Angel Hands (17 page)

His master gave a long-suffering sigh and surrendered a syllable. "What?"

"I like the way she is," Pierre said, nodding. "She's a bit like a bloke, you know? She can do math and yell at stagehands as fine as any man I've ever seen. Also swears like a chap, too. But you know all this, don't you?"

How in God's name was he supposed to concentrate on making changes to the architectural plans with this boy yammering away in his ear? Perhaps, if he agreed, the boy would go away.

"Yes," he said, through gritted teeth. "I know. She is...quite a man."

"Ah, but see, here's where you go off the rails with madame. She's not a man."

God help him, but he was all too aware of that.

"Madame isn't a man," Pierre conceded. "She's a woman, and you don't treat her like one."

No, he treated her like a lady. If he treated Mireille like a woman, he would have taken her to his bed a thousand times already. Now, damn it all to hell, where was he going to put a trapdoor? What kind of idiot designed an opera house with only two levels of cellars?

"Perhaps if you talked to madame? You two never talk."

"We speak as necessary."

"Well, pardon me for saying so, monsieur, but I don't think you know exactly how much talking is necessary to woo a woman."

By all that was holy, he was regretting luring young Buprès away from Paris. He wondered if the rear storage room in the second cellar could be converted into a dungeon to keep him in for the time being.

"You could try being nicer to her," Pierre suggested. "Bring her flowers, you know. Or a little gift."

"I gave her an opera house," he hissed, unable to help himself. "And, the ungrateful woman says nothing."

Pierre laughed and tossed his apple core in the air. "But women don't want opera houses, monsieur. They want love. Well, I'd better go check on César. It looks like rain, and I don't think the leak in the stable roof has been fixed yet. Maybe you could speak to madame about it."

Was decapitation too harsh a method of getting rid of the boy? He couldn't be sure of his judgment at the moment. No, he concluded. Death would only mean that this opera house would have a resident opera ghost—one with half the fashion-sense and twice the annoying habits of the 'original'.

He slumped back in his chair, lifting his face to the strong, grey north light that poured in through the windows of his study. It was nearly time for lunch, and the normalcy of that thought nearly shocked him out of his chair.

True, he usually waited for Mireille to bring him a tray instead of venturing to the newly-restored kitchens. But lunch on a precise schedule was as much a novelty as daylight, and both were becoming alarmingly easy to get used to.

He looked with disfavor on the drawings before him. All necessary changes to putting in his secret paneling, trapdoors, passages, and spy holes, but for the moment, he had lost the taste for the work and the steadiness of mind required for exactitude in drafting.

Pierre's words bounced annoyingly around in his head. What could a boy know about women, let alone a woman like Mireille? The boy was right in that she had the fine understanding and intellect...and temper of a man. But, Pierre was wrong about what she wanted. She was just like him. She didn’t want love. She wanted power, wanted to shout her existence to the world, to have it adore her, worship at her feet. She wanted to feel safe and secure in her command of men.

He had given all that to her with the Opéra de Versailles.

He had thought it was quite a thoughtful wedding gift, one that would serve them both well, now and in the future. He had given both of them—two pitiful outcasts—standing and a future. They would have income, power, and art.

But his wretched ingrate of a wife acted as though he had given her a copy of yesterday's newspaper. There was no denying that she managed the reconstruction process exactly to his specifications and ruled with her usual terrifying command.

Yet, something was missing.

It troubled him that he couldn't pinpoint the exact nature of the change in her, but he felt it in every second he was in her presence.

Three quick knocks at his door roused him from his musing, and he cleared the plans into an orderly pile to the far side of the desk.

The door opened, and Mireille walked in, carrying a tray.

He realized it had been just about two months—no, fifty-seven days to be exact—since she had begun to bring him lunch from the restored kitchens. Before that, she had brought him trays of bread, cheese, and dried sausages, obviously purchased in the market that morning. Now, there was grouse, pheasant, rabbit stew, and small quiches of smoked ham and Gruyere. Where before, there had been bottles of cheap table wine from the nearby brasserie, she now brought half-bottles of good quality Tokay, his favorite.

She always entered the same way: three sharp knocks to alert him and let him know it was her and no one else, quiet footsteps crossing the room, and the subtle clink of china and silver as she set the tray down before him.

The end of her ritual was to stand before his desk, her eyes downcast, and her hands folded demurely over her waist, and ask him for his orders for the afternoon.

Now, as she put the tray down before him, he noticed that she leaned as little as possible into his personal space, retreating and moving away as quickly as she could without giving offense.

Instead of lifting the cover to the dish, he sat back for a long moment and studied her.

Mon Dieu
.

It was like looking upon one already dead.

His mind flashed back to that afternoon at La Maison Cardinal. He had beheld both the fury and the passion in her eyes, had felt the rush of anger and desire as she twisted in his arms, had seen her arch and cry out from his touch.

The figure before him was not that woman.

It was like looking upon a pillar of salt—dry, raw, and still.

But, Mireille had never been beautiful, not like Kristin.

Oh, Kristin
.

He blinked, waiting for the wound to bleed again. It didn't. It was there, sensitive to the touch, but not quite the gaping sore of just a few weeks ago, even.

He reflected sardonically on the difference a month of lunches could make in the heart of a man.

Even that could not push away the sense that he was blind to something, no matter that he felt like he was seeing Mireille for the first time in weeks.

Where she had always been slightly sallow, she was now pale. Her sharp hazel eyes were hidden from him, though he could see the smudges of grey and purple that gave evidence of sleepless nights.

For the first time, he wondered what Mireille might have looked like in the first flush of youth, perhaps at Kristin's age. In his mind, he painted her cheeks fuller, with a faint flush of hope. He softened the bones of her collar and shoulders, made her breaths quicker and more likely to fuel laughter than spite. He drew corkscrew curls draped along her neck, resting negligently on fuller breasts.

And yet...

No.

He could not see it. He decided that Mireille as a young woman had not been softer. She had been brighter, burned hotter, flashed quicker, still full of her angles and edges.

The thought seized him and shot him through with an instantaneous, uncomfortable arousal.

He saw her wrists bound with rough rope and thought that next time, he would bind them with silk...

Where was she?

Fierce Mireille of the Opéra de Paris. Incandescent Mireille of La Maison Cardinal. They were nowhere to be seen.

The woman who stood before him was a stranger.

A statue.

"Husband?"

If he shuddered at her voice, it was because it was so very, very cold. When had her rage turned to ice?

"Are you not hungry?"

Duty and docility did not suit his Mireille. Why did she play at them now?

"Have you no orders for me?"

He stared at her, noticing for the first time that she was wearing yet another black dress. He had ordered her to commission all her clothing, since he had not had the time or wherewithal to steal or order new things for her.

Three new dresses, he realized. That was all she had ordered. They were all black bombazine. Simple. Severe. Buttoned up to the ends of the earth. She wore spectacles again, and her hair parted in the severe twist that spoke of impatience with brushes and pins.

But, why?

Why had she made such a suttee, immolating herself on the pyre of propriety? Where was his wild Mireille, the one who panted for him, clung to him, fought with him, out-witted him?

Where was the Mireille he had married?

The woman before him was a stranger by the name of Madame de la Persie.

"Are you well? Should I call a doctor?"

Ah, the glimmering shadow of her wit lingered. Of all the words calculated to bring him back to the reality of the moment with a jolt, it was the threat of a true stranger come to look upon him.

"I am well," he said quietly.

He saw the infinitesimal tightening of her jaw. An unexpected wave of relief washed over him. The rage still burned in her.

How blind he had been.

"Will you not join me for lunch...my dear?" he asked, watching her closely.

"I have already dined, sir."

Oh, how smoothly did she drown the flame in ice, but now, he knew better. How could he have ever thought that a passionate heart like hers could spontaneously go dormant?

She still reacted to him with passion of one kind or another. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. With some luck and finesse, he might actually be able to reignite the fire within her. It had been a very long honeymoon without so much as a kiss for all his troubles.

He got up and walked around to where she stood. Ah...she worked far too hard to keep her breaths still and even.

Festina lente
. Make haste slowly. The old Latin proverb jumped to mind and steered him from attacking her neck with kisses to more demurely running his fingers along her hand. How tightly she clasped her hands together, and how fortunate for him to notice!

Yes, force would have accomplished nothing, he realized. He could pry her hands apart all he wanted, but that would give her the strength to retreat deeper into her ice fortress. But, gentleness! That was her undoing. Both ways, she would submit to him, he realized. With force, though, she would do it out of spiteful duty, acting the role of the pious wife. A gentle touch unnerved her and gave him the upper hand.

Running his fingers along the smooth skin of the back of her hand was far more effective.

Her breath caught before she clenched her jaw and slowed her breathing to evenness once again. He could almost see the relentless roll of logic in her mind as she worked through the reasoning of how and why she must submit to the touches of her husband.

Gently coaxing her fingers into his hand, he watched as two spots of color burned in her cheeks.

Oh, why had he been so foolish to think she was indifferent to him?

She was as beautifully angry as she had ever been, angry at the fact she owed her good fortune to him. He supposed he couldn't blame her. He'd hate to owe him, as well.

"Oh, my dear," he said softly, modulating his voice to be warm and conciliating. "When shall you stop this charade?"

The look in her eyes was thrilling. Hot, fiery rage burned bright.

"Pride is a difficult thing to overcome," he continued. "But I do not ask for you to be humble or grovel in gratitude to me."

"Gratitude?" Mireille repeated breathlessly.

"I know it galls you to think you must thank me for giving you an opera house," he said kindly, raising his free hand to caress and cup her cheek. "Rest assured, I do not expect it of you. It is enough for me to know that I have given you what you always wanted."

"What?"

"My dear wife, I have given you everything your heart desires. Power. Control. A place in the world. A way to make a fortune and win the respect of men. You needn't thank me for it. I only want you to embrace and enjoy what is yours."

The slap was unexpected.

As was the storming out and the slamming of the door.

Holding his stinging cheek, he decided that Pierre Buprès was right. You can lead a woman to water, but you can't make her drink.

23. Of Men and Masks

Hurt was a drug that required precise dosages. Too little, and it was not enough to sustain the anger necessary for ice. Too much, and the heat of pain melted ice and made one vulnerable.

There was not a place in the opera house that Mireille felt was safe from his spying. She had no doubt that her lech of a husband even had peepholes and panels in her bedroom, dressing room, and without question, her office. There was nowhere to retreat when the tears threatened, as they did every so often.

Outside the opera house were busy streets and prying eyes, and Mireille guessed there were several miles of town before the refuge of open fields and trees.

She pulled off her glasses and pinched the bridge of her nose to keep the tears at bay. She slumped in her chair at her desk, wondering, for the millionth time, why she did not have the courage to answer the one question that burned in every unshed tear.

Why did it hurt?

Why did it hurt when he gave her his complete trust in handling the opera's accounts? Why did it hurt when he agreed with her on changes to the renovations? Why did it hurt when he occasionally praised her cleverness in resolving a situation among the laborers? Why did it hurt when he told her all this was a gift for her?

Because it wasn't for her. Not really.

She was the mask of generosity and redemption he wore as he indulged himself in pursuit of another impossible dream of glory.

Why did she mind so much?

Ah, there was the true question she shied away from.

The answer would be intolerable.

The answer would make her weak.

The answer would put her completely in his power.