Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection)

by Jennifer Blake

  Delacroix was a handsome man, Violet found, one who had designed his surroundings to suit his own severe yet exotic personality. He was wearing, on this occasion, a short, open robe of dark blue brocade over a perfectly normal shirt and trousers, while on his head was a drooping turban. He should have looked ridiculous, but appeared magnificent instead, and totally uncaring of what anyone thought of him. He had taken Gilbert in hand, presenting him to many of the more interesting people in the room. Gilbert looked to be a little dazed at the honor.

  The evening advanced, and nothing was said about the portrait. Violet began to be a little concerned. She also began to wonder, as she watched the deference with which their host was treated by everyone present, if Gilbert had not been right, if she had perhaps been presumptuous in thinking the artist might consider painting her.

  She sat erect upon a velvet-covered divan with lyre-shaped curved arms and tasseled bolsters, watching Delacroix and Allain and all the others as they talked nonstop. They exchanged ideas, each with its own catchwords and phrases, volleying opinions and conclusions at each other as if they were weapons in some demonic war of the minds. She was unable to decide if they really believed the things they said, or if they took a particular stand because it was popular at the moment or gave them reason for a debate.

  Allain held his own among them; indeed, he often seemed to be at the center of the most heated exchanges. His arguments were persuasive, with sudden slashing comments that displayed wit and intelligence and more than a shading of humor. He seemed to know everyone, and to be known by everyone, particularly the ladies. All treated him with warmth and friendliness, yet with a subtle deference that seemed as instinctive as it was unusual.

  Violet tried not to look in his direction too often. It was difficult. He was so dynamic, so alive, compared with the other men in the room. The warmth in his voice, the bright, shifting laughter in his eyes, was impossible to resist. He was so very attractive in his dark and formally correct clothing and with the fluttering light from the gas jets of the chandelier overhead shining in his curling hair. The slight bronze of his skin, in contrast to the pallid complexions around him, added to his air of untamed vitality.

  There was a rustle of silk and a whiff of lily of the valley as a woman moved to sit on the sofa beside her. Violet turned to smile in greeting. It was one of the actresses; she thought her name was Clotilde. The title of actress might have been a polite euphemism for her, however. The afternoon gown she wore was cut so low in front that when she leaned forward, it was possible to see her breasts in their entirety, nestled like two plump partridges in a nest.

  The woman surveyed Violet with sparkling curiosity before she leaned forward to speak. “So,” she said, “you are the mystery woman.”

  Violet gave a quick shake of her head. “Oh, no, I think not.”

  “Oh, yes. Our Allain has not taken his eyes from you for hours, even when he is trying to be circumspect by leaving you alone. We all guessed there must be someone; he has been in Paris again for ages but has not been to the theater once.”

  “You — sound as if you know him well.”

  “But of course; everyone knows Allain. There is no place in the world where he isn’t at home.”

  The woman’s tone and the encompassing gesture she used seemed exaggerated. Violet lifted a brow as she said, “No place?”

  “Did you think I meant all the beds in Paris? No, no, I promise you, though it’s possible if it pleased him. But I speak of London, Geneva, Brussels, Rome; he has the entrée to all Europe’s capitals, not to mention their courts. I’ve never quite understood how that is, except that his charm is formidable. Don’t you find it so?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Violet said, her voice chill.

  “Forgive me, please. I should not say such things to you, though you are so stiff and serious that you practically compel me. Tell me, will you let him paint you?”

  “M’sieur Massari?”

  “Oh, dear, I expect he meant to surprise you, and now I’ve ruined it. He will be displeased. But you won’t tell him, will you?”

  “I don’t know that there is anything to tell,” Violet said with dampening politeness.

  “How wise you are, and much better at discretion than he. Allain is excellent with brush and palette — he could be one of the great ones if only he had more time and less money. Friends and ample funds are the enemies of art, you know; they smother the fire.”

  There seemed to be no answer to this. Fortunately, none was required. The woman went on with hardly a pause.

  “But you will allow him to speak for himself, yes? It would be too cruel not to permit him to astonish you. Besides, think of the fun of letting yourself be persuaded; I’m sure his blandishments will be delightful.”

  “Indeed?” Violet said with as much composure as she could manage.

  “Don’t frown so, petite, or he will think I’m saying terrible things to you. Perhaps he does already, for here he comes. Alors, such devotion! I quite envy you, madame.”

  The actress rose, making a light comment to Allain as he approached and touching his shoulder in a brief caress as she moved away. He seemed hardly to be aware of her, however. Seating himself beside Violet, he demanded, “What was Clotilde saying to you?”

  He really had been watching her. Gratitude to the actress for pointing it out made her inclined to generosity. She said, “Nothing of importance, except for one small thing. Are you really an artist?”

  Light, like the flare of a sulfur match, ignited in his eyes, but he only said, “I paint.”

  “I suppose there is no reason that I should know it. I am barely acquainted with you after all.”

  “A situation it would be my great pleasure to remedy,” he said, smiling a little. He hesitated. “I would like very much to paint you. Delacroix is recommending me to your husband as his replacement even now.”

  “You planned it this way all along?”

  He inclined his head in a brief assent. “Are you disappointed?”

  “I had thought,” she said, giving him a quick glance from under her lashes, “that I was to be immortalized by the great man who only deigns to paint likenesses of himself and his friends.”

  “So you will be, if that is your desire,” he said, springing to his feet at once. “Only let me go and find Delacroix—”

  “No! No, please sit down,” she said hurriedly, reaching out as if she meant to clutch at his coat, though she drew back before she actually touched him.

  He sank back into his seat. Abruptly, he smiled. Catching her hand, he said, “You are being the coquette with me. This is promising.”

  “No, it was silly. I only meant—”

  “You trust me enough, and understand me enough, to tease me. This means you have thought of me. I am amazed, and honored.”

  She was left with nothing to say as the blood flooded in suffocating heat into her face.

  His smile faded. “Forgive me. Now I am teasing you, and it’s too soon. I meant to go slowly, and with the greatest care, beginning with the portrait. Will you allow it?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said, her voice scarcely audible.

  “Even though you know nothing of my skill?”

  Her gaze resting on her gloved hand that was still caught in his, she said, “I expect you’re very good. M’sieur Delacroix would not recommend you, otherwise.”

  He sat watching the feathery shadows on her cheeks caused by her lowered lashes, and the soft creaminess that was added to the oval of her face by the gaslight overhead reflecting in the pale yellow of her silk velvet visiting costume. His attention lingered longest on the small nosegay of yellow and purple pansies that was pinned at her throat. Violet, discerning the direction of his gaze, wondered if she had been too bold in wearing a fresh reminder of his last hidden message to her. She looked up, meeting his gaze with difficulty. The expression she saw kindled there stilled her fears.

  “I will try,” he said after a deliberate instant, “to
be worthy of your trust — and consideration.”

  She smiled as she released her hand from his grasp; she could not help herself. There was seductive pleasure in being so easily understood.

  “Allain, mon ami! I see you’ve made the acquaintance of Madame Fossier?”

  It was Delacroix who spoke as he neared them with Gilbert at his side. Violet’s husband was scowling slightly as he glanced from her to the man with her. Allain rose to stand at ease as the two other men came to a halt. He said, “I took the liberty of presenting myself, since you were so kind as to hint at the possibility of a commission. Madame is a challenging subject. She has excellent bone structure, luminous skin tones, and near-perfect facial proportions, but her character is subtle, sensitive. It will not be easily captured.”

  “I thought you would be intrigued,” Delacroix said, a twist to his mouth beneath the luxuriance of his mustache.

  Gilbert, the frown still between his brows as he stared at Allain, said abruptly, “Have we met, m’sieur?”

  “I think not,” Allain answered, his smile polite. “I believe you are from America, yes? I have thought many times of traveling to your young country, but the occasion never arose.”

  There was a small pause, which Delacroix filled by making formal introductions. Allain, his manner politely inquiring, began to ask questions about Louisiana and the length of time they intended to be in Paris. The moment of awkwardness passed.

  It was later, as Violet and Gilbert were riding back to their hotel, that Gilbert broke a long silence to ask, “This Massari fellow, he is satisfactory to you? You wouldn’t like me to look around for another painter?”

  “There is no need to trouble yourself,” Violet replied. “Since he has M’sieur Delacroix’s recommendation, I am sure that he will be — more than adequate.”

  Gilbert reached out and patted her hand before settling deeper into the carriage seat. His voice heavy, he said, “As you wish, chère, as you wish.”

  For an instant the duplicity of what she was doing was an ache inside Violet’s chest. Then she thought of being with Allain for the length of time necessary to have her portrait painted, of the long hours they must spend talking, becoming known to each other. Only two days, then the sittings would begin; this was the arrangement settled between Gilbert and Allain. Anticipation mounted inside her, growing until it banished the guilt.

  The morning of the first sitting dawned fair and fine. Violet had slept little during the night. She lay in bed, watching the light glowing brighter by the moment beyond her window curtains. The sickness of nervous anticipation quivered in her abdomen, threatening to rise.

  She wouldn’t go; she would write to say she was indisposed.

  The thought of sitting still while Allain looked at her as closely as an artist must made her heart beat with the heavy thuds of terror. She would be alone with him for ages. What would she say? What could they talk about for so long? What did he expect of her? Had she led him to think that he could take liberties? Was that what he wanted of her?

  Was it what she wanted? She turned her head on her pillow and flung her arm over her eyes.

  How could she have thought that this was her most fervent desire? How could she have imagined there would be pleasure in it? She could see nothing ahead except perils and pain. Too soon, the portrait would be done, and then what?

  She wished that she knew her own mind better, wished that her nature was not so vacillating. She envied the women like Clotilde who could throw themselves wholeheartedly into a liaison with a man and never look back, never question the morality or wisdom of what they were doing. How wonderful never to be tortured by these doubts, never to be forced to lie and wonder if it was possible to put joy and pain in a balance and discover which outweighed the other.

  How nice it would be if she could simply say to herself that she couldn’t help herself, that what she felt was more powerful than her will to resist. She wasn’t sure it was so, not yet at least.

  If she didn’t go, she might never see Allain again.

  It was this last thought that roused her enough to leave her bed. By thinking of what dress she would wear and laying it out with its petticoats, its lace collar and jewelry, then discussing with her maid how she would dress her hair, she was able to get through the morning. Actually dressing carried her through to the moment when she must depart from the hotel with Hermine. The need to keep her composure in front of her maid allowed her to reach Allain’s lodgings without calling up to the coachman to turn back.

  The house was located on the Ile de la Cité, the island in the Seine that was shaped like a great mud-filled barge anchored forever in the river. Lying so near Notre Dame it was almost in its shadow — an ancient limestone building, narrow and dark, whose carved gargoyle rain spouts had nearly melted away with age.

  A plump and sharp-eyed woman dressed in the plain clothes of a housekeeper admitted Violet and Hermine and showed them up the winding interior staircase. She opened a door leading off a large anteroom fitted out as a salon, announced Violet, then stood aside for her to enter.

  The room was long and narrow, with tall windows on two walls letting in the clear white light of their northern exposure. The ceiling overhead was carved and gilded between its heavy beams in the style of two centuries before, and darkened from the smoke of the thousands of fires that had burned in the cavernous stone fireplace that filled the far wall. The furnishings in the room were heavy, almost medieval, consisting of a few chairs, several tall candelabras, and a wide divan, almost a bed, that was covered with fringed silk shawls whose patterns resembled Persian gardens, plus a long refectory table against the inside wall. A dais had been built in the center, and on it sat an armchair upholstered in a rich wine brocade. An easel had been set up before the dais with a fresh canvas in place upon it.

  Allain turned from the refectory table where he was poring over a series of sketches. With an exclamation of pleasure, he came forward to greet them. He offered them refreshments of tea or wine and cakes. While the housekeeper went away to fetch a tray, he drew Violet toward the table where he had been working.

  “Before we begin,” he said, “there is something I want you to see.”

  The sketches were of her. They showed her somber and laughing, wary and trusting, with raindrops on her lashes, and afterward, when they had been dried away. There was a view of her looking down at a bouquet of violets, and another with a rose in her hand. There were studies of her mouth, her ear, the tilt of her chin, the shape and positioning of her fingers as she held out her hand. They were each of them precisely drawn, carefully labeled and dated.

  “These,” he said quietly, “are the ones I considered worth keeping.”

  Violet took a deep breath. “I can’t believe you were able — but I see that you lied to me. You are indeed an artist.”

  “These were done for my pleasure alone, from memory. I show them to you now only that you may know, perhaps, that you have not misplaced your trust.”

  There was a low and sincere note in his voice that seemed to invade her senses, vibrating deep inside her, setting off waves of heat that mounted to her head. She said with difficulty, “I never thought otherwise.”

  “You are very gracious, though I might have expected it. I pledge that you will not regret coming to me.”

  He was interrupted by the return of the housekeeper. Allain indicated that the food and drink she carried should be placed in front of the fireplace. Turning with a warm smile for Hermine, he said to Violet in matter-of-fact tones, “The presence of another person during a sitting is a distraction to me. Perhaps your maid would like to visit downstairs with Madame Maillard, enjoy a few cakes and wine also? She would be within call if you should need her.”

  Violet met his gaze for a long instant. It would have been wrong to say that it was guileless, but there was nothing mirrored in the clear gray blue of his eyes that made her afraid to be alone with him. She agreed, then moved with him toward the fireplace as the ho
usekeeper led Hermine away. The door closed softly, but decisively, behind them.

  The wine splashed as ruby red as blood as Allain poured it out. He handed one of the glasses, of fine crystal banded with gold in concentric rings, to Violet, then waited while she seated herself before he took the chair beside her.

  He sipped from his glass, watching her above the rim. The bronze column of his throat moved as he swallowed. His fingers tightened on the crystal stem, so it seemed that it must break. At last he said, “I can’t believe you are really here.”

  “Nor can I.” Her lips moved in a hesitant smile. She wanted to drink her wine to steady herself, but feared she might spill it if she tried. She could not quite meet his gaze, but looked beyond him to where a silver dish on the fireplace mantel was piled high with what appeared to be invitations in thick vellum envelopes.

  He followed her gaze in bemusement, then glanced back at her again. “There is so much I want to say, but I hardly know where to begin. I see you sitting there, and all I want is to look at you, and go on looking and—”

  “Please—” she protested, her voice no more than a thread of sound.

  “I didn’t mean to distress you. It’s just that I never dared think that you would come to me. I hoped, but no more. And I thought that I knew every pore of your face and individual hair on your head, but I was wrong. You are more beautiful than I imagined, yet more elusive. Suddenly I’m afraid to begin painting you, afraid there will always be more and more that I have failed to see.”

  Her face was flaming and she couldn’t breathe. The wine in the glass she held trembled across its surface. She could not speak for the tightness in her throat. She did not know what she had thought might come of this meeting, but it was not this declaration. She would swear it.

  “Forgive me,” he said on a swiftly drawn breath as he set down his wineglass and got to his feet, turning to place a hand on the tall mantel that was just above his shoulder height. “I didn’t intend to say these things — I meant to be calm and courteous and only a little gallant. You’ll think I’m insane.”