece of my own composition.”
With that, he made his way to the piano and seated himself at the bench. He played an introductory phrase and then performed the English translation of a song that he had once sung to me in the townhouse: that same song of surrender in the darkness that had captured my soul. There was not even a murmur amongst those present as they listened to his beautiful tenor and watched his hands move across the keys. Olympia Harrington barely breathed and I noticed that she couldn’t take her eyes from his face. I also noted that many of the matrons were employing their fans with tremendous vigor.
God in heaven, I thought, Olympia’s going to develop a tendresse for him -- and some of the mamas are not far behind.
When the last phrase of the song echoed away, there was a brief silence and then a huge burst of applause and “bravos.”
“You really should have told me,” Alice whispered. “I had no idea your husband was a composer and singer.”
“We met at the Opera Garnier,” I revealed.
“He’s brilliant,” she rejoined.
“He’s beautiful,” I heard Olympia remark to her mother.
“And married,” her mother rejoined. “Set your cap elsewhere, daughter.”
The shine in Olympia’s eyes promised disobedience.
CHAPTER 37
Shortly after Erik’s performance, the Harringtons’ guests began to say their farewells. We waited in the foyer until Michael brought the carriage around. Mrs. Harrington and her daughter chose that moment to descend upon me.
“Mrs. LeMaitre,” Alice began, “My Olympia is entertaining the notion that your husband should become her singing instructor. I will brook no resistance in this matter, of course. What Olympia wants, she gets.”
“Really, Madame Harrington,” I responded, “I could not say for certain whether Erik is interested in taking on a student at this time. We are only newly come to London and are still putting our household in order.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear Mama,” Olympia interrupted. “I want your husband to be my instructor.”
“And perhaps you did not hear me, my dear,” I responded with a smile that did not quite reach my eyes. “My husband may not wish to take on any students at this time, and I will not speak for him.”
Fortunately, Erik came to my rescue by announcing that our coach was ready. With an indignant cough, Lady Harrington announced that she would leave a card on me to call at my earliest convenience to one of her at-home afternoons.
Once we were in the carriage, I related my exchange with the Harringtons to Erik. He dismissed my concerns with a laugh.
“My dear, that child will never tread the boards at Covent Garden. I have no intention of taking her on as a student. Just forget about her. As for the mother, go to her at-home and charm her friends senseless.”
We arrived home long after the other members of the household had retired to their quarters, and Erik sent Michael home with his thanks. He let me into our townhouse and helped me off with my wrap, setting his lips gently to the nape of my neck.
“Madame LeMaitre,” he whispered, his breath warm on my skin, “Shall we away to our scandalously shared boudoir?”
My shuddering intake of breath at even his gentlest touch cried my assent. Erik picked me up easily and carried me upstairs. I wrapped my arms around his neck, running my fingers through his sable locks, and kissed him deeply. I was still astonished at my body’s response to the man whom I had married, and I reveled in every moment of it. His lovemaking became more masterful by the day, and I reveled in that as well.
Erik established an office in the City of London proper, and went there each day to manage his accounts and business interests. He rose early and usually departed before I was fully awake. I was not yet accustomed to my leisurely life, despite those dissolute days toward the end of our stay in Paris, and chafed at the inactivity of a proper society lady’s days.
I rang for Honor to attend me. I intended to spend the day with Maggie in the kitchen, teaching her some of my favorite recipes; I found English cuisine entirely too bland for my taste.
Honor laced my corset up the back and I donned the dark green wool skirt made from the remains of the frock Giraud had torn the day he tried to attack me. My blouse was a fine silk Garibaldi, with pintucks on the bodice.
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I sent Honor on ahead of me to the kitchen and played with Pierre for a while. The sleek little cat wore a red ribbon around his neck and I spoiled him dreadfully. He loved to snuggle and purr, and at the same time remained a playful creature who made me smile. He bounded down the stairs ahead of me, stopping to rub at my ankles as I followed.
We had barely gotten settled in the kitchen to discuss menus when the door knocker could be heard. Dolly answered the door and explained to the visitor that “Madame is not at home to callers today.”
“She’ll be at home to me.” Lady Harrington’s tone was stentorian as she pushed past Dolly. “Now, where is your mistress?”
I left the kitchen and faced Alice. I really did not wish for company.
“I do believe Dolly informed you that I am not at home to visitors.”
“You’re plainly at home,” the woman said stubbornly, “and you will hear me out. My daughter has it in her head to become an opera singer. She also has it in her head that no instructor will do but your husband. For reasons I fail to understand, she is determined to sing at Covent Garden. As my husband and I are patrons of that opera, I am certain that she will do so.”
The woman’s arrogance astonished me, but I gestured for her to continue.
“We will pay handsomely, of course.”
“Madame Harrington,” I interrupted. “Does our household appear to be in need of funds?”
“That is hardly the point, Mrs. LeMaitre,” she responded. “The point is that Olympia is our only child, and she will have whatever she wants.”
“Ah. She will have whatever she wants,” I responded evenly, “regardless of the convenience of the other parties in question?”
“You were clearly brought up poorly,” was the next sally. “A true lady would never dream of questioning her betters.”
THE SEDUCTION OF GABRIEL STEWART Page 12
