Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
THE CITY OF GLASGOW WAS A BOISTEROUS, crowded place of exceptional beauty and horrendous despair.
The cool waters of the River Clyde ran like a pulsing blue vein through its heart, linking it to the Firth of Clyde and ultimately the Atlantic Ocean.
This made Glasgow perfectly situated to accommodate the needs of its rapidly expanding industry.
Nearly one hundred textile mills dotted its grass-and-stone landscape, and the ironworks and coal mines of the surrounding area fed the boilermakers, shipyards, and marine-engineering shops lining the River Clyde.
The flourishing manufacturing led to a nearly insatiable demand for cheap labor.
Highland Scots swarmed to the city in the hopes of finding work, only to find that they had to compete with equally desperate Irish, Italian, and Jewish immigrants.
Extravagant fortunes were made by a privileged few, who celebrated by erecting magnificent homes and public buildings which were then filled with the finest antiques, furnishings, and art.
As for the men, women, and children who sweated and suffered gruelingly long hours in the factories, they dragged themselves home at night to the stinking foulness of the slums, where they waged an ongoing battle against hunger, disease, alcoholism, and violence.
Yet even with this squalid underbelly, Glasgow was, without doubt, one of the most glorious cities in Europe.
It was the perfect place for the renowned French painter Georges Boulonnais to be introduced to Scotland.
Genevieve stared in fascination at the woman in the mirror, wondering if she had really changed as much as her reflection suggested.
The gown she had chosen with the assistance of Eunice and Doreen was a simple affair of icy gray silk, trimmed with almost transparent layers of cream lace that rippled around the low neckline and fell in softly gathered pleats about the hem.
It was not quite the latest fashion, nor was it as lavishly adorned as the other gowns that the woman in the shop had initially presented to her.
Eunice and Doreen had swooned and sighed over the elaborate confections of dusty pink, smoky mauve, and leafy green silk, all fancifully beaded and embellished with garish ribbons and bows, ballooning over monumental hooped cages that looked as if they would have knocked over everyone and everything within a five-foot radius.
Years earlier, Genevieve would have delighted in wearing such an outlandish fashion, and would have eagerly anticipated the admiration and attention she would have drawn as she sailed confidently into a room.
But that frivolous, spoiled girl did not exist anymore.
The woman who stood before the looking glass was an unmarried mother of six who had struggled for years just to keep her young charges fed and dressed and off the streets.
The idea of paying an outlandish sum for a ridiculous dress that could be worn only rarely, and never in the same company twice, now struck her as virtually immoral.
Despite its relative simplicity, Genevieve did think her new gown was pretty, and far nicer than anything she had owned for years.
The bodice was narrowly molded to her body, creating a slim triangle from her breasts to her waist, at which point her skirts blossomed into a pearly silk bell that was supported by a modest crinoline.
The hotel had sent up a maid at her request to help her dress, as managing the complexities of her corset and crinoline and the endless row of tiny buttons and hooks at the back of the gown would have been impossible on her own.
The girl was a pleasant, chatty lass by the name of Alice, who kindly offered to do Genevieve’s hair.
At first Genevieve protested, thinking she would merely pin it back the way she normally did and hope that it would last reasonably well through the course of the evening.
But Alice had pleaded with her, telling her that she didn’t often have the opportunity to work with hair as lovely and thick as Genevieve’s was, and that she would be enormously grateful if Genevieve would permit her to practice a new style she had seen in a Parisian fashion publication that a friend had sent to her all the way from France.
With her request presented so, it would have been almost unkind to refuse her, and so Genevieve relented and permitted the maid to try to tame the massive weight of her hair.
By the time Alice was finished, Genevieve’s coral-and-gold hair had been spun into a soft bouquet of curls, which were loosely gathered and pinned low against the back of her neck.
Alice had threaded a delicate cluster of tiny pink and ivory blossoms above one ear, which had the dramatic effect of adding a soft splash of color to the gray and cream of her gown.
At first Genevieve feared the flowers might be a little too showy, but Alice insisted that they were most appropriate for a woman of her beauty and stature, and that as other women were certain to attend the opening wearing flouncy ostrich feathers and ribbons and even jewels in their hair, no one would think her out of place.
Darkness was creeping across the city on silent feet.
Genevieve lit the oil lamps in her room and continued to study herself, unaccustomed to contemplating her appearance for any length of time.
Her hair did look quite pretty, she had to admit, and while her gown was plain by the standards of the day, she thought it was entirely acceptable.
It was her face, however, that interested her most. There were unfamiliar lines sketched lightly across her forehead, and a fan of smaller wrinkles edged the area around her eyes.
When had she developed those? she wondered.
She reminded herself that she was no longer a dewy-skinned girl of eighteen, but a twenty-six-year-old woman with countless worried, sleepless nights behind her.
There were also, she hastened to add, many moments of joy, as she knew no greater pleasure than the laughter her children could bring bubbling to the surface with the smallest smile or funny gesture.
She supposed it was inevitable that her face would start to reflect the evidence of her life.
It was disconcerting, however, to notice how much she had changed since the last time she had really studied herself.
It had been years since she had sat for any length of time before a mirror, when she was newly betrothed to Charles, and had considered herself exceptionally blessed to have won the attention of such a dashing and sophisticated gentleman as the earl of Linton.
Time had passed with dizzying speed.
There was a knock upon her door. She rose, made a final nervous adjustment to a wayward strand of hair, and went to open it.
Haydon stood in the corridor, elegantly attired in a black evening coat, immaculate white shirt, neatly tied cravat, and fitted oyster-colored trousers.
He did not speak, but stared at her in silence, his gaze taking in every inch of her, from the shimmering coils of her hair to the soft flounce of lace trailing against the dark pattern of carpet beneath her.
She felt his eyes rest ever so fleetingly upon the milky swell of bosom rising from her gown, then trail down the tight constriction of her bodice, over the flare of her crinolined hips and up again.
Her flesh was heated merely by having his eyes graze over it, making her achingly aware that he had taken her breasts in his mouth and suckled the tips, had crushed her body against his until she could scarcely breathe, had dipped his tongue into the most intimate parts of her body and filled her with himself, thrusting into the depths of her and holding her fast until she had no inkling of time or responsibility or regret.
She turned suddenly, feeling uncomfortably hot and breathless, although the room was cool and her gown was not overly tight.
“Good evening,” Haydon said, regaining the composure he had momentarily lost on first seeing Genevieve.
He had always known she was beautiful, regardless of whether she was dressed in one of her faded gowns or lying naked against a rumpled swirl of cool sheets.
Even so, nothing had prepared him for the loveliness radiating from her in that moment.
Her gown was exquisite in its simplicity, for it made no attempt to compete with her beauty, but merely enhanced it.
He entered the room and casually tossed his top hat and cloak onto a chair, resisting the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.
She is not yours, he reminded himself stiffly. Regardless of the liberties you have so shamelessly taken with her.
“You look absolutely lovely tonight, Mrs. Blake,” he said, adopting a lighthearted demeanor. “I have no doubt that every man in the gallery will be staring at you in awe. I can see I shall have my hands full trying to keep them at a respectable distance.”
His manner was joking, but his eyes told Genevieve that he really did find her appearance pleasing. Perhaps the lines she had seen on her face were not quite as deep and distracting as she had imagined.
“I must confess, it has been so long since I have attended an affair of any social merit, I had quite forgotten all the attention that must go into dressing for it.” She made a self-conscious adjustment to her gown, which suddenly seemed entirely too low cut.
“Fortunately the hotel was able to provide me with a maid who was able to assist me with my gown and my hair.”