Chapter Twenty The Performer
Chapter Twenty
The Performer
My ears rang like a gunshot had gone off beside my head, and my hands were clammy enough to suggest that may have actually happened as well.
I could barely hear the door slam behind me as I was swimming through my own consciousness, dropping my purse and neglecting to take my boots off at the door, the chatelaine on my hip chiming.
I almost didn’t notice my husband reading quietly in the corner of the living room.
“Oh,” he mumbled, “I thought you were in your room.” He didn’t take his eyes off his book as he delicately flipped the page, thin spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose.
“You would know if you bothered to check,” I shouted, my ears ringing as I hurled my purse at his head. “You self-absorbed narcissist!”
His reaction wasn’t fast enough, as it smacked the side of his head. He stood abruptly, but I was already halfway up the stairs. His footsteps boomed behind me, and I realized too late I wasn’t running fast enough.
When I reached my room, the door slammed against the wall behind me and my arm was grabbed, yanking me into a livid Arkady. His nostrils flared, and I swore I could picture steam coming from them like a bull. His face was slightly flustered, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the temper or the slap.
“Oh? Now I am visible to you? You’ve finally figured out I am no specter that you can just walk through? Do I have to cause a scene to make you less passive?”
“This anger is not for me,” he said steadily, but his eyes told me I’d reached the end of his patience.
“Who else would it be for?”
“Well, that’s what I was hoping you’d tell me,” he said through a clenched jaw, loosening his grip on my wrist.
Tears pricked at my eyes, my throat sore enough to croak.
“I wish to bite someone. Enough to draw blood! Splatter it everywhere and paint the walls! Only then will I be taken seriously.” I yanked my arm from him and paced toward the large chest at the end of the bed, angrily plucking at the buttons and clasps entrapping me.
“They will take you as seriously ill if you do that.”
“Better than not at all!”
“Petre, what troubles you?”
“It would be easier to tell you what hasn’t troubled me.”
“Then start there.”
“Pastries. They don’t disappoint.”
A hand slipped past my waist to the front, pulling me away from my rummaging. Then another arm looped around and held my back to a strong chest.
His cologne overwhelmed me; it seemed stronger now that I was overstimulated.
A tickle of breath fanned across my neck, his lips hovering.
I watched his thumb brush over the fabric of my blouse, and suddenly wet spots began to appear.
One by one, tears fell before I realized they were mine.
My tears. Just as the slightest touch, cracking like ice after a clean pour of liquor.
“Tell me about it,” he whispered, his hands smoothing over the front of my torso.
I swallowed my words with an audible gulp, not that they would have been coherent if they’d manifested.
“Biting your tongue isn’t good for you,” he said as he dragged his lips over my ear and down toward my jaw, over my shoulder. I stole a glance at him, and his eyes met mine. He was one of those men who looked like they were always up to no good, no matter how charming they acted.
“The commissioner caught me in the street,” I breathed, not trusting my words to be solid if I spoke any louder.
His eyes narrowed, and I saw his pupils get small enough where they could fit maybe a pin. “And what about it?”
“He’s going to blackmail us.”
“With what? He has nothing”—he lowered his lips to my shoulder, kissing the fabric gently—“or else he would have us in custody by now.”
“But he said—”
“You need to stop taking every man’s word as gospel,” he snapped.
I gulped and looked away, but his hand left my waist and grabbed my jaw, making me look at him through the mirror in the corner.
“As long as you keep quiet, we will be fine.” His tone was assuring, but his grip was a warning.
“What if we aren’t fine?” I blurted. “Will you kill him for me?”
That brought a smile to Arkady’s face, but his eyes didn’t change. “My dear, after all I have done for you thus far, you still question my loyalty?”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.” His smile dropped, and so did his hand, releasing me from his grip. “Your mother rang for you. It is best you go out and make an appearance.” He backed toward the door. “I fear you may be too fussy to keep cooped up here.”
I turned to him. “Will you come with me?”
“No.” A finality in his words. “I have full confidence that you can handle them.”
“So you’re abandoning me?”
“I am not abandoning you, this is an exercise,” he emphasized. “Play the game, play nice, so they give you the things you need—knowledge or material.”
I must have given him a pleading look, because he laughed after I looked his way.
“Go on, I know you’re smart. Apologize for raising your voice but not for what you said or believe to be true. I have full faith in you.”
He was right, I knew that. But it was an idea I hadn’t had much time to swallow. Would they see right through the act? At this point, they might become suspicious if I began to act civilly. The only way to know for certain was to test my skills in the field.
“How are you and Arkady?”
I looked up from my dinner at Félice’s question. My expression must have given her the answer she sought.
The women of my family were gathered in Cosette’s home tonight.
The charity gala would be soon, which meant my mother was about to become insufferable.
It was a miracle if you could escape the gala season with anything less than five fittings.
I was grateful my presence was only required for those, as Cosette helped mother with the rest of the planning.
I was under the impression that she liked it, it gave her something to do.
She took after our mother when it came to an excitement for design.
I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a distraction from the sudden changes.
I suppose that is why we met at her place more often now, to help her nest and settle into what would be her new life, with a new family, new ambitions. Sometimes I wondered if that was what Cosette wanted . . . or if it was what Mother told her she wanted.
No matter, today was for happy thoughts. Cosette was like a thoroughbred, high-strung and easy to perturb, so none of those concerns would manifest today.
“Petre,” my mother’s voice piped up from the end of the table, “could you come help me place something in the nursery?”
I glanced at Félice and Cosette, both whispering among each other as if to pretend not to hear. I nodded and placed my napkin on the table to rise.
My mother and I left the dining room and went up the stairs, the sounds of chatter floating away as we removed ourselves from our company.
The nursery was the first room that greeted you upon arriving on the second floor. It was a ghastly mint color. It reminded me of an infection I got when I was an adolescent. I cut myself on the jagged wood of a ladder at the theater.
“How is your little issue?” My mother’s voice cut through the room. She smoothed her fine fingers over a blanket in the nursery chair before sitting down.
“There is no issue.”
“If there weren’t an issue, you wouldn’t have gone to your father.”
“It is handled.”
“Is your husband aware?”
“Extremely.”
She nodded in calm understanding as she picked at the woven fabric of the blanket, her gaze floating to the crib next to where I stood. It was like she couldn’t bear to look me in the eye, as if I’d greatly offended her personally, despite it having nothing to do with her.
“Why isn’t he handling it?” Her eyes finally met mine, but they were absent of any sign of lenience. “Surely that’s why you came to us.”
“He is handling as much as he can.”
“You should have listened to us. We suggested Mr. Carlisle for a reason.”
“I didn’t want that—”
“Want, want, want,” she mocked, shooting up from her seat to approach me, shoving an accusatory finger at me, her neck craning like a mantis. “You selfish brat! Everything we do is for our family; you owe everything to the sacrifices your father made—”
“You mean, I made.” It was hard to hold back a sneer. “Félice made. Cosette made.”
My mother’s lip twitched, as did her eye when I stared long enough. I held her gaze, waiting for a hit. Her lip curled slightly. “Everyone must make sacrifices, my dear.”
“Your own daughters?” My voice was stern, but I didn’t dare go above her tone. “I suppose that is a sacrifice. Veal for the wolves.”
“And here you are, unable to please the husband you chose for yourself. Must be poor-quality veal,” she taunted, her posture returning more upright, tucking away the monster she hid within. “Perhaps we should allow you back to the ballet, maybe you’re out of practice.”
I bit back what I wanted to say; it wasn’t going to change her mind or how she felt. “If rumors start in the papers about my connection to Vincent, the ballet, it’ll be to your detriment.”
Her laugh was melodic and filled with poison. She shook her head and smiled. “I disagree. I think you should sensationalize it more.”
“You want me to admit to escorting?”
“No, that’s not what I said.” She turned her attention to the dresser, opening the drawers and fussing with the neatly folded blankets and clothing. “I said sensationalize it. Lean into the image, the iconography. You could have a whole career and not do any real work.”
“How so?”
“Well, if you’re worried about being seen as a whore, you already have half the reputation from the ballet. Become a sex symbol instead. Accept it. You and Arkady are a painfully stunning pair. Use those pretty faces properly and you’ll find it most profitable.”
“You want me to sell my integrity instead of my body.”
“It is all the same, my sweet pet.” She sighed. “You should know this.” She then turned to me, a newspaper clipping in hand.
She slapped it across my palm. This silly slip of paper. A simple piece of pulp and ink. It should have been as insignificant as a billowy piece of ash breaking away from a bonfire.
So how come I could feel only disdain?
The clipping heading:
Former Miss De Villier Won by New York’s New up-And-Coming Artisan. Secret Wedding Details Leaked Exclusively.
The title was just the beginning. Below was an article, my portrait illustrated—but so were the individual undergarments I wore on the day of my wedding.
The article detailed their fabric, the cut, the bones of my corset. All done without even a lick of my knowledge.
All I could do was look at my mother, mouth agape. At a true loss for words, and the manifestation of too many intrusive thoughts I wished upon her in that moment.
“Did you think I would let you marry so inconveniently without some benefit?” She laughed, her eyes raking me up and down. “You should be happy. The whole city will know your name.”
“Because of one article?”
“No, my dear hermit”—she went to pass me, squeezing my shoulder—“but if the tabloid says you’re infamous, the public believes it, intrigued by this new name.
Because why would they put a nobody in the paper?
They won’t—unless it’s paid for. And as your name is seen more and more, they will remember you.
This week, you’re a headline. The next, you’re an icon.
It takes time to build infamy. Do you not keep up with the tabloids anymore? Now is a great time to start.”
The paper crumpled in my clenched fist, rolling her hand off my shoulder. There was nothing left I could say to her. Nothing that wouldn’t accompany my hands around her throat.