Girl in Bath

by Catherine C. Heywood

  She could hear him working the soap in his hands, building a lather. Then his fingers slid the soap through her hair from roots to tips and returned to begin massaging at her temples. She relaxed back with a moan, her head and hair dangling over the side. Slowly and steadily he worked, kneading her brow and scalp and all around her ears to her nape, up and down the back of her neck and along her shoulders.

  He lifted her head, which she could barely lift herself, and rinsed. Then he smoothed rosemary oil from the tips to the roots and drew a comb slowly across her scalp and through her hair. When finally he secured it to the top of her head, she sighed and fell back.

  She could hear the rustle of clothes and opened her eyes to see him climbing in.

  “Such service.”

  “I pride myself in my attention to detail.” He winked. “Only the best for you.”

  She shifted to make room. It seemed impossible with his tall frame. Yet when he unfolded himself under the rising water, he crooked a finger and she nestled neatly into him, her back to his front, like a spoon.

  So languid from raw emotion, lack of sleep, and the heat of the water, Monica couldn’t brace against him, even if she wanted to. He slid his arms under hers, resting his clasped hands on her belly. She lay her heavy head on a shoulder and closed her eyes.

  “I could fall asleep like this.”

  “Go ahead, sweetheart.” He kissed her hair and relaxed back.

  She might have fallen asleep. The next thing she knew, a wash linen was drawn over her face, then dipped into the water and squeezed. The gentle trickle felt and sounded so good. Then his sure hand dragged the soapy linen down her neck and chest, around her breasts and belly. Down her arms and legs. Even between fingers and toes.

  Finally the used linen was slapped down and he cupped the water, rinsing any remaining soap.

  “Monsieur, you’re so thorough. However can I thank you?”

  He kissed her cheek and squeezed her waist. “I could think of a few ways, mademoiselle. But tonight is not about me, is it?”

  “No,” she reluctantly agreed.

  “No.”

  Perhaps she drifted off again. The water was cooling when she felt firm fingers skimming up and down her neck. It wasn’t a sexual touch but an imprinting one. A hand cupped her breast and played with the nipple. Gentle tugs and soft caresses. Then the hand at her neck slid down her belly.

  “Open your legs.”

  She moaned.

  “Open your legs, Monica.”

  “We shouldn’t.”

  “We aren’t doing anything. I’m merely playing with the body that belongs to me.”

  “I don’t belong to you, Jonathan.”

  “You do. You’re just too stubborn to know it. Now open. Your legs.”

  When she did, he slipped his hand over her sex and squeezed. He dragged a trail of wet kisses along her shoulder as he slid a finger around her nerve. Round and around, then squeezing over it, then a nail grazing it. The tell-tale tingling was growing more acute and she whimpered.

  “That’s it. Good girl. I’m not going to make you beg. I’m not going to fuck with you. Not tonight. Just release. Whenever you’re ready.”

  He played and played with her nerve as she squirmed and moaned and her breathing grew faint. Finally he thrust two fingers deep into her core as he pinched her nerve and her release broke, pulsing up through her.

  “I think you needed that,” he said, kissing just below an ear.

  She nodded. Only now she was a hopeless case for getting out on steady legs.

  After insisting that she eat, a vegetable stew and some butter-slathered bread, they crawled into bed together around midnight. She couldn’t believe, when she looked at the time, that when the day had broken Gabby was alive and now she was gone. Her eyes burned when she thought of it, but she had no tears left.

  Chapter 15

  In the dark, early-morning hours, a low fire was burning its last crimson embers as Jonathan sat awake staring at Monica. She lay on her side, her silky, rosemary-scented hair in disarray and her mouth ajar as she slept soundly. After the days she’d passed, she was likely to sleep for some time.

  When Louis had arrived to the Moulin Rouge without her, Jonathan felt something he would’ve sworn he couldn’t feel about any woman besides Joselin—the naked vulnerability of fear that could only exist in a man falling in love. It was madness. He couldn’t love again. Could he? He would seduce and romance Monica. He would care for her deeply. But love? That he’d thought locked away along with his mangled heart.

  Monsieur Talac obviously still had feelings for her. If Talac loved her and if Jonathan were a better man, he’d leave her to him. But he had never been mistaken for being the better man. And clearly Jonathan didn’t love her, because he wouldn’t give her up to Talac or any man. Not for love. Not for anything.

  Her dreams of performing were another matter. Clearly she couldn’t fathom the expectations of men. Those who would come from all over the city and beyond to see her perform. Hoping as they watched for a chance, given all the money in their pockets, to see her after the show. There was no fucking way he was going to allow that.

  He didn’t want to squash her dreams. If she allowed, he’d give her anything she desired. Except for that. Whether she was a known member of the demimonde or not, night after night he would still field requests simply because she was on stage. She had to know that. He had no idea how, but he would simply have to make her see reason.

  Carefully he threaded his fingers through her gorgeous blanket of dark hair. If he allowed the merest thought of another man seeing her like this he felt red-hot. She was his; she just didn’t know it yet.

  His gaze raked over her exquisite form. Though he wanted to do more, he merely closed her mouth and kissed her.

  Later that morning they were on their way back to Cortot. To Jonathan’s frustration, Monica had refused to wear one of the dresses he’d bought her. She’d said she wasn’t a prize to be won, but she couldn’t be more wrong.

  “I spoke with Madame Pelletier,” he said. “I’d like you to consider staying with me.” She looked ready, eager even, to deny him and he took her hands. “For as long as you’d like. If that doesn’t seem acceptable, at least until you can find something else. I don’t want you to worry about where you’re going to sleep each night—”

  “Who I’m going to sleep with, you mean.”

  “That too, of course.” He smirked. “This time is trying enough.” Her face fell and she appeared ready to cry again. “She was dear to you, Mademoiselle Thomas.”

  “As dear to me as a sister. I never had a sister. Nor a brother. No one, really, who loved and understood me until I came to Cortot. When I found them I felt…found, if that makes any sense.”

  “You’re grateful.”

  “It’s much more than that. But, yes.”

  “Gratitude isn’t love, Monica.”

  Something passed between them that made it clear they were no longer talking about Gabby.

  “Don’t insult me, Jonathan. I’m not a child.”

  “I don’t mean to insult you. Truly. It’s an easy mistake to make—gratitude and love. Believe me, I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  He paused, considering. Then, “I’ve held onto…things longer than I might because of gratitude. But that kind of obligation is the worst kind of perversion of love. It’s weight when it should be wings.”

  She seemed to steel herself, straightening as she peered out the window of the carriage when they pulled into Montmartre.

  “I’m sorry about missing the audition. I would never want to appear uncaring or difficult. And I certainly didn’t want you to appear foolish for having recommended me. I’m so sorry about that.”

  “Nonsense. I completely understand. And I sent a note to Charles this morning explaining everything. No doubt he will understand, too.”

  She looked at him, the request written all over her face.

  “We’ll
reschedule as soon as you’re able.”

  “Thank you. I won’t disappoint you again. I promise.”

  He squeezed her hand. “I know you won’t.”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Really.”

  He leaned forward, tipping his head to chase her gaze. “Why does it sound like you’re saying goodbye to me?”

  She took a deep breath and looked at him squarely. “I’m going to stay with the boys for a while.”

  “No.”

  “Jonathan.”

  “No.”

  She sighed. “I owe them—”

  “We just talked about that.”

  “It’s easier for now.”

  “No.”

  She gave him a perturbed look.

  “I need to go into my office. But I can send Louis to collect you at any time. You needn’t stay with them out of some obligation.”

  “Not out of obligation. To make the arrangements. We’ll have a small wake at the house.”

  “I can help you with that. With anything you need.”

  “I know you can. And thank you. But we can manage.” She paused. “I need to have some time to speak with them.”

  “With Talac.”

  She looked at her hands fiddling on her lap. “We need to talk. Yes.”

  Is he in love with you? Are you in love with him? Will you go back to him? Given half a chance, he will use you again. To pose for him. Can’t you see? I would never use you. I don’t need to. I don’t want to. He could hear this frantic pleading in his head. But he sounded just like the pathetic cunt he’d become with Jos. So he said nothing.

  If he had to, for now, he could appear the man who respected her wishes. Who backed away gracefully. Who gave her time and distance. But if she thought he would do any of those things, she didn’t know him very well. He’d never forfeited a contest in his life. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to start with one he knew he could win.

  The carriage stopped and he turned to her with as much resignation as he could feign.

  “We loved her together, the three of us,” she said. “We need to say goodbye to her together.”

  He nodded.

  Chapter 16

  Gabby’s body was taken away and arrangements were made for a small wake at the atelier. After making those plans, Daan glowered at Monica, then went to bed.

  She sat with Aubrey, who clapped his hands pensively. He looked, as usual, unkempt. But this time, the strain in his eyes told a different story.

  “He’ll get over it,” he said.

  “He has every right.”

  Aubrey looked at her, his face a picture of pain and regret.

  “Monsieur Derassen. Are you—”

  “No.” He gave her a look of skepticism and disappointment. “We’ve seen each other. There’s a fondness there, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “He would like more, but…”

  Aubrey chuckled breathily. “Monica Fauconnier will not be held down by a man. Isn’t that right?” He leaned over the table as if to reach for her. “Isn’t there a difference between being held down and simply being held?”

  “Perhaps. For some.”

  “There isn’t any ‘perhaps.’” He paused. “You punished me. And for what? Wanting to take care of you?”

  “You fell in love with me knowing who I was and what I wanted. Yet as soon as you receive some accolades and some francs, somehow you conveniently forget.”

  “I love you. I want to take care of the woman I love. I’m sorry, but I’ll not apologize for that.”

  “You say I punished you, but you punished me, too.”

  “I was upset.”

  “A poor excuse! You made it well known to anyone who would listen that I’d spread my legs as easily as I’d model for a few francs. When you knew, you knew, I’d never done that with anyone else.”

  “I was angry. Very. Angry. All I did was love you and you walked away.” He appeared to be deep in thought. “You once said you would love me forever. Have you stopped?”

  She had said that. She’d loved him so intensely, even when she left him it was difficult to fathom ever stopping. But that was before the vicious rumors. Before Jonathan.

  He blinked his red-rimmed eyes. “Do you still love me? Because I still love you.”

  “Can we talk more about this after Gabby’s wake?”

  Two days later, Monica stood sandwiched between Daan and Aubrey to receive the condolences of their friends. Jonathan, so distinct in his haute couture suit amongst the avant-garde bohemians, appeared in the line. After extending his sympathies to Daan and Aubrey, he cupped her cheek. “How are you holding up, sweetheart?”

  It was a conspicuous claim and she felt the furtive glances of the other mourners.

  “It was kind of you to come.”

  “Not at all. I wanted to see you. To see how you’re doing.” He glanced at the stalled line behind him. “When you have a moment, I should like to talk with you. In private. It’s important.”

  She glanced at Aubrey, who wasn’t even trying to conceal his agitation. “When I get a chance.”

  Jonathan took a glass of wine and began talking animatedly with the illustrator Gaston Bussiere. He knew everyone, it seemed. Periodically he’d glance back at her, his expression opaque.

  She looked at Aubrey, whose face was tight. How was it that while she was so intent on not being kept by a man that not one, but two of them seemed determined to keep her? They appeared content to dance around every step she took. She had to find her own place. The sooner the better.

  When the crowd waned, Monica wandered out to the back garden just beginning to burst with peach and yellow roses. Many summer days she’d spent in idyll here as Aubrey painted. Like the sun as it fell so unevenly there, casting the garden in perfect light and troublesome shade, it was a contradictory place in her memory.

  “Here you are.”

  She turned to see Jonathan strolling towards her. He was too beautiful just then with his strong frame and arresting smile. She took a step back and still she was unsteady.

  “I didn’t know if you’d gone,” she said.

  He shook his head as he maneuvered her through ropes of flowering vines cascading down from an arbor.

  After courtesies about the wake, he said, “I’ve spoken with Charles, who was as understanding as I imagined. We’ve rescheduled your audition for this Friday. I hope that pleases you.”

  “Yes. Of course.” She felt an immense need to hug him, but instead managed a bright smile. “Thank you.”

  He pulled her into his arms and slid a deliberate hand down her back. Her core pulsed as if her body knew it was home. Combined with the heady floral fragrance that surrounded them, it was so easy to linger. He still moved her. And, no matter what she told herself or how she tried to be convincing, she wanted him to.

  “Are you ready to come home with me?” he whispered as he pressed light kisses down a cord of her neck.

  “Ah…no.” She was thinking about how tight her breasts had suddenly become.

  “No?” He dragged his mouth along her jaw. “But you don’t sound certain.” There was a sly smile in his creamy tone.

  She wedged her arms between them. “I’m certain. I’ve been distracted. By Gabby. And your attention has been very nice, indeed. But I cannot go home with you.”

  “So you’ll continue to stay here. With Monsieur Talac.”

  “Only for a few days. Until I can make other arrangements.”

  “What would you say if I told you I could make you other arrangements?” She shook her head. “Not on Saint-Germain. Nor Rue Leblanc. How about No. 13 Rue Ravignan?”

  “I can’t go back there.” She pulled back and he let go.

  “I’ve spoken with Madame Pelletier and she’s agreed to give you your position back.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “It seems she found her heart somewhere between my financial support statements.”

  �
��You bribed her.”

  “I merely persuaded her to see reason. Is it my fault she finds my money so persuasive?”

  “No. Money is very persuasive for those who never have enough.”

  “So you’ll go back.”

  Returning to the blanchisserie would solve her immediate problems and take a great deal of pressure off her relations with Aubrey and Jonathan. But how could she accept it knowing Jonathan had arranged it? He might as well have set her up on Rue Leblanc. Could she take a small hit to her pride for greater distance?

  She nodded and uttered, “Thank you.”

  An hour later, everyone had gone home but for Jonathan, who stood by the front door holding Monica’s belongings.

  “How kind of you to secure her position at the blanchisserie,” Aubrey said with undisguised animosity.

  “It was what she wanted, monsieur. Surely you can see that.”

  “What I can see is how neatly it works out for you.”

  Jonathan smiled blandly at Aubrey, then looked at her. “I’ll just bring your things then. You come along whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  Jonathan cupped her face and kissed her. It wasn’t short nor chaste. When Aubrey cleared his throat, they pulled apart. Jonathan gave him a long, even look of such blatant challenge that Aubrey returned. Finally they said goodbye. She could barely stand Madame Pelletier, but she was looking forward to getting back there with the men getting on like boys.

  Some time later—likely time enough for Jonathan to deposit her things on Rue Ravignan and leave—Monica was walking with Aubrey back to the washhouse.

  “I saw the bruises,” he said. They were nearly gone now, but they’d been evident when she arrived. “He hurts you and still you let him come around? I could kill him for hurting you.”

  If she stayed with Jonathan, would she have to explain all the time?

  She sighed. “It isn’t what you think.”

  “I know all about his escapades at Chez Christiane. Everyone knows, Monica. It’s not even that you’re his whore, it’s that you’re his punching pillow. Do you need to be choked or tied down to come to release? That’s not the girl I loved. I never needed to hurt you for you to find satisfaction.”