Leonie (7 page)

Caro leaned forward, smiling at Léonie. “I rarely had the opportunity to meet boys my own age, let alone attractive young Frenchmen of twenty, with dangerous eyes. And I’d never met anyone who found me attractive!” She laughed, remembering. “I was clasped in my one and only embrace when my aunt walked in.”

Léonie drew in her breath sharply, caught up in the agony of that moment.

“Of course”—Caro shrugged—“that was the end for both of us. He was gone and my aunt demanded banishment for me, too—and not just from Barcelona, but from Spain! A convent in Paris was my destination. I lasted a few months within those demanding gray walls and then I escaped—it wasn’t difficult—they didn’t expect girls to run away. I was alone in Paris in my convent gray. I went straight to the Paris branch of my mother’s bankers, where I knew I had money, but Aunt Macarene had managed over the years to have the funds transferred to their own Spanish bank. She had been clever. As executors she and my uncle claimed that it had been used to pay off monstrous debts accumulated by my parents’ extravagant life-style, and that it had been used for my benefit. Very little was left for me. But—Alphonse was that 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 story
to 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 soft
woolen 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 awake”—she was informed—“and wishes to see you before you go.”

Caro was alone in a big four-poster bed, its curtains partially drawn. “Léonie,” she called, patting the bed beside her, “come here. I hope you slept well?”

“Oh, yes … but I wish I hadn’t because I didn’t want to miss a single moment.”

Caro laughed. “Now that we’re friends, I’m not about to lose you so soon. I’m giving a party on Thursday, why don’t you come? Please do, Léonie, it’ll be fun.”

“A party?” She could feel her spirits rising.

“You must come, I insist! Nine o’clock then, on Thursday?”

Léonie brimmed with happiness, she wasn’t to lose this world just yet! She kissed Caro on the cheek. “Oh, thank you, Caro, of course I’ll come.”

Gangs of workmen were clearing the pavements as Léonie trudged along, slipping on icy patches, splashed by passing traffic
and oblivious to it all. She was floating again on champagne bubbles.… Thursday … the day after tomorrow. Oh, God. She stopped in the middle of the road, frozen in horror by a terrible realization. What would she
wear?

–
• 4 •

“There’s no time to make anything,” said Loulou, “so that’s out. Bella, you’re the nearest in size, what do you have that might do?” They sifted through the contents of Bella’s wardrobe, making Léonie try on the red velvet and deciding that it made her skin sallow, and then the black lace, which was too old. Nothing was suitable, and the girls had been Léonie’s only hope. She wouldn’t be able to go, she knew it. How
could
she, without a proper dress? “Wait a minute,” said Loulou, “I think I’ve got the answer. Put on your coat, Léonie, we’re going to the theater.”

At any other time Léonie would have found the novelty of being backstage at the cabaret exciting, but her whole being was absorbed by her problem: she must find something to wear. She paused for a moment to peer across the footlights from the side of the stage, breathing in the smell of dust and paint from the ornate backdrop, then hastily followed Loulou and Bella down the dingy corridor into a long room stacked with rails of costumes. Loulou sorted through them rapidly, searching for the one she wanted. “Gloriette used it in the party scene a few months ago, Bella,” she said, her voice muffled as she thrust the tightly packed garments along the rails. “The gold one.”

“Do you mean this?” Bella held up a shiny little dress of gold satin.

“Try it on,” urged Loulou, “I know it will suit you.”

Hurriedly Léonie unbuttoned her dress and wriggled into the golden costume. It was a bit low on her bosom and her chemise stuck out incongruously over the top, but it nipped in at her waist, swirling in a flurry of tiny points at the hem. The long sleeves formed matching points at her wrists, and the low neckline peaked in little stiffened points just under her ears.

“As usual it’s too short,” said Bella, exasperated.

Léonie glanced down at the skirt floating around her calves. “Oh, Loulou,” she said despairingly, “what shall we do?”

Loulou examined the dress; there was no way to add another band of fabric to the bottom that would not be too obvious. There was only one alternative. “If you can’t change it, then you must make an advantage of it,” she announced firmly. “You’ll need stockings, Léonie—silk ones—and shoes … you’ll emphasize the shortness as though it was meant to be that way!”

Léonie stared at her doubtfully. Could she be right? She remembered the silk stockings at Serrat, but shoes were expensive. Loulou read her thoughts. “We’ll go to Hector,” she said. “He makes the shoes for all the shows and they’ll be cheaper than the usual shops.”

Bella hid the dress under her coat as they sneaked giggling past the concierge at the stage door and made their way through the slippery streets to Hector. It was a gloomy little shop, smelling of leather and polish, and Léonie’s hopes fell—how could they find anything suitable in here? An old man came to the counter. “Hello, Loulou, Bella,” he said cheerfully. “What can I do for you ladies?” They were frequent customers, as were all the girls in the cabarets.

“Our friend needs some shoes—gold ones—and not too expensive, please,” stated Bella firmly.

“Not too expensive, eh?” Hector had a twinkle in his eye. The girls always said the same thing. How did they expect him to make money? But they were so charming! He looked at Léonie’s feet, measuring with a practiced eye. “Mmm, larger than usual,” he said. “I’ve not much to choose from in gold … in fact, this is all I have.” He set the pair of little gold boots on the counter and they stared at them. They were narrow and shiny and soft, ankle high with laces up the back, and prancy little heels and two golden dangling tassels.

“Try them,” Bella urged, as Léonie eyed them dubiously.

Léonie eased the delicate boots over her clumsy woolen stockings and tied the laces with their little tassels. She stood up and walked around, testing them; the prancy little heels made her feel like a circus pony.

“Perfect,” said Loulou. “With the right stockings they’ll look wonderful. She’ll take them, Hector—if the price is right!”

*   *   *

Thursday seemed interminable, and Léonie counted the hours until six o’clock, when she would be free. Maroc was in on the adventure, and he watched her with concern as she paced the salon. She was so young, so unwise … he hoped she would be all right.

On the dot of six, clutching her new silk stockings, she flew home to the waiting girls, and sat uncomplaining as they tugged and teased her hair until it stood out in a golden cloud, like that of the girls in Renaissance paintings. Jolie touched a little bronze to her eyelids, a hint of peach shadow under her cheekbones, a faint glitter of gold dust along her slender shoulder blades. They forbade her to wear a chemise and Léonie pulled the dress nervously over her naked breasts, and Bella fastened the tiny buttons up the back. Loulou had lent her the proper frilly garters and at last she smoothed the red silk stockings along her legs, thrilled by their silkiness and guilty about their expense. She laced up her gold boots, tying a neat little bow so that the tassels swung at the back, and walked stiffly across the room allowing the girls to look her over.

“It’s
no good
, Léonie,” cried Loulou in despair, “you
must
stand up, pull back your shoulders, lift your rib cage. You can’t hide your breasts with rounded shoulders, just look what it does to the dress! Damn it, girl, you have the body for it, flaunt it a little—like this.” She stalked across the room, head high, chin tilted arrogantly, strutting elegantly on her high heels, and Léonie tried to copy her, lifting herself taller, shoulders back and down. Loulou was right, it wasn’t a dress to be worn cautiously, it needed confidence. She only hoped she would have it.

Rupert von Hollensmark almost didn’t go to Caro’s party. It had been a hell of a day. He’d arrived back from Munich at eight o’clock that night and it was bitterly cold with the threat of more snow in the air. He had been tired and hungry and wanted nothing more than a glass of whiskey and a bite to eat. The journey to see Puschi was really a chore, though it was always good to see her. He wasn’t in love with her, but she was nice and she was also fun—if he had to marry, then it might as well be to Puschi. Her father had the Krummer millions and his father had the title, and Puschi
was
madly in love with him. He would take good care of her, once they were married—they were such good friends.

With a sigh of relief, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into the tub, floating away the fatigue in the hot steamy water, sipping his whiskey. He was feeling better already, maybe he would go after all. Caro’s parties were always fun.

The courtyard was already crowded with people and carriages as Rupert paid off the cab, pushing back his blond hair with an impatient hand as the wind blasted around the corner. God, it was cold tonight. Ducking his head against the gale, he strode across the courtyard to the house just as the most amazing girl disappeared up the steps in front of him, flashing a glimpse of the longest red silk legs and the strangest little gold boots. Rupert followed the legs; he
had
to see who she was.

“Rupert!”

“Oh, damn,” he groaned as a pretty girl in a blue dress waylaid him at the door. Now he’d miss her!

Gilles de Courmont knew he shouldn’t have come. These parties were always the same, the same faces, the same chatter—the same women. He leaned against the long window watching the scene moodily, wondering if he should bother to stay—perhaps he’d just make some excuse to Caro and leave, he had the new designs of the automobile engines to look over.…
Who
was that girl? She’d just walked in the door on the longest legs, wearing the most bizarre outfit, and was staring around nervously, obviously feeling very much out of place. Would she or wouldn’t she turn and run? She was certainly different, not quite a beauty, but there was something about her. Something quite irresistible. Something that pulled him toward her.

Damn that man, staring at her! Léonie wanted to cry, to turn and run. She shrank into a corner, looking desperately for Caro. All the guests seemed to know each other very well. Oh dear, she should never have come. There was so much noise, music and talk and laughter. She glanced again at the man by the window. He was still watching her, a faint smile on his lips. He knows I don’t belong, she thought miserably. “Flaunt it a little”—Loulou’s words came back to her clearly. She
wouldn’t
be beaten, this was her big chance! Tilting her chin arrogantly, she straightened her back, pulled down her shoulders, and strode into the room on strong red silk legs and prancy circus pony boots.