She looked up, expecting Lilly’s form in the bed, but it lay smooth and unrumpled.
“Red!”
The voice, deep and husky, drew her to the window. She threw open the sash, letting the cool, misty air of the morning leak in, and looked down. “Dash! Shh! You’ll awaken all of Paris.”
“It’s a grand day to be awakened,” he said, looking cheery in a derby hat, green cardigan, and tweed trousers.
She ran her fingers through her hair, thankful that she’d long ago cut it to a manageable length, then threw another glance at Lilly’s empty bed.
For the first time, fear wound a hand around her throat and squeezed.
On the landing, she opened the door to Dash leaning with one arm against the frame, looking and smelling as if he’d had hours of unencumbered sleep. Where was his promise to lay awake all night thinking of her?
His expression fell when he saw her. “You’re not ready? No matter, we’ll wait.”
She looked past them to Blanche, riding in the front seat beside Pembrook, who had taken out his family’s Citroën for the jaunt to the station. Blanche wore a low-brimmed silk hat—possibly yesterday’s purchase, and a low V-necked blue dress. She leaned over Pembrook. “Rosie, why aren’t you ready?”
“It’s my cousin. She hasn’t returned from yesterday.”
Blanche had the grace to look concerned. “She stayed out all night?”
“I don’t know. I feel I must go out to look for her—”
“She probably met some nice chap and fell in love, is sailing away with him at this moment.” Dash winked at her.
“That’s not funny, Dash. She could be hurt, or lost. Or…”
“Shh, pet. She’s fine. C’mon, we have a train to catch.”
She stared up at him, nonplussed. “I can’t go without her.”
“Why not, you spent all day without her yesterday—”
“And she failed to come home!”
Dash’s eyes darkened, his voice lowered. “And how many times have you come sailing in nearly at dawn?”
Her jaw tightened. “But I was with you. And Lilly was there too.”
He sighed then turned to the car. “Pem, I think you’ll have to go on without us. Don’t lose too much of my money.”
He turned back to her, held out his hands. “I’m at your service. Let’s find your cousin.”
Oh, Dash. The fact that he had suddenly sacrificed his day…that Lilly had ruined everything again. “Dash, you should go with them. Don’t let my cousin wreck your day. I can manage. I’ll send our houseboy out to look for her, and maybe I’ll go back to the Café a la Paix.” She closed her eyes. “If she doesn’t return soon, we’ll alert the gendarmes.”
Dash’s voice softened. “I’m sure she’s fine. We’ll find her.”
“Oh, even if she is, Mother will send us back to New York if she finds out about this.”
“I hope not.” He lifted her chin, and she opened her eyes to find his soft. “We were just starting to have fun.” He smiled down at her, and clearly she needed more sleep, because her legs turned soggy.
She had a good mind to go with him, to forget Lilly. But what if she was truly hurt, or worse? Reckless, selfish…She drew in a deep breath. “You should go with them,” she said again. “Don’t let Lilly ruin your day.” She signaled to Pembrook, now arguing with Blanche, most likely about the outcome of the day’s activities. “Take Dash with you!”
He stared down at her. “No, Red, I’ll stay.”
She pressed her hands on his chest, pushed him back. “Go, Dash. Win me something.” Then she stepped up and pecked him on the cheek.
“Are you sure?”
No. But what choice did she have? She didn’t want Dash to see her as a weight around his neck. “Pem, try and keep him out of trouble!” she said as Dash slipped into the back seat. He waved as they drove away.
She closed the door, ran her hand against the panel.
Lilly.
She wanted to be angry, but fear tempered her emotion into worry.
She found Amelia in the kitchen, meeting with the cook, a French woman named Annette, who had worked for Bennett for two decades. They looked at her with concern.
“Perhaps I need to alert the police that my cousin is missing.”
Amelia nodded. “I’ll get Pierre and have him take care of it.”
“And then send Leo out to Luxembourg Gardens—she’s always wanted to go there. It’s possible she wandered across the river onto the Left Bank and then couldn’t get home. I’ll go to the café, in hopes that she found her way there.”
She turned to Annette. “Perhaps some coffee? American coffee.”
“Right away, ma’am,” Annette said in her accented English.
Rosie was on the second-floor landing, about to enter her room, when she heard the door open, the light footsteps up the stairs.
Lilly appeared, looking flushed and rumpled, wearing a smile.
It dimmed when she saw Rosie.
“I can explain,” she said without greeting.
Rosie bit back a sour word she’d heard Blanche use. Kept her voice steady. “Amelia! She’s back!”
Lilly removed her hat, then her jacket. Her hair had unraveled from her braid as if someone had combed it backwards, and her cheeks appeared sunburned.
“Where have you been?”
“Rosie, listen. It’s not what you think. I…met someone, and we toured Paris—”
“You toured Paris? All night?”
“He took me flying, and that took up the rest of the evening….”
“You went flying?” Fatigue, and not a little disbelief, had loosened all grip on her volume. “As in an aeroplane?”
“I really am quite exhausted, Rosie. I’ll tell you everything when I get a few winks.”
“Are you kidding me? I’ve been worried sick about you, not to mention that I was supposed to go to Auteuil today with Dash and Pembrook.”
“Oh.” She at least had the decency to look sorry. “You can go. I’ll stay here. Really. I am quite fatigued, and Reynaud said he couldn’t pick me up until evening—he’s teaching all day.”
“Reynaud?”
“He’s a pilot. And, he was in the war…. Oh Rosie, I had such a delightful day!”
Rosie stared at her, at the way Lilly began to loosen her braids, working her fingers through them, at the windburn—she realized it now—on her cheeks, at the sparkle in her eyes—carefree and without a hint of trouble in her expression.
In that moment, with her cousin so bright, so without a care—Rosie couldn’t stop herself. She slapped her.
Lilly jerked back, her hand to her cheek, her mouth open. “What—”
“You ruined my day, my entire trip to Paris! I can’t believe your mother made us bring you, or that my mother insisted on me escorting you around town—I’m so sick of you tagging after us like some sorry, hungry mongrel. You don’t belong in Paris.”
Lilly’s eyes flared. “You’re right. I hated it here—all your shopping and dancing and drinking Pernod and acting like some floozy charity girl and making me do the same. I’m not that girl.”
“Clearly!”
“I’m not about to pretend I’m something I’m not.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing—pretending?”
“I dearly hope so! Because I’m not sure I like the Rosie you’re becoming. And I’m not sure you know her either.”
“Well, fear not, Lilly, because you haven’t changed one morsel. I thought that Paris might turn you into someone charming and witty. You’re simply…bohemian!”
“I’d rather be bohemian than a tramp.”
Rosie wanted to hit her again.
“And by the way, I was sent to Paris to escort you.”
Rosie had no words for that, or for the handprint exposed when Lilly removed her hand from her cheek.
The wound took a measure of steam from her. “Go to bed, Lilly. You’re relieved of your duties.”
; Rosie turned toward her room.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to catch up with my friends.”
“Your mother said—”
Rosie slammed her door on Lilly’s words.
She stood in front of the mirror and saw that tears had streaked her face. She scrubbed her skin with the water in the sink, but glanced at the clock and realized she hadn’t time to bathe.
She would slap Lilly all over again.
Rosie dropped her dress on the floor and picked out a white, wide-collar blouse and a checkered skirt. She added a long-sleeve cardigan, cinched it at the waist with a belt, and grabbed a sailor’s hat with a wide bow at the brim, pulling it down to her eyebrows.
She added lipstick—no time for proper makeup—slipped into a pair of low heels, and dashed down the hall.
Lilly’s door was closed, and she refused the urge to stop, to mend their row. Perhaps tomorrow.
Or next week.
Rosie debated asking Pierre to warm up the Peugeot, as she ran down the stairs, and decided that a cab might be faster.
She closed the door behind her and a cab almost instantly appeared as if it might be fated.
She directed him to the train station in her worst French ever then leaned into the seat, wanting to direct him through traffic as they pulled out onto the boulevard.
Wouldn’t Dash be surprised? Rosie let the memory of his smile soothe away her row with Lilly. With luck, she would catch them just as they were leaving, and they’d make a glorious day of it. They’d purchase the racing forms and study them side by side, make their picks on the journey out, and then visit the paddocks to cheer on their mounts. She imagined the noise of it all, the raucous cheering of the crowd, the fleshy, earthy smell of the horses in the dirt, the noble colors of the jockeys’ silks. They’d stand at the rail and root on their ponies together, and when their horse won—or not—they’d celebrate with a picnic under the blue skies of the French countryside. Perhaps Dash would lie down beside her and let her nest her head in the crook of his arm.
And then, she’d help him dream. Because that’s what inspiration did.
“Faster.”
Her cabbie ignored her. Around her, the city had come to life, the flower vendors lining the sidewalks with all manner of carnation and roses and lilies, the fruit vendors pulling out their carts, the newspaper kiosks opening their doors, new copies of the Chronicle thick on their shelves. Men and women already gathered for breakfast, eating crepes or a brioche, drinking a cup of café au lait at the sidewalk cafes.
Today, she would give Dash a bit more encouragement. Because even she didn’t quite believe her own words yesterday. What if I don’t want to get married?
Maybe she didn’t belong on stage. Maybe she belonged on Dash’s arm.
Finally they pulled up at the station. She paid the cab driver and jumped out, nearly running past the columns, under the awning into the tiled central hall. A sign listed the trains and their platforms and she located the one to Auteuil.
No time for a racing form, or even breakfast. She lined up at the ticket booth and tried not to bark. “One for Auteuil, please.”
Taking her ticket, she walked as fast as decorum would allow toward the far platform. The train had already pulled in, green, with gold-fringed shades at the windows. Relief leaked out of her, but she hustled her pace.
As she drew closer, she saw passengers lined up to board, many of them still clumping in conversation. Race-goers carried picnic baskets, wore sporting suits with leather or flannel jackets, women in wide-brimmed hats and gloves. Men in straw hats and derbies smoked cigarettes.
She glanced through the crowd for a glimpse of Dash or Pembrook.
There—she spied Pembrook at the far car, Blanche beside him, holding their picnic basket. Dash appeared, stepping from behind Pembrook to let them pass as they handed the conductor their tickets.
Pembrook helped Blanche up the steps then followed.
Rosie hustled her pace, wanting to wave. She bumped into a woman holding the hand of a little boy. “Excuse me.”
They glared at her.
She turned back to see Dash—
He was helping someone onto the train. Rosie slowed, watching the woman turn, seeing her regal, slim figure in a pair of trousers and a white blouse. She smiled down at Dash and put her hand on his shoulder.
Frankie.
Rosie slowed, her heart caught in her throat.
He pulled himself up on the steps behind her. Then, they disappeared into the car, Dash’s low-throated laugher trickling out like a stain upon the day.
Rosie stopped, her heart thumping, the ticket in her hand deformed as she closed it around the paper.
But…
“Ma’am, are you boarding?”
She shook her head and moved aside for an elderly gentleman in a suit and fedora to pass. She glanced up toward the train.
Blanche stared out her window at her. She met Blanche’s gaze, then shook her head.
She saw Blanche turn away, and couldn’t stay for the humiliation. Turning on her heel, Rosie headed for the exit with more dignity than she felt. Behind her, the train coughed, lurched, then began to pull out.
By the time she reached the street, her eyes were blurry, burning. She strode out of the station, crossed the street, and found a bench.
She sat until she stopped shaking, watching travelers arrive, luggage in tow, watching carriages and footmen unloading crates, pigeons fighting the squirrels for sunflower seeds.
Lilly did this. Lilly and her whining. Lilly and her foolishness. She’d shown up in New York City and invaded Rosie’s life.
Rosie had taught her how to dress, to act, to talk, and introduced her to her friends. And Lilly repaid her by going flying. Flying.
She could have been killed, and who would have borne the blame?
Rosie got up, walked over to a flower vendor, and purchased a bouquet of lilacs, breathing them in.
Lilly was a chain around Rosie’s neck, suffocating, pulling her under.
It was time to cut the chain and let her drown.
* * * * *
“Rosie hasn’t spoken to you for five days?”
Lilly tried to place the name of the redhead who’d posed the question—she’d met so many people in the past week, she struggled to keep them all straight.
Darby she remembered, because of his soldier’s uniform. Irish and tall, he had flown with Rennie and now worked at the embassy. She liked his brogue and well-bred manners, unlike Rennie’s pal Hem, who’d shown up last night with his pregnant wife. Hem knew Darby, and all three soldiers shared a darkness they refused to discuss. Brooding and dark, Hem drank too much and had danced most of the night with a coquette girl who sported some fancy title. Baroness Raymonde, or something. Rennie called her Ray and teased her enough that Lilly had to work to laugh at her jokes.
There were others—Scott and his drunken, pretty wife, who cursed like men in a shipping yard and had nearly embroiled her husband in a fight over her honor, and two women who dressed in trousers, suspenders, and white oxford blouses and danced together, their derbies cockeyed upon their bobs.
As for the redhead…Paige, maybe? She couldn’t remember her name, but clearly she had an interest in Lilly and her moaning about Rosie and the fact that since she’d left her handprint on Lilly’s check, Rosie had behaved as if she didn’t exist. Shopping, lunching, even dining out and clubbing with Blanche and Pembrook without even a fare-thee-well to Lilly.
Although, for her part, Lilly hadn’t exactly followed her cousin down the hall to make amends. Not after her first attempt ended with the door in her face.
How was she supposed to chaperone a cousin who loathed her?
“She’s angry with me.”
“Why?” the redhead asked. Yes, it must be Paige. Or Patty?
“Because she doesn’t need her anymore, Presley.” Rennie slid onto the chair next to Lilly, set his arm around her shoulders. “Because Lill
y has discovered Paris on her own.” He picked up her glass and winked at Lilly.
Oh, she wanted Rennie to kiss her. Every day, he seemed to nudge his way deeper inside her soul, until it felt as if he belonged there. She had lingered last night as he’d let her off by her door, caught in his smile, hoping he might sense her acquiescence. But Rennie was a gentleman, all the way through to his core, and although he’d taken her out every night and taught her to dance, he hadn’t once pushed for more.
Maybe tonight. She’d silently begun to thank Rosie for her efforts to attire her in the latest fashions as she’d picked out a sleeveless sequined tunic dress with large orange and red poppies, and a matching headband that, admittedly, Lilly never dreamed she’d wear. She had also forgone the braids and twisted her hair into a knot at the back of her head, amazed at how thin it made her neck appear.
But this week had been one of new discoveries, each moment igniting inside her something new. New laughter, new passions, new daring pursuits. Something about being away from New York, eyes upon her, the daughter of mighty Esme and Oliver Stewart, the publishers of the Chronicle, meant that she never went anywhere without the specter of fame.
But here—here she tasted the freedom she’d forgotten, was slowly becoming the daredevil she’d named herself. She never dreamed she’d learn the Charleston, thanks to Presley—yes, now she remembered her name. Or find herself in a smoky dance club, listening to a dark-skinned American croon out a song from stage, something sultry, as if she were listening to chocolate. It made her wish that Rennie might pull her back onto the dance floor, wrap his arms around her.
She never thought she’d be the kind of girl who let a man fill her thoughts, invade her dreams.
Perhaps she never really had dreams, before Rennie. Just sorrows. And, she hadn’t discovered Paris on her own.
Rennie had given it to her.
“I think you should just forget about your cousin,” Presley said, smoke trailing from her cigarette holder. “She sounds like a bore.”
“Rosie? Oh, hardly. She’s a lot of fun, and very kind, really.” Lilly put her hand to her cheek, the bruise still upon her heart. “I think she’ll forgive me, in time.”
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