I shrugged. “It does not matter now. I have thought how easy it would be to put an end to this, to resume my life and pretend none of this ever happened. But I cannot. It is changing me, has changed me. And I do not know yet if it is for the better.”
He did not pity me, and I blessed him for that. Had there been any sympathy, any kindness in his eyes, I would have crumpled. But that cool, appraising stare pricked at my pride. I raised my chin, determined to retain my dignity at least. And as always, he told me the truth, unvarnished and plain.
“You will not know until it is done. And then, only you will know if the cost has been too high, if the change has been too great.”
I nodded, and our eyes met. We were comrades now, bound more closely than lovers, it occurred to me. Lovers may quarrel and part company. We were linked, irreparably, until this thing was finished. And in one of those rare moments of harmony, I knew that he felt it as well, this bond that we could neither explain nor break. I did not know if he was comfortable with the knowledge, or if perhaps he resented it. But he knew it as clearly as I did.
He moved quickly then, putting his cup on the table and bringing out his notebook. His manner was crisp as he outlined the places to which I would have to pay careful attention, the details I must not overlook. It was awkward to read upside down across the little table, so I went to sit beside him on the sofa. He talked briskly, turning once to make certain I was paying careful attention to his instructions. We were sitting in close proximity, his leg very nearly pressing against mine on the tiny sofa, the black wool of his sleeve brushing my silk as he sketched on the paper. I caught the scent of his soap and something else—something that made it rather difficult to breathe. It reminded me of bay rum, but smoother, without the sharpness of the spice. It was a mellow scent, perhaps it was the smell of Brisbane himself. It was warm on the terrace, the air heavy with rain that had not yet fallen and voluptuous with the fragrance of Madame de Bellefleur’s syringa. Together, the lowering sky, the combination of scents, were a heady mix. I could not focus clearly on what he was saying. Instead I watched his hands, one penciling broad, sweeping strokes while the other gripped his notebook. They were large hands, and not quite a gentleman’s. The nails were short and clean, but there were a few scars crossing the knuckles, and a callus or two, possibly from riding without gloves. They were deft, competent hands, and I could not imagine a single task they could not perform.
The wind rose then, blowing a shower of syringa petals onto his black hair, spangling the shoulders of his coat like confetti. Some dropped onto my lap and I gathered a handful, crushing them to release the thick fragrance into my fingers. Had I been with anyone else, it would have been an achingly romantic scene. And for the space of half a heartbeat, I wondered…
But then he turned, his expression forbidding.
“You have petals in your hair,” he said, gesturing toward my cropped curls.
I reached up and brushed at them, sending a flurry of petals over his hands.
He tore the page he had been filling out of the notebook and thrust it at me, almost angrily. He rose, dripping petals onto the stones of the terrace.
“Mind you do not fail,” he said severely. “Everything depends upon this. I cannot like leaving this in your hands.”
Stung, I clutched at the paper. “I can do this,” I protested. “You have told me what to look for, and I assure you I can be discreet.”
He regarded me for a long moment, then gave a little snort of disgust. “What choice do I have?”
He turned, crushing the flowers beneath his heel, and went inside, to fetch Madame de Bellefleur, I expected. I folded the paper carefully and placed it inside my reticule, thinking that I had been quite stupid to wonder, if only for a moment. Apparently Brisbane only found me attractive when he was out of his senses.
To my credit, I managed to comb the petals from my hair and compose myself before Brisbane returned with Madame de Bellefleur on his arm.
We talked idly for a few minutes, about nothing in particular, when Brisbane rose suddenly.
“I have business to attend to at home,” he announced. Despite Madame’s protests he left us, bowing coolly to me and giving Madame’s hand a dryly affectionate kiss. The difference could not have been more marked. But he need not have bothered. I was firmly in my place. I would not think of stirring from it again.
The atmosphere lightened a little after he left, and Madame and I remained on the terrace, watching the failing light cast long shadows over the garden.
“This is a charming house, Madame, and so prettily situated. You must be very comfortable here.”
She nodded eagerly. “Oh, it is so. I am so very grateful to Nicholas.” She pronounced it “Neekolas.”
I blinked at her. “Oh, I should have realized. Brisbane has provided the house.”
“He provides me with an annuity, as do a few other of my friends,” she corrected me. “But Nicholas found the house for me and arranged the purchase. It was exactly what I wanted after all those years of wandering. A house of my own.”
She stretched a little, catlike, her limbs supple and sleek. She moved like a dancer, and I wondered if this was part of the courtesan’s repertoire.
“So many cities, so many rented rooms,” she reminisced, her expression dreamy. “I did not even know where I was sometimes. I would have to tell Therese to ask the maids. Always living on someone else’s sufferance…” Her tone was not bitter, but I caught a trace of something akin to it. Regret?
“But surely your husbands…that is, you married, did you not? Their homes would have been yours.”
She laughed her light, musical laugh. “Spoken like an Englishwoman! You have never married a Continental, my dear, or you would know better. My third husband, a Russian prince—never marry a Russian, my darling. They are the gloomiest husbands. Always complaining about the money, the leaking roof, the furniture being sold to pay for the repairs. Serge once sold my favorite bed literally out from under me. They came to take it away while I was sleeping in it. They carried it off with the bedlinen still warm.”
“Good heavens!”
She shrugged. “Well, I suppose he thought it justified. I did have a lover in the bed with me at the time,” she added with a wicked gleam in her eye.
In spite of myself, I laughed. She was so frank about her adventures that it was difficult to be judgmental. I relaxed and listened to her stories, each more colourful than the next. She sent Therese to a chophouse to buy our dinner and we ate there on the terrace, wrapping shawls about our shoulders and sharing a bottle of remarkably nice Burgundy. By the time we had finished pudding, she was calling me Julia (“Zhuleea”) and begging me to call her Fleur.
“It was my childhood nickname,” she told me. “But I always thought it was pretty.”
