by Karen Harper
“And you?” Lucile asked. “Things with Clayton are . . .”
“Dreadful. At first I thought he would be proud of my writing, at least the money I earned. But he’s out of sorts that I’m the so-called first society woman to write under my own name, as if it were a shameful thing. Well, it’s his last name, so can’t he be proud of that? But listen then. Why don’t you do what I did to push Clayton to propose, as risky as that was? I recall it was partly your and Mother’s idea.”
Lucile gave a little laugh. “Run off to Monte Carlo, you mean, and hope he’ll follow?”
Elinor turned to her on the seat. “Is it not worth a try? After you’re gone, I could let on to him in a note that you are looking forward to events there, the dinners, the balls and theatricals—new people. Take Mother with you. Heaven knows, she’s sad enough seeing what’s become of me.”
“Nonsense. She’s proud of you.”
“She had such a happy first marriage and she wanted that for us. I’m beyond the pale for that, but you and Cosmo—who knows?”
“I’d hate to leave the shop right now, but I do have several workers I can trust to be in charge. He might worry about that, too, that I’m off having a good time instead of minding his investment. I’ll do it, if you’ll play your part too.”
“Playacting—that’s my forte lately, on the page and off.”
They shook gloved hands on that.
CHAPTER Sixteen
There was a terrible banging on their hotel room door the fourth night Lucile and her mother were in Monte Carlo.
“Good gracious!” Mother said. “I pray someone has the wrong room.”
“Who’s there?” Lucile called out, standing near but not at the door.
“If he’s in there, I want a word with him here and now!” a deep male voice bellowed. A voice with a distinctive and disturbing Scottish burr.
Cosmo! Cosmo was here!
Holding up a hand for her mother to stay where she was, Lucile fumbled with the latch and lock and swept open the door to find him looking quite magnificent with a sword drawn from a scabbard. He was in full Scottish regalia to knee stockings, belted kilt, and loose-sleeved, laced shirt with a black wool jacket and tam. For once, he smelled of whiskey instead of Highland air.
“Cosmo, whatever is it? What are you doing? And put that sword away.”
“Is he here?”
“There’s nobody but Mother, and you’re frightening her out of her wits.”
“Lord C was all Elinor would admit to me. I saw her before I sailed, having to chase you halfway across Europe. Is it true he’s been courting you and turning your head? Pray God you haven’t given him a promise or he’s laid a hand on you.”
Elinor, indeed, she thought. The great romantic and fiction writer had embellished the story they’d planned. She remembered how Elinor had been talking about that regal, powerful Lord Curzon, viceroy of exotic India, as she’d put it. Is that where Elinor had dreamed up Lord C? Even if it was, she had no intention of telling Cosmo.
“Cosmo, sheathe that sword, and we will talk.”
“Is he British? Who is he? I intend to challenge him to a duel over your honor.”
“Now that you’re here, I can hardly recall his name. Put that down, I said, and sit.”
“Good evening to you, Mrs. Kennedy,” he said, finally noticing her. He lowered his voice and seemed to steady himself as he slid his sword back into its scabbard. He looked a bit sheepish as he came in.
“Good evening to you, Lord Duff-Gordon. How kind of you to drop by. Now if you will excuse me, I shall let you two hash this out and be in my room, Lucy dear, if you need me.” And she made an exit worthy of Ellen Terry.
Lucile closed the door behind her. She was in one of her Oriental silk robes with little underneath, and it was—she glanced at the clock—nearly ten thirty.
“You can bet you won’t so much as recall his name now that I’m here,” Cosmo insisted as he dropped the scabbard and sword onto the carpet and reached for her. “He better not have laid a hand on you, but I intend to.” He gave her a resounding, earthshaking kiss until he nearly lost his balance, then sank to the sofa where she’d been sketching designs. She sat beside him, pulling her split robe closed over her bare knees.
“If you’re going to marry anyone, you’re going to marry me,” he went on. “Did he pressure you? Did he propose?”
“I suppose he proposed some things—which, of course, I did not accept.”
“Thank God. But why did you leave London with nary a word?” he demanded, turning toward her. His breath was as sharp as his expression. Yes, he had been drinking and not his usual Duff-Gordon sherry. For a moment that bothered her. Clayton was forever in his cups, and maybe, now that Cosmo’s strictly religious mother had died, he’d taken to it too, but no. She’d studied this strong, honorable, and loyal man. And because he was strong, she’d decided what she must do if he ever proposed—and was he proposing now?
“You see,” she said, reaching gently for his big hand clenched on his knee and unflexing his fingers, “I thought you had grown weary of me, oh, maybe not as a business partner, but you hardly said you so much as loved me lately.”
“I haven’t grown weary of you. I’ve loved you, damn it, for over seven years, almost from the first time you stood with little silky underthings in your hands and then put them under your pretty bum before you rather quickly tossed me back out on the street.”
“But I tried to retrieve you later.”
“Ha! That makes me sound like a hunting dog. And you did not. You let me make the first—the second move—and then played hard to get.” With his free hand, he reached out to finger the fine, silky material of her gown at the neck, as if he would pull it awry to bare her to him. In a quiet, coaxing voice he went on, “Sweetheart, don’t you remember I told you that you must wear such bonnie things for me someday? Do you think a dour Scotsman and sporting man would ordinarily invest time and money in a ladies’ fashion house if there wasn’t something there he wanted? And you don’t do men’s clothes.”
“Not yet—but,” she told him, reaching for her design sketchbook on the table and flipping to a back page, “if I ever do, this will be the first. It’s what I have dubbed a ‘Cosmo sporting suit.’ See? I’ve labeled it thus.”
“Damn good looking,” he said, leaning closer, almost on her shoulder. “Tweed and then leather there on the lapels, I hope.”
“Cosmo Duff-Gordon,” she said, tossing the sketchbook on the table, “I haven’t given a flying flip for any other man since I met you. But because you are a strong man, one who usually gets your own way—”
“I intend to with you.”
“—we need to come to an understanding before some sort of arrangement.”
“Arrangement? I’m marrying you, lass.”
“But, as you know, I have another love besides you, and I don’t mean another man. The arrangement I’m speaking of,” she went on, pulling her dressing gown together again under his steady stare, “is that I simply cannot abandon my business, my shop, and my career. And a Scottish estate on the river Dee, however lovely, I am sure, is far from the Maison Lucile in London.”
“Don’t I know. You haven’t set one foot in Scotland yet, and it’s the place I love most. So I would want the woman I love to be there—though back and forth to London, too.”
He put his hand on her knee, caressing and gripping it through the slick material. But she must not be distracted or deterred.
“But as my bulwark of strength and adviser for the shop,” she went on, “you understand that it takes a great deal of my time. You’ve always counseled well, that I not jump ahead of my resources, but I have dreams and plans to open a shop in Paris and—”
“The fancy frogs won’t patronize a British woman’s shop.”
“They will if they love the clothing. And America, not that I have an exact plan for that, but I want to visit there, see the opportunities, so—”
“So giv
e me one of those sheets of paper, maybe the one with the Cosmo suit. I’ll cut my finger, my wrist, anything and sign in blood to all that if you’ll wed me, lass. My lass,” he said and reached for her.
He lifted her so easily onto his lap, then held her there a moment, staring intently into her face. “If your mother wasn’t in the next room, probably listening at the door, I’d seal our bargain another way. Lucile-Lucy Sutherland Wallace, will you marry me? After all, maybe being able to have the name Lady Duff-Gordon will help with sales when you take over the world. I’ll be there beside and behind you. I know you have a hard time trusting men, but we can work on that.”
Her head spun at his words and at his touch. “Agreed,” she told him. “With that plan, I agree. I don’t know what I would have done without you over these last years, but I believe I do know what to do with you now.”
“Quit talking about your plans and kiss me. I have no intention of being put off or losing you again—ever.”
They were wed two weeks later, May 24, 1900, in Venice at the house of a friend of Cosmo’s who was in foreign service there. He’d even found a bagpipe to blast—it was really called skirling, she learned—Scottish tunes at the intimate reception.
Mother attended, but not Elinor or Esme, who was staying with her aunt. Lucile’s only other regret was that, considering all the sumptuous wedding gowns she’d made for others, she wore her favorite ball gown, an old one. But what mattered was that she was marrying the man she loved.
Cosmo was so proud and happy, and, yes, she was happy too. So indeed, she was now Lucile, Lady Duff-Gordon.
He took her to a beautiful site called Abazzia in western Croatia for their honeymoon, a spot where they knew no one. They swam in the warm bay of the Adriatic Sea each day and sat in the shade eating seafood and sipping wine. This setting seemed so open and so real, not closed off or made by man. The second day in a row, when she beat her muscular athlete in a swimming race, she realized she loved the feeling of winning. She’d won her dream career and the man of her dreams.
That night with their hotel suite’s double door open to the July night breeze and the stars, they sat naked in their bed and watched the moon rise over the sea with the music of its crashing waves on the shore.
“I’m used to winning races and matches,” he whispered, “but you beat me twice fair and square, so you get a prize.”
“I already have a prize,” she said, flashing her heirloom engagement ring and gold wedding band at him in the glow of moonlight that illumined their bodies and their bed.
“A new prize,” he said. “Something I wager you’ve never had or done, my sweet, wild lass of a wife.” He turned to her and put one hand on her shoulder, one on her waist. His mere touch made her shiver with desire. “I’m proud of you for not drawing one sketch of a costume while we’ve been here, and you beat me fair and square at swimming, so name your prize.”
“Besides your helping me find and open a shop in Paris?”
“Yes, damn it!”
She laughed deep in her throat. “All right then,” she whispered, moving her thigh to press against his. “No more teasing or cat and mouse. I want to show you I can win at more than a swimming race. And at building a business. I know you are the man in the family, but I can lead too.”
She amazed herself at her boldness, but, good gracious, times were changing. Just wait until Bertie took the throne. Elinor thought so too, and had talked about an idea for a novel where the woman seduced the man—novel and naughty indeed in Queen Victoria’s world.
She pushed Cosmo back on their pile of pillows and mounted him, settling in at once. Despite his bravado, he gasped, but cooperated fully, gripping her to him. He barely managed to whisper, “And I used to think fencing was my favorite athletic endeavor.”
She gasped too. It was strange to be the one on top, the one in charge. But she reveled in it and found that it led to a strange surrender too. And, for one mad, shattering moment, there was no one or no thing in the world besides this man she loved.
CHAPTER Seventeen
Cosmo and Lucile greeted guests for the reception they had arranged for Elinor’s latest book, called Three Weeks, when Mrs. Severton, their cook, hovered in the hall, frowning, motioning to Lucile. The woman hardly ever came upstairs, so something must be very wrong.
Their London home in Lennox Gardens would soon be filled with more than family, including their childhood inspiration, Lillie Langtry. Elinor’s publisher was here; even Clayton, who had promised to be on good behavior, was here. He liked Cosmo tremendously so Lucile hoped he was telling the truth. But he’d arrived in his cups early, and without Elinor. Lucile just hoped he wouldn’t make a scene.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” Lucile whispered to Cosmo. “I hope Mrs. Severton’s soufflés have not fallen—just jesting.” She gave his arm an intimate squeeze.
After nearly seven years, their marriage was still a delight to them. Granted, she didn’t get to Scotland as much as she knew he would like, but she had redecorated grand old Maryculter House and had even gone out tramping the estate with him each visit.
“What’s amiss, Mrs. Severton?” she whispered as the plump woman kept motioning her farther back into the hall. At least Lucile smelled nothing burning.
They stopped before the closed door of Cosmo’s study, which Lucile had decorated with tartan curtains, leather chairs, and prints of Scottish scenes. He’d been ecstatic. Even now, as intrigued and perturbed as she was, she pictured how they had made love on the maroon, brass-tacked leather couch in celebration of his “Scotland in London room.”
“It’s your sister, milady. She come to the back downstairs door, she did. Insisted I fetch you to this room before she—I think she said before she made her entrance out front.”
“Good heavens, is she ill?”
“Looked a bit peaked and shaky, she did, but—”
“Thank you, Mrs. Severton. I’ll let you return to your duties now. We are looking forward to your excellent meal.”
Lucile turned the knob and pushed the door inward. Elinor’s plumed and ribboned hat was tossed on the ottoman. She wore the most recent gown Lucile had designed for her and for which she had not yet paid. But that, amazingly, was the way of the world right now. Even fine families seemed to be deep in debt, trying to keep up with King Edward’s grandiose expectations of hospitality to him and others of his set.
“Elinor, what—”
“Just sit down, and I’ll tell you. Three Weeks, my dear book, my dream novel has all gone wrong!” She burst into tears and sank onto the couch with her face in her hands.
Lucile perched beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “It isn’t doing well? It’s only been on sale for a few days. I’ve barely had time to start reading my copy. But you said it was the best thing you’ve ever done, better even than Beyond the Rocks, which was so well received. Did the publisher mention your weak spelling and grammar again, so—”
“It’s been called immoral in a review” came muffled from behind her hands. “Immoral! I’m going to be attacked on all sides. No one grasps the nobility of the book. They all harp on the breaking of morality in the story. After all, everyone sins. Wait till you get your newspaper tomorrow. And let me recite a piece of doggerel being bandied about that Daisy Warwick warned me of. You see, in the novel, main characters make love on a tiger-skin rug,” she said and took her hands from her face. Her expression was one of hurt and contempt as she recited,
“Would you like to sin
With Elinor Glyn
On a tiger skin?
Or would you prefer To err
With her
On some other fur?”
“Oh my! That will spread like wildfire. But it is promotion.”
“Promotion! That’s my Lucile! Thank God, Clayton’s leaving for the Mediterranean on his own, because I can’t stand his drunken lectures on money, let alone this. I’ve had hate mail from several early readers, actually nonreaders. I can tell that
the worst of the critics, so far at least, have not even read it. They make mistakes in their comments.”
“Slow down. Tell me the story in the novel.”
“All right,” she said, blotting at her tear-streaked face with a wadded handkerchief. “I know I said it’s the book of my heart and it is. I know I told you I didn’t want to talk about Three Weeks even to you before it came out. The story is of a foreign queen traveling incognito in Switzerland who seduces a younger Englishman she, obviously, is not wed to.”
“Oh, I see,” Lucile told her, recalling vividly the night on their honeymoon—and some since—where she had taken the lead with Cosmo.
“You don’t see,” Elinor insisted. “She doesn’t only want his body—and even that for a noble purpose to have an heir to save her kingdom. He’s culturally an ignoramus in art, music, history, and she wanted to change that. His character was inspired by an admirer of mine Clayton sent away—not Seymour Finch but Lord Alistair Innes Ker.”
“What? The young man who went to Paris with you and Clayton? I—I didn’t know he and you . . .”
“Well, obviously nothing came of it. I’m still faithful to my husband at least that way. Alistair was only the inspiration for this book, what I was yearning for, not what happened. But never mind all that. It’s over, but the aftermath from this story is not. The point is that the critics and early readers of Three Weeks are scandalized, absolutely in a frenzy, so how can I face the others out there today, let alone later in public?” she demanded with a new flow of tears and a nod at the door through which they could hear the growing buzz of voices.
“Well, welcome to the Sutherland sisters’ society,” Lucile told her, “and I don’t mean having young admirers.”
“You have all those young men you call acolytes about the shop, who adore you.”
“Who want to learn from me. About designing clothes, dear sister, not about love.”
“And what sisters’ society? You don’t write more than letters and names of those emotional, personality titles you give your frocks. Whatever is Mother going to think? I don’t give a flying leap about Clayton’s opinions, but she’s still of Victoria’s times, through and through.”