Glamorous Illusions (23 page)

But I wasn't. I wasn't.

“Help me remember who I was,” I whispered to the wind. “Who I am. And show me, please show me, who I am to become.”

CHAPTER 26

~William~

Uncle Stuart crowed over their good fortune and spouted praises of the French until Will fought the urge to ask him to be quiet. They were sharing a room in the hotel, but tomorrow their party would move to Chateau Richelieu, which, in Will's eyes, was a mixed blessing. On the one hand, they'd be accomplishing what Uncle Stuart wanted most—to introduce their clients to each city's society—and Will wouldn't have to share a room with the old man. But on the other, they'd be in the hands of this city's society, and there was something about Richelieu that Will didn't entirely trust—beyond the fact that he clearly had an eye for Cora.

Uncle Stuart finally stopped yammering and gave in to slow breathing, which eventually became great, faltering snores. Will sighed and turned over, pulling his pillow on top of his head. The squeaking springs made his uncle pause, as if he'd awakened him, but then slowly, the snoring resumed. Will was utterly exhausted, but his mind was racing. He thought about Cora's surprise announcement, and a part of him was proud of her for taking matters into her own hands, the other part aghast at the risk she took. But Cora's expression had been so tense as Vivian spoke to her, and when she'd fled the room as if driven from it, he worried about what the eldest Kensington had said. Cora was quiet through dinner and seemed to revive only when the costumer arrived, methodically taking notes and measurements in order to find the right outfit for each one, as well as a proper mask for the ball the following night, among previously worn and stored gowns and suits.

The thought of his charges all being in costume, in a sea of costumes, agitated Will. How was he to watch over them, protect them, in such a setting? He doubted this would be a small affair. According to Richelieu himself, it would be quite elaborate. Three hundred? Five hundred? The chateau could certainly hold that many. Uncle would have to have a firm word with the group about not taking the proffered champagne at every pass, or Antonio and Will would end up carrying each one of them upstairs as the evening wore on.

On and on his thoughts went, until he finally gave in to sleep in the wee hours. It seemed mere minutes later that his uncle was shaking his shoulder, urging him up. They were to visit Napoleon's tomb and ride through the Arc de Triomphe on horseback, as the great leader had once hoped to do himself. Then they would return and change for the journey back out to the chateau, to prepare for the evening's festivities.

Will groaned and made himself sit up, rubbing his face.

“What's wrong, my boy?” Uncle Stuart said. “Did the bed not agree with you?”

“Something like that,” Will muttered.

“No doubt you were kept up late thinking of pretty Cora in Master Richelieu's arms.”

Will frowned. Was the old man baiting him? “No. I had other concerns on my mind.”

“No? Well, good then. You know how I feel about fraternizing with—”

“Yes, Uncle Stuart. I know.”

The old bear paused, the ends of his tie in his hands. “So what is it, then? Out with it.”

“It's the ball. A masked ball? How are we to keep track of the Morgans and Kensingtons? Usually, we don't encounter such things until Venezia…”

His uncle made a dismissive noise and turned to the mirror to finish tying his knot. “They'll be fine. It's precisely this sort of event that will live long in their memories.” He leaned over to pick up his jacket and slipped it on. “And it's this sort of event that will garner you future tours.”

Will's eyes shifted to meet his uncle's gaze. “Truly? You're ready for me to move on without you?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” the old man said, waving a dismissive hand. “This constant travel is rather wearing. Too wearisome for a man of advanced years. I need to take my retirement upon some lovely porch where I can smoke my pipe, watch sunsets, and flirt with the local widows.”

Will smiled, hope growing in his chest. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Uncle Stuart.”

“Not at all, not at all, my boy. You've earned it.”

He looked at his pocket watch and then gave Will a meaningful look from beneath his bushy gray eyebrows. “Best be about it, then, boy. I'll go and meet the clients for breakfast. Come along shortly?”

Will nodded his head and rose, moving to the sink to run some cold water and splash some onto his face, while his uncle shut the door behind him. He stared at his reflection and grinned.
So the old man really is ready to move on…
He'd been waiting for this day forever. Uncle had hinted, intimated that he'd like to retire, but he'd never said that this would truly be his last tour.

Next year, freedom. Back to university, perhaps securing a loan for the entire year, guide another group come summer, and with luck, be able to finish the following year. Then he'd be his own man. With a degree in one hand and a map in the other.

Traffic was far worse that day on the streets than any other they'd experienced in Paris. But then they'd never arrived so close to the annual celebration of the French Bastille Day. Will frowned over his shoulder in concern for the group on horseback, as they struggled to stay in pairs, knowing they were safer riding together than they were riding single file.
At least it keeps Cora and Vivian from racing
, Will thought. It'd be impossible here anyway, in this crowd. One or both would very likely end up with a broken neck.

He rode beside his uncle. “Perhaps this is the last year to include this particular excursion,” he said to the old man. “With Bastille Day around the corner.”

“Perhaps,” Stuart returned, his face settling into deeper lines. “Though it seems wrong to approach the Arc in any other manner other than as Napoleon wished to.”

Two touring cars nearly collided in front of him, and one sounded its horn. Will's horse shied, and his uncle's mount reared. Will wrenched his reins left as one vehicle swerved by him on the right, still beeping in frustration. The girls, directly behind him, screamed. But his eyes were on Uncle Stuart. The old man's horse faltered, shifting dramatically to the left, but remarkably, his uncle clung to his seat.

When the horse was again on all four hooves, prancing about, Stuart circled and took in his group, returning his focus to his clients. “Well, that gave us quite a fright, did it not?” he asked jovially, still looking peaked. “Never fear. We'll be at the Arc in short order. Onward!” he called, raising one hand as if lifting a sword.

Will shook his head and laughed under his breath. Only he could see the slight tremble revealing his uncle's fear. He had to admire the man. He had a good forty-five years on Will and seemed able to manage days and nights that would put a far younger man in bed for days. He could still outwalk and outtalk many, and he could outdrink more. He was a force, a legend. And Will couldn't imagine that Uncle Stuart was truly ready to hang up his hat after this tour.

Day by day
, Will told himself.
With what I know to be true.
Who knew if Uncle Stuart would change his mind tomorrow? Take another tour? Or twelve…

Finally they made it to the Arc and ran their reins through old brass rings on posts.

After everyone had had some water to drink, they set off on the narrow, winding stairs to the terrace atop the arch, which boasted one of the finest views of Paris's streets anywhere in the city. After two hundred and eighty-four steps, they emerged to the bright sunlight of midmorning. The younger girls traded flirtatious glances with some locals while Andrew and Vivian went off to a far corner, holding hands. Only Cora, Hugh, and Felix listened to the bear droning on about Haussmann's webbed design for the twelve avenues, Napoleon's wishes for the arch to become Paris's symbol of power, the Grand Axis that allowed one to see all the way from the arch to the Place de la Concorde. Will moved over to the edge of the terrace and looked down the wide Avenue des Champs-Élysées.

It truly was a grand design. His hands itched to sketch it, to measure it out and see it on paper as well as by sight, to learn how others had done it so he could emulate the masters. He sighed. Did he really have it in him to be an architect? It was difficult enough, seeing his way to getting through his bachelor's degree. How long would it take him to become a full-fledged architect if he was taking every summer to guide tours?

He wanted a wife, a family. His fortunes had been cast. He was to be the next great bear, leading the finest Grand Tours of Europe for America's coddled and spoiled. Why couldn't he settle into it? Uncle Stuart was retiring; he could run next year's tour as he wished. But the thought of spending every summer and perhaps more with the likes of Cora's siblings, tracing the same paths, pointing out the same nuances in each place, avoiding any true and meaningful connections because he was the bear, and they the clients—

“Are you all right?”

Will turned in surprise toward Cora. She was looking up at him with concern in her beautiful eyes. In the sunlight, he could see that her lashes gave way to blonde at the ends, matching her hair. “What? Oh, I'm fine, fine,” he lied, looking away, conscious that he was staring.

“Well, good. You seemed…your expression…well, you appeared sad.”

“Sad in one of the most joyous cities of the world?” he said, forcing a smile. “I think not.” He gestured outward. “It's beautiful, isn't it?”

“It is.”

“Tomorrow we'll go to Versailles, so you can see the grand chateau. I think picnicking on Marie Antoinette's favorite hill, and this view from the Arc, live long in the memory of those who come to France.”

“Mmm. I imagine.”

He turned to move toward his uncle, who was waving. Cora moved alongside him. “We'll ride bicycles—do you ride?” Will asked.

“I do.”

“Good. We'll ride bicycles around the perimeter of the lake and have a picnic. As grand as Versailles's chateau is, it's far grander to be on her grounds.”

“That will be welcome. I don't know how many more monuments or grand homes my mind can take in.”

He laughed in surprise. “But we've just begun.”

“I know,” she said ruefully.

“It
is
a lot,” he whispered. “I'll try to get him to slow down.” He nodded toward the old bear.

She smiled back in appreciation and then moved off.

At least when he was bear, he told himself, he could modify the schedule to better suit himself and his clients. It wasn't all he wanted, but it was something.

As they were returning, Will caught a headline on a newsstand and circled back. A boy hawking papers turned to him and said, “Paper, monsieur?”

“Oui.” He fished a coin out of his pocket, and the boy handed him a folded newspaper. Will eyed his clients, who had paused up ahead to wait for him, and then scanned the paper, looking for what he sought.
There
.

“
Montana Copper Strike Averted
,” he translated from the French. His eyes widened—it was about the Kensington-Morgan mine in Butte. He was deciding to read and share it with his clients later when a line caught his eye. He double-checked it and then grinned, remembering Cora at the dinner table at the lake and her suggestion. He nudged his horse's flanks and joined the others. They moved out in pairs, down the street.

“Why do you look so smug?” asked Hugh, beside him.

“Just some news from home.”

Andrew looked over his shoulder at him. “What is it?”

“Your father's copper mine narrowly avoided a strike.”

“That is nothing new. The men constantly threaten such an action. But they are poorly organized.”

“It sounds as if they may have found their footing since you've been away,” Will said. “You can read it for yourself.”

Andrew glanced at him again, this time in tandem with Vivian. “And?”

“And your fathers settled it before it became an issue.”

“And that is worthy of a newspaper story?” Vivian said.

“It is. Because they agreed to pay their workers an additional three dollars a week, over and above the competition, as well as some limited profit sharing if goals are met. They also agreed to hire a company doctor who will see to the men as well as their families.”

Andrew straightened in his saddle as Hugh laughed under his breath. Vivian looked ahead to Cora, who was chatting with Felix, who in turn was making the younger girls giggle.

Will grinned. Yes, Cora was making headway in the family. Whether the rest of them wanted her to or not.

CHAPTER 27

~Cora~

When we returned to the Richelieu estate, we found it surrounded by trucks and horse-drawn wagons. Men moved in streams, all carrying crates of food and bottles, presumably of champagne and wine.

“How many do you suppose he invited?” I asked, staring at the hundreds of workers, some of whom came to unload our cars and see us to our quarters.

“By the looks of this, I'd say a good thousand,” Will said, his tone holding no delight.

“Lucky us,” Lillian said, brushing past. “We've stumbled into the grandest party in all of Paris!” She reached out to squeeze Nell's shoulder, and the two rushed up the stairs, all the more excited to don their costumes.

“At last we'll meet some eligible socialites,” Hugh said, stepping next to Felix and climbing the steps right ahead of me. “Have you mastered your tango steps yet?”

“I'm ready to show a Parisian girl or two the romance of the dance,” Felix tossed back.

“Good man,” Hugh said. “We Americans have to hold our own.”

With our host nowhere to be seen, and five glorious hours stretching out before us until we were expected to assemble again, I eagerly followed a servant up the curving staircase to the east wing, spotting the girls as they entered their adjoining rooms and slipping gratefully into my own. I went to the window, which overlooked the gardens, and paused to one side. Will was standing in the center of the garden, fingering a rose, seemingly deep in thought.

What occupied his mind so?

I grabbed hold of the blue curtains and slid them closed, encasing the room in semidarkness. My mind and heart were tired of thinking about so many others—their hopes, dreams, and frustrations. I desperately needed an afternoon with nothing to do but be idle. To sit and stare and let my mind catch up with all it had taken in. To put my thoughts in order like cans upon a shelf.

I lay down on the enormous bed and stared up at the shadows of the gilt four-poster and the inlaid ceiling high above me. I sank into luscious linens, goose down hugging every aching inch of my body. In seconds, I was asleep.

“
Mademoiselle
,” said a feminine voice, a hand shaking my shoulder. “
Mademoiselle
,” she said, more insistently. When I finally recognized that a French girl had no place in my dream of the Montana prairie, my eyes fluttered open. “
Il est l'heure
, mademoiselle,” she said, pointing to her tiny watch.
It is time.
She moved over to the window and threw open the curtains, gesturing toward the waning light as if to say,
Hurry, the party's almost started!

I heard the bath running, and I glimpsed Anna in my small bathroom. I smelled the lavender bath salts. The French maid handed me a huge towel, pointing to her watch again, then left.

The water stopped, and Anna emerged, smiling at me. “Nice nap then, miss?”

“Indeed.” I stretched. “I think I could've slept through the night.”

“Ach, that would've been a pity. You would've missed out on wearing your lovely costume.” She gestured toward the bed, where a gown had appeared.

I stared with some surprise at the dress. The costumer had done nothing but take our measurements and notations as to the coloring of our eyes and hair.

But my French-blue gown covered over half the bed, its color perfectly matching my room. It had a daringly low neckline lined with lace, and the bodice drew in at the waist.
Can I breathe in that?
I wondered. The huge skirt flared out in successive waves. I laughed under my breath at its decadence and fingered the silk fabric.

To one side lay a white wig with curl upon curl in a style that reminded me of a beehive hanging low from the branches of a tree, and a grand silver mask, meant to be held by its stick. The bear had schooled us that afternoon—we were only to remove our masks in private, to those whom we wished to know our identity. No others.

I smiled. No one would know who I was. I could slip through the crowd without any of the Morgans or Kensingtons watching me. I could just be me. Anonymous again. For one night.

“My, my, miss, don't you look beautiful,” Anna said, turning me toward the full-length mirror.

I studied my reflection and gasped.

She'd done my makeup to complement my Louis XIV gown—white powder, dramatic eyes, red lips, and a brown beauty mark that left me looking more like a porcelain doll than myself. But I laughed at the sight, utterly delighted. “Anna, you're a magician! Even without the mask, they'll wonder if it's me!”

She giggled with me and bent to straighten my skirts over the crinolines beneath. I frowned a little over the low-cut bodice and tried to shimmy it up, tugging at the white lace.

“Leave it, leave it be,” Anna said, shooing my hands away. “You'll rip it!” She peered over my shoulder at my reflection. “It doesn't show off too much of what the good Lord gave you.”

“Are you certain of that?” I said, still frowning at my cleavage.

“Trust me, miss. Compared to some of the gowns I've already seen in the halls this night, you'll look like a nun among the cloisters.”

“If you say so…” I turned halfway to see as much of my back as I could in the mirror. The bodice came down in a
V
at my rear, accentuating the shape of my waist and hips. The sleeves were three-quarter length, tight along the shoulder and down my arm, then past the elbow, bursting out in another lovely layer of white lace, soft to the touch, that reached my wrist.

Anna handed me the mask.

“I'm living a fairy tale,” I said numbly.

“That you are, miss. Not many get swept into a world such as this.”

“No. You're right.” Her words rang in my ears.
A world such as this.
I couldn't deny I was excited, thrilled to be going to a real ball. From the Grange Hall dances at home, to the more sophisticated dances aboard the
Olympic
, to the ball tonight…it seemed impossible that I was experiencing it all in such a short period of time.

I like it.
I hated admitting that to myself, feeling as if I was betraying my past—all that was good and right and true of my growing-up years. I knew in part that I was giving up on the anger I'd felt toward Mr. Kensington for dragging me into this. I took a deep breath. But it was impossible to deny that this was a kind of fun I hadn't experienced since childhood.

I sent Anna off with word for Will that I'd join the ball on my own accord, so he needn't come for me. As she shut the door behind her, I clasped my hands together and twirled, again looking in the mirror. For the first time in a very long while, I felt free. On the precipice of an adventure of my own design. In a foreign land at the home of a rather charming man. I felt as if I were Marie Antoinette herself in such a gown and slippers. A fairy princess on her way to a magical ball. Never in a hundred years would I have imagined myself truly here, in a place so far from the land of my birth.

My parents would think it ridiculous, of course. The whole extravaganza would have made them shake their heads in disbelief.

I frowned at my reflection, as if I could stare down the negative voices in my head.
But my parents aren't here with me. They shall never be a part of this world.

I straightened and let my frown fade. This was my life to live. I only needed to figure out who I wanted to be. Who Cora Kensington was—and wasn't.

And to do that, I needed a bit of time to myself. Unencumbered. Undisturbed. Indistinguishable from the rest. Tonight was my perfect opportunity.

I pocketed a handkerchief and my room key in the delicate bag that matched my gown, then went down the stairs, past a group of servants, who bobbed at the sight of me, and then down the central hall, joining others in a long queue that led to the ballroom.

I fell into step beside two other women, wanting to appear as if I were with them, but not too close. One glanced over at me, but then her companion drew her into conversation. We walked down the hall, slowing as people gathered, waiting for Pierre to greet them. People hemmed me in from all sides. Casually, I looked around. None of my traveling companions were in sight. That I could make out, anyway. I was free. For an hour? Two? The whole evening?

The crowd buzzed in fifty different conversations, all in French. Here and there, I could pick out a few words, but despite the bear's efforts to teach us aboard ship, I knew nothing but the basics. A polite smile and nod seemed to get me as far as I needed to go. I didn't really want to talk to anyone this night. I wanted to meld with the crowd and observe, feel the flow of the celebration, but from a step away. With no pressure to perform or speak. I didn't even care if I danced. I simply wanted to be in the midst of the fantastical scene.

It felt like theater to me, and the stage was stunning. Women in the grandest gowns possible; men in ruffled vests and long coats, equally as gaudy and ornate. Everyone wore tall white wigs and masks. Would Pierre know any of them? All of them? As we flowed past our host, I could see him point and name a few, delighted with the success of his party. It was part of the mystique of the evening—to wonder about each person's identity and solve each mystery. Would he know me?

If he did, the illusion of my freedom would be over far too soon. And I wasn't ready for that.

A large family was speaking to Pierre, and I saw my opportunity. I moved to the left, repeating “
excusez-moi
” over and over in a whisper, lest he hear me and recognize my voice. I waited until the guard at his side bent down to speak to a woman, her face blocking Pierre's view of me, and scurried past.

But a hand snaked out and grabbed my wrist. I gasped as I glanced over my shoulder to see who had nabbed me.

“
Nous sommes-nous déjà rencontrés, mademoiselle?
” Pierre asked. I gathered he was asking if we'd met.

“Non, monsieur,” I said, making a deep curtsy. I prayed my accent did not give me away. And that he'd let me go without telling my name, as part of the evening's mystique.

“I see,” he said, dropping my wrist and switching to English. “But you have an invitation to my ball?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

He studied me a moment, and then a man to his left called out to him in a chiding manner, perhaps for lingering over me for so long when so many were waiting.

I hurried across the marble floor and into the grand ballroom, which was already two-thirds full, and made my way into the most crowded section, keeping my head down and listening for my American compatriots. All I heard was some German and quite a bit of English with a refined British accent, but everyone else spoke French. I raised my head and dared to look about.

A footman passed by with a tray, and I took the proffered glass of champagne, mostly because it helped me blend in. Sipping some of the liquid, I felt the bubbles explode in my mouth. I stood near a tiny table on tall legs, so that I might set the champagne down and still manage my mask. Another footman then passed with tiny, delicate croissants filled with some sort of cheese. I took a tiny hors d'oeuvre plate from his tray and then slipped two croissants onto it. They practically melted in my mouth. After him came another servant, serving more fruit, cheese, and a mountain of what I assumed was caviar.