Paris
Paris had been the first big city outside of New York that Cal had ever seen, when he’d arrived there in 1917. It had been wild in the War. When you could die any day, you fit in a lot of living.
In Paris, he drank a lot of red wine. He gambled. He seduced a few bold French girls. They liked the Americans—their money, the treats they brought, their bravado and their bold, cocksure attitude.
Cal had gone back to Paris after the War, after he made money bootlegging and in other...illegal enterprises. Paris always made him feel like he could be something more. Made him forget what he’d done. When he argued about art in the cafés, he felt like he was more than a rough kid from the slums.
He wanted to show Paris to Julia—Julia who had never traveled but always dreamed of it. Maybe he wanted to do it so badly because it was a gift he could give her before he left.
Once he’d started talking about changes for the sawmill he’d seen the hope in Julia’s eyes. She thought she’d won. And for a moment, she almost had. When he was talking to Alice, he’d got a crazy idea. He’d looked out over the green lawns of Worthington and he’d thought about getting married, having a family, staying there. Julia had almost made him forget the promise he’d made to Mam.
He would take care of Diana—he would never turn his back on an innocent child. And he would lay Paris at Julia’s feet.
From Brideswell’s station, he traveled with Julia, Diana and David by train to London’s Victoria Station. They took a ferry to cross the Channel to Calais, and were now on a train steaming across the French countryside to Paris.
Cal knew Julia was worried about her brother Sebastian. Something about a telegram she’d received just before she left Brideswell—days after she’d telegrammed her brother to let him know she was coming. But when Cal asked what was wrong, she told him she didn’t know. He could tell she was hiding something. Why?
Right now, the troubled look had left her eyes. She glowed with excitement. The train to Paris clacked along the tracks. Following Julia’s gaze, Cal looked out at the blur of scenery. It was strange to see leaves on the trees and fertile fields following the tracks. He remembered blackened trees, bombed villages, fields that were wet, muddy mires. Or frozen with ice.
“Are you remembering the War?” Julia asked gently. She sat across from him.
He glanced up. “How did you know?”
Her hand brushed his wrist. He forgot all his memories and got hard at once. The more he was with her, the less of her touch it took to arouse him. But he knew he couldn’t have her.
“I can see it in your face.”
He’d been a flyer. There was no need to tell her what it had felt like to look at the charred remains of men pulled from wrecked planes—fuel consumed those bits of wood, paint, cable and fabric and burned the men down into wizened statues of charcoal.
She touched his knee as if soothing him.
But her light touch was like a jolt of lightning.
“Are the memories troubling?” she asked.
He met her large, concerned blue eyes, and—and hell, he wanted to be alone with her. He wanted to lay her back on the velvet first-class seat and make her scream with ecstasy. He wanted to be thinking about nothing but pleasuring Julia.
“They do trouble you, don’t they?”
“They aren’t sunshine and roses, but I don’t have shell shock, Julia. I’m fine.” He sounded abrupt, fighting to hide the raw need coursing through him. Anyway, war memories weren’t the ones that haunted him. It was the memories of what he’d done before that.
“I learned you are hiring a special doctor to come from London to heal Ellen’s shell shock. Dougal told me, before we left. Thank you.” She smiled.
And he knew that was why he’d done it. Not just for Ellen, but to see Julia glow. “You’re welcome. Tell me, what’s the first thing you’re going to do when you reach Paris?”
“I’d like to go to a dressmaker,” Diana said. Then bit her lip. “If I have a clothing allowance.”
“You do. Get the bills sent to me,” Cal said. “What about you, Julia? Are you going straight to the House of Worth and Coco Chanel’s establishment?”
She looked surprised he would know fashion designers. Then an adorable frown puckered her brow. One day he would paint her like that. He loved her expressions when she forgot the rules about ladies hiding emotion and let the real woman peek out.
Hell, he wasn’t going to paint her. He should leave before that.
“I should like to see the Eiffel Tower. But I would love to visit a café. Or go to one of the clubs. Seeing Josephine Baker perform would be thrilling. I would also love to see the Left Bank and see where you would paint.” Words bubbled out of her, like she was made of champagne. “Paris is filled with painters, writers, dancers, musicians. I’m so excited to see that world. Since I’m going to give up on marriage, perhaps I could become an artist or novelist. Though I fear that artistic talent begins and ends with my brother.”
“You’ll never know unless you try. I never thought I could really paint until I came to Paris,” he admitted. But her words had hit him hard. She was giving up on marriage.
This was Paris, where he’d reveled in a bohemian artist’s life. He’d get drunk and engage in wild sexual activity—love affairs with married women, multiple partners in one bed. But he didn’t want that now.
He wanted Julia.
When he desired a woman, he would paint her, make love to her, and once the painting was finished, his ardor was spent. He always chose experienced women who wanted no more of him than a wild affair.
Damn it, he couldn’t have Julia.
Alice had told him she was in love with him and he’d pictured marriage. But it had been Julia’s laughter he’d heard in his imagination. Julia playing with their children on the Worthington lawn. It was a fantasy he would never have—not with his past. He couldn’t marry a lady like Julia without lying to her about his past, or keeping it hidden. And he couldn’t seduce her.
The train chuffed into the station. “I’m here. I’m finally here,” Julia breathed, and her delight almost broke his heart.
Cal summoned a cab. The car made its way through the ancient streets and took them to their hotel—the Hotel Le Meurice. Julia’s sister-in-law, Zoe, had suggested it. Old and beautiful, it had majestic rooms. The largest suite had a terrace that gave a complete circular view of Paris.
He hadn’t wanted to spoil Julia’s chance to stay in Paris’s most beautiful hotel, or his brother’s chance to savor the luxury and the views. So Cal had agreed. It had been a long time since he’d been at Le Meurice and he figured no one would remember him.
“Do you like it?” he asked Julia as they drew up in front of the classic stone facade, the archways decorated with ivy, and the French flags snapping in the wind.
“It’s beautiful.”
Then he saw the surprise in Julia’s eyes as the doorman’s face lit up in recognition.
He was wrong. They remembered him.
* * *
Julia received a message from the concierge, left by Sebastian, to meet her brother at a Parisian café at two o’clock that day. Just before they moved from the desk, Julia heard the concierge say to Cal, “So delightful to have you with us again, Monsieur—Monsieur Le Comte.”
She turned to Cal to ask him about it, but he put his hand on her lower back and led her through the lobby.
Her heels clicked on tiles polished to a mirror finish. Cal was recognized here and the Hotel Le Meurice was one of the most fashionable hotels in Paris. The cream of Parisian society dined at the beautiful Roof Garden. Picasso and his wife had selected the hotel to host their wedding dinner.
“You’ve stayed here before,” she said as he took her to the lift. She spoke casually, but she ached with curiosity about his past.
Cal shrugged. “When I sold a few paintings I brought a model here to celebrate. We dined on the rooftop. That’s how I know the hotel. And that’s where I would like to have dinner tonight. All four of us. Surrounded by the lights of Paris.”
But the staff wouldn’t remember him from that. No, he had been important to them. But a lady couldn’t pry. “It sounds lovely.”
“It is. And I want to see you, silhouetted by Paris.”
Her heart pattered. But Cal loved Alice Hayes—and she wanted him to find happiness with Alice. She had no right to be dazzled by the idea of dining with him with the lights of Paris spread around them.
Cal helped David roll his chair into the lift, while a porter brought the luggage and trunks. She and Diana followed and when she stepped into the suite she was sharing with Diana, Julia ran across the thick carpet, pulled open the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony.
Paris spread out around her, trees rich with foliage, the streets in the complex circular pattern of an ancient city. The Eiffel Tower rose against the sky. Boat and traffic horns blared, and out there, all around her, adventure waited.
Behind her, Diana laughed. “Julia, I’ve never seen you like this. Bouncing like a child.”
Julia spun. “I’m being thoughtless. This isn’t such a happy time for you.”
“No, I don’t think I shall enjoy the wildness of Paris this time,” Diana said ruefully. “But I should be relieved—that’s a good enough substitute for happy, isn’t it? And at least my mother never found out I’m pregnant.”
Julia knew relieved wasn’t as good as happy, but someone rapped on their door and she went to answer it. Cal lounged there, looking gorgeous in a summer-weight suit of pale gray. It made his hair look utterly gold. “I’ll escort you to meet your brother,” he said. “Since I know my way around.”
She hesitated. Sebastian had warned her something devastating had happened. He could be awfully dramatic, but his terse words in the telegram made her realize this was the truth. Sebastian had secrets he wouldn’t want a stranger—Cal—to know. “I don’t know—”
“I’ll leave you to meet him alone. But I don’t want you getting lost in Paris.”
She agreed and Diana offered to stay with David. As they exited the hotel, Cal commanded a car—a gleaming blue four-seater Citroën. The driver wound his way through streets crowded with cars, motorized streetcars and horse carts. Everything was thrilling to see.
Cal smiled at her excitement. Then he pointed out the window. “Here’s the café from your brother’s message.”
Heavenly yeasty scents of bread wrapped around Julia, along with another rich scent of coffee roasting. Small tables sat on a cobblestone terrace. Across the road from them, a railing followed the Seine, and beyond the railing the water rippled.
Julia looked in the café. Inside sat old men and young women with lipsticked mouths. But no Sebastian. “He’s not yet here. I am early, of course.”
“Have some coffee. I’ll sit with you and leave when he comes.” Cal pulled out a seat for her.
A waiter wearing a long white apron came to them and took orders. Her café au lait arrived in an enormous bowl-like cup. Frothy milk defied gravity to sit upon her cup, already melting away into the hot drink. She cradled the cup and sipped.
She was here. In Paris with Cal. Except there could be no romance in it. She had to make him see he should be with Alice. “Cal, you should bring someone special to Paris,” she began.
He set down his coffee. Slowly, gently, he drawled, “Sheba, I already have—”
“Julia!”
She looked up and saw golden hair beneath a white hat—brilliant and gleaming in the sunlight. “Sebastian!”
Her brother looked utterly stylish in a white boater, white trousers and a white jacket over a shirt of pale pink and a tie of the same color. As she stood, he embraced her, kissing her cheek. “Julia, my angel. My savior. My dearest one.”
She lifted her brow. “I know you too well. When you slather on compliments like marmalade on toast, you are up to something.” For example, there was his engagement to Zoe, when he needed a marriage and had tried to make Zoe believe he loved her. But then Julia saw the shadows under her brother’s eyes and knew he was truly troubled.
Sebastian looked toward Cal, then leaned close to her ear. “This one looks wilder and more interesting than Dr. Campbell.”
“Behave,” she whispered.
“If that is what you wish, then behaving is all that I will do, my dear.”
“This is the Earl of Worthington.” She inclined her head toward her brother. “My brother, Lord Sebastian Hazelton.”
Cal held out his hand. Sebastian took it and they shook hands as Cal said, “Call me Cal. I don’t believe in titles. I’m an American.”
Sebastian cocked his handsome head. “I recognize you. I think I’ve met you before. At Bricktop’s place. Don’t think we had a formal introduction.” And under his breath, to her, “More intriguing all the time.”
“Cal lived in Paris to paint,” Julia explained.
Sebastian murmured by her ear, “A wild, artistic American. Have you brought him here—” He broke off. He coughed. “Wait. You are my sister. No love affairs for you.”
“Sebastian,” she whispered fiercely. Of course she couldn’t have a love affair with Cal. But deep inside, she felt an astonishing pang of regret.
And despite Sebastian’s lightheartedness, his eyes bore sadness.
Cal stood. “I should leave the two of you to speak of your private business. I think I’ll go to my favorite bookstore. Shakespeare and Company. A gathering spot of Americans in Paris. When should I return for you, Julia?”
“I know the store. I’ll bring her to you,” Sebastian said.
As soon as they were alone, she asked, “What is wrong, Sebastian?”
Coffee arrived for Sebastian—the waiter didn’t even have to ask his order. Sebastian took it with thanks. He swirled it. “Just seeing you, having you here, is a blessing for me, beloved sister.”
“You look so thin and pale, Sebastian. I am terribly worried about you.”
She had always admired Sebastian’s courage. He had fallen in love with a handsome young man, Captain Ransome. It was still forbidden in England. She knew of the trial of Oscar Wilde. She knew Sebastian could be arrested and imprisoned. Yet she knew Sebastian was a good man who was only seeking love. He truly cared for John Ransome. And to be together, both men had left England to live in Capri, and now in Paris.
“John left me,” he said bluntly.
Her heart broke at the pain on her brother’s handsome face. He looked a lot like Nigel except his hair was gold and his eyes a stunning green. “I thought you were both happy.”
“We were,” he said darkly. “But John’s family issued him an ultimatum. He had to return or he’ll be dead to them forever. I told him there’s nothing for him there. How can he be happy trying to live a lie, living a life without love? I didn’t see how he could go back, after we’d been living together in Capri, then Paris, but his parents have told their friends he went on a tour of Europe with me—that we are friends from school. They believe that if he ‘quells his disgusting proclivities’ as they put it, he can return to the army. They actually want him to marry ‘for appearances.’”
“You were considering marriage for appearances, once,” she reminded him. “It was Zoe who realized that was a foolish idea. You can’t condemn Captain Ransome if he does the same things you thought you must do.”
He grimaced. “I know. I didn’t feel like getting beaten to a pulp by English louts trying to prove their manliness. It’s why I came here. But did John leave for his family, or did he leave because he no longer cares for me?”
“Didn’t he give you his reasons?”
“We fought, I got roaring drunk, and when I woke, he was gone and only a note remained.”
He drew a folded paper out of his pocket. “You want too much from me,” it read.
“Do I chase him, Julia, or do I accept defeat? I’m happy to live in exile as long as I have John. Yes, once I was engaged to Zoe, but only because she needed a hasty wedding herself. I’ve changed. Love is too important to toy with, too important to cast aside. John is willing to give me up to return to England and live a lie, rather than accept exile. Perhaps there’s no hope for us.”
“I think—I think you should fight for love.”
“What if I fail? Having a broken heart hurts.”
“I know. But you do heal.”
“As you have. Admirably, Julia. But why are you with the wild American?”
She explained about Cal and Worthington Park. She could not reveal Diana’s secret—Diana had not given her permission, but Sebastian believed she’d come to Paris only for him, and she couldn’t bring herself to disabuse him of that.
“So you’re going to marry the wild American?”
“No! He has no interest in marriage. And neither do I. I’ve decided that instead I should grasp life on my own terms. I won’t marry without love. And I won’t marry a man who wishes to put me in a box or a gilded cage.”
“Julia, there will eventually be a man who loves you enough, who does not see your desire for freedom and autonomy, your desire to be equal to him, as a price to pay but rather an asset.”
Her heart ached, but she smiled to hide it. “That is rather lovely.”
“I agree. I surprise myself. Perhaps I should have taken to writing prose instead of painting.” He winked at her. “Do you want me to take you to the most shocking Parisian clubs?”
She knew he was teasing. But she called his bluff. “I came to Paris to experience adventure.” And to see what she really wanted in her life. “Tonight I am definitely going to wild clubs.”
She finished her coffee with a flourish. It was lush and strong and gave her a jolt that shot to her fingertips and toes. “I have spent twenty-seven years being dutiful and ladylike. It hasn’t brought me anything I wanted—love, a home, a family. Now I am going to begin my life all over again. I am going to try being wild. Then, I am going to help you heal your rift with John Ransome. You deserve to have love, Sebastian.”
* * *
Julia quickly saw Paris was a place one must go with someone one loved.
With Sebastian, she met Cal at the bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, where she bought a travel guide to Paris and met sparrowlike Sylvia Beach. Then the two men together took her everywhere. On a boat on the Seine. To view the monuments—L’Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower. Her day was a whirl of cafés and flowers and many glasses of wine. Then they returned to the hotel, having dinner with Diana and David on the rooftop of Le Meurice.
At night, lights glittered all around, reflecting on the Seine to make the river appear to be full of diamonds. Julia changed into a sheath of a dress, pale blue with silver beads. Her dress glittered and sparkled every time she drew breath, but it was nowhere near as brilliant as the lights of Paris.
She had been to jazz clubs. Before Nigel married Zoe, she and Zoe had gone to a secret downstairs club in London where—to Julia’s shock—a dancer had taken her clothes off.
She was rather nervous. Paris must be even wilder than London. She had boldly told Sebastian she wanted an adventure. But did she?
The five of them made their way to the neighborhood of Montparnasse, past cafés with lights that gleamed on cobblestones and wrought iron fencing and on the faces of chic women. Cal pushed David’s chair and she had linked arms with Sebastian. Diana walked at David’s side.
As they reached the famous Café de la Rotonde, Cal clasped her hand. Threaded his fingers through hers and she felt it. A whoosh. All of Paris stopped in its tracks—and if a man could stop Paris, that man had to be truly something.
She had to release his hand so he could steer David inside, into a room filled with cigarette smoke, crammed with people—women in brief dresses or plain trousers, men dressed in either immaculate dinner jackets or threadbare sweaters. There appeared to be an understanding that the young man in the chair must have been wounded in war, because a path was cleared for them all.
“Cal!” someone called. Cal sat her at a table, and greeted many friends, introducing her.
As Cal fell into conversation with fellow artists, a young gentleman smiled at her from another table. He asked if he could break off the end of the baguette in the basket on their table.
She handed him the whole thing. He waved his hands. “Not all that. I’d be asked to pay.”
Another man joined him. “Still nursing that one cup of coffee?”
The first man smiled. He was young, tanned, with curling black hair. “Ten centimes for the cup and I can sit for the day and sketch.”
The other man laughed. “I would like to sketch that lovely one.”
Julia blushed and looked up as Cal returned with a bottle of red wine and five glasses that he held adroitly by their stems.
The noise grew louder—she could hear the debate of the two men beside her better than she could the conversation at her table. The man with the black hair insisted the new art would be found in the objects used by the masses—automobiles, the newfangled toaster, furniture. “Mass production allows us to bring great art—to bring beautiful but practical form—to all people,” he declared. “We must educate people so they learn to throw off Victorian fuss and frippery. And see the beauty of simple form—of a form that follows from its function.”
They argued vehemently. Then the second man left and the black-haired man leaned to her and pointed to the walls. “Those sketches are mine.” He grinned. “People come to Montparnasse to sin disgracefully. How unfortunate I didn’t get to do it with you. Unless you wish to come to my studio and I will paint you. Then make love to you.”
“The lady is with me,” Cal growled.
“Actually I am not...exactly. But as delightful as your offer is, I must decline. My time in Paris is limited and my schedule is already thoroughly booked,” she said politely.
That was how it would be done in the drawing room. But the man put his hand on her knee, bent to her and kissed her neck. She was shocked into immobility.
Until Cal hauled the man off. He helped her to her feet. “We’re going. There’s a fight about to break out.”
“Between you and he?” she inquired. The dark-haired man was cursing eloquently in French.
“It might, but that wasn’t the one I was thinking about. That intellectual debate in the corner over there is about to erupt into a brawl.”
And it did, just as Cal whisked her out, followed by Diana and Sebastian, pushing David’s chair.
Julia tried not to look shocked. “Did you paint in places like that? That man wouldn’t accept bread from me in case he had to pay for it. Are they really so impoverished?”
Cal grinned. “We all were. The proprietor, Libion, would let me stay there and drink his coffee if I gave him a picture or two to keep up until I could pay.”
That didn’t make sense. She was certain he had done more than have one dinner at the exclusive Le Meurice, so how could he not have afforded to pay for coffee? But ladylike training would not allow her to say he was lying—questioning him would imply that. David had told her Cal had made money, but she had thought it was enough to care for David.
“What would you like to do with all of Paris here for your pleasure?” Cal teased.
“Sebastian has promised to take me to a jazz club,” she said. “Let’s go together.”
Sebastian and Cal then traded names of clubs back and forth—names that didn’t mean anything to her. Cal suggested one that made Sebastian’s brow shoot up and Julia said quickly, “That one. I want to try that one.”
David and Diana decided to return to the hotel, and Cal acquired a taxicab to take them, helping David out of his chair.
It was strange—she was eager to be shocked, and terrified of it at the same time. It made for a rather intoxicating mix of emotions as they made their way through the steamy streets of Montparnasse. Finally, Cal led her beneath an awning that read Dingo American Bar and Restaurant. He held the door for her and murmured, “One of the favorite bars of the ex-pat American painters and writers. A lot of my friends are here.”
A long wooden bar stretched before her, crowded with patrons. Simple stools of bent wood gathered around small tables. Here was more hazy smoke. Sensuous music drifted out, much more mournful and aching than any jazz she’d yet heard. It called to her. The whole night felt like a surge of electricity—and she was thrilled by the glow but also afraid of the shock. It was so crowded, noisy, wild. She was used to crushes at balls, but this was a world she didn’t know.
However, everyone seemed to know Cal. Especially the women. Women wanted to talk to him, touch him, slip away into a dark, quiet corner of the bar with him.
Cal was invited to a table. A good-looking man with dark hair and a bourbon in front of him pulled out a chair for her. Julia sat as Cal made introductions. On her left, the handsome man who had pulled out her chair was named Ernest Hemingway. “The writer,” Cal added. “And his wife, Hadley Richardson.”
On her other side sat Zelda Fitzgerald, famous in America, the embodiment of the “flapper.” And wife to F. Scott, who had written the rather stunning novel The Great Gatsby. Julia felt awed to be there—she had never run with the artistic set or the Bright Young Things.
Zelda had bobbed blond hair and compelling, emotive eyes. Mrs. Fitzgerald burst out with the most intriguing and unusual comments. “Why do they call you ‘ladies’?” she asked pointedly. “Isn’t it rather obvious that is what you are? And for those who aren’t called ladies, what is that supposed to imply?”
Julia was taken aback. “Do you know,” she answered finally. “I truly don’t know. It was really a way of distinguishing those who wanted an elevated position. It goes back centuries.”
“Are you slavishly devoted to having a title?” Zelda demanded.
Julia knew how to be polite in awkward situations. “I’ve never thought about it, since I keep mine no matter what.”
“Do you?” Zelda drank the rest of her cocktail. “How positively open-minded of your country. Marriage is the ruin of any woman, you know. I haven’t any idea why we rush to do it. It’s all we girls are brought up to hope for, isn’t it? You build your whole life on the idea of landing a man who’s worthwhile. Then, once you’ve done it, it doesn’t take long before you realize there’s not much to it. It can stifle a woman. Once you’re married, you’re not interesting. Unless you are really good at something.”
Julia managed to follow the swift, dramatic speed of her words. She asked, “Do you write?”
“A little. I was trained as a dancer. I’m quite good. If I were dedicated, I could really be something, you know. Something really dazzling.”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Julia’s heart panged. There was something a little desperate about Mrs. Fitzgerald. Beneath the beauty, the perfect brazen flapper loveliness, she looked haunted. “You are both quite famous in America. The predominant couple of the Jazz Age.”
Zelda shrugged. As if it was of no consequence. As if it wasn’t enough. Then her gaze went to her husband and became a little wilder. “You see the woman he’s talking to? That creature in the man’s tuxedo? She’s the kind of woman who entices a man until he just can’t look away.”
Julia saw a kind of anguish in Zelda’s eyes. She, like Zelda, had been raised to plan for marriage. Now she was going to have to build an entirely different future. And she could see Zelda was searching as she was—and maybe was as lost, for all she was lovely and famous.
Hemingway was talking to Cal. Leaning over to hear Zelda, Julia couldn’t hear much of the men’s conversation. She heard the term “bullfighting,” then talk of Italy and Spain. She gathered Hemingway admired Cal for having been a pilot in the War.
Zelda leaned close.
“I have a daughter, you know,” she said. “Just the most precious thing. When she was born, I was coming out from the ether and I said the most unrelated things. He wrote them down, you know. Scott. And he used them. The words that came right out of my mouth when I didn’t even know where I was. It would be so much easier to be a beautiful fool, wouldn’t it?”
Zelda liked to say shocking things, Julia felt. She answered thoughtfully, “I don’t know. I was raised to expect to marry, manage a house, and let my life be directed and shaped by my family and by circumstances. And yes, it would have been best if I had been nothing more than a beautiful fool. Now I realize it’s frightening to want more. But I’m ready to face being afraid.”
“The Lost Generation,” Hemingway said then, his voice carrying over the table. “It’s a name for us all. Gertrude gave it to me. She had work done on her car. The young mechanic didn’t impress her. She asked the garage owner where the man had been trained. The owner said the man had been through the War and they were all une génération perdue.”
“The Lost Generation. It suits us, doesn’t it?” said Fitzgerald.
They looked at her.
Julia said, “It does. I feel quite lost sometimes. As though there is something of great importance I could do, but I don’t quite know what it is.”
She felt Zelda Fitzgerald staring at her.
Couples got up to dance then. Not wives with husbands—the couples split apart and paired up with others. Julia was left at the table with Cal, Hadley Richardson and a female author—the woman in the man’s tuxedo.
“What do you do?” The question came from the author. She smoked a cigarette in a long holder. Her dark hair was cropped short and slicked back with pomade. “You must do something.”
What did she do? She thought of Ellen. Of the Brands. Of the people on the estate like Mrs. Billings, who had lost all her sons to the War. “The work that I do that truly inspires me is my charity work. Though I have rather shocked Society with what I do.”
“Darling, you look as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. How could you shock anyone?”
“I work with women who lost their husbands and have to turn to drastic measures to support their families. Fallen women.”
“You, darling? Work with prostitutes?” The woman’s hand stroked down her arm.
The woman blew a smoke ring. Julia found the woman’s kohl-ringed eyes rather magnetic. They were huge and pale blue. She had a strong nose and high cheekbones. Almost masculine features, but she was strikingly beautiful.
“You’re really lovely, Lady Julia. I’ve been on a man kick for the last few months. About every six months, I change my mind. My last really serious love affair was with a woman. She was married, but I adored her. Then, I decided it was time for men. But you’ve tempted me to change my mind tonight.”
The woman’s hand settled on her leg. And squeezed.
And in that moment, Julia knew she hadn’t wanted quite this much adventure. Paris was wild and she wasn’t. Not desperately, determinedly wild, anyway. She loved art and literature and beauty—but she loved her work at Brideswell, her home, country life.
But suddenly, a strong hand gripped hers and she was lifted to her feet. “Julia isn’t available.” To her, Cal said, “We should get you back to the hotel. We’ll tell your brother that you’re leaving.”
They were almost at the door—the crowd had magically parted for Cal. She gripped the door frame to stop him. “I don’t want to run away. I know I’m not wild. I wasn’t going to slip off with her into a corner and do—do Sapphic things, you know.”
Cal groaned loudly. “That is an image I didn’t need right now, Julia.”
“Well, I don’t need a man rushing me away from something a little scandalous.” In truth, she was rather glad to get away—but she didn’t want to be hastened away as if she were a young virgin who mustn’t see anything.
“That’s not what I’m doing. I’m rushing you to the hotel because I need to paint you.”
“Paint me?”
“I’ve watched you all night, falling more and more under your spell. The only thing that’s going to save me is to paint you. I thought I wasn’t going to do it. But I have to.”
“You mean our bargain. The one we hadn’t actually made yet.” She was confused. She thought that hadn’t mattered anymore. And she thought it didn’t need to matter—not after he’d talked about future changes for the estate. Not after he’d chosen to take care of Diana and Ellen. “Where you said you’d be willing to leave Worthington untouched while you painted me?”
“I’m willing to give you anything you want for it, Julia.”