Page 59 of Ravishing Camille
“I will. Tell Cook not to fuss. Eight o’clock, if that’s all right. I’d like an early night.”
He predicted it would be a lonely one, too.
* * *
The scenery flying past Camille’s window going down to the coast and boat train set her mind at ease. She’d done all she could for her mother and her exhibit. The fabrics had come on time and the hall was ready to receive her instructions in the morning.
But Camille had to get away. Take time for herself, for the gigantic job of pretending to be nothing more to Pierce than his step-sister. How she would get through the days ahead she had no idea. Acting took a huge toll on her. It had never been her forte. She was, always, who she was, declaring what she wanted and how. Deceit, lying—anything of the sort—had always been unnecessary to her. She rather expected that many in the family knew of her attraction to Pierce and that they’d accepted it, even as neither she nor Pierce had.
She hoped she might find comfort in the solitude of the train. The constant chug of the engine and the grinding rolling wheels would give her peace in their rhythm. The hum and beat of it would set her imagination spinning. The Channel’s churning waters and the site of the cliffs of Dover as they turned east toward Calais and south toward Paris had always filled her with awe. She was a glutton for dazzling scenery.
Just as I am for family and friends. And lovers, too. One, especially.
She crossed her arms and snuggled once more into the serviceable leather squabs. Her rushto arrive to her train on time had been stymied by an overturned carriage, horses and passengers tumbled, blocking the lanes of the Strand. She’d been thrilled to board it on time.
But by teatime, her nine-and-half hour train ride wearied her. With her toe tapping the floor, she endured the train chugging through the northern villages of Paris at a slower pace than in the countryside.
She was hungry, too. Breakfast in her rooms had been toast and tea. She’d dressed serviceably in a simple light grey wool walking suit and lace trimmed cotton blouse. Trains could be cold or hot and one had to be prepared.
Intending to take her mind off Pierce, she’d brought her notebooks to work on her newest novel. She’d given Ivy three weeks of leave to go south to Brighton to visit her mother. In Paris, the staff at Rue Haussmann was sufficient for Camille. Besides, she did not want to have to make excuses in a week when she told her family she was off to the countryside for a bit of seclusion. She needed to meet Pierce for their rendezvous alone.
She forced herself to the examination of the Parisian outskirts. She’d use them, somehow, in a novel, but she knew not how or when. The flat plains of the north that led from the ocean south toward the Seine were a picturesque blend of sparkling meandering rivers, bright green foliage and lush forests of ancient oaks in moist thick black loam. Dotted by white-washed farmhouses with red-clay mansard roofs and chateaus of limestone and pale pink brick, the French meadows of pale grasses danced in the late summer winds. The last petals of wild summer roses dripped like blanched diamonds from thorny stems. But dahlias and asters in a hundred shades of pink blossomed, setting the land to blush like a maiden on her wedding night.
Happy to pull into the large hall of the Gare du Nord, she dug from her valise her receipt for her trunk in the baggage car. She was ready to hop off at first chance. The train huffed to a stop with a last puff and she gathered her purse, her reticule and her writing case. She had no idea if Marianne would meet her personally. She’d sent a cable this morning to her in the house in Rue de Rivoli, hoping Marianne would take her in for the night. But Marianne was nine full months pregnant with her third child, so if she could not come, she most likely would have sent her coachman to fetch her.
Camille took the two steps down to the cement quay and inhaled the unique aromas of Paris. A combination of floral scents, garlic and yeasty pastry, the city was a treasure. So too the Gare du Nord. A tall, spare structure, the iron rafters rose like grotesque skeletons, dark with the smoke from the engines. But it was open to the air and she walked along the quays aside the idling trains and welcomed the exercise after sitting for so many hours. Hucksters in the pavilion cried out their offerings of a thousand delicacies of coffee, croissants, macarons or sandwiches ofjambon et fromage.Her stomach growled.
And there ambling toward her was the Duchesse de Remy et Princesse d’Aumale, Marianne Marceau, née Duquesne et Roland, the niece of Killian and the wife of an artist as famous as she. Marianne looked nothing like her uncle or her cousins, Lily, Ada and Pierce. Gloriously blonde with golden streaks through her wealth of platinum hair, she was petite, even dainty. Pregnant with her third child, she was twice her normal size. Her complexion was a flawless ivory with cheeks of bright pink highlighting her forest green eyes. A painter who’d begun sketching the Yankees and Confederates who tramped over her first husband’s Virginia farmland, she chose now to portray women and often children, particularly her own. By this she was known, along with the Philadelphian Mary Cassatt, for her portrayal of family love.
“Bonjour!” she called to Camille and waved a white lace handkerchief. Dressed in a pale lavender muslin trimmed in summer pink soutache, Marianne absolutely exuded good health.
Camille flagged a porter and gave him her receipt for her trunk, then hurried over to Marianne.
“Oh,ma cherie! Come, come!” She sounded more French every year.
They caught each other in a fond embrace. Like all Hannifords, Marianne clasped Camille as if she were indeed a blood relative. From the first moment her mother had introduced her to Killian and Pierce, Camille had never doubted her acceptance among them. Now she couldn’t help but wonder what Marianne would say if she knew she had agreed to go away with Pierce for five days and become his lover.
Marianne cupped her cheek. “You are hot! Your cheeks are bright pink! Or is this a bruise? What happened?”
“I promise to tell you later. I am so thrilled to be here.”
“Oui,you must.” Marianne ran her hand over Camille’s. “Youarehot. Oh, those trains are little stew pots. We must have Uncle Killian and Pierce talk with their friends who design them and change them up for us, eh?”
“No matter! I’m here. I enjoyed my trip—and you look marvelous. Beingencienteis so good for you.”
She scoffed. “Wait and see how good it is for you!”
Shocked, she found a response. “Marriage first.”
Marianne hooked her arm through hers. “A love affair first, why not?”
“Oh, I—I’m not sure.” Had she been found out?
“I am teasing you. I thought you said the last time you were here in March that you were considering one man in particular? No? What happened to him?”
They strode past a flower girl and Camille stopped to buy an armful of pink peonies. She handed over her French francs and tossed Marianne a wicked grin. “He failed my test.”
“Mon Dieu!Like all the others! You must stop charming all the men in the world and settle on one good one,ma cherie. Your mother is always amazed at your collection of odd men. As are all of us!”
