The Notorious Lady Grantham: A Grantham Girls companion novella Page 3

  Just the thought of it warmed her face.

  “It's a waltz,” Archie said, leading her to the edge of the floor where couples twirled. “It's not my strongest. Be gentle with me.”

  The mild, teasing innuendo wasn't lost on her.

  “I'm afraid my dancing is quite provincial, too.”

  “Well then,” Archie said, turning her to face him and placing his hand on her waist. “We'll have to hang on to each other to survive.”

  “I suppose we will.” Gazing up into his face, Gen felt herself hovering at the edge of a great precipice. But there was no fear of danger, only a longing to tumble helplessly over the edge.

  “Don't worry,” Archie said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I won't let you fall.”

  Oh, it was far too late for that. She was afraid she might already be falling.

  Archie was a liar. He danced beautifully, with effortless elegance and grace, for a man so tall. All of Gen's dancing had been learned in the scruffy dance halls of Belleville and Montmartre, mostly rambunctious country reels. Archie moved like a man who'd had formal instruction, which was curious, as he looked like just another Montmartre bohemian. He was from the British Isles, she could hear that in his accent, but she knew nothing else about him. Right now, the details seemed completely irrelevant. The important things—the look in his eyes as he stared down at her, the soft smile appearing now and then—those were the only things that concerned her in this heady moment.

  “You lied to me,” she said.

  Archie’s eyes widened. “Pardon?”

  “You’re an excellent dancer.”

  His shoulders softened with relief, and he graced her with another of those perfect smiles. “The right partner makes all the difference, I suppose.”

  Her heart nearly exploded with a rush of happiness.

  Couples swirled past her, and the lanterns cast flickering shadows on faces, lending a dream-like quality to the atmosphere. It was a moonless night, and the summer sky was full of stars. The music of the waltz swelled and receded as Archie moved her across the floor. This night, this dance, felt like utter magic.

  Eventually, to her eternal sadness, the waltz ended, but Archie didn’t relinquish his hold on her.

  “Stay for another?”

  There wasn’t a chance on earth she’d say no. The music switched, this time to a lively reel, much more suited to the kind of dancing she’d learned.

  Archie glanced around himself nervously. “I’m not sure I know this one.”

  “Ah, this one’s easy. It’s just a simple country dance. Just follow me.”

  Another smile that curled her toes, and his eyes fixed on hers. “Gladly. Anywhere.”

  This dance was more energetic, and Archie was focused on following her directions, so a little of the magic of the waltz disappeared. But he still held her waist; her hand was still clutched in his. Instead of long looks and intimate smiles, they shared laughter as they stumbled over missed steps and wrong directions. It was a different kind of magic.

  When the song came to an end, they were both panting with exertion.

  “Ready for a drink?” he asked.

  “Indeed.”

  Archie placed a hand on her back to steer her through the crowd to a long table off to the side. Gen sought out a glimpse of Leo through the press of people. Surely he’d missed her by now. Perhaps he’d been watching her dance with Archie, she thought with a guilty pang. But she found him right where she’d left him, head bent toward André as they huddled in conversation. He hadn’t even noticed she’d gone. Turning her back on Leo, she let Archie help her to a seat.

  He ordered them a pitcher of wine and some bread and cheese.

  “Is this all right?” he asked as the waiter departed. “Your sitting with me? Will Leo mind?”

  Gen gave a disgusted laugh. “Right now, Leo wouldn’t notice if I caught fire.”

  Archie stared down at the table, dragging his thumbnail back and forth through a groove in the wood. “Is he… Are you having difficulties, then?”

  She sighed, suddenly weary. “Things just haven’t been the same lately. He’s changed.”

  “So you’ve been together for a very long time?” Gen kept her eyes on her hands because she didn’t trust herself to look up and see the sadness she heard in his voice reflected in his eyes.

  “We’ve known each other since we were children. We only… It became something more last year. But now our lives are going in very different directions, I think.”

  “Which direction is yours going in, Gen?”

  Now she did look up, smiling. “Well, at the moment, just to work in the shop tomorrow. But someday…” Breaking off, she shook her head. “No, I sound foolish.”

  Briefly, he nudged the side of her hand with his. “You could never sound foolish. Tell me.”

  “I want to see the world. I don’t know how I’d manage it since I’ve spent my whole life in Paris. I’ve scarcely even left Belleville, where I live. But that’s what I’d wish for, if I could have anything.”

  “Where would you go first?”

  “Oh, I don’t know…Italy? Or perhaps Greece. Wait… This is a dream, right?”

  Archie chuckled. “Yes, and since we’re dreaming, you can go anywhere.”

  “Then I’ll start with Rome and Crete. And then perhaps Marrakesh. Then Constantinople, and then maybe St. Petersburg. And Tahiti! Why not Tahiti? And after that, I suppose I’ll just see where the wind blows me.”

  “Tahiti and the wind. A very solid plan.” Archie nodded solemnly.

  Gen laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Don’t tease. I told you it was foolish.”

  “Not foolish,” he said. “It sounds lovely.”

  “And what of you? What do you dream of, Archie?”

  He looked at her, long and steadily—so long that her heart began to pound with awareness. Finally, he spoke, his voice loud enough to reach her and no further.

  “I’m living my dream right now.”

  A blissful rush of warmth suffused her body. “Oh?”

  Archie blinked, as if remembering himself, and sat up a bit straighter. “Yes, I came to Paris to paint, to be around other painters. And here I am.”

  “You’re a painter?”

  He shrugged with self-deprecation. “Well, I’m studying to be one.”

  “It’s your passion, then?”

  His eyes lit up with excitement. “It’s all I want to do with my life. If I could live and die with a paintbrush in my hand, I’d want for nothing.”

  His enthusiasm made her smile. “It must be wonderful to love something so much to devote your whole life to it.”

  His smile faded somewhat. “There’s a cost to dreams, though.”

  “And what have you paid to be here, Archie?”

  “Everything? I’m a bit on the outs with my family.”

  “They don’t approve?” She imagined some stodgy middle-class family in a respectable little village somewhere, the kind that had sent her mother fleeing from England with the first exciting man who’d crossed her path. Of course, a family like that would never approve of painting, of Paris, of Montmartre.

  He shook his head. “But I’m not sorry. I’m where I was meant to be, doing what I was meant to do. The rest…well, it’ll work itself out, right?”

  His passion was inspiring. All of Leo’s dedication without the ugly anger tainting it.

  “I’d love to see your work sometime.”

  “Just a moment.” Archie began searching through the pockets of his jacket, producing a small, leather-bound notebook and a pencil. He held them up to her in question. “May I draw you?”

  “You want to draw me?”

  “It would be an honor.”

  Suddenly self-conscious, she reached up to touch her hair.

  “Stop,” Archie said softly. “You look lovely.”

  It didn’t escape her that he’d just uttered the very words she’d been hoping to hear from Leo earlier. “How
shall I sit?”

  “You’re perfect just as you are.”

  It was difficult, holding still as he glanced from his small notebook to her and back again. To keep from fidgeting, she focused on him. As he bent over his notebook, his shiny chestnut curls fell across his forehead, shading his eyes. His hands were lovely, very large, with long, tapered fingers which clutched the pencil moving rapidly across the page.

  With his attention diverted, she felt free to look her fill. Although he was tall and lanky, his shoulders were rather broad, hinting at a power in his frame hidden by his loose linen jacket. He wore no neck tie. The collar of his shirt was open, gaping as he leaned forward, revealing the lovely sculptural shape of his neck, the divot at the base of his throat, and a tantalizing glimpse of his upper chest.

  She knew, with a mingling sense of arousal and guilt, that she desired Archie like she’d never desired a man before, not even Leo. She was going to have to extricate herself from her relationship with Leo before these feelings for Archie led her to betray him in a way that was unworthy of her. She might be the daughter of a kept woman, but she refused to alter her own sense of right and wrong as a result.

  Archie, oblivious to her inner turmoil, stayed focused on his drawing. Well, on the drawing, and on her. His eyes roamed over her with a different kind of intensity, leaving her feeling exposed. If he stared at her too long this way, he was sure to discover she was nothing so very special. Another poor shopgirl from Paris, with a disreputable mother and no father whatsoever. But when he straightened up and turned the notebook to face her, that wasn’t what he’d seen at all.

  It was a loose sketch in pencil, but it seemed to capture every essential element of her perfectly. The slope of her nose, the curve of her lips, the long, dark sweep of her nearly-black hair. And what he’d done with her eyes was remarkable. She’d always thought them the most ordinary, dark, flat brown. But under Archie’s hand, they sparkled with life and wit. She looked so happy in his drawing, so vibrant and vital. Was that really what she looked like to the whole world, or was it only for Archie?

  “Look at what you’ve done, Archie! And here I always thought myself so dull to look at.”

  “Dull?” He shook his head in wonder. “Why on earth do you think yourself dull?”

  She shrugged. “Dark hair, dark eyes… nothing special.” Not, at least, compared to her mother’s blond, blue-eyed prettiness.

  “Hair like a raven’s wing. Eyes like obsidian.”

  She glanced up at him, and their eyes caught for a moment, before they both burst into laughter. “I’m sorry,” Archie chuckled. “I’m a painter, not a poet.”

  “I like the sentiment,” she said sincerely, tracing a finger down the side of her own face in his notebook. “No one’s ever set down my likeness before.”

  “Really? Montmartre is crawling with artists. I thought surely one of them must have convinced you to sit for him before. See, there’s Pierre Jaccoud over there, looking at you this very moment, probably wondering if he can steal you away for himself.”

  Gen turned to look and spotted the man in question, in his paint-covered smock, his easel set up in the corner near the dance floor. Had he been there all night? Had he painted her and Archie as they waltzed? It pleased her, imagining that happy moment had been captured forever in a painting.

  Before she turned back, there was a disturbance by the entrance to the courtyard as several new patrons entered at once. This bunch differed markedly from the people already there. The people of Montmartre, a ragtag assortment of bohemians, artists, students, and shopgirls, looked rather downtrodden compared to the group by the door. Gentlemen, all of them, in pressed black evening wear and satin top hats.

  A few women were with them, and Gen identified them at once. Women of her mother’s class, the demi-monde these sorts of gentlemen amused themselves with. A significant step up from streetwalkers, but still a far cry from respectability. There was something unmistakable in their appearance—the hairstyles a bit too dramatic, the dresses a bit too flashy. Gen knew the look because she’d been seeing it all her life.

  “They must have wandered up from one of those new cabarets down the hill,” Archie remarked. “Men of that class don’t show up here too often.”

  “They should take themselves back down the hill, then,” Gen snapped. “They have no business here.”

  The bitterness she heard in her own voice surprised her. She was still uneasy from that run-in with Baron LeVeq, from the threat he posed to her. For a little while tonight, surrounded by all these working-class revelers, in the arms of a handsome artist, she’d been able to forget. Then those plumped-up, swaggering “men of quality” had come sauntering in, bringing it all back. They were no better than LeVeq, leaving their respectable wives and children at home in their respectable neighborhoods, in their expensive houses, while they crawled through Paris’s underbelly looking for lurid thrills.

  Men like them had kept her mother bought and paid for all her life. Men like them had been the creeping threat at the corners of her existence. She hated the power they wielded over women like her mother, and by extension, the people like Gen who relied on them. LeVeq could withdraw his favor at will, and in so doing, ruin their chances of security. In fact, she feared that was exactly his plan—to break with her mother, and when they were in truly desperate financial straits, that’s when he would extend his revolting offer to take Gen under his protection.

  Somehow, some way, she’d figure out how to avoid that loathsome fate. But she hadn’t done so yet, and she didn’t need reminders of the vulgar, lusting men just waiting to possess girls like her.

  “Do you know them?” Archie ventured cautiously.

  “I don’t have to know them to know their type. Rich men who think they own the world and everyone in it. Well, they don’t. Not everyone is for sale. Their money doesn’t matter here.”

  The venomous words had just spilled out of her, and now they hung there in the silence as Archie looked at her uneasily. Oh, no. She’d scared him off.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so carried away.”

  “It’s all right.”

  The last thing she wanted to discuss now, with Archie, was LeVeq and Maman. Those problems would still be waiting tomorrow. Tonight, with the music and the stars overhead and this handsome man…this moment would only happen once in her life.

  Forcing a bright smile, she shook her head. “No, it’s not. I should leave unpleasantness like that for tomorrow. I want to enjoy tonight.”

  “So do I.” Archie returned her smile, as if he felt the magic of this night in the same way she did. There was that feeling again—that exhilarating feeling of the world about to fall out from under her feet. The feeling ought to be more terrifying than it was.

  “Shall we dance again?” Archie asked, holding a hand out to her.

  She’d just nodded and set her hand in his when Leo’s voice stopped her.

  “Here you are.”

  It was so very wrong that Leo’s interruption filled her with such disappointment and frustration. Slowly, she stood. “Yes, here I am.”

  “André’s had to go, so we might as well head home.”

  Inside, she seethed. Oh, André had to go? He was the only reason worth staying? Leo hadn’t even thought of spending part of the evening with her, or even of making sure she was all right, until André was no longer there to engage him. She desperately wanted to spill all her anger out, but she didn’t want to quarrel with Leo in front of Archie. She was already in a tricky spot between the two men. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them to make it worse. Perhaps tonight would be the night, after all. She and Leo could talk it out on the way home. And then she’d be free to… Well, one thing at a time.

  She turned back to Archie, who’d stood up when she did. “Thank you for the company.”

  “The pleasure was well and truly mine. I hope to see you here again soon?”

  She heard the questions he couldn’t ask an
d she couldn’t answer. Will I see you again? Alone? And when?

  “I hope so,” she replied truthfully.

  “Who was that?” Leo asked as they left the courtyard.

  “Just a friend.” The less she said to Leo about Archie, the better.

  Leo glanced back over his shoulder. “Looks to be after more than friendship, if you ask me,” he said peevishly.

  Gen stopped walking outside in the middle of the dark lane, planting her hands on her hips. “He talked to me. He kept me company, which is quite a bit more than you bothered to do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, as soon as we arrived, you abandoned me to talk with André all night. You didn’t once come to see how I was doing. You didn’t even dance with me.”

  Leo scoffed. “Come on, Gen. Don’t be a nag. André and I had important things to discuss.”

  Like me? She wanted to ask. Remember when I was important to you?

  Taking a deep breath, Gen steeled herself to begin the unpleasant task at hand. “Leo, speaking of important things that need to be discussed, lately I’ve noticed that things between us—”

  But Leo cut her off before she could even get into it. “You’ll never believe what André told me. Guesde and Lafargue are leaving the Federation of the Socialist Workers and forming their own party. The FTSF is moving too slowly for them, and I agree. Why attempt only what seems easy? Nothing will ever change! The bourgeoisie will always support the status quo. True reform can’t compromise. True reform demands revolution! It demands a fight. André says what the workers of France really need is…”

  And that was the beginning and end of the conversation. Leo didn’t stop his long, angry monologue until they reached her door in Belleville. And even there, when Gen might have asked him to stay and talk, he hurried away to go meet some other scruffy revolutionary waiting for him at a nearby café.

  The night was over, and neither of her existing two problems, Leo and LeVeq, had been solved. All she’d managed to do was add a whole new problem, in the handsome, charming form of Archie. But he was a problem she was happy to have.

  Maman didn’t return home for several days, which was nothing unusual. When Gen had been younger, if Maman were going away with a protector, she’d arrange for a woman from the neighborhood to watch over her daughter. That was how Gen had met Leo, when his mother had looked after her while Maman was away.