Grahame, Lucia
Page 36
“There,” he said, looking up at me with a transparent, joyous smile. “At least that’s out of my system.”
Then he unbuttoned my shoes and began to kiss my ankles and the soles of my feet.
“Oh, I’m absurdly fond of your ugly gowns, Mrs. Hastings,” he announced. “It’s a good thing you’ve got money of your own now. Otherwise I’d make you wear nothing but these heartrending little rags for the rest of your life.”
“I never guessed….”
“And then you were my wife—and suddenly so spiritless. It terrified me.”
“Terrified you!”
“Oh yes! I had dreamed of ravishing you in a thousand ways. But once we were married, you seemed so… broken, so fragile, so unable to assert yourself. Not the woman I had fallen in love with at all. The only signs of life you gave… Well, there was that day with my mother when you were so magnificent, but aside from that, you were so distant. You would never give any indication of what you were feeling. I hardly dared to touch you, out of a fear that I would drive you even farther away.”
“Oh, why did you seem so cold?” I whispered as he brought his tender, consoling kisses back to my mouth. “Why were you so cruel to me?”
“Cruel!” he exclaimed. “I was never cruel to you! God knows, I longed to be!”
“Have you forgotten so quickly! You were very unkind! You stayed away from Charingworth for weeks on end, while I was awaiting your return—”
“Then why on earth didn’t you tell me sol”
“What! And give you the satisfaction of knowing that you’d accomplished exactly what you’d set out to do! You don’t know what I went through! I felt like a pariah! You always threw me out of your bed after making love to me or sent me away! How could you have done that if you still loved me? I was so ashamed of wanting you the way I did! Do you think I could have told you that?”
He rocked me against him.
“Oh, Fleur,” he said. “I never dreamed you felt any of it. I thought you hated me. I didn’t know what to do. I knew I had no right to hold you against your will, but I could hardly bear the thought of letting you go. When I conceived my revenge in anger, I thought it would be so simple, that I would tire of my icicle wife in no time…. But I never wanted it to end. No, it wasn’t the pleasure of making you suffer—that satisfied nothing, not even my hunger for retribution. But every so often, in spite of yourself, when you condescended to smile or merely to blush, I fell in love with you all over again. If I hadn’t stayed away from you, kept you at a distance, and thrown you out of my bed, believe me, you’d have won your freedom in less than a day.” He paused to reflect upon his words. “Well, two days, perhaps,” he amended with a laugh. “I would not like to exaggerate my powers and raise your expectations.”
I found his mouth again, but he pulled back a little.
“Not so fast. What was that you said about waiting for me—did you really? I always had the distinct impression, whenever I came to you, that you’d been on your knees praying that I had been struck dead by an omnibus.”
“I was angry that you could stay away so long.”
“I see. You were angry! Well, Mrs. Hastings, I’d like to know how you intend to take your revenge?”
“Perhaps I’ll use your methods,” I whispered.
“…But not here upon the carpet,” protested my husband gently. “This is our wedding night.”
He found the strength to break away. Then he lifted me in his arms and carried me to his bed.
From the softness of his breathing as he lay quietly beside me, I knew he slept. But I could not.
His lovemaking had told me all the things that no words were needed to say. I knew how well he comprehended every contradiction of my body and my heart—the longing for a sublimation that was not a defeat; the yearning to be driven toward surrender by a man who would not assume total possession as the spoils of his victory, a man to whom I could yield everything and lose nothing.
And how much more he had revealed of himself to me. He had given me leave, tonight, to explore him with a freedom he had never before permitted me, and he had responded without reserve. We had drunk, from the same cup, the dazzling liquor of love and power.
And yet, he would be forever a mystery to me, separate and inviolate.
What was it he had once said? That if I had ever loved him, I’d have known what he would have done differently had he been in Frederick’s desperate shoes.
And I did know.
It was so simple, after all. He would have talked to me. Before taking such a step, he would have insisted that together we discuss every avenue, every possibility, and every danger. Never would he have exposed me to such a terrible risk without my knowledge and without my consent. Never would he have robbed me of the freedom to choose. And never would he have drunk himself into a lethal stupor and left me to face the consequences alone.
“Never doubt my love for you,” Frederick had told me, and tonight I made my peace with Frederick as well. He had loved me as well as he was able. But he had not had the courage to take love to its limits.
I turned to my sleeping champion, who had saved me from no dragons but had attempted a deed far more heroic: He had assured me of his love and had then challenged me to call out my dragons and face them down. He had failed at first, and love had failed, as well.
But here we were, after all.
I brushed his silky hair away from his cheek and brought my lips closer to his ear.
“I love you. I do love you, Tony,” I whispered.
I thought he was too deep in dreams to hear me, but I was wrong.
His arms tightened round me and he drew me closer. “I’ve always loved you, Fleur,” he said.
And that is how I came to join the household of that intractable impostor, Mr. Henry Blake, and to raise with him those unnumbered children. In the end, it turned out, there were three.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
It would be almost impossible to cite all the sources on which I depended as I tried to recreate fin de siècle Paris, but I must credit one in particular. With its vivid, amusing, and lavishly detailed commentary on Parisian life and its engaging illustrations, The Praise of Paris (Harper & Bros., New York, 1892) by the American art critic, Theodore Child, was invaluable. Among its colorful accounts of duellists, ragpickers, and couturiers is a fascinating description of the Salomon family, from which I drew very heavily. Yes, they really existed; besides making toys, Abraham Salomon was the curator of skates, and professor of skating, for the Paris Opera. I am grateful to Mr. Child for having immortalized this family and so much else of turn-of-the-century Paris.
—LG
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Boston, Lucia Grahame grew up in Maine and received a Bachelor of Arts in English from Wells College. She worked at Ladies’ Home Journal and Harper’s Bazaar before moving to Southern California, where she now lives. THE PAINTED LADY is her first novel.
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
PART ONE: 1891-1892
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
PART TWO: 1892-1893
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
PAR
T THREE: 1893
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO