Private Passions

by Felicia Greene

  He quickly handed her the other gown, wrapped carefully in layers of muslin, and waited silently as she retreated behind the screen. Hands clasped, head bowed, Jean silently prayed that he had done a worse job than he’d hoped; that the gown would look garish, or frivolous, or have some fundamental error of proportion that would have Amelia looking vaguely ridiculous.

  A terrible mistake was desperately needed. Because if he had made this gown half as well as he thought, Amelia Benson was going to emerge from behind the screen an utterly irresistible woman—a queen. No. A goddess. A goddess who would treat his agonised declaration of love as exactly what it was; a foolish, ridiculous prospect.

  Amelia emerged from behind the screen. Jean, taking in the sight of her, nearly swallowed his tongue.

  He had done his job entirely too well. The gown held Amelia as Jean himself longed to hold her; hugging her close, the bodice much tighter than the current English fashion. The gown was daring, but too queenly to be scandalous—the only scandal would play out in the minds of the gentlemen watching Amelia as she danced. The deep, wicked red of the fabric was darker than wine, richer than blood, pooling out into a luxurious train as Amelia walked tentatively forward.

  ‘This is somewhat… unusual.’ Her voice trembled; even she could feel the difference between this gown, and the others he had made. ‘Very French, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’ Jean slowly stood. He knew that he shouldn’t approach her, not with the untied ribbons of her bodice trailing teasingly over her shoulders, silently begging for his hands to tie them. ‘But also very… Madame.’

  Amelia smiled, closing her eyes as she shook her head. ‘Oh, I doubt it. This gown is not made for management. One cannot run a household, or move quickly enough to outflank every problem, or think well enough to solve any of the innumerable difficulties that—that plague me—’

  Her hand went to her neck. Jean fought the urge to pull it away, his hands clenching into fists. He allowed her to collect herself, waiting to say what he knew should not be said.

  ‘You are correct. This gown is not for managing, or running, or thinking too much.’ He held out a hand, unable to stop himself running a finger over one velvet-covered shoulder. He saw Amelia’s throat jump; her eyes were wide, unsure. ‘It is for dancing, and laughing, and… and being adored.’ He swallowed. ‘Things that you also deserve, and no doubt do very well indeed.’

  Amelia stared at him, the moment suddenly charged with fierce, lightning-hot energy. Energy that Jean had felt burning in his chest ever since their first meeting—but it was freed now, leaping and dancing, levelling all the walls that stood between them…

  Amelia took another step forward. She was so close; close enough for him to touch her bare skin. Close enough to kiss—and Jean would kiss her, undoubtedly, because no other action had ever felt so compelling—

  A crashing thump came from upstairs. The moment of connection shattered; Amelia looked upward, her face briefly full of a panic that made Jean’s heart ache, before speaking softly to herself.

  ‘The library. Graves must have dropped a book.’ She turned, walking back behind the screen without even acknowledging Jean. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

  The usual sounds of dressing began; Jean sank back into his chair, burying his head in his hands, trying to maintain his composure as he heard the sinuous rustle of fabric on skin.

  He had been so close. Close enough to see, in that single moment of affinity, just how much distance lay between them.

  ‘Well, Monsieur.’ Amelia appeared once more from behind the screen, dressed for a day of management. Dressed for an afternoon, evening and night that did not, could not, include him. ‘I believe our business for the day is complete. The red gown will be… quite suitable, for the Marcourt Ball. Very suitable.’

  Jean nodded, not trusting himself to reply. He took up his bag, taking a long, lingering look at the gown Amelia pushed into his hands, before following her as she left the room.

  Amelia shut the door to the servant’s entrance with naught but the briefest of goodbyes, determinedly not looking at Jean. As soon as he had left, the house seemed grey; every room, every window, every flower in the gardens.

  She lingered by the servants’ entrance, the absence of Jean ringing in her ears as loudly as a scream. She briefly leaned against the door, fingers splayed against the wood, breathing in the faint, soap-scented traces of him as the carriage wheels faded into the distance.

  These few moments, the moments before she picked up the discarded strands of her day and began plaiting them again, were the most unforgivable of all. They were moments with no other purpose than to make herself happy; to savour the delight, the excitement, that came from Jean’s visit. Frivolous, and foolish, and useless—damaging, even, given the sheer amount of things that had to be done. But as much as Amelia tried, she couldn’t give up the few, precious moments of pure escape that she allowed into her life.

  He had fed her. The mere thought of it made her weak at the knees.

  She took a deep, calming breath, that only succeeded in making her feel light-headed. Perhaps thinking of the gowns, and only the gowns, would succeed in giving an air of productivity to these otherwise wasted seconds of excess.

  She closed her eyes. The gowns shone in her mind’s eye; glowing, the colours almost as rich in memory as they were in life. How Jean had succeeded in making them in so little time was a mystery; how many seamstresses were working under him? Did he work at night, agonising over the placement of each stitch, his brow furrowing as it did whenever he noticed the tiniest of defects in his work…

  No. She was not meant to be thinking of Jean, only of his masterpieces. His introduction to the ton, his London calling card; herself, impossibly, his muse. Responsible for his future success as a modiste, and for her own fortunes securing a husband—

  No! No thoughts of Jean, or of herself. The gowns. Only the gowns.

  With another deep breath, she focused her attention. First had come the yellow gown; a light, butter-coloured satin as delicate as a sunrise, with gigot sleeves—they would be considered daring, she knew it, but the extreme simplicity of the skirt and bodice would more than balance the effect. Then a day-gown, a striped satin of dark-brown and periwinkle-blue that would look garish on a woman of darker complexion, but suited Amelia’s softer skin and hair to perfection. A gown of dove-grey silk had come next; this time with sensuous loops and curls of embroidery at the waist and hips—patterns of flowers that Amelia vaguely recognised, but had not had time to look closely at. That one had fuller skirts; they would trail as she walked, shining like the skin of a serpent if she cared to move her hips… and the first gown of the today’s fitting; lilac, the exact colour of the happiest of blossoms.

  … And then, today’s evening gown. The ballgown; velvet, crimson, hovering on scandalous. Something she would never have dared to choose for herself; something she never would have even considered… but how glorious she had looked in it. Glorious enough to ask for the heart of a man, and be given it on a plate.

  Jean had made that for her. Had he thought about her body, making that gown—not as a modiste, but as a man? Had he thought of her skin when selecting the fabric; how the velvet would feel to the touch?

  Had he imagined touching her?

  ‘My lady?’ Eliza’s voice intruded upon her thoughts, so powerfully unexpected that Amelia jumped. ‘Does something ail you? Does something require attention?’

  ‘Oh goodness, no, I—I simply decided to take a turn in the gardens.’ Amelia looked at her maid, realising as she spoke that the servants’ entrance did not lead directly to the gardens. ‘By way of the drive. I… I wish to make sure the hedges have been properly cut.’

  ‘Of course.’ Eliza gently nodded her head, her eyes betraying a slightly wary confusion. Amelia bristled; if Eliza decided to enquire further—or worse, if she had seen something… if she suspected…

  But her servant did not seem suspicious. If anything, her face was d
angerously approaching sympathy.

  ‘My lady.’ Eliza paused, swallowing. ‘Forgive me if I am speaking above my station, or—or attempting a confidence that is unacceptable. I… merely wish to assure you that your management of this house, and your care for his grace when he lived here—as well as caring for Lady Benson—is absolutely to your credit.’

  More than sympathy. Understanding. Something that Amelia could not possibly countenance from a girl she had always kept at arm’s length. Servants were not meant to understand, or try to understand, anything that their masters or mistresses did; her mother had always been very firm on that point, among many others.

  That was what Amelia told herself, standing in front of Eliza. What she couldn’t admit, even to herself, was that if she allowed a single particle of Eliza’s understanding to touch her heart—the very tiniest amount—she would collapse into the girl’s arms into a sobbing, pitiful heap.

  If she started weeping now, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Amelia knew it for a fact.

  ‘You are speaking above your station.’ She looked Eliza up and down, summoning every last ounce of her mother’s famous spine as she scowled at her maid. ‘Decidedly. It is not to be repeated.’

  Eliza blushed scarlet. She curtseyed, mumbling an apology too thick with confusion and embarrassment to be clearly heard, before fleeing into the kitchen without another word.

  Amelia opened the door, walking a slow, measured twenty paces away from the house before she doubled over. Clutching her chest, her heart beating so fast she thought she’d swoon, she fought the urge to scream as panic briefly obscured her vision. All was darkness; rolling, boiling darkness, and she was trapped at its heart.

  She had to be cruel. She couldn’t allow anyone to get to close, even those who seemed nothing but kind. She could not condemn any other being to this darkness; the sensation that as soon as she looked away, or turned her back, everything would crumble to ash.

  Cruelty was kindness. Cruelty was survival. If only she could feel cruel when she looked at Jean LeClerc.

  The Nag’s Head, hidden away in the bustling centre of Bath, was always popular with the trading classes on a weekday evening—especially when it was raining outside. Boisterous conversations filled the air with cheers and whistles as pint mugs slapped down on tables, sloshing beer into every conceivable corner.

  One table, placed far away from the barmaid and the groups of revellers, was a little quieter than usual. The three drinkers ate and drank with single--minded focus, eating with the hunger of men and women who had worked every waking hour, before leaning back in their chairs to tease with impunity.

  ‘Snow-apples? Zut alors!’ Jonquil LeClerc laughingly threw an apple at Jean, who caught it with moody expertise. ‘You are in love, brother. Accept it.’

  ‘Was she why I had to stay awake until midnight, peeling and chopping and baking? Amelia Benson?’ Laurence Martin, widely regarded as the best pastry-cook in Bath, buried his head in his hands in mock agony. ‘Jean, the things you make me do. I made a whole bowl of strawberry ice for you to take to your paramour tomorrow, imagining some tricksy madam of the demi-monde, and you are feeding my desserts to Amelia Benson.’

  ‘Thank you, Laurence—although really, you are responsible for this. If you hadn’t wanted me to entertain the girl for an hour, I wouldn’t be in this mess. And strawberry-ice will not do—I cannot risk it spilling onto any of the silks.’ Jean sighed, taking a bite of the apple as Jonquil rolled her eyes. ‘And yes, soeur, I am in love. Of course I am.’

  ‘Forgive the indelicacy, Jean. But Amelia Benson never struck me as a woman who is easy to love.’ Laurence flinched at the violence in Jean’s stare. ‘Of course, that may be a failure of my imagination. Women are hardly my area of expertise.’

  ‘No. She is not easy to love. But coffee is not easy to drink, and opera is not easy to listen to, and art is not easy to appreciate—and yet, we love them dearly. Easy is not beautiful, or strong, or divine, or necessary—whoever called an angel easy to love? Children, perhaps, but we are not children. We are grown men, who love coffee and love opera and love art, and love difficult women—or otherwise.’ Jean nodded to Laurence, who nodded back with a slight smile. ‘Love and ease rarely walk hand in hand. If you were truly French, you would know it.’

  ‘I am still French. Buried under years of English custom, but French I remain.’ Laurence’s tone grew a little harder. ‘And if you want to know exactly how rarely love meets ease, Jean, try loving… otherwise. I am well-acquainted with dangers that you will never meet, even loving a woman as difficult as Amelia Benson.’

  Jean nodded again, sighing with regret at his poor choice of words. Laurence would face hanging if caught with a man—he, on the other hand, would lose only what little English reputation he had. But he would also lose Amelia, which felt like a fate worse than death.

  ‘Frere, you are dancing with heartbreak and you know it.’ Jonquil, practical to a fault, clicked her tongue. ‘All you can do is dress her, and you shouldn’t even be doing that.’

  ‘And when you have finished dressing her, you are going to send her out into the Season. She will snare a husband within the week, if your sketches are accurate reflections of the finished gowns.’ Laurence took a swig of beer. ‘If you’re really unlucky, you’ll have to make her wedding dress.’

  ‘Mon Dieu, Laurence. He is only dancing with heartbreak.’ Jonquil stared at Laurence in extreme disapproval. ‘Do not invite heartbreak into his bed.’

  ‘What can I say?’ Laurence shrugged. ‘I have a flare for the dramatic.’

  ‘You have already said far too much.’ Jean stood abruptly, throwing a couple of coins onto the table as Laurence began to make his apologies. ‘I am going to the studio.’

  ‘Jean. It is nearly midnight, and you make the journey to Bath tomorrow.’ Jonquil’s pained expression wounded Jean, but did not deter him. ‘Go to bed.’

  ‘I prefer not to.’ Jean looked at Laurence. ‘Heartbreak is waiting for me there, after all.’

  He managed to walk off most of his anger, trudging with purpose through the rain-soaked streets of Bath as carriages rattled past, full of ladies and gentlemen searching for all manner of pleasures. Jean wondered, for a brief moment, if he should simply lose himself in whatever vice promised to take him outside of his sadness—gambling, or opium.

  He had more than enough money for both. But with a deep sigh, bowing his head against a fresh gust of wind, he decided to save his sentiments for his art.

  Ducking down a narrow alleyway, he moved aside as a startled cat ran out into the street. Taking a weathered key from his pocket, opening a nondescript door with a clang that made him wince, he walked into the workshop with a new-found sense of peace.

  A candle still burned. Jean was severe but fair with his seamstresses; young women he had found to have enough talent to create his exacting designs, and enough trust in him to accept extremely low wages on the promise of much more money once the Season began. The only woman who he allowed to work past the hours he had set, complete with her own key, was Anna—one of the oldest and most experienced seamstresses that Jean had succeeded in recruiting.

  Anna looked up with a weary smile. ‘I know. I should be at home.’

  ‘Yes you should, Madame.’ Jean cast an appreciative eye over the intricate lace-work Anna had completed. ‘But you are stubborn, like me. So all I can order you to do is use more candles—your sight is precious, perhaps more to me than to you.’

  ‘Oh, sir, you do fuss.’ Anna lit another candle all the same, smiling. ‘And someone needs to tell you to go to bed. Your sister, perhaps?’

  ‘Jonquil is more likely to keep me out late, in unsuitable places.’ Jean held out his arms. ‘Here, I behave myself.’

  ‘Yes you do.’ Anna nodded, still smiling. ‘Make sure you keep behaving yourself after you become the toast of Bath. I’ve seen the gowns your muse will be wearing—I hope you are ready to become a person of extreme interest of all of
Bath’s wealthiest ladies.’

  ‘Of course.’ Jean smiled, even as his voice grew hollow. ‘I await the day.’

  ‘As do I! And… and sir?’ Anna gestured shyly to a cloth-covered bowl. ‘I made you some ginger biscuits. To help you keep your strength up.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame.’ Jean inclined his head, touched at the gesture—and grateful that Amelia would have something to eat the following day. ‘You are too kind.’

  Bowing low to Anna as he picked up the bowl, watching the spirited old woman blush and giggle at the courtesy, he made his way to the small door in the corner of the room. Taking another, smaller key from the thin chain that hung around his neck, he took a deep breath before opening the door.

  His private studio. This was his sanctuary; his holy of holies, where he could hide from the drudgery and desperation of the world at large. A place where he had never taken anyone; a place that had travelled mentally with him from Paris, organised down to the last detail, ready for him to recreate as soon as he had found adequate lodgings. A place free of any link to the outside world, where his silk and tulle and lace-lined dreams could finally take wing.

  A single mannequin stood in the centre of the room, his secret project a vague silhouette shining with seed-pearls and tulle. Placing the bowl of biscuits in the corner of the room, Jean gently removed the garment, placing it on his worktable with a look of mingled guilt and yearning before placing Amelia’s latest gown on the mannequin.

  Laurence usually sent the carriage at five o’clock in the morning. It was midnight now; he could cut and shape for two hours at least, shaping the gown to his liking, and leave instructions for the seamstresses to follow in the morning. That way, he could sleep deeply for at least two hours before spending half of the day dozing fitfully in the carriage.

  He looked at his secret project, biting his lip. Or he could work for three hours on the gown, and an hour or two on that, and simply drink coffee whenever he wanted to fall asleep.