Page 22 of Wild Lily
“The orange is very becoming.” Relieved at the interruption, Lily rose from the sofa to greet her. Over the past few months, she thought of Chaumont more as a friend than an employee. “I’m so glad you decided to treat yourself.”
“The generosity of your father is magnificent, Miss Hanniford. I shall praise him ever more. His employment comes to me at a time of desperate need.”
“He is very grateful,” Marianne told her as she walked around her to inspect her attire. “And this is superb.”
“Only if I live,” Chaumont joked and put a hand to her midriff.
“I understand.” Lily put a hand beneath her breast and made a desperate face at the other two. “I am so corseted, I can barely breathe. And I’m so excited, I hope I don’t spill the tea.”
“You will do well.” Chaumont squeezed her hand. “Do not think of it. Converse. Smile. Enjoy yourself and it will come to you.”
“And if I make a mistake?”
“Never stop. Make the change when next you have the same task to perform.”
“Yes, of course. I will do this well.” Lily closed her eyes. Her father expected it of her. The three of them had traveled from Paris three weeks ago and upon their arrival had taken up residence in this house in Piccadilly. Beginning with a skeleton staff headed by Foster, the butler,they’d got on well enough while he hired a housekeeper, four more maids and three footmen. Chaumont had joined them from Paris last week and taken a small house near Hanover Square. With her, she brought two more trunks of clothes for Lily plus another two for Marianne. All had been diligently tailored to the precise measurements of each lady, crafted by those at the House of Worth.
Dressing the ladies in grand style was Killian’s priority, closely seconded by furnishing the London house.
“No expense will be too great,” Killian had often repeated.
He wanted a showpiece and had rented the house from an elderly earl frantic to pay his bills. As a backdrop for his business dealings and a venue to exhibit his wealth and his family, Killian reveled in his skill to wrest it from the desperate Englishman. The house sat on one major thoroughfare in London, a few doors away from Number One, the home of the Dukes of Wellington. A few houses in one direction, the Duke of Devonshire lived. The Rothschilds lived in the other direction. An American bachelor from Montana who had made millions from mining silver had recently rented the house next door. Across the street was The Ritz, where Killian dined often or had terrines de frois gras sent over for his lunch. This afternoon, he’d insisted that the chef send overamuse-bouchefor the tea party Lily and Marianne hosted. Their first event at home in London, he wanted every detail to be the finest.
Chaumont surveyed the art in the drawing room. Pausing in front of an oil over the mantel, she looked at Marianne. “Mon Dieu, I am overcome. Is that painting by Monsieur Delacroix?”
“Oui,madame,” Marianne said, walking toward the portrait of pianist Frédéric Chopin. “Marvelous for its delicacy, is it not?”
“Is this the one that some fool cut in half? The one with his lover, George Sand?”
“It is. Monsieur Hanniford likes Chopin’s etudes and he decided he must have it.”
“Even if,” added Lily, “the piano in the picture seems unfinished and his lover, Miss Sand, is missing.”
“No matter.” Marianne chuckled. “Monsieur Hanniford likes it.”
“And even though it cost more than all our wardrobes from Worth combined,” Lily said with amusement, “he had to own it.”
Marianne had found it in an auction house on the Champs-Élysées and had told her uncle about it. “He comes in here to view it each morning after his breakfast.”
“Astonishing,” said Chaumont, bending forward to examine the brushwork. “When we were in Paris, I knew he liked to visit the galleries, but I did not know he wished to buy pieces.”
“He wishes he could draw or paint,” Lily said as she led them to sit near the fire. “Marianne does both and knows a brilliant work when she sees it.”
Chaumont put a hand to her throat, in her eyes stood awe. “I am enthralled. I did not know this about you, Madame Roland. I would like to see your work.”
“Thank you. But no, I will not show any of it.”
“She’s very good,” said Lily. “She won’t tell you that, but I can.”
“Oh, but you must let me see! I insist.” Chaumont touched her hand to Marianne’s wrist.
Lily answered for her cousin. “She refuses to show her works to anyone other than us at home.”
“Today, after all your guests leave,” Chaumont pleaded with Marianne.
“No, thank you. I do what thrills me. My work is not classical.”
“All the better,”Chaumont said. “In Paris, there is new interest in art. It spreads, I think, here too. We have—how shall we say?—new interpretations. Painters, sculptors. You met one of them a few months ago. He has created sensations with his women.”
