Maddie looked around to see the young photographer from Charing Cross Station standing in the doorway with his hat in his hands. His tightly curled blond hair and the supplicatory expression on his pale face—very much a lamb, indeed, Maddie thought with a smile—made him look even younger than she had at first glance supposed him to be.
“He seems to have found me instead,” she said and, curious to hear what he wanted from her, smiled at young man in an encouraging way that he wasted no time in misinterpreting.
“Mrs. Malcolm?” he said, approaching her and handing her his card. “My name is Laurence Fox.” This was confirmed by the engraved calling card that also stated,
Photographer of Famous Faces
.
Her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Maddie motioned Mr. Fox to sit down. He did so without taking his eyes away from Maddie’s face, charmingly unaware that his sleeve had brushed the jam pot and his bowler hat had missed the table and fallen on the floor.
Florence caught Maddie’s eye and winked, then scrawled her signature across the chit for their tea and stood up, declaring that she would keep Geoffrey waiting for his dinner if she did not go up at once and begin the ceremony of changing her clothes. Mr. Fox jumped up again to shake her hand and be overwhelmed by her professed delight at meeting him, then sank slowly back into his chair as Florence drifted away in a cloud of jasmine and lace.
“Some tea, Mr. Fox?” Maddie said, her eyes warm with amusement at his expression. He was a curious cross between an awkward schoolboy—and a very good school it must have been, judging from his accent and manners—and a man confident of his professional abilities.
“I beg your pardon?” he said before he noticed the clean teacup Maddie was holding invitingly up to him. “Oh ... yes, thank you.”
Maddie poured the tea and maintained her silence long enough for Mr. Fox to regain his equilibrium before she inquired after the fate of his camera.
“I left it with the hall porter,” he said.
“I’m glad it came to no harm as a result of your little misadventure in the street earlier.”
“Oh, no, ma’am. It’s a sturdy old machine. Anyway, I paid a shilling to the boy who rescued it, which seemed ample to ensure its safety between Charing Cross and the hotel.”
“And did you also discover my name from the hall porter?”
“Yes, I did.” Mr. Fox put down his cup and assumed a more straight-backed posture, as if in preparation for a speech. “I trust you will forgive my boldness, ma’am, but the fact is ... I would like to take your photograph. With your permission, that is to say.”
“Why my photograph, particularly?” Madeleine asked. “You have seen Mrs. Wingate, who is more beautiful than I am and, I expect, a more suitable subject. Why don’t you ask her to pose for you?”
“I intend to,” Mr. Fox admitted. “But I saw you first, and—begging your pardon again, ma’am—you have a kind of beauty that is rare here. Mrs. Wingate’s is almost English, you see, while you are unmistakably American. Or at least, most English people’s idea of American.”
“Oh, dear,” Maddie said. “I’m not at all certain that I care to represent my country in such a way.”
“Oh, but the English are mad for the Gibson girl look,” Mr. Fox assured her, “and you are that look brought to life! Why, I could have your photograph in every illustrated magazine in the country within a month. You would be the most celebrated professional beauty since Lillie Langtry!”
Maddie had to laugh at the young man’s eagerness. “But why should I want that?”
“Why?” This put the first damper on Mr. Fox’s enthusiasm. “Well, I mean, wouldn’t you
like
to be so widely admired?”
This was obviously the first time he had encountered a woman whose first desire was not to be praised for her beauty, but Maddie was reluctant to refuse poor Mr. Fox outright. It occurred to her suddenly that if, as she had told Devin Grant, she wished to make her presence in England known, this was a quick, painless—and, if Mr. Fox’s influence was as wide as he intimated it to be—foolproof way of going about it.
“I should add that I do not photograph only ladies,” Mr. Fox said, interpreting her hesitation as a sign of modesty, or even suspicion of his motives, as if such an open, ingenuous face could conceal even the slightest improper intention. “I have photographed many of the most important ladies
and
gentlemen in England. I am reluctant to name all of them, but I carry with me some of the studies I have supplied to the illustrateds and the newspapers.”
So saying, Mr. Fox drew a slim leather case, divided into compartments to hold photographs, from his jacket pocket and displayed the contents. Maddie recognized the faces of several members of the nobility—Florence would doubtless have known them all—as well as the musical hall luminary Lottie Collins and the actor George Alexander.
This gave Maddie another idea, and she interrupted Mr. Fox’s persuasions before he reached the undignified stage of pleading with her.
“Do these gentlemen subjects of yours by any chance include Mr. Peter Kropotkin?”
“Indeed, yes!” Mr. Fox exclaimed happily. “The famous anarchist theorist, a surprisingly kind and modest gentleman. Are you acquainted with him, Mrs. Malcolm?”
“No, but I should like to be,” Maddie said, “perhaps ... as a fair exchange for my sitting for you?”
Mr. Fox considered this proposal and found it satisfactory, if unorthodox. “I should be pleased to perform the introduction for you, ma’am,” he said. “When would be a convenient time for you to come to my studio?”
“Shall we say, the day after I meet Mr. Kropotkin?”
Mr. Fox grinned appreciatively. “So it shall be, ma’am. If you will excuse me, then, I shall go away immediately to make the arrangements.”
He held out his hand to shake hers in a businesslike fashion, and Maddie heard herself saying for the second time that day, “Good-bye. I look forward to hearing from you again shortly.”
“Be assured of it, ma’am,” Mr. Fox said, retrieving his hat and tipping it to her. “Good-bye.”
Maddie watched him go, giving him a little wave when he turned at the door for one more look at her and blushed to find her observing him. She smiled, sighed, and rose to go up to her suite, very soon putting even the winsome Mr. Fox out of her mind in anticipation of a long, hot bath.
But she found it difficult to soothe away entirely the events of the day, even in a luxuriously fragrant tubful of steaming water, with Louise within earshot and a glass of champagne within reach. Teddy had taught her that trick, saying a warm bath was always more invigorating when accompanied by chilled champagne. It was nonsense, of course, but Maddie had fallen into the habit, and now Louise brought the wine even when she hadn’t asked for it.
She took a thoughtful sip. Teddy was full of ideas that sounded like nonsense but were not always far from wisdom. He believed life was to be enjoyed, and since Maddie had never had any reason to believe otherwise, she had joined in his games.
#
Teddy had been so eager to initiate her into every pleasure life offered, and Maddie was a willing student from the first heady days of his courtship. He had stood out at once from the rest of her beaux, if only because he really seemed to enjoy coming to see her and doing nothing more when he got there than sitting in the parlor gazing at her. Of course that didn’t satisfy Teddy for long. After he had sized her up and guessed that she was open to a little fun, he began to tease her, trying to lure her into impropriety. He would stand against the parlor wall, where the others could not see him, and make faces or imitate their lovelorn looks, until finally she did laugh, unable to explain why to the others, for as soon as she laughed, Teddy immediately sat down again and behaved himself.
Soon his games became verbal. He would pass her in me street or sit next to her at someone’s dinner party or dance past her in the Virginia reel and whisper something in her ear to make her blush, innocent compliments at first, then real words of love, then more intimate confessions that she blushed at even as she tried to laugh them away. The truth was that they thrilled her. She would go home at night and remember them, and her body would behave inexplicably at the thoughts that ran through her head. She looked forward eagerly to seeing Teddy again, to hear what outrageously improper thing he would say next.
When he began to touch her discreetly—still in public, stealing kisses like sugared almonds from the glass dish in the parlor—it seemed only the next step in the courtship. Constance had never told Maddie what she should allow, or not allow, from her beaux, and Maddie did not want to ask now. She was vaguely aware that “nice girls” did not admit to such stirrings as she felt at the things Teddy said and did. So she did not admit them, but she did enjoy them. Teddy’s kisses never went beyond the gently chaste caresses she had seen depicted in romantic paintings—except once, and that had been her doing.
They had gone with a party of friends for a moonlight cruise on the river, and Teddy had lured her into a shadowed corner of the deck, away from the noisy laughter of the others. He was in one of his playful moods and threatened to throw her overboard. He even picked her up to do it, and Maddie had tightened her grip on him, pretending to be frightened. Then, as if he were aware that the mood had changed, he abruptly let her go.
But Maddie would not be let go. She kept her arms around his neck and pressed her body against the length of his, instinctively fitting it into his masculine angles and hollows, and when she felt a hard, alien pressure against her middle, she was no more frightened than before. She pulled his head down to her mouth, and this time he kissed her properly, and she knew that his searching tongue was only a substitute for another, more intimate kind of exploration. Even as she reveled in his kiss, it was not enough. She wanted that other kiss.
Shaken, Teddy pushed her away. “I think we’d better get married, sweetheart, don’t you?” he asked.
Maddie looked at him and for a moment could not think why they needed to bother with that. But of course, he would not go any further any other way; that was what being a gentleman meant.
“Oh, yes,” she said finally, breathlessly. “Teddy, can we elope?”
He laughed. “Certainly not! Your mother would never speak to me again.”
“You can say it was my idea.”
“Even worse! She’ll think I got you ... well, never mind, sweetheart. We’ll get married as soon as it’s decent, all right?”
Maddie had to settle for that and passed the next months in a fever of impatience; and when at last they set off for New Orleans and their honeymoon, it was as if a new life had opened up for her. It was not that she had been confined in St. Louis—except by her own impatience—but only that in New Orleans she felt so free. She knew at once that she loved traveling as much as Teddy did, or at least she adored traveling with Teddy, who made everything a new adventure, from browsing in the open markets along the riverfront to sleeping late and waking to huge cups of
cafe au lait
brought to them in bed. And visiting New Orleans was like seeing a dozen countries at once; Spain and France and Mexico and Cuba and Louisiana lived side by side on the narrow streets.
They had come by riverboat, remembering that they had become engaged on one, and they spent as much time on the river as they could. But they also reveled in the wonderful restaurants of the French Quarter, happily stuffing themselves on creole dishes rich in cream and spices and seafoods Maddie had never heard of before, and going home giddy from the champagne Teddy soon taught Maddie was the only wine worth drinking. Teddy even liked to go shopping with her and sat contentedly for hours while she tried on the most fashionable dresses in the city and he made knowledgeable comments about everything from hats to tea gowns to chemises.
Oh, Teddy, I can’t decide between these two gowns!
Sweetheart, it couldn’t be simpler—take both of them!
It seemed that they laughed all the time in New Orleans. Everything they did, they enjoyed. It was fun being with Teddy just because he was so good-looking, with his fair hair that fell over his forehead and that dimple in his chin. And he was so pleasant that everyone they met, especially the women, stared at him in admiration. But he never looked at any other woman when he was with her.
She did not forget the hurts she had suffered at the hands of the fortune hunters she had once been foolish enough to believe were as fond of her as they were of her father’s money, and she was never again quite so trusting as she had been of treacherous Richard Brokmeyer. That now well-ingrained suspicion of anything or anyone that seemed too good or too much fun to be true made her take a deep breath and a second thought every now and then, while Teddy went full speed ahead without her, and she had to run to catch up.
Oh, Teddy, can’t we just stay in today?
Certainly not! And waste this beautiful day?
It must have been this inability of hers to trust, to give herself completely, Maddie decided much later, that prevented their honeymoon from being the blissful idyll Teddy had promised her and that she had fully expected. She had waited so long, anticipated so much—too much.
On their first night together, he had been thoughtful and gentle, leading her along so that she would get as much pleasure from their lovemaking as he did. And she had—at first. Teddy’s kisses had made her feel warm inside and out. The sight of his naked body, as beautiful without clothes as with, quickened her pulse. And his touch on her own bare skin made her heart race.
You’re so beautiful,
he told her reverently, leading her to their bed as if it were an altar where he would worship her—and he did, tracing soft kisses up and down the length of her body, making her dark eyes glow and her firm, generous breasts ache in anticipation. He had warned her, as kindly as he could, that the first time would hurt, so that she was almost disappointed when it didn’t, and he slid into her effortlessly, almost without her feeling it.
Do you love me?
he asked, as he was thrusting into her.
Say you love me!
So she did.