Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection)

by Jennifer Blake

  His perturbation seemed to ease a little of her own. “No,” she said in low, vibrant tones, “but I am not used to hearing such things said aloud. I don’t know how to answer you.”

  He looked at her over his shoulder, and the warmth of his smile was like an embrace. “There is no need to answer. You are not responsible for what I feel or what I say in my ramblings. But come, drink your wine. Then we had better begin your sitting before I say something we may both regret.”

  This passage between them set the pattern for the sittings that followed. Allain behaved toward Violet at all times with deference and exacting courtesy relieved by flashes of caressing humor. The compliments he made her in a constant flow caused her cheeks to burn, yet were so detached, so applied to the work he was doing, that she could not take exception to them.

  He placed her on the dais each afternoon, arranging the folds of her dress, adjusting the position of her head, her hand, or her shoulder with gentle touches whose heat seemed to linger for hours. His nearness at such times made it difficult to breathe, and impossible to meet his gaze. She wondered if he ever noticed the way the fabric of her bodice trembled with the beating of her heart, or if he knew that the reason she could not relax as he instructed was because she felt so exposed under his intense scrutiny.

  Perhaps in the attempt to ease her tension, he talked of many things, bits of gossip about clashes of temperament in the art community and rumors of intrigue at the court of Napoléon III; tales of the mismanagement of the funds for the rebuilding of Paris, or stories of the heroic efforts in the preparations for the war in the Crimea. He spoke of problems already with the royal marriage, less than a year and a half old, caused by the emperor’s penchant for trying to conquer every attractive woman he met.

  He spoke so easily, with such humor and so much tolerance for the weaknesses and mistakes of others, that Violet began to look forward to their conversations with the keenest of pleasure. His attitudes and opinions seemed to match her own as perfectly as could be expected of another human being. There was something infinitely seductive in that meeting of the minds.

  One day, after almost a month of sittings, they were speaking again of the empress.

  “I saw Eugénie driving in the Bois du Boulogne yesterday,” Violet said. “She is so striking with her auburn hair and deep blue eyes, so truly lovely, that I can’t believe the emperor would look at another woman.”

  Allain, concentrating on the canvas in front of him, did not look up as he answered. “There can be no doubt that he loves her; as ruler of France he might have looked higher than the daughter of a Spanish count and an American woman. They say, in fact, that Louis Napoléon tried to make Eugénie his mistress, but was so charmed by her refusal that he offered marriage instead. However, for some men who gain power, the chase is paramount, more important even than love. Louis Napoléon requires further conquests to allow him to revel in his feeling of power.”

  “It seems a weakness to me,” Violet said slowly, “to need the sense of power so badly.”

  A shadow passed over Allain’s face, leaving it somber. “Agreed,” he said. “It can become an addiction as destructive as absinthe.” A moment later he glanced at her with amusement rising in his eyes.

  “I hear, though, that Eugénie is not inclined to accept her husband’s philandering without a struggle. She is supposed to have bribed an old crone who was once maid to another empress, Joséphine, for the recipe for a perfume known to have been used to retain the favor of the first Napoléon.”

  Violet shook her head with an answering smile. “How do these things become common gossip?”

  “Servants will talk, and of course the empress could not go herself to speak to Joséphine’s old maid.”

  “I suppose. But this perfume, how could she possibly expect it to matter, what could be in it to make her think it would be beneficial?”

  “Who can tell? Something exotic, perhaps. The tale told by the old maid is that the perfume was brought to France from Egypt by Napoléon himself. Supposedly, his soldiers unearthed it from an unmarked tomb which he was told was that of Cleopatra, along with a tablet which proclaimed it the source of great power because it contained the oils used in the secret rituals of the priestess-queens of Isis who ruled in the days before the pharaohs.”

  “And has the perfume helped Eugénie?”

  “It’s too soon to tell, I think, but she has great hopes.”

  Violet shook her head. “I can’t see why she should. The first Napoléon was not precisely known for his faithfulness.”

  Allain hefted the brush in his hand. “And yet, Joséphine was his supreme love for many years, a woman older than he, with bad teeth and no great reputation for faithfulness herself, one to whom he wrote thousands of letters protesting his devotion. He might never have divorced her at all if she had been able to give him a son. It makes you think, doesn’t it? But the amazing thing is that he didn’t wear it himself; they say he practically bathed in scent every day, especially the combination of bergamot, lemon oil, and rosemary known as Hungary water, eau du cologne.”

  “Perhaps Cleopatra’s scent was too sweet and womanish for him?”

  Allain smiled at Violet. “It’s always possible, though I somehow connect rituals with the smell of incense in a cathedral, woody compounds such as cedarwood and sandalwood. A quirk of mine, I expect.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about scents,” she commented, her tone inquiring.

  “I have a friend who is a perfumer on the Rue de la Paix.” He picked up a little shell-pink color on his brush and carefully stroked it on the canvas in front of him.

  “Ah, I suspect that is where you heard of Cleopatra’s perfume.”

  “Lately, yes. But I knew it long ago, from my mother.”

  “Really,” she said, intrigued. “And how did she happen to have it?”

  “As a gift from my father. And like Joséphine, my father had it from Napoléon himself.”

  “He knew him well?”

  How odd it seemed, to speak so easily of so legendary a man. To Violet, Napoléon Bonaparte had always been a hero. He was viewed in that light by most people in New Orleans, in spite of the ignominy of his ultimate defeat. For a short few years it had seemed he would bring back the glory of France, just as it appeared that Napoléon III might do the same now.

  Allain inclined his head slightly in agreement to her question, though his manner was abstracted as he stared at the canvas before him without offering to apply more paint. He said, “The scent, and the rather complicated directions for assembling the many different oils that go into it, was presented to my father as a token of friendship. But that was when he and Napoléon were young men, nearly forty-seven years ago, a long time in the past.”

  “Your father fought with Napoléon, perhaps?”

  A brief smile came and went across his face. “My father admired him extravagantly in the beginning, but opposed him in the end. There were many who did so.”

  He put down his brush and palette, then wiped his hands with deliberate movements on a rag dampened with turpentine. Setting it aside, he moved toward her with lithe grace. He seated himself on the dais at her feet, turning to place one booted foot on the edge of the low platform and to rest his arm on his bent knee.

  “Madame,” he began, then stopped. His eyes, more gray than blue in the cool northern light of the windows, were wide and vulnerable as he searched her face. The openness of his expression touched something deep inside her, so she felt a strange mingling of pain and pleasure and loss of will.

  “My name,” she said quietly, “is Violet.”

  “Violet,” he repeated with soft satisfaction. He drew a slow breath, which swelled his chest, then began again in quiet tones. “Madame Violet, you must know that your portrait is nearly finished.”

  She swallowed a little. “I knew it could not be long before it was done.”

  “I might, had I wished, have made the last stroke a week ago. I could do it
now.”

  It was an admission that took her breath; it was, in fact, nothing less than a declaration. With it he had placed himself in her hands.

  She said softly, “Could — could you?”

  “The question is, shall I?”

  His voice was even as he spoke, without further appeal. It was her decision. If she said yes, then he would accept his dismissal. He would complete the portrait, and the sittings would be at an end. And if she did not?

  “I suppose,” she said slowly, “that there is no great hurry.”

  The gladness that sprang into his face was like a shout. It crinkled the skin around his eyes and curled into the corners of his mouth. He made no movement toward her, yet she felt the warmth of his elation engulf her like a storm. She could not prevent the smile that rose into her eyes in return.

  “Madame Violet,” he said in stringent entreaty, “will you walk with me, then, since I have no work to occupy the afternoon? Will you stroll out on my arm while we pretend that we are simply a man and a woman in search of air, and perhaps, someplace to sit quietly and take a glass of wine?”

  Did she dare? What if someone saw and reported it to Gilbert?

  Oh, but how could she refuse when everything inside her longed for the pretense he suggested, responded in barely contained joy to the suppressed passion she sensed inside him?

  She couldn’t.

  “Yes,” she whispered, “I will.”

  9

  VIOLET AND ALLAIN LEFT HIS HOUSE by a side door to avoid being seen by Hermine, who was sitting again with the housekeeper; the two women had become close friends, since they both enjoyed less than robust health and had a similar variety of complaints. Violet was not certain the maid would inform on her, but Hermine had been Gilbert’s nurse as a young boy, and there was no point in placing unnecessary strain on her loyalty.

  It was a magical afternoon. Wandering away from the Ile de la Cité, Violet and Allain strolled along the Right Bank of the Seine. They talked of many things, though there were also times when they fell silent to gaze at each other. There was no purpose to their meanderings, they paid no attention to how far they walked. It was enough that they had escaped, together.

  The feel of his arm under her fingers, the restrained power of the firm muscles beneath the sleeve of his shirt and coat, made Violet’s heart beat high in her throat. The brush of her skirts against his trousers seemed incredibly intimate, as if her clothing carried some extension of her own acute sensibilities. She was so aware of him, of his upright bearing, his gentle glances, and the stringent control he maintained in his manner toward her that it was nearly unbearable. Regardless, she never wanted this walk to end.

  As the afternoon shadows grew longer they found a café at the edge of a garden with a table shaded by a plane tree. The cast iron of the table and the chairs was cold. The chill seemed to creep inside Violet, in spite of the café au lait Allain ordered for her with her wine to combat it. As she looked around her it appeared that the tables near them were all occupied by courting couples; they had that air of absorbed attention for each other about them. She said something about it to Allain.

  His smile was wry. “Look closer,” he said.

  As she followed his recommendation she saw that most of the women were younger than their escorts, though there were a few couples where the lady appeared older and decidedly more prosperous.

  “Oh.” She sought somewhere else, anywhere else, to turn her gaze.

  “Yes. I hope you aren’t too distressed.” He took her free hand, which lay in her lap, caressing her knuckles with his thumb that was hard with fencing calluses. “Dalliance is the custom in Paris.”

  “I see,” she said, her tone pensive.

  “I don’t think you do, not if you believe I brought you here solely to expose you to this kind of atmosphere. I only thought you would not like to risk being recognized, as you might be at a more fashionable café.”

  “You needn’t explain,” she said, meeting his gaze. “I do trust you.”

  He watched her a long moment before he spoke with rough abruptness. “Don’t. Please. It’s more than I deserve. I would like nothing better than to corrupt you completely.”

  “But you won’t,” she said, her lips curving into a slow and tremulous smile.

  “Won’t I?” He waited a taut moment before answering his own question on a sigh. “No, not without permission.”

  His words were an admission in themselves. It was one that should have repelled her. Instead, it thrilled her to the center of her being. He wanted her, he did want her. Yet here was a man who did not seek to impose his will upon hers, made no demands, claimed nothing as his manly right. Did he realize the allure of the vow he had made, know the tantalizing headiness for her of recognizing that the choice of the direction their affair would take was hers?

  Their affair. How odd to use such words.

  What, then, did she want?

  Was it possible that a safe, platonic affair was all she cared to risk? Would she, could she, venture anything more, even with this heat in her blood? Would it change what was between Allain and herself if she did? Was it possible that his view of her was so romantic that he would be disillusioned if she indicated that she desired more?

  How complicated it was, so complicated that she felt paralyzed by the warring fears inside her.

  There were other walks on other days, as the sittings became no more than an excuse to meet.

  They ventured further into the center of Paris. Allain knew the best dressmakers, the finest milliners and most skilled makers of gloves and shoes, and he took pleasure in acting as her escort while she visited these places. His taste was refined, his eye for color and line unerring. He did not seek to press his ideas upon her, however, but rather urged her to develop her own. She had, he said, a natural sense of style, a quiet elegance that suited her to perfection. All she needed was to learn to depend on her own instincts.

  He made only one attempt to pay for an item of apparel for Violet’s use. Her refusal was so firm and unhesitating that he retreated at once. In return, Violet did not often buy the things that caught her fancy when she was with him, but returned for them later. It was difficult for him, she realized, to stand aside while she paid for her own purchases.

  Allain was amazed at Gilbert’s failure to consult her wishes in the furnishing of their house and castigated him for a dolt for excluding her from the shopping excursions involved. In the next breath, he praised her husband’s cavalier attitude, since otherwise her time would have been spent visiting shops and combing through warehouses and attics with Gilbert, instead of being with him.

  They set out one afternoon after a thunderstorm. Water still ran in the gutters and the sky was mottled with gray, but the need to be alone and abroad together made them careless of the wet weather. Allain, poking with the tip of his dress cane at bits of torn, applegreen leaves from the plane trees that were stuck to the damp sidewalk, broke a short silence. “The Comtesse Fourier will be giving a ball in a few days” time. Would you care to attend?”

  “I would like it very much,” she answered, “if Gilbert has no other plans. He has been much occupied in the evening of late.”

  “The occasion is a diplomatic gala in honor of the recent improvement in relations between France and Belgium. Most respectable, though a little stuffy. I will be happy to serve as your escort if your husband is unavailable.”

  She tilted her head a little, looking at him from under the rolled brim of the rather dashing hat of periwinkle-blue straw she wore. “I doubt he would consider that proper.”

  “Many married ladies are escorted by gentleman friends. No eyebrows are raised so long as they remain in public view. You might explain this to him.”

  The thought of an evening with Allain, even one spent where everyone could see them, was too enticing to be refused. “I suppose you could have the invitation sent, and we will see what Gilbert says.”

  He pressed his arm, where she wa
s holding it, closer against his side, and the look in his eyes made her feel that she was equal to any explanation that might be required.

  The air was dense with moisture. Violet’s skirts felt damp with it, while their hems were becoming heavy and bedraggled from the puddles on the sidewalk. The light seemed to be growing dimmer.

  Allain looked up, surveying the lowering sky. Frowning a little, he said, “Perhaps we should turn back?”

  Thunder rumbled in a basso warning. A cool mist swirled around them. A moment later the deliberate and civilized French rain began to fall.

  It was too late to return to the studio. Ahead of them was the blue-and-white-striped awning of a café. They increased their pace, making toward it. Then as the raindrops began to pelt down in earnest, Violet released Allain’s arm and picked up her skirts to run. They dashed under the awning just as the heavens shuddered with an enormous crack of thunder. Laughing and breathless, they turned to each other.

  Allain took her into his arms, holding her close as the rain drummed on the canvas overhead and ran down in streams to splatter on the sidewalk. Gazing down at her with his face alight and softness in his eyes, he whispered, “Remember?”

  How could she forget? Their first meeting. The rain-drenched garden. The pavilion. She smiled up at him until, by slow degrees, her joy became anguish.

  It was becoming intolerable, these brief episodes, the stolen moments together, being so close yet so far apart. Violet was perilously aware of how unfair it was to ask Allain to endure it, did not know how much longer she could bear it herself.

  Unable to sustain the dark pain that shadowed his eyes also, she turned her head. Through the gray haze of rain, she saw the figures of two men huddled under the inadequate protection of a chestnut tree. As the rain grew harder still they broke and ran toward a housefront just down the street, where they crouched in its projecting doorway.