banker.”
“You fell in love,” breathed Léonie, still spellbound.
Caro smiled. “Within a year he brought me back to the joyful world I had missed. I had pretty clothes again, my hair was unbound at last. I heard music, I read books, I went to the theater. I drank champagne, Léonie—and I made love. Alphonse loved me.”
“And you are in love with him?” Léonie wanted the fairy storyto be complete, with Caro a radiant bride on the arm of her charming groom—a happy ending.
“Perhaps, perhaps I am.” Caro smiled. “We’ve been lovers for seven years now, and every week he asks me to marry him. I always say no, and still he asks.”
“But why? Why won’t you marry him?”
Caro laughed. “I like it the way it is, I don’t want to change things by getting married. I like being the unconventional Caro Montalva—and maybe that’s part of my attraction for Alphonse. Wouldn’t it be foolish of me to spoil it?”
Léonie smiled too. “You’re so clever, Caro. How do you know all these things?”
She shrugged. “When you’re close to someone, it’s easy to know what they like, what they want. And Alphonse takes such good care of me. His family have been bankers for nearly two hundred years and he is very, very rich. He bought me this apartment, settled an income on me, made investments on my behalf. It’s important when you are in my position to make sure that you are properly taken care of like this, there’s no room for financial insecurity. You are not a wife, and men are easily attracted by a new and pretty face. I know lots of women who have been discarded and been left with nothing, back where they began.”
“But not you,” cried Léonie, “not by Alphonse!” Caro was so beautiful, she must be irresistible to any man. Everyone must adore her, she thought. I do.
The fire had burned low and Caro glanced at the gilt clock on the mantel. “Let’s look at the storm,” she said, taking Léonie’s hand. They peered through the cold glass at the sparkling white coat that had transformed the trees in the courtyard into alabaster columns, turning branches into fairy fingers. For once Paris was quiet, there wasn’t a sound, and the only movement was the flickering of the street lamps.
Flinging open the window they leaned out, brushing the snow from the sill with frozen hands, their laughter muffled by the carpet of snow. “Oh, it’s a magical night,” cried Léonie, floating on champagne and freezing air. “Gods and goddesses have changed the world tonight—and now they’ve changed me. I’ll never be the same again.”
Caro leaned over and kissed her. “You have magic, too, Léonie Bahri, and one day you’ll belong. I know it.”
Cocooned in the vast bed, in sheets of smooth linen and softwoolen blankets, Léonie embroidered Caro’s story with details. Would any of these things happen to her? How could they? Where would she meet a man who might fall madly in love with her? Not at Serrat—and not on those lonely walks in the Bois, and certainly not at Madame Artois’s! She clutched the pillow in her arms, holding it close, longing for someone who would hold her, dreaming of someone saying, “I love you, Léonie.”
A maid brought breakfast to her in bed, served on a pretty white tray with pots of preserves and honey and brioches still warm from the oven that she dunked hungrily into the big bowl of coffee.
But all too soon it was time to face reality, and she climbed reluctantly from the bed, dressing slowly in her woolen underwear. She watched her everyday self returning in the mirror as she dragged her frock over her head and pushed her feet into the black shoes that only a few months ago she had thought were so smart. Last night had been a dream, she thought sadly, a warm, wonderful dream of friendship and fun, just another glimpse of a world where once again she didn’t belong.
With a final glance in the mirror, she went in search of the maid.
“Madame is
“You fell in love,” breathed Léonie, still spellbound.
Caro smiled. “Within a year he brought me back to the joyful world I had missed. I had pretty clothes again, my hair was unbound at last. I heard music, I read books, I went to the theater. I drank champagne, Léonie—and I made love. Alphonse loved me.”
“And you are in love with him?” Léonie wanted the fairy storyto be complete, with Caro a radiant bride on the arm of her charming groom—a happy ending.
“Perhaps, perhaps I am.” Caro smiled. “We’ve been lovers for seven years now, and every week he asks me to marry him. I always say no, and still he asks.”
“But why? Why won’t you marry him?”
Caro laughed. “I like it the way it is, I don’t want to change things by getting married. I like being the unconventional Caro Montalva—and maybe that’s part of my attraction for Alphonse. Wouldn’t it be foolish of me to spoil it?”
Léonie smiled too. “You’re so clever, Caro. How do you know all these things?”
She shrugged. “When you’re close to someone, it’s easy to know what they like, what they want. And Alphonse takes such good care of me. His family have been bankers for nearly two hundred years and he is very, very rich. He bought me this apartment, settled an income on me, made investments on my behalf. It’s important when you are in my position to make sure that you are properly taken care of like this, there’s no room for financial insecurity. You are not a wife, and men are easily attracted by a new and pretty face. I know lots of women who have been discarded and been left with nothing, back where they began.”
“But not you,” cried Léonie, “not by Alphonse!” Caro was so beautiful, she must be irresistible to any man. Everyone must adore her, she thought. I do.
The fire had burned low and Caro glanced at the gilt clock on the mantel. “Let’s look at the storm,” she said, taking Léonie’s hand. They peered through the cold glass at the sparkling white coat that had transformed the trees in the courtyard into alabaster columns, turning branches into fairy fingers. For once Paris was quiet, there wasn’t a sound, and the only movement was the flickering of the street lamps.
Flinging open the window they leaned out, brushing the snow from the sill with frozen hands, their laughter muffled by the carpet of snow. “Oh, it’s a magical night,” cried Léonie, floating on champagne and freezing air. “Gods and goddesses have changed the world tonight—and now they’ve changed me. I’ll never be the same again.”
Caro leaned over and kissed her. “You have magic, too, Léonie Bahri, and one day you’ll belong. I know it.”
Cocooned in the vast bed, in sheets of smooth linen and softwoolen blankets, Léonie embroidered Caro’s story with details. Would any of these things happen to her? How could they? Where would she meet a man who might fall madly in love with her? Not at Serrat—and not on those lonely walks in the Bois, and certainly not at Madame Artois’s! She clutched the pillow in her arms, holding it close, longing for someone who would hold her, dreaming of someone saying, “I love you, Léonie.”
A maid brought breakfast to her in bed, served on a pretty white tray with pots of preserves and honey and brioches still warm from the oven that she dunked hungrily into the big bowl of coffee.
But all too soon it was time to face reality, and she climbed reluctantly from the bed, dressing slowly in her woolen underwear. She watched her everyday self returning in the mirror as she dragged her frock over her head and pushed her feet into the black shoes that only a few months ago she had thought were so smart. Last night had been a dream, she thought sadly, a warm, wonderful dream of friendship and fun, just another glimpse of a world where once again she didn’t belong.
With a final glance in the mirror, she went in search of the maid.
“Madame is
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