Two
One Week Later
Paris, France
As Aurora came face-to-face with yet another etching of what could only be considered an anatomically aspirational phallus, she concluded that in the future she ought to make more inquiries before she accepted invitations from her friends.
It was true that the phallus in question was part of a—as much as it could be—fairly tasteful and feminine-focused exhibit of erotic art. It was also true said exhibit was being displayed by one of her current employers, the famous Parisian brothel Le Bureau—where she’d been functioning as a physician for the past few weeks, thank you very much. But one would think Manuela could’ve at least warned her what she was walking into.
“There you are.” The boisterous call was from her friend, who was serving as the hostess of the evening’s event. A party to celebrate the birthday of her beloved, the dowager Duchess of Sundridge, at their private rooms in the upper floor of Le Bureau. It was still hard to comprehend that merely months earlier, Manuela was set to marry a man and live her life as a society wife in Caracas, Venezuela.
Now she was a working artist and teacher in Paris, a union organizer and living with her female lover, but most important, she was radiantly happy. For people who didn’t know Manuela, it was perhaps not very dramatic, but to Aurora, it was a complete transformation. It wasn’t that the old Manuela would’ve balked at the idea of hosting a birthday party for her lover at a brothel. Her friend had always had a penchant for scandal. But the old Manuela would’ve done it to shock, to horrify the hypocrites in their midst. This Manuela did things only because they made her and the woman she loved happy.
“I was going to go find you in the catacombs. Was the clinic all right?” Manuela exclaimed, all smiles in her lovely saffron gown.
“Everything was fine,” Aurora said with a roll of her eyes. “I told you I’d be late.” The “catacombs” were the small set of rooms the owners of Le Bureau had set up for Aurora to see staff who required or desired medical attention. Though they were in the cellar, Aurora did not have any complaints, Sédar and Seynabou Cise-Kelly were excellent employers, who compensated her exceedingly well and made sure she had everything she needed.
“You work too hard, Leona.” Despite her annoyance at the comment—why was everyone perennially preoccupied with her work schedule?—she did warm at her friend’s use of the nickname they’d been given in finishing school by the other students. To the heiresses from the Americas who ran together like their own pride of three.
“You work too, Mademoiselle Professeure,” Aurora retorted, forcing levity into her voice.
“This is true,” Manuela admitted, with a shrug. “But I take every opportunity available to engage in decadence and deprav ity.” She knew Manuela said this to shock her, and while in the past the implication that Aurora was a boring stiff would’ve annoyed her, now she had her own decadent secret. The knowledge was surprisingly satisfying. But she also knew her friend’s concerns were not merely about Aurora’s working habits, but about her brothers cutting her access to her trust.
This was something she did not want to discuss again. Every time the topic of her recent liquidity woes came up, it resulted in one more, embarrassing, offer of help from her friends. Aurora didn’t want help. She could support herself just fine with the money she made from her work here at Le Bureau. It was true that she could no longer afford an address at the Place des Vosges or shopping at the Rue de la Paix, but she never cared for those things anyway. It also felt hypocritical to accept money that could go to other causes, like Manuela’s artists union.
The truth was that Aurora could have as much money as she wanted or could ever need from her family. As long as she submitted to her father’s and brothers’ many requisites in how to live her life.
Though the events that led to her departure from the family home thirteen years earlier effectively severed her relationship with them, she’d never been denied access to her trust. But like most women, the independence she thought she’d fought for when she left home was in many ways an illusion.
She could be a doctor as long as she never attempted to have any power or contradicted any of the rules the men had set. She could have her own life as long as her brothers controlled her purse strings. She could be her own woman as long as men got to draw all the lines she was not to cross. When, as she always did, she pushed back on their efforts to control her, they extended threats and ultimatums.
A heaviness filled her chest when she remembered her oldest brother’s last letter. Why must you always be so angry?
That had always been the seed of all her troubles. Her insistence in exhibiting her displeasure had been a constant source of bewilderment for the men in her family since she was a child. In adulthood, that bewilderment had turned into scorn.
Angry girls were unlikable, but angry women were detestable.
If she could only learn that lesson.
“This is quite the display,” she commented, if only to take her mind off her brothers, though she was not quite certain what she was looking at. As she’d been lost in thought, Manuela had moved them along the art displayed and they were now in front of what appeared to be a Japanese illustration of a sea creature performing impassioned cunnilingus on a woman.
“Is that a squid?” she asked as she took it in. The woman’s face twisted in pleasure brought back memories she simply did not want comingling with this amorous mollusk. The memory of Apollo’s shoulders surging between her thighs, bloomed like a rose of fiery petals in her belly.
“It is indeed,” Manuela confirmed, happily unaware of Aurora’s thoughts. “It’s called Shunga, it’s quite old Japanese erotic art.” It was intriguing, and the illustration so detailed. But the skill of the artist was not responsible for Aurora’s flustered state. “We’re quite fortunate there are so many artists from all over the world here for the Exposition Universelle.” Aurora nodded, but did not risk speaking. It was as if she could still feel that hot tongue sliding over her flesh.
“Is it too hot for you, Léona?” Manuela asked, with a concerned frown. “Cora likes to keep the room warm, I asked her to open a window.” Aurora waved a hand in dismissal, and hurried to the next piece, before she began to perspire in earnest.
The painting was of an orchid which looked much too anatomically correct to be a mere flower.
“Is this yours?” Aurora asked, unable to suppress a grin.
“It is indeed.” Her friend’s artwork had always been a bit risqué, but lately, Manuela had lost any remnants of constraint when it came to announcing to the world who she was. “It’s one of Cora’s birthday presents.”
Aurora didn’t choke at the implications of that, but it was a close thing. “I did not need to know that.”
“You look at vaginas all day! How is it that you still get flustered by them?” Manuela protested with a laugh, making Aurora’s face heat.
“Where is your keeper, Manuela Caceres?” She spoke loud enough to be heard by Cora, who was coming toward them. Her friend only waggled her eyebrows in answer, then thrust herself into her lover’s arms.
“Mi amor, are you torturing your friend again?” Cora asked with a fond smile on her lips as she embraced Manuela. In her hunter green trousers and suit jacket, Cora cut quite the figure. Corazón Kemp-Bristol, the Chilean born Dowager Duchess of Sundridge, was a tall, slender woman, with a sternness to her that verged on intimidating, but there was no denying her adoration of Manuela. “Doctor,” she said with a nod. “There are a few guests who are interested in hearing about your work.”
Aurora knew this was likely a good opportunity. She and Virginia Morelos, her partner in the clinics, had been trying to find more sources of funding for the operation in Paris as well as the plans they had for them in the Americas. She needed money, but she hated this part. She didn’t like feeling like anyone’s cause, which she knew made her a hypocrite. Besides, Luz Alana and her husband were already planning to host a garden party for this very purpose and that was already going to be enough torture.
“I have one more patient to go see tonight, for the clinic,” she said with a wince, knowing her friend would have something to say about her extracurricular activities.
“But you just got here!” Manuela threw her hands up and turned to the duchess with an expression that said “talk some sense into her.”
“I don’t like the thought of you out on your own seeing patients.” Manuela paused, looking around as if to make sure the coast was clear. “I worry about your safety.”
“You were the one who told me to be more adventurous,” she retorted, proud of herself for getting her friend back for once.
“Erotic, sinful adventures! Not for you to run around Paris doing who knows what in the middle of the night,” Manuela balked, then turned serious. “We just worry about you getting hurt.”
This had been an ongoing issue since Aurora began working with a few other physicians to provide women confidential and free services and procedures that were not exactly within the purview of the law. The idea was born at a meeting months earlier when she’d mentioned that the Exposition Universelle brought to Paris thousands of women from countries where contraception was forbidden.
Virginia, one of the doctors in her group, had created a small flyer that they distributed to women at the fairgrounds, offering free consultations with doctors specialized in “female ailments.” Within a week, they’d received dozens of requests for appointments. It was a logistical nightmare finding secure places to perform those riskier procedures, and for the safety of the patient and the doctors, they usually did them at night when there were less chances of being caught.
“I will not be totally alone, the patient will be there.” Manuela did not like that answer, if the scowl on her face was any indication. “Abelardo will be there as well, he’s meeting me here soon.” This seemed to somewhat mollify her friend. Abelardo, a Dominican medical student who assisted them for the more complicated cases, was also an artist and had become a close friend of Manuela’s.
“Fine.” Manuela dropped her shoulders and Cora instantly wrapped an arm around them. “But you must stay a little longer, Luz Alana should be here any minute,” Manuela cajoled. “She had to attend a party at some diplomat’s house, but she and Evan will come here after.”
It would be lovely to see Luz Alana. She hadn’t since her return from London. She was mulling that thought when Cora spoke up.
“I wonder if they’ll have Annan with them.” Aurora didn’t blink, she didn’t breathe at hearing the name said out loud. She simply admired the orchid vulva and pretended this wasn’t a question that had been buzzing around her head like a mosquito since she’d heard Luz Alana and her husband were returning to Paris from London for the closing ceremonies of the Exposition Universelle. “Apparently he’s come back with the intention of razing through every ballroom in Paris until he finds an eighteen-year-old foolish enough to marry him.” The information caught her like a slap in the face. Shocking and more humiliating than painful. Of course, he’d be looking for some infant with a fat dowry and a conscience like driven snow to make his duchess.
It was what dukes did and the doings of dukes were not of her concern.
“Perhaps I should go look for Abelardo before it gets too late,” she said, pointing to the clock, with every intention of getting out of the building before the Duke of Annan entered it. She had not prepared herself to see the man tonight. She didn’t think she could abide his smirks and suggestive quips without committing some violence. Which would only lead to questions from her friends she had no intention of answering.
Her downfall came, as it was prone to do, served to her on a silver tray. She was close to making an escape when a procession of servers in Le Bureau’s gold-and-burgundy livery entered the room holding trays laden with all manner of confections.
“What is this?” Manuela exclaimed as they watched the small platoon heading in their direction. “Did you do this, mi amor?” Cora shook her head, and from the frown on her face, she seemed to have no idea who did.
“Are those canelés?” Aurora asked, her mouth watering at the sight of a pyramid of the French pastry. Behind the bearer of canelés, a tall young man was carrying what had to be a tower of a hundred profiteroles.
“Aurorita, you must stay now, these are your favorites!” Manuela sent her a pleading look and Aurora felt her reservations drain out of her.
She did love her food. It was one of the few indulgences she allowed herself. She was not one for fashions, rarely took in theater or musical entertainments. She couldn’t give two figs about dances or balls, and roaming the halls of museums utterly bored her. But she loved a delicious bite of food. She fantasized about her favorite meals like other women did their weddings days.
She let out a tiny gasp as one of the servers stopped in front of her with a tray of éclairs. They were lined up like little soldiers. The golden tops covered in a shell of milk chocolate, a tiny dollop of custard peeking out of the ends. Just the aroma made her mouth water.
“I guess I could stay a few minutes.” They were quite small. She would eat one in a few bites and take a few others for later.
“Mademoiselle, s’il vous pla?t,” a liveried server said encouragingly, passing her a small plate. The éclairs came first, then when the tray with the profiteroles appeared, she plucked a couple from the very top of the tower. She also took some canelé—for after she saw her patient—and only when her little plate was heaping did the servers move on from where she stood.
By the time she bit into a flaky, buttery éclair and felt that decadent custard on her tongue, she’d forgotten entirely about the reason why she’d been trying to leave Le Bureau. She was on her second profiterole when a very tall, very large reminder made his entrance.