Chapter Seventeen The Merry Women

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Merry Women

"HERE YOU GO." José flashes a smile at the giggling girl as he hands her his autograph. "We look forward to seeing you in the crowd on opening night!"

It's become so customary for people to gather in the street and wait for us each evening that getting back home only after dark seems normal.

I sign my name—or Lady Adley's name, to be more accurate—on a piece of paper and hand it to the last girl still waiting. Her eyes light up as she stuffs it deep into her pocket, sneaking a glance at my ruby.

"Can I touch it?" she asks.

She looks so entranced that I'm tempted to say yes, but then the concierge shouts out for everyone to make way for the arriving carriages. I shake my head as I watch the young girl getting swept up with the rest of the fans, reluctantly forced to leave. I can't deny that I'm enjoying my new status as an opera diva. The recognition, the adoration—it's everything I could ever dream of.

But something about it also feels hollow. Perhaps it's the fact that it isn't my name I'm signing. Or the fact that, even with the Talent, I still struggle in rehearsals, and the shouts of the directors are a constant reminder of that .

"I'm so hungry I could eat a whale," José says, buttoning his closely fitted jacket up to his neck. "All these signatures seem to take longer each night."

"Lucky you have dinner plans, then," the mezzo, Lady Arnould, teases.

He winks at her, and a blush blooms on her cheeks.

"What about you, ma chérie? Already tired of your adoring fans?" he asks me as his carriage pulls in.

"No. I'm just tired," I say as he helps Lady Arnould into the carriage.

"Well, rest then." He climbs in after her, before sticking his head out the window. "Tomorrow will be a long day. Bonne nuit!" He sends me a kiss through the air as the horses pull them away.

I lean against the wall, waiting for my own coachman to arrive. My head is pounding, weakness creeping down my limbs. As much as I enjoy being a diva, I have to admit I didn't expect the job to be this hard. A full day of being shouted at has clearly taken its toll. And even though I can't say I regret standing up to Véronique today, it certainly didn't make her more pleasant to work with.

In truth, I can't remember her ever sinking so low with her blows. From correcting my musical lines while I'm singing to practically putting her leg in front of my feet for me to stumble over, she took every single opportunity she had to belittle me and show Maestro Mette that he made the wrong choice.

The problem is . . . the more time passes, the more I fear she might succeed.

No amount of fans can help me if I can't maintain my position in the opera house.

I'm rubbing my eyes with the backs of my hands when my own carriage pulls up, but before I can climb inside, Madame steps out of the building.

"Cleodora, wait," she calls.

What now? Does she want to yell at me as well? Did I not get enough for one day ?

"I'm glad I caught you," she says. "I want you to come earlier tomorrow for another session with me. You're still making mistakes in the duet."

"Fine," I mutter.

"This is serious, Cleo."

I gather a handful of fabric from my skirt in my fist, doing my best to keep my posture calm and my temper in check. "I know that."

"Maestro Mette needs to know he can count on you."

"I said, I know." The words come out sharper than I intended, and Madame takes a step back.

"Now you listen to me, young lady," she snaps, pointing her finger at me. "You should be grateful for all my help! I spent so many hours training you because of your lack of preparation. You think I have nothing better to do with my time? You young people think the entire world revolves around you!"

Her accusations pierce through me, each one like a nail digging into an open wound. I try to keep my head high. To take it all with pride. But after today, I have no strength left. Tears form at the corners of my eyes. Tears of frustration. Of anger. Of defeat.

I hold such a powerful Talent, yet I still feel worthless. I'm a diva, but only on the outside, like a beautiful wallpaper that hides deep cracks within the walls. Not like Véronique—she was raised to be a singer. To be a star.

Perhaps I don't deserve a Talent at all.

"Here." Madame offers me a handkerchief from her purse.

"Thank you." I take it from her, dabbing away the tears.

"This isn't your time of the month. Why are you so upset?"

I let out a hollow laugh. "It's just . . . a lot harder than I expected."

It's Madame's turn to laugh. "Nothing worth having comes easily," she says, echoing Father's words from so long ago. I almost smile. "Well, I know just what you need." A wide grin unexpectedly lights up her face. "Going out. Enjoying the night. "

"But we have rehearsals in the morning, and you said—"

"Forget what I said." She waves her hand as if to banish my words. "What you need is to get rid of some stress. You!" She signals to my coachman, and he steps toward her with a deep bow. "Follow my carriage. Lady Adley has a social engagement this evening."

"Yes, my lady," he says, holding the door for me to climb in.

"I'll see you there," Madame says.

Before I get the chance to argue she's already heading for her own waiting carriage.

The horses charge forward, and I lean back into my seat. I'm really not in the mood for going out. I'm not even dressed for a social engagement. I huff at the ridiculousness of the thought. This dress, though simple, is something I could only have dreamed of owning not so long ago. I rub my hand over the smooth fabric. The quality of it alone would make Anaella squeal with joy.

Outside, the dark streets twist and turn as the horses trot, their hooves clacking against the rough pavement. I don't recognize the way, so I can't even begin to guess where Madame is taking me. I just hope there won't be too many people.

We come to a stop, and I glance outside nervously; Madame is already waiting on the sidewalk when my coachman opens the door.

"Well, hurry up," she says, turning toward a familiar red door.

This is Madame's apartment complex.

Last time I was here, ladies and gentlemen waited with champagne on their lips, their hum of conversation beckoning me toward the art exhibition. This time, the foyer is empty and there is no polite chatter. But the night isn't quiet, either. Music echoes from above us, growing louder with each step as we climb up the grand staircase.

I have to do a double take as we walk into the entrance hall. There are no more paintings covering the walls, no servants dashing around—even the smell is different: a heavy mixture of smoke, alcohol, and something that reminds me of hot cocoa. The only thing that is still the same is the crowd. But these are not the usual courteous social elites I expected.

The space is bustling with women , arguing, drinking, and laughing far louder than any proper lady is allowed. I watch their freedom with wide eyes. Some of them are even dancing right in the middle of the room, swaying to the sound coming from a golden phonograph.

"Who are they?" I have to raise my voice to be heard over the music.

"Les Rieuses." Madame's voice is low and warm, almost soft, her cheeks flushed as if she's already been drinking. "We don't host the association too often in our salon, but Renée wanted to celebrate."

I still have no idea what she's talking about. Is this a women's association? A private club? Does Madame always turn her house into a salon at night?

At the very center of the swaying ladies, a pair of women dance closely together. I watch as their bodies weave into one another with the beat of the music. They both laugh as one takes a big gulp of wine straight from a bottle before leaning in, their lips crashing into each other with hunger.

I avert my gaze, heat rushing to my cheeks.

Madame watches me, her eyes bearing into me as if searching to read my mind. That's when Renée rushes over to us, throwing her arms around Madame. Her tightly coiled curls encircle her head tonight, adorning it like a crown; she's wearing a light silver dress with a plunging neckline that creates a dramatic effect against her smooth dark skin. She's practically radiant.

"Chère! What took you so long?" she says as she draws back with a giggle. "Oh, you brought a guest."

"Lady Brooks." I bow my head, but she just laughs.

"It's Renée," she says. "I'm so happy you could join us! I keep telling Hélène to invite you over."

Madame purses her lips, but there is an ease to her I've never seen before. "Well, Cleodora, would you like a drink? "

I nod, still flustered as I follow them into the crowd. Before, I believed that Madame wanted to keep her private life hidden from me, that she was upset I'd even met Renée. But now she's brought me right into what I can only describe as an incredibly intimate, lustrous party. Not the type of event any of these women will admit they attended in the morning. What changed?

Renée hands me a glass of red wine. "Hear you go, dear! Santé!"

I take a sip while both Madame and Renée down their entire glasses.

"Better drink more if you want to have an excuse to skip our extra rehearsal in the morning," Madame says. "I brought you here to let off steam, not watch from the sidelines."

I put the glass back to my lips and Madame tips it up, making some of the wine spill over and stain my dress.

"Oops," she says, but there's no guilt on her face.

"Oh dear!" Renée laughs. "I guess you'll have to borrow one of my dresses."

I choke down the forced gulp. "It's fine, really—"

"Nonsense! The night is still young. I wouldn't want you to spend it in a ruined dress." She interlaces her arm with mine and starts pulling me away. Madame flips an entire bottle upside down, filling her glass all the way up.

Renée hands me another drink as she leads me to a large chamber with carved wood paneling and light mint drapery. She sits me down on a velvet armchair before disappearing through another door that I assume is a closet.

I take small sips of wine as I wait for her return.

The room is meticulously ordered, as if every single item was chosen specifically to complement the space—from the book with the golden cover by the nightstand, to the delicate painting of a forest right above the bed, to the collection of porcelain miniatures sitting in a glass cabinet. Observing it feels like sneaking a peek into Madame's mind. Or heart .

Renée returns with a black and white gown in her outstretched arms. "I hope this will fit you—I haven't been able to squeeze into it in years. I only keep it for sentimental value, really." She keeps talking, but I cannot focus on anything she says, my full attention stolen by the familiar lines of the dress.

The striking contrast between the black velvet and ivory satin creates an illusion of delicate, filigreed ironwork. I can visualize the way it was constructed, as though the design patterns lay right before my eyes—the unique weaving of the textile, custom made à la disposition , making sure the pattern of the fabric is intrinsic to the design of the dress.

Could it be? Could this be one of Father's gowns?

The urge to pull out his book from my purse and flip through the pages, to verify that my mind isn't tricking me, is almost too much to resist. But how could I possibly explain that to Renée?

"This dress. Where did you get it from?" I ask instead. I don't even realize I've risen to my feet until the fabric runs between my fingers.

"It was a gift," Renée says. "It was one of Josephine Garnier's first dresses at the launch of her independent fashion house."

Miss Garnier's. Not Father's.

I can see it now. The differences between the memory and the gown before me. The way the waist is cinched, the frills around the wrists, and the way the hem is stitched. Father would never have left that much space between stitches; his would have been tighter, fanning out only toward a curve.

Looking at it closely, the dress is still beautiful, but it isn't the masterpiece I remember in my head. The book could confirm it for certain, but now that I think of it, perhaps the pattern itself is different. This is just a black and white gown, not a piece of home.

"Are you feeling well, dear?" Renée rests the back of her palm on my forehead. "You turned pale."

I force a smile. "I'm fine."

"Well then, put it on!" She takes the wine from my hand .

I slip out of my own garment, and she whirls around to face the wall to give me privacy.

"I'm really glad you came tonight," she says. "Last time you were here, we didn't get the chance to talk. I know you mean a lot to Hélène."

I do? Madame certainly had me fooled on that account.

"I'm happy to be here . . . though I have to admit I didn't expect . . ."

Renée laughs, the sound like little bells chiming in the wind. "Oh dear, Hélène didn't tell you, did she?"

I step into the dress, holding the corseted-bodice up. "Umm, could you . . . ?"

She turns to me, immediately taking over the lacing of the back. "The ladies outside are Les Rieuses, The Merry Women. We are an association that creates opportunity for ladies like Hélène and me to . . . express ourselves freely."

"You and Madame live together, right?"

"Yes. Hélène is my partner. And while some will look at our ‘arrangement' as one simply offering financial and social benefits—two spinsters sharing their income and companionship—Hélène is my life." She tightens the lacing and moves to rearrange my hair. "There are many Talented ladies out there who would prefer to keep their choices a secret on a daily basis, as you can imagine. We have to be selective with invitations . . . though I'm sure none of them would be against having a célébrité like you here tonight." She lets out a chuckle. "Hélène is a private person. But I told her that if you are important to her, she should let you in. I had a feeling you would understand."

"You love her," I say.

"That I do."

The taste of sugar is suddenly in my mouth, the memory of Dahlia's body against mine as her teeth gently bit my lips. Heat courses through me all the way from the pit of my stomach, making me shiver.

Renée spins me around to face a mirror. The dress fits perfectly, as though it were tailor-made for me. It embraces the natural curves of my body, accentuating them with the fashionable reverse S-curve silhouette. With its long train following behind me, I look almost regal. Renée lets my hair loose, and the curls fall down my back.

"Divine," she says. "And with that natural blush, you need no powder. Perhaps just a few extra sips of wine."

My cheeks turn a deeper red at her words, and she laughs.

"So, what about you? Anyone special in your life?" she asks.

Dahlia's dark eyes fill my mind, like two pools so deep I could drown in them. But at least that death would be sweet.

"You and Nuriel seemed rather close last time you were here . . ."

Nuriel. She means Vicomte Lenoir.

I blink away the image of Dahlia, the memory of Nuriel's glinting, catlike eyes and teasing smirk taking its place.

I forgot how close he and Renée seemed to be, despite Madame's clear distaste for their friendship.

She stares expectantly at my reflection in the mirror, and curiosity overtakes me. This could be an opportunity to learn more about the vicomte, about a side of him I suspect not many get to see.

"The vicomte and I are on friendly terms," I say, picking my words carefully. "He's a . . . charming gentleman."

"Oh my, I never thought I'd hear these two words together. Attractive, yes. Smug, certainly. But charming?" Renée laughs again.

I chuckle in return. I cannot really argue, not when, up until recently, I saw the vicomte as nothing but an arrogant man. Yet our last meetings hinted there is more to him, and Renée clearly knows it as well.

"Are you close to him?" I ask. "I'm sorry if I overstep, but I couldn't help but notice you are on a first-name basis."

"Nuriel and I have a long history." Her face is soft, as though she's recalling a long-lost memory. "He was my very first client—walked right into my first exhibition and bought a painting on the spot. He's been one of my greatest supporters ever since. Of course, Hélène hates to think anyone competes with her for that spot."

Her first client. How many years ago was that? The vicomte is a young man, while Renée has seen many more years. Did she inherit her Talent at such a late age? I suppose there are families that pass along their Talents only on their deathbeds. I can imagine only too easily what a full life of waiting must be like.

"Come on, then! Let's get back to the party." Renée squeezes my shoulders and hands me back the wineglass before heading out the door.

Back in the sitting room, the ladies all seem to have downed many more drinks in the time we were away—empty bottles litter the sideboards. I can now recognize some of their faces: a few patrons, ladies I've met in passing and can't name, a woman with a dazzling emerald necklace who I'm pretty sure is the founder of an athletic club I've read about in the paper. In one of the corners of the room, a group sits at a gambling table, hiding their wide grins behind cards while their gems glint with each new deal. Trying to guess all the Talents displayed here would be a thrilling game I'm sure I'd lose.

Renée breezes to Madame's side, planting a kiss on her flushed cheeks. With the dress she lent me, I fully fit in among the other women and their sparkling jewels. Yet I'm still like a weed among the flowers. They all came here to let themselves be free. To shake off the masks they wear every day of their lives. But I cannot shake mine. Not even for a second.

I down my glass of wine in one big gulp, weaving among the swaying bodies of the dancing ladies. The air around me is heavy; the bodies press in from all sides. I let their movement take me, my head somehow light and drowsy at the same time. With each minute, the music rings louder in my ears, and my heart beats faster. The sensation is intoxicating, dangerous. The women entangle together—arms wrapping around each other, hands finding their way under silk. My body tingles in a rush of longing.

Closing my eyes, Dahlia's perfect figure fills my mind, gliding through the sea of dancers, her gaze only for me. Her rousing jasmine perfume envelops me when she grabs my waist, her delicate fingers tracing my skin with a touch so gentle, yet commanding. I melt into her, not caring for the watchful eyes.

Then my eyelids snap open, and the illusion is shattered. I heave at the sudden ache in my chest. I need to sit down. Is it the wine? I've never drunk more than a few sips before. I'm heading toward the couch on the other side of the room, fighting the sudden wobble in my feet, when a voice grabs my attention.

"Why isn't Miss Garnier here?" a woman asks.

She's standing with three other ladies by one of the windows overlooking a circular terrace. I shake my head to focus as I step closer to them, trying to hear over the music.

"Oh, Josephine wouldn't dare show her face here," another lady, wearing all black, answers. "She knows better than to come to Madame's house."

"Oh?"

"Madame will have her head," the lady continues. "Rumor has it Renée and Josephine have some history. "

My senses are tingling, yet their words cut through the haze in my head. Could this be the reason Madame warned me to keep my distance from Josephine? A lover's spat? Could this be the reason the gown I'm wearing has been hidden away, for its "sentimental value," all these years?

I try to inch closer but instead I crash into one of the dancing ladies.

"I'm so sorry!"

Her laugh is boisterous, as though she's had a few too many drinks, but her eyes still focus on me. "You're Lady Adley!" she says. "Can I have your autograph?"

I glance desperately at the group of women. I have no time for this. "I . . . don't have a pen," I say, my mind failing to come up with a better excuse.

"I've been longing to meet you since the gala!" The lady rushes on, pausing only to hiccup. "Your voice is just so beautiful, and you're even prettier in person! I wish I had such flowing hair— "

"I think I saw a pen in the kitchen," I say, cutting off her drunken rambling. "Should we go get it?"

Her face lights up and she turns to head for the kitchen, already talking again, but I don't follow after her. Who knew being famous could be so uncomfortable?

I need water. I need to focus. But all I see are more wineglasses.

"Santé!" someone calls, and the ladies cheer back.

I take a deep breath, struggling to keep my balance as I try to make my way back to the gossiping ladies. They're all giggling gleefully now. Nothing like romantic entanglements and complications to keep one entertained.

"—expanding her business." I catch only the end of the sentence. Are they still talking about Josephine? Did I miss it? "I was at her shop just last week and I heard her talking about it. She's opening another factory and has plans for overseas shipments. Can you imagine—the great Mademoiselle Josephine Garnier going international?"

"International?" one of the other women chimes in, cigar smoke coming out of her mouth.

All of a sudden, I'm nauseous. They are talking about Miss Garnier. About her business and her apparent upcoming expansion. Another factory. Like the one that stole all the business from Father.

"I will fix it, mon coeur!" Father's voice thuds in the back of my head. "I have a meeting with a new supplier. You will see, it'll all be alright. Just keep working on the beading on the bodice. We'll add a note on that later, together." He kissed my head before grabbing his coat and rushing out.

But he never fixed it, and we never got to add that final note to his book. How fitting that the last words Father ever said to me were a promise unfulfilled.

I don't even know if he ever made it to the supplier. Maybe the deal fell through . . . or maybe there never was a supplier to begin with. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to hide his drinking. They found his body the next day. He wouldn't have been driven to such desperate acts if it hadn't been for Josephine Garnier's exclusive deals with the suppliers. How many more Talented tailors is she trying to put out of business now? How many lives will be ruined when she's done?

Even while wearing yet another of her stunning gowns, I can't help but think Josephine doesn't deserve her success. At least, not at the expense of true artists like Father was.

I want to find out more—to go and ask the woman for details. But before I can do anything, the music falters.

"Someone crank the handle!" a woman calls.

A moment later a lively and invigorating cancan comes out of the phonograph. The high-spirited rhythm echoes all around, bringing the ladies to their feet.

I can't do anything as I'm swayed with their carefree dance, all thoughts and questions swallowed by the music.