“You and Madame were funny last night,” Amy said, taking the glass from Bea’s lax fingers. “But Madame warned me not everyone is as good-humored after so much wine.”
The nauseating sickness passed, and Bea flopped on the bed, a leg dangling off the edge. “Madame is right, as usual.”
Amy pushed her leg aside and sat on the bed. “Madame also said you might be cranky this morning, and I am to help you with your toilette.”
“For someone who couldn’t stomach Cook’s drink, Madame is a font of wisdom this morning. How long has she been awake?”
“Oh, hours. After she was ill, she was her usual cheerful self. Shall I help you dress? Madame is holding breakfast for you.”
Bea snorted and rolled onto her back. It figured the petite Frenchwoman, shrewd entrepreneur, competent seamstress, and humanitarian, could also hold her liquor better than she could.
Easing onto an elbow, she shook her finger at Amy. “You can tell Madame she can go—”
“Madame said you might be saying something inappropriate. Get up. I’m starving.”
Bea allowed herself to be pulled to a standing position while Amy clucked and fussed and tugged her into a day dress. When she slipped on her shoes, she wobbled, and her stomach bucked. Bea clamped her lips together and grimaced at Amy, who yanked her by the hand and led her down the stairs to breakfast.
Fresh bread and eggs greeted her in the kitchen, and she pushed past Amy to run out the back kitchen door, losing the contents of her stomach in the bushes.
Cook was waiting with a glass of water and a chuckle.
Amy’s face split in a wide grin. “Didn’t you tell me you were never sick to your stomach?”
Bea growled, and Madame’s lips curved in a sly smile.
“What’s so funny?” Bea asked.
“You. Come. Dry toast is the perfect remedy for one who is never sick.”
She slumped in a chair, rested her elbow on the table, and propped her tired head on her hand. “Are you laughing at me?”
“But of course,” Cosette said, sipping her morning coffee.
“No one laughs at me,” she grumbled, reaching for her toast. “And no one orders me about,” she said over a mouthful of toast, glaring at Amy.
Cosette’s mirth bubbled and tinkled, surrounding her in its cheerful sound. “I know. It’s about time someone did.”
She ripped off another piece of bread and chewed, her thoughts as dark as the cloudy morning sky.
Traitor. But whether she was referring to her mutinous stomach or her amused friend, she was too tired to decide.
****
Bea dragged in a deep lungful of crisp October air. Cosette had suggested a walk after luncheon to help clear her mind, and loath as she was to admit it, the woman had been right. Fresh air and time away from the brothel had helped bring some perspective to Thomas’s arrival and the unexpected turn of events yesterday afternoon had brought.
The little park two blocks from the brothel was deserted, as most sane individuals were inside on such a gloomy day as this, and though the flowers had long since died and it had been years since there had been money to groom the walkways, someone had taken the time to ensure the main path remained open. She ambled on the garden path until she came to the park’s center. A small patch of earth formed a square in the middle, and a stone bench adorned each side. She sat on one and watched the breeze whip the dead leaves around in the air. Dry and brittle, they fell to the ground, skirting in aimless circles on the path. “What a perfect metaphor for my life,” she said and resisted the strong urge to pity herself. Since the blasted accident, nothing had been the same. Before, she’d been purpose-driven and in command. True, her life had difficulties, but they had kept her grounded and focused. Leaving it behind, though, was necessary despite the melancholy and listlessness. Thomas’s arrival yesterday had anchored her aimless wanderings, for his company heralded safety and comfort. For a moment, she’d forgotten her malaise, even going so far as to allow Thomas’s strength to bolster her own. Had he not lashed out and surprised her, she might have continued to equate security with happiness. His uncharacteristic aggression jolted her out of the complacent fog in which she was mired, and called to attention some harsh truths.
“Hello.”
“Thomas,” she said, resisting the urge to jump and flee. She had missed the signals someone approached. Though he had startled her today and frightened her yesterday, she reminded herself Thomas was the man who had rescued her from darkness and sheltered her for almost a decade. One action did not alter who he was as a person, and she owed it to him to hear his explanation. Even so, she clutched her reticule and the switchblade she kept inside.
“Cosette told me where you were. Don’t be angry with her. I told her I had information about Michelson.”
“You lied.”
He took a precarious seat on the corner of her bench. “I was wrong yesterday, Beatrice. Anger and hurt at your rejection prompted me to lash out, and I behaved badly.”
“I was afraid of you,” she said, and watched as he lowered his head.
“I am so sorry.”
“Never have you treated me with such roughness. It alarmed me, and for several moments, I was afraid.”
“I know and I’m—”
“I was afraid, Thomas, and it took me a while, but I know why. Ever since we’ve met, you’ve cared for and cherished me. I’ve never wanted for anything while with you.”
“You deserve to be cared for, loved, and protected.”
“For a time, yes, I needed to be coddled and protected. You helped me heal, Thomas, and gave me a second chance.”
He grasped her hands, his forehead drawn tight in his distress. “I’d give you more, if you’d let me.”
“Perhaps you believe you can give me more, but you see me as the scared young woman you rescued, and no matter what I’ve accomplished, you will want to protect me. It’s who you are.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t need to be sheltered anymore. I was scared for so long. It’s almost as if my fear kept George alive. As long as I allowed you to protect me, my fear controlled me. He controlled me. Master Jones was right. He told me I decided how I saw myself, and for too many years I’ve told myself I’m a coward.”
“Absurd. You’re the bravest woman I know. There is no other who is as smart or as daring as you.”
“Every time you sent me on a job, I was terrified.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“Acting is a talent of mine, did you know? I played the part you wanted me to play because deep inside I knew myself to be unworthy of such a man as you, yet I wanted your approval with an ache that was almost physical.”
“There’s nothing for you to prove. If your fear is what stands between us and our happiness, cast it aside. I love you for you, not what you can do for me.”
She cupped his dear, sweet face in her hands, her own heart breaking at his whispered admission of love. “Oh, Thomas. I do love you so, but don’t you see? Our relationship was built on a lie. Every action, every word was constructed to win your approval, to ensure your support and protection. I can’t continue to use you, nor can I stay in an unequal relationship.”
“How can you say you love me in the same sentence you end our relationship? My one desire has been to provide for you and see to your best interests.”
“As long as I had your arms to embrace me when life became hard, I didn’t have to confront what was bothering me. You took care of my worries and made my life so comfortable, I’d never have left.”
“What I offered was better than your life with Darimple.”
“Comfort can be as strong a prison as abuse. With few demands and the security of your home, there was no need for me to do anything aside from serve you. Everything you and Master Jones taught me detracted from my pain. Years of training conditioned me to hide the worst parts of myself, until I was more detached machine than flesh-and-blood woman. I had los
t myself on the quest to discover my potential.”
“Had you indicated you wished to stop working with me, I’d have arranged for something else, anything to ensure your happiness.”
“You’re not in charge of my happiness, I am, and it has been years since I’ve examined what brings me joy.”
“My presence is not enough? The comforts of my home, the love we shared—they were not enough to ensure your felicity?”
“When you took me from my husband’s house and invited me to your home, I was grateful. From this gratitude, an overwhelming rift split and a chasm opened between us. Helping you closed the gap and gave me a sense of accomplishment, yet I was not happy. If we were to pursue our relationship and marry, each day the debt I owe you would weigh heavier and heavier on my shoulders, until I grew to hate you for the position in which you placed me. No matter how hard I worked, I could never restore any semblance of equality between us, and I refuse to be in another marriage where I am inferior.”
He was horrified. “There was no debt. Your life was not something which required repayment.”
“It does in my mind.”
“Not in mine.” They stared at each other, the sadness on his face echoed on her own.
“There’s no way around this, is there? You cannot be happy with me, and I can’t be happy without you.”
She took his hand and held it, a sad smile on her lips as she said, “One day you’ll know happiness again, Thomas, and you’ll be glad you waited. I promise.” They sat for endless moments, each an island of pain and sorrow connected by a pulsing bridge of flesh and sinew. Though it hurt to end her relationship with the man who had given her second life, the decision to do so eased a tremendous pressure from her shoulders. Spring may have been months away, yet inside, where her hopes had lain dormant for years, they stirred and extended tiny green shoots which wrapped her heart in renewal and warmth. A biting breeze whipped through the park, stinging her cheeks and cooling her nose. It was past time to leave.
“Winter is coming. I can smell snow,” she said, looking to the low-hanging distant clouds.
Thomas roused, squeezed her hand, and stood, folding his hands behind his back. “You hate winter. I can’t imagine you are looking forward to endless months of cold and biting winds.” She hated the lines of pain etched on his handsome face, but she was not responsible for his felicity or despair in life. Her life was hers to control.
“The season is for introspection, a time to sit back and reevaluate one’s life. Introspection is tedious, as is idleness, for each brings whispers from the past which are difficult to ignore.” She stood and straightened her cloak. “But it’s also difficult to travel in winter, so I’ll have to stop running and confront some of my faceless demons. It’s past time.”
Awkwardness hung between them. He cleared his throat. “It’s getting late. Shall I escort you home?”
“Thank you, Thomas. I’d appreciate your company.”
Sometimes one must set out on her own two legs to see where life leads, and sometimes one must be wise enough to accept assistance. Bea’s legs were strong and eager to find a new path. Taking Thomas’s arm, she didn’t mind at all when he leaned against her side and clutched her arm for support.
Chapter 27
Paris, France, December 1810
The next six weeks passed in a flurry of activity. Determined to save Luka, she shifted her attentions from finding Michelson to locating her childhood sweetheart. In the midst of endless queries, false leads, and fallen hopes, Bea also explored what it meant to be a woman and mother, in the hopes of finding a new path. Within the safety of Madame Cosette’s walls and the help of the assembled female population who lived there, she tackled all the feminine arts, save for the skills which made Madame Cosette’s house popular. Sewing, as she had discovered with Amy’s new dress, was not her forte, yet neither was cooking, baking, needlepoint, nor pianoforte. She was useless at being a woman, and discouragement combined with the cold, gloomy weather to heighten her melancholy.
“Perhaps you are approaching this situation from the wrong way,” Cosette suggested. “You were abysmal at such tasks before. Why is now any different?”
“I wasn’t ready to take on a woman’s duties before, but now I am. Yet even as I attempt to behave within society’s constricts, there is no place for me. I am destined to never fit in.”
“You have other talents, mon amie. Why belittle those skills at which you excel? Sewing a button or baking a cake has not served you in finding your Luka. It is time for you to embrace your unique skills and use them to find this man before he dies.”
Bea mulled over Cosette’s advice for hours before she donned a cloak and ran to the market. There was a baker who seemed to know when certain regiments were moving or when they were staying put. He conducted most of his business when regiments of troops were on the move, establishing his cart along the main route out of town. She had commented to Amy it was as if he were a mole, able to discover secrets others wished to possess. Her quest to discover her femininity had distracted her from following through immediately on her hunch, and weeks had passed without further questioning of this baker.
But Cosette had been right. She did have other talents. Within five minutes of finding the baker, he had told her where they were housing Luka. A General Reynard held him in an abandoned garrison used to house lesser nobility during the Reign of Terror. Luka’s execution was set for Christmas Eve, less than a week away. Bea had used her cunning and strategic planning during the last two weeks to plot how she was going to liberate him from his cell. The remaining task was to dress for her part.
“Oof, Cosette. Must you pull so hard?” Bea held on to the support beam in Cosette’s upstairs bedroom and winced as the Frenchwoman pulled even tighter on the stays and her bosom pressed ever nearer her chin.
“You want your best assets to show, non? Cosette will pull until they are displayed like two ripe peaches ready to be plucked.”
“More like two mangled peaches. I’ll be lucky if these stays don’t kill me.”
“You English are so dramatic,” Cosette teased. “We Frenchwomen know the importance of a good figure and its effects on a weak mind, while you English hide your assets under billowy fabric. Stays may be out of fashion in London, but to get anything done in Paris, a lady never leaves home without them.” The Frenchwoman tied off the stays and walked around to face Beatrice. Plunking her hands on her hips, she let out a satisfied sigh. “Voilà. I told you they would do wonders for your figure. No longer do you look so bulky and bumpy like a man.” She scrunched her nose and laughed.
Bea placed her own hands on her hips and let out a shaky breath. Not so bad. She sucked in a lungful of air and spots swam in her vision. Inhaling had just become much more difficult, and she paced the wooden floor until she had a comfortable rhythm established, with fainting a distant threat on the horizon. “Those bumps are called muscles, my friend, and they helped me to play a certain role.”
“Now you are ready to play another role.”
“Are the other girls ready?”
“Babette and Nicole are prepared,” she said. “There will be no problems. Tonight will be magnifique.”
“And the basket?”
“Cook left it on the front table before she went to bed. Are you ready for the pièce de résistance?” Cosette pulled a red satin dress from atop her bed and held it to her shoulders. “Isn’t she beautiful? It was my favorite. Alas, I have grown too skinny. Maybe once the war is over and there are no more food shortages, I will wear her again. Hands up.”
Bea obeyed and shivered at the luxurious slide of satin over her smooth skin. The dress fell over her bosom and hugged her hips, gliding in a waterfall of red satin to midcalf. The skirts were full and the neckline low. Cosette propped her chin on her fist and examined Bea, a critical frown on her pretty face. “Something is not right. You are not fluffy enough.” The woman gestured toward her own chest. “Hold still.” Digging in Bea’s bodic
e, she grabbed her breasts and arranged the flesh until it overflowed the bodice, her nipples peeking above the red satin.
“Cosette! Must you be so familiar?”
She waved her hands in dismissal. “What is a little flesh between friends? You English are so prudish. Sit. I will apply your rouge.”
Bea sat on the bed while Cosette applied rouge to her cheeks and kohl to her eyes. When she was done, she handed over a mirror, and Bea was surprised at the transformation. Her golden curls were piled atop her head, and several longer curls trailed over her shoulders to caress the bare skin on her back. Her eyes, so pale and odd, were vibrant against the dark kohl on her lids, and her pale skin glowed from the gentle hint of rouge.
“You are an angel, a temptress sent to earth to see the fall of man,” Cosette said. “They will be unable to resist you.”
Bea turned her head and examined the graceful arch of her neck and the long sweep of her lashes against her cheek. “A fallen angel, perhaps. Heaven wouldn’t take me.”
“Précisément. You are entering the garrison, mon amie, not heaven, and dressed as you are, they will gift you the keys before opening the gates.”
Bea studied her reflection and traced the contours of her features, a frown replacing her earlier delight.
“What has you so somber? Cosette has performed a miracle. The men, they will dance in the streets, while all the women will weep for your beauty.”
“Beauty is a shell, prized if unblemished. Yes, you have transformed me, my friend, yet not all blemishes are visible. Even now I see myself in the glass and cannot countenance what appears there, for I have already lived several lifetimes. But it shows no wrinkles or age spots. There’s no softening of skin around my neck and cheeks, no gray at my temples. You call me angel and temptress, while others have christened me strategist, spy, captain, sister, weapon, wife, lover, and friend. Who is the real Beatrice Westby? The glass is warped, blurring the edges of her face, and her image grows fainter as the years pass.”
Silver-Tongued Temptress Page 17