The Heroic Baron (17 page)

Her futile perusal of the crowd revealed nothing. Cecile swept another elegant curtsy and exited the stage.
She had only enough time to touch up her coiffure and
make up before her dressing room door was besieged with well-wishers, all of them male and all of them
hoping to entertain the lovely French violinist with a
late supper. The guards placed at her door brought in
countless bouquets. Cecile consoled herself with the
knowledge that at least the poor flower girls standing
outside the Royal Opera House were doing a swift
business tonight from the looks of the bouquets populating her small chamber. She would go through the
cards tomorrow.

The women would send their messages tomorrow,
invitations asking her to perform at a private musicale
or give a private concert at someone’s mansion in town.
Her experiences elsewhere in Europe had revealed that
she could make more money giving private concerts
than she could at large public performances. But the
public performance was necessary to draw the needed
attention and lay the bait. Everyone would want to hear
more, want to claim they had been the first to “discover” the talented woman from Paris. She had money
now for dresses, nice hotel rooms and dinners, for traveling expenses, and a highly competent secretary who
handled all her business. She had the money now that
she and Etienne had craved in Paris.

She told herself she wanted to see Alain if for no
other reason than to make contact with Etienne, whom
she’d missed desperately since that first evening apart.
Certainly, she didn’t want to see Alain because she still
expected him to marry her. But part of her heart wasn’t
so easily convinced.

The secretary, an efficient thin woman of unusual
height, Mrs. Brown, slipped through the door and
slammed it shut with her hip, her arms full of addi tional flowers. “There is a mob of young bucks outside
tonight. You outdid yourself, Madame” Mrs. Brown
was English, which made her indispensable to Cecile.
Cecile had learned quickly that the English prided
themselves on titles. Mrs. Brown insisted on calling her
madame although Cecile had insisted it was not necessary or appropriate.

“One gentleman has been quite insistent,” Mrs.
Brown continued in a tone suggesting the gentleman
had quite tried her patience. “He sent you this.” She
nodded to the small letter resting on top of the bouquets. “I noticed the note bears his seal. This is a titled
gentleman.” One of the first lessons Mrs. Brown had
taught Cecile was the importance of rank, not only of
oneself, but of others as well. Many of the men who
flocked to her door were young gentlemen hoping to
impress her with their father’s titles. Few of them had
anything more to offer. Those men did not appeal to
Cecile in the least. They were simply carousers, interested in sowing wild oats and living on their fathers
largesse until they came into their inheritances.

“What is his title?” Cecile asked, her curiosity only
moderately pricked. She was interested in one man alone.

Mrs. Brown sighed, somewhat deflated. “He’s a
baron” Her sigh indicated she thought barons were noble by the skin of their teeth since they were on the bottom of the noble pecking order. But the word baron put
Cecile on full alert.

“The baron of what? Does it say his name?” She
asked, careful not to let her thoughts run too far afield.

“It looks like Wickham. Yes, it’s Baron Wickham.”

“Alain,” Cecile breathed his name in a heady whis per. She sat down hard on the little stool before her vanity. Alain was here. He had come, and he’d come looking for her. “Mrs. Brown, give me his letter and wait for
a reply.” Cecile extended her hand and took the heavy
paper. She broke the red wax wafer and read, her heart
pounding.

“Mrs. Brown, tell him I will have dinner with him.
Ask him to wait at the theater entrance and then send
the dresser to come help me change,” Cecile instructed.
She had become very good in the past years at issuing
orders and taking charge.

With the dresser’s help, Cecile readied herself in
record time. She changed out of the stunning red performing gown into something more suitable for dinner
with a baron. She selected a gown of midnight blue
with a satin bodice banded in a wide satin ribbon under
her breasts of the same color, falling into a slightly
fuller muslin skirt and delicate chiffon overslip. Thanks
to her time with General Motrineau, she’d discovered
that dressing in gowns made of a single color enhanced
her stature. Dressing simply and not giving into furbelows and excessive trimmings gave her an aura of maturity, which her image definitely needed.

Cecile fastened a small strand of Scottish pearls
around her neck. They weren’t as dazzling as the excellent paste jewels she wore for performances, but they
looked elegant and tastefully subdued with the dark
dress. She combed out her hair and refashioned it into a
smooth chignon at the nape of her neck and snatched
up a lightweight spring pelisse of silver-gray cashmere.
A quick dab of rosewater behind her ears and at her
throat completed her toilette.

A look in the mirror before exiting told her she’d accomplished her goal. She wanted Alain to see the
woman she’d become, a self-sufficient woman who
could take care of herself. He need not be bound to her
out of past obligations. He need only to come to her
honestly out of the dictates of his heart.

Cecile found Alain waiting outside, leaning his long
form against one of the opera house’s colonnades. She
took a moment to study him from her vantage point.
She could not see his face, but his shoulders were as
broad as she remembered them, beneath the black
opera cloak he wore. He carried a silk top hat and walking stick in one hand, his honey-gold hair glowing like
a halo in contrast to the darkness of his attire in the
spring evening. Her heart began to race at the prospect
of her dream so close to fulfillment.

In her daydreams she had long played out the scene
in which she and Alain found each other again. She
would be the grand lady, finely dressed, self assured,
poised with the manners of the highborn-a woman
Alain would be pleased to call his wife, a woman worthy of the title “Lady.” All those fantasies spun in the
dark loneliness of the years without him were worthless
now. She stood rooted on the theater steps, unable to
progress or even to find her voice, so moving was the
sight of him. Like water to the thirsting, rope to the
drowning, fire to the freezing, the sight of him was all
that and more.

Cecile found her voice and claimed her dream in a
single, soft spoken word. “Alain”

He turned at the summons and Cecile drank in the
sight of his face, so familiar and yet slightly altered from the face that populated her dreams on a regular
basis. This face was tanned from hours spent working
beneath the sun, but the mossy eyes were still as she recalled. He was dressed impeccably, overwhelmingly
breathtaking, as golden, as godlike as she’d ever
thought him. Her imagination had not failed her these
long years and at the sight of him, she regretted not a
single moment of her sacrifice.

“Cecile!”

Her heart skipped at the sound of her name on his
lips and all thought of playing the grand lady fled. She
cared nothing for decorum, but only to be in his arms
again. He was pushing his way up the steps towards her,
heedless of the stares his charge drew from the last of
the post-theater crowd still mingling on the steps. She
could not wait for him to reach her. Cecile lifted the
hem of her satin gown and rushed to meet him.

His arms were about her enfolding her in their
strength. Cecile breathed the scent of him and turned her
face to his. In that moment his lips found hers in a soulbinding kiss, and she knew she was home. His body was
all heat and hardness as he pressed her to him, his joy,
his happiness complete. Unbidden, the words he’d spoken to her beneath the tree during General Motrineau’s
al fresco party came to mind. `When I woo you, you
shall know it.’ And she did. The man for whom she’d defied an army had waited for her. She had lived for this
moment and it had come. As long as she lived, there
would not be a moment to rival this one. Her face was
wet with her joy when they drew apart, Alain keeping
her hands in his as if he could not bear to be separated
from her again even if only by inches.

“Cecile, you’re a vision. Let me look at you!” Alain
spread her arms wide and stepped back, taking in the
whole of her. His eyes reflected the truth she’d seen in
the mirror.

“Thank you. You look well yourself,” she said rather
stiffly, still at a loss for words.

“You’re speaking English!” Alain exclaimed in wonder. “When did you learn?”

“I took lessons in Paris. It seemed imperative to
learn English after..” Her voice broke off. She had
not meant to discuss the past standing in Covent Garden. Yet, there was so much between them that needed
saying, why she hadn’t come to him until now. The
questions he must have!

Alain understood, a smile of joy wreathing his face.
“Say no more. We have so much to discuss. I doubt one
night will be enough, but we have time now. Come and
dine with me. I’ve taken a private room at Rules for us”

“Yes” Cecile breathed, her eyes unable to leave his.
This was a fairy tale and daydream combined. She was
with Alain again, and he was escorting her to dinner in
London. It was so far removed from anything she’d
dared to dream.

Alain tucked her hand in the crook of his arm. “I
have taken a table at Rules for us. It’s not far, just
across the piazza at Southampton and Maiden Lane.
We can walk, if you like.”

Cecile found her voice enough to muster a little of
the old teasing. “Were you that sure I’d accept your invitation when you sent your card?”

“If you did accept, I could hardly be caught without having made any preparations. I thought it better to
think ahead and risk looking the fool to the proprietor
instead of looking the fool with you” Alain admitted
honestly.

“You could never look the fool to me, Alain.” Cecile
said softly, squeezing his arm. “I’d be just as happy
with a bottle of wine, cheese in the park, and a loaf of
crusty bread.”

Alain smiled down at her, “I know. We’ll have time
for that too. We’ll have all the time you will allow me,
Cecile.”

Rules was indeed close by and their walk was only a
matter of a few minutes. Inside, the maitre d’ led them
straight away to a private room which could have
seated six, expressing the whole while how honored
they were that a baron and such a renowned violinist
would patronize the establishment.

“I hope you don’t mind the privacy,” Alain said after
the gushing maitre d’ had left. “I selfishly want you to
myself” He broke off suddenly. “My God, Cecile. I can’t
believe you’re here. That we’re here, having dinner together. You’re alive!” He reached for her hands across the
table and stroked their backs with the pads of his thumbs.

“Alain, you’ll make me cry.” Cecile scolded while
the proof of her scold welled in her eyes.

“I know. I feel it too. Tonight is a miracle. Somehow
it is hard to concentrate on the ordinary.” He smiled and
winked. “Nonetheless, I do hear their roebuck venison
is excellent.”

Cecile laughed, appreciating his efforts at small talk.
Such banter would give them time to settle their ram pant emotions. She matched his attempt at normal conversation. “Tell me about Rules, Alain. Do you come
here often?”

“I haven’t been to London much in recent years,”
Alain shrugged, “Its amusements haven’t been all that
diverting for me, at least not until tonight.” He caressed
her hands, lost for a moment. Then he brightened. “But
Rules has been in business for eighteen years. It’s become a regular spot for theatergoers. I imagine most of
the guests tonight were also at your concert, another
reason I didn’t want to take a public table. I thought you
might not like the attention.”

Cecile found the small talk flowing between them
consoling. It was a wondrous thing to talk with Alain as
if it were an everyday occurrence. It was no small triumph to her that she could do so in English. But conversing about roebuck and oysters was far from what
she really wanted to ask and no doubt far from the
things weighing on Alain’s mind.

At last, the entrees arrived and the servers left them
alone to dine. For the first time that evening, they had
both the privacy and the time they needed for their long
awaited discussion.

“How did you learn English?” Alain broached the subject, picking up the reference she’d made in the piazza.

Cecile took a sip of the rich red wine, buying time to
organize her thoughts. Where to start? How to start? “I
studied violin-making and playing under Nicholas
Lupot. Do you remember him? I mentioned him to you
before. He has a small but lucrative business in Paris.
When I showed talent for the craft and for performing,
Monsieur Lupot kindly hired a tutor for me. When I proved proficient in that as well, we hit on the idea of
me touring. He has no interest himself in travel, but he
is interested in profit and it is good for the rest of the
world to see the greatness of France” Cecile paused
and took another bite of the venison.

“He found my secretary, Mrs. Brown as well. She
used to be a lady’s companion. She taught me all types
of things about going on in society: how to dress, how
to comport myself as a lady,” she waved a fork with a
teasing smile, “how to eat in high society. I think she
has been a success”

Alain nodded, his eyes glowing like emerald coals.
“There is a mantle of sophistication about you now.”

Cecile challenged his frankness. “Do you find it to
your liking?” She reached for her wineglass, her gaze
holding his over the rim of the crystal goblet.

“I would have liked you as much without it,” Alain
responded.