Page 24 of Wild Lily
Chaumont leaned toward her. “What did you think of his work?”
Marianne flourished a hand. “I liked theSamson, not theDiana.”
“Rumor has it he sold theSamson,” said Chaumont. “For many thousands of francs, too. Enough to make his bankers smile.”
“I hope enough to feed him and a new mistress.” Marianne’s gaiety did not hide her jealousy.
“Oui, many artists earn a living.” Chaumont said with a sigh. “People can afford to buy art now that we are done with empires and wars and revolutions. All the more reason to cultivate your own talents, Madame Roland.”
“I am not accomplished. And I was never trained. The war took my land and home. There was no money for frivolities like art instruction.”
“But talent may not need instruction. You know I have many friends in Paris. You could bring your work and we could call on Remy—”
“Oh, no,merci, madame.”
Was Marianne too quick to refuse?
Lily made a note of it.
“I do not wish to trouble them.”
Chaumont muttered something about smalldamage, shrugging off Marianne’s objection. “But they are quite friendly, eager to meet others who struggle with their art. When next we return, I will introduce you. We’ll go up to Pigalle—”
Marianne laughed politely and took a chair opposite Lily and Chaumont.“No, no. I’ve heard of that crowd up on the hill in Montmarte. They are radicals.”
“Remy is one of them,” Chaumont said with nonchalance. “But norevolutionaire. You saw him. A normal man but with talent. He encourages the others, too. In truth, they are becoming the mode. Trust me. They live and breathe and eat and make love just like the rest of us. But if they render the rest of us in lines that are startling and new, is that to be condemned? Or ignored?”
Marianne gazed at her hands in her lap. “You put me to shame, Madame Chaumont.”
“I do not mean to. If you are inclined to sketch or paint or sculpt or write or compose, is it not your life’s work to perfect your vision and give it to the world?”
Those were probably the most profound words Chaumont had ever spoken to them. Lily gazed from the French woman to Marianne who raised her face to consider the countess, respect upon her features.
“You have a point, madame. I shall attempt to change how I regard my art.”
“Do.” She smiled broadly, her smile a genuinely benevolent one. “Now, we must think of our tea. Who has been invited? Refresh my memory.”
Lily brushed the silk of her skirts, ready to recite the list they’d worked so diligently to perfect. For their first afternoon at home, Marianne and she had endeavored to make the party lively. Yet because their acquaintances were so new and limited, they invited other Americans they knew as well as the English they had met in the past few weeks. “Lord and Lady Templeton have accepted and they bring their son, Charles. Lord Pinkhurst. Lord Hardesty and his sister, Lady Rose. The Manchesters from Boston.”
Chaumont tapped a finger against her lips. “Pinkhurst is a rogue. Not rich, but his charm makes up for the lack. And the Manchesters? Who are they?”
Lily was tickled to see Pinkie again. She hadn’t since Paris and their escapade to the cabaret in Montmarte. “Bankers. My father has accounts there.”
“And what of the Duchess of Landon? Did you invite her?” Chaumont had pressed heartily for the elderly lady to be added to the invitations. She was a doyenne who influenced society mightily. She’d led the town to accept newcomers like the Jeromes from New York and the Kings from Georgia. Hopefully, she’d shepherd the Hannifords from Baltimore, too.
“I did, but—” Lily shook her head. “She declined due to a prior engagement. But she begged to be remembered for our next tea.”
“Excellent.” Chaumont cocked her head. “What of Lord Chelton?”
Lily caught sight of the footman approaching with the tea tray. “I did not send a card.”
“No?” Chaumont looked from Lily to Marianne and back again. “But he showed such interest in you in Paris.”
Too much. Too quickly.That night at the opera, so close for so very long, his focus on her electrified her. His intensity stole her breath. His proximity set her afire. His hand on hers burned and branded. She admired his grace, she applauded his demeanor, she envied hissavoir faire. But near him, she felt rough, uncut. Too buoyant. Close to him, she compared herself to any English girl. She was not sedate, not always serene. At home in America such contrasts never occurred to her. There she was in her element. Here, with him, she doubted she could ever be. “Really I think it best he not come.”
“But he was most enchanted with you. I am certain. I saw it.” Chaumont was triumphant in her declaration.
“I did not encourage him, madame.”
