Authors: Brenda Joyce
“That’s odd. Because I haven’t.”
Suzanne was drained, as if he had physically sucked away all of her energy, and she slumped against him, exhausted.
Jake released her. “Why isn’t Sofie married?” he asked again.
“She is in no rush,” Suzanne said coldly. She was so angry, she would not tell him anything. After all, he had
lied to them both, to her and Sofie. What tight did he have to appear now, causing havoc? He had forfeited his rights as far as she and Sofie were concerned.
“She is almost twenty-one.”
“She is studying art,” Suzanne spat.
Jake suddenly smiled. “I know. Do you think I wouldn’t know as much as I can about my own daughter? She is very talented, isn’t she?” Pride made his voice rich and deep.
Suzanne backed away. “Her art is insane—like you are! How do you know about her? From all the times you have come here, lurking about, spying?”
“I’ve also hired investigators,” Jake said flatly.
Suddenly Suzanne thought about the necklace she wore, paid for by funds she had taken from Sofie’s trust. She deserved that money, but Jake would be furious if he knew she had taken some of what he’d given to their daughter. It was a risky topic, but Suzanne could not ignore it. “You didn’t leave me a cent, you bastard.”
“You didn’t deserve a cent.”
They stared at each other. It occurred to Suzanne that Jake was still a wanted man. That if he were caught, he would be returned to Great Britain—and to prison.
His golden eyes darkened. “Don’t even think it,” he warned.
She smiled. “Think what?”
“I’ve established a new identity for myself. One you will never learn of. And I’m now a successful businessman in Ireland and even in England, too. It is ironic, is it not? I have even moved in some higher circles here in the city—with care, of course. Don’t even think of blowing the whistle, Suzanne. Because if you do, you will go down with me.”
Suzanne was frozen, knowing he meant it.
Jake smiled; it was not pleasant. Suddenly his hand slid over her full, nearly bare breast. Suzanne gasped, with pleasure as well as outrage. He leaned close now, his magic fingers kneading. “Does he even satisfy you, Suzanne?” he mocked. They both knew he was referring to Benjamin. “I’ve seen him. I doubt you even think of him when you’re in his bed.”
Suzanne moaned, closing her eyes. “Oh God, you’re right!”
Jake pushed up her breast, freeing it, bent, took the distended tip between his teeth and tugged. Suzanne cried out. He laved the nipple thoroughly, then began to suck. Suzanne felt her knees grow weak. Then Jake nipped her, just hard enough for a shaft of pain to mingle with the pleasure, heightening it. Suzanne gasped, clinging, her mind spinning.
But then Jake lifted his head, and their gazes met. He fingered her nipple. “You won’t turn me in, Suzanne, and we both know it. Because if you do, you won’t be able to hope that one night I’ll slip into your bed with you and give you
exactly
what you need.”
Suzanne whimpered, “I need you now.”
He laughed. “Obviously.” Suddenly he straightened, removing her hands from his person and setting her aside. “But I need to have all my strength when Lou Anne comes home tonight.”
Suzanne screamed incoherently.
“And if that’s not enough for you, then think on this,” Jake said coldly. “If the truth comes out, you are going to be destroyed.” He stared. “You and Sofie.”
Suzanne stared, her breasts heaving.
His smile was twisted. “You’d be labeled a bigamist, dear, and upright Benjamin would throw you and our daughter out on your ass, right into the street. And we both know how much respectability means to you, don’t we? Not to mention money.” His white teeth flashed. “I’d take care of Sofie—but you won’t get a penny from me. Not one goddamn penny. Good-bye, Suzanne.” Suddenly he laughed, mocking her. “Sweet dreams, darling.”
“Jake!” Suzanne screamed, but he was walking away. She gave in and wept, in fury and frustration and despair. “Damn you, Jake!”
But the night had enveloped him; he was gone.
Paris—November 1901
S
ofie stood on the sidewalk in front of the tall wrought-iron gates of the Gare St. Lazare, clutching Paul Verault’s address in her gloved hand. Her heart was pounding in excitement. Not just at the prospect of seeing her art teacher again, but because, at last, she was in France.
All around her was chaos of an infinitely interesting kind, taking her mind off her worries. Frenchmen and women and children from all stations of life were scurrying to and from the largest train depot in Paris. Beside her, a Negro porter was signaling a gleaming black hansom forward from a line of such waiting carriages. When she had given him Verault’s address, he had tried to tell her that she did not have far to go, that she could take the Metro, but Sofie, dazed from the journey from Le Havre, much less from crossing the Atlantic, had politely declined.
Sofie’s wide gaze as she stood on the Rue D’Amsterdam took in the heavy vehicular traffic of the tree-lined avenue, traffic that was hardly any different from any great city: the hansoms, the coaches and carriages, the lorries and drays and the cable cars. But the people were different. She thought that the slim Frenchwomen were very attractive and exceedingly stylish, the slender gentlemen dashing and debonair. The flurry of exotic French surrounding her was enticing as well.
Sofie knew, then, that she had done the right thing in coming to France. For the first time in three months, the anguish in her breast had dulled and become tolerable.
“Sofie, we really should check you directly into the
pension first,” Sofie’s chaperon said tersely.
Sofie sighed, turning to face the ever dour Mrs. Crandal. Suzanne had hired the tall, middle-aged widow to accompany her across the Atlantic, and to stay with her until Sofie found her own companion. They had agreed that Sofie would choose as she saw fit, but that the servant must be a Frenchwoman. That she would be someone who would probably never go to New York, and if she did, she would never move in society, anyway—and thus would never be able to reveal Sofie’s secrets. “Why don’t you go ahead, and I’ll meet you there after I’ve had a chance to speak with Monsieur Verault?” Sofie suggested.
Mrs. Crandal’s eyes widened in shock. “I am your chaperon, miss!”
Sofie managed a polite smile. How could she forget?
In October Sofie had realized that she was pregnant. For the first time in her life, her prayers had been answered. It was strange how there could be so much joy and anticipation with so much grief and so much pain. Sofie had gone to Suzanne instantly, and her mother had insisted Sofie leave for Paris long before any sign of the pregnancy would be visible. Sofie had more than left New York—she had fled New York. She had fled
him,
and all the unsavory gossip associated with him.
Sofie wished she did not know any of it, but Suzanne had been oblivious to the fact that she was rubbing salt in Sofie’s wounds every time she brought up Edward’s name. Sofie had heard all about his scandalous social life—the women and drinking and all of it. She’d heard that he frequented the opera and he always had a female companion, usually a singer or actress and sometimes even a prostitute. She had heard that he had lost a small fortune gambling, as well. She knew he still escorted Hilary Stewart about from time to time. She knew he was no longer welcome in polite society, and knowing Edward as she did, she was certain he was not indifferent to the scorn and disapproval now heaped upon him by her class, who had once admired and envied him.
And, strangest of all, he had bought a large lot on the corner of Seventy-eighth street and Fifth Avenue and he
had begun to build what appeared to be a huge mansion that might rival any one of the three grandiose Vanderbilt homes just twenty-odd blocks downtown.
Sofie wondered if he would live there alone, or if he had changed his mind—if he now wanted a wife and family. In the beginning, tears had poured down her cheeks every time she thought about it. No more. She was still sensible enough to know that even if she had accepted his proposal of marriage, she would never be happy because she would only represent
duty
to him—not love.
Sofie started when Mrs. Crandal jerked on her arm. “If you insist on seeing your art teacher before anything else, then let’s go. The sooner we do, the sooner we can check into the pension and have a hot bath and a hot meal.”
The porter was summoning them forward as he hefted their valises into the back of the hired cab, as well as a large trunk, filled with Sofie’s precious art supplies. Sofie, regaining her composure, called out,
“s’ il vous plaît, monsieur.
Take care of my trunk!”
Sofie climbed into the hansom, forcing thoughts of Edward aside. It was as impossible as forgetting him. The most she could do was gain a brief respite. Determined, Sofie leaned forward to look out the window and observe all that she could of the city she had dreamed of for years.
“Monsieur, où est-il?”
Sofie asked, her French hardly fluent but certainly passable.
The driver glanced back at her from his seat above her. He was young and dark, in knee-high boots and a jaunty black cap and a dark wool jacket.
“Ce n’est pas loin mademoiselle.”
he answered, assuring her that Verauit’s was not far. “The address you have given me is on the Butte.”
“The Butte?” Sofie echoed.
“Montmartre,” he explained. Then, swiveling to look at her again, he said,
“Pour vous?”
He shook his head.
“Beaucoup des bohèmes, mademoiselle. Pas du tout convenable.”
Sofie’s eyes widened and she stared at his slim back. He had just told her that Montmartre was bohemian and hardly suitable for her.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Crandal spoke French rather well,
too—Suzanne had hired her for precisely that reason. “Bohemians! He lives among bohemians!” she cried, ashen. “We should turn around right this minute!”
“He is my friend,” Sofie said softly but firmly. Since she had embarked on her journey, Paul had become more than just her friend, he had become a badly needed sanctuary. She knew she must immerse herself in her art in order to escape Edward. It was easier said than done. These past few months she had tried to work without any real passion, and her efforts had produced one disaster after another. Despite the fact that just before departing, she had learned that
A Gentleman at Newport Beach
had been sold. Not only should she have been far more thrilled, she should have been inspired, but she was not.
“You said he was your instructor!” Mrs. Crandal said sharply.
“Yes—and my friend.” But Sofie felt some trepidation. She doubted her letter to Paul, informing him of her arrival, had reached him yet. It had been posted merely a week in advance of her own departure, due to the rush she had been in.
They entered the Place de Clichy, and Sofie made an effort to admire an old church on the southern corner as they passed it, turning right onto the Boulevard de Clichy. Her heart quickened. Small saloons and cafés lined the streets, and even though it was cool out, many small tables were outside, all occupied by boisterous patrons, and she could see that the establishments were crowded and busy both inside and out.
A theater advertised nightly performances by the incomparable Madame Coco. A group of shabbily dressed young men exited one café, their arms around one another, singing a rowdy French tune. A very pretty woman in short skirts lounged in a nearby doorway, and the men and woman exchanged greetings. Then one of the men pulled her close, and Sofie caught his words, which were quite suggestive and amorous, and knowing very well what he wanted now, she blushed.
What kind of place was this? she thought in alarm. Surely Paul Verault did not live here with his family! Montmartre
seemed to be a thoroughly disreputable neighborhood.
Mrs. Crandal was voicing those very same thoughts aloud. “We can’t be stopping here! Why, there’s nothing but hooligans and shady ladies on the streets! Sofie?”
They turned the corner, passing a larger, very noisy saloon, one crammed inside to overflowing, the tunes of a piano and loud singing and laughter drifting onto the street. The red, oversize sign hanging in front was impossible to miss: Moulin Rouge. Sofie’s heart skipped. She knew very well that when Toulouse-Lautrec was alive, he had frequented this very spot. She had seen one of his prints of this infamous cabaret, one she had very much admired.
Sofie began to tremble. Dear God, she was here, truly here, in Paris, where the greatest old masters had once lived, where David had been bom, where Corot and Millet and the incredible Gustave Courbet had worked and struggled and lived, where even today she might glimpse her favorite living artists: men like Degas and Cézanne, or even the glorious expatriate American, Mary Cassatt.
“Mrs. Crandal,” she said firmly, “this is a neighborhood of artists, and I intend to visit my friend Monsieur Verault. If you are afraid, you can wait in the hansom.”
Mrs. Crandal’s jaw tightened. “I am going to write your mother about this.”
Sofie felt some dismay, but did not bother to respond. She wouldn’t want her mother upset, but Suzanne could not rule Sofie’s life now.
They turned another corner and the hansom came to a stop. “We have arrived, demoiselle, 13, Rue des Abbesses.”
Excitement was rushing hotly through Sofie and she stumbled from the carriage in her eagerness. While the driver unloaded her bags, she found the francs necessary to pay him. The driver grinned at her, rakish and charming, then leaned close. “If you are ever lonely,
ma chère,
my name is Pierre Rochefort, and you can find me at the Café en Gris in the Latin Quarter.” With another grin he bowed and vaulted onto his seat, leaving Sofie staring after him in surprise.
Whatever had elicited that? she wondered, bemused.
“Hooligans, every last French one of them!” Mrs. Crandal
cried angrily. “How your mother could allow you to come here is beyond me!”
Sofie turned away and stared up at the brownstone building, number 13. She became nervous. Standing there on the narrow street in a strange and exotic neighborhood, one at once charming and suspect, the passersby somewhat disarming in their appearance (Sofie suspected a few might be actual criminals), alone in a foreign city with only Mrs. Crandal as an ally, alone and pregnant, Sofie could not help but be apprehensive and afraid. When Verault had left New York, his wife had been ill, and it was very possible she was arriving at a difficult time.