Emily French - Illusion

As Tessa brushed and styled her hair, Sophy resolutely kept her eyes shut. That way, she could envisage Seth lying across her bed, lazy and content, relaxed in a magnificent sprawl, like a huge jungle cat, satiated with love. Somehow the vision shifted, changed. He was now a medieval knight, ready to defend her honor, her very life.

It was an illusion she could cling to, one she could hold dear. How one converted the image into reality was another matter, especially when love was not a factor in the equation that was her future.

Her father had always advised when in a situation requiring instant answers to trust her inner voices and good common sense. What would he have said to her present situation?

Sophy could almost hear his voice. Well, my girl, pride and arrogance have gotten you into a fine mess! You’re the one who set the limits to the relationship. You’re the one who’ll have to renegotiate. How she missed him!

Resolutely, she turned her mind to more prosaic matters. Like her new project. Her face brightened. Like finding a house in Greene Street.

Sophy drew her brows together in mild exasperation. The warm day had darkened rapidly as fleeting wisps of cloud gathered to form masses of gray slate across the sky, casting a pall over the sun. The wind moaned as it drove clouds into a tumbling, threatening horde above the comb of chimney tops.

The carriage turned into a narrow street where stately brownstone mansions nestled behind grilled-iron doorways. Midway along the thoroughfare, the carriage stopped. Bidding the cabriolet driver to wait, Sophy hurried up the semicircular shallow marble steps, peered at the nameplate and rang the doorbell.

A servant opened the door, took her card and disappeared.

She took a deep, spine-stiffening breath as the door opened again and the servant gestured to Sophy to enter. Though the house was strangely silent, Sophy thought she heard the muffled tones of voices raised, and even the peculiar sound of suppressed laughter.

Entering the drawing room, Sophy stared in awe at the brightly patterned pink wallpaper, the large diamond-paned windows, the lavish mahogany paneling glowing with a rich luster. An exquisite rose-and-gray Aubusson carpet covered the floor, while against one wall a small iron stove glowed, exuding warmth. Hanging over all in the center of the ceiling was a tremendous crystal chandelier.

Sitting among a plethora of pink velvet cushions was a golden-haired woman. Voluptuous. Elegant. Dressed in a low-cut gown of watered silk, a ruffled shawl of bobbin lace over her shoulders. Her legs were covered with a gray woolen rug patterned with pink hearts. She looked up as the door opened, making no attempt to rise.

“What can I do for you, Mrs. Weston?” Her voice like warm black velvet, thick with a French accent.

Sophy put down her muff. “I am looking for Madame Bertine. I wish to speak with her privately.”

The woman inclined her perfectly shaped head. “Speak, ma fille. ”

Sophy stared directly into a pair of intense dark eyes. She took a deep breath. “I have come, Madame, because I have discovered my late father bought a certain piece of real estate.” She pulled the ribbon-bound deeds from her reticule. “He then gifted a certain Marie-Simone Bertine a life-interest lease on the property. I want to know why.”

There was a long pause. A half smile glimmered at the corner of the woman’s lips. Perfect lips, sculpted in ruby, curved round flawless ivory teeth.

Finally, she spoke. “It would seem Nicholas van ‘Outen was a trifle old-fashioned. ’E kept some secrets from ’is daughter.”

Sophy could hear the amusement in the woman’s voice. She felt her mouth open, then shut with a snap. “That is preposterous nonsense. I handled all my father’s business affairs. He kept no secrets!”

“Mais non. You knew nothing of this arrangement.” Madame Bertine shrugged off Sophy’s vehemence dismissively, then changed the subject altogether. “You should wear red, ma chérie. It would suit you. You have such lovely skin.”

Sophy glanced at the woman suspiciously for any signs of mockery. Seeing none, she sighed. “I am in mourning, Madame Bertine.” She touched her black silk gown lightly. “Black is a cold, dignified color. One to gain respect in a man, not love. It’s not a color to entice or excite.”

“What an extraordinary girl you are. With your dramatic coloring, and dressed accordingly, you could entice les hommes like bees to a flower.”

Sophy fought the urge to throw back her head and laugh hysterically at this absurd conversation. “I already have a husband.”

A husband whose heart belonged to his business. If only...

Madame Bertine nodded slowly, as if her thoughts were not really on Sophy’s reply. She was silent for a long while. “Red is a very bold color. It stands for something. It makes a statement.” She lost the thoughtful look. “I associate it with the strong emotions, passion, anger, desire, l’amour.”

Sophy felt a lump form at the back of her throat. She swallowed. Fixed her eyes on her wedding ring as a focus.

“I do not know that a marriage of convenience, a business arrangement, requires strong emotions. Though I do like heads to turn when I enter a room.”

No, only one. Seth’s head. If I were in a daring low-cut red satin dress, then he might take me in his arms, press his lips to mine, stir again those strange, fluttering sensations. If only...

“If you want a man to long for you, find yourself a motif. One he will associate only with you. When he sees it, even if you are far away, he will think of you.”

Madame suddenly became interested in the fringe of her shawl. She gave a small sound that might have been a sob. “I surround myself with ‘earts. The ’eart ’as always connoted affection.”

Sophy’s eyes widened as a sudden realization struck her, igniting a flame of suspicion in her mind. She gave Madame Bertine an astute look.

Father’s lacquered cigar box had an arched floral crest pierced with hearts! How could she have been so blind? She tried to suppress her inner excitement, but her high color belied her outward calm.

“Were you my father’s lover?”

Madame Bertine gave another Gallic shrug, and straightened the rug over her knees. “I’ave been the lover of many men, my child. Nicholas van ’Outen was but one of them.”

“But he must have meant more than the others. He bought this house. You live in it!”

“Ah, mais oui. Marie-Simone catered for ‘is needs.” Her eyes met Sophy’s with a suddenly troubled expression. “Nicholas van ’Outen was an honorable man. He would not jeopardize his social standing and risk gossip by taking a mistress while ‘e ’ad a daughter at ‘ome. So ’e compromised ‘is principles and set me up in a business ’ere in Greene Street.”

She laughed gaily as Sophy looked puzzled.

“I see you do not know what I am talking about. It does not matter, ma fillette. Follow the dictates of your ’eart, rather than the logic of the mind, and you will win the prize.”

Sophy closed her eyes, expelling a long breath. She clasped her hands together and defied the logic of her mind. “Madame, could you help me? Could you teach me how to win my husband’s affection?”

Chapter Four

“In spite of Lincoln’s death, there seem to have been...”

Seth let Richard Carlton’s voice wash over him as he idly surveyed the scene below. Suddenly, his idleness vanished. His fingers dug into the polished sill. Surely that was Sophy!

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He would recognize that distinctive walk anywhere. A skip, then a hop. There was nothing sedate about his wife. She bounced. Like an excited pixie.

“—the meaning of freedom remains unresolved....”