Eros Element (15 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Théâtre Bohème, Paris, 12 June 1870

The first thing Iris noticed once they emerged from the storeroom was a large playbill in French but with a picture of a young woman who resembled Marie reclining on a clamshell filled with gold cushions. The word “Fantastique” spanned the top in white letters edged in gold that stood out against the dark burgundy background.

“Is that…?” Iris asked and pointed.

“Not anymore,” Marie replied through clenched teeth. “I told her to get rid of those.”

“But if I did,
Cherie
, 'ow would I remember you since you ran away on an airship and never visited your Mama?” The speaker emerged from the shadows, which she had blended in with due to her dark clothing and hair. Shorter than her daughter, Madame St. Jean looked as Marie would in several years, but with darker skin and world-weary eyes. She also possessed more poise and determination Iris had ever seen in a woman, and she understood Marie's reluctance to face her. Mothers had a way of playing on their daughters' insecurities, after all.

Marie kissed her mother on both cheeks and stood straight but stiff under the slow, thorough scrutiny, which required a turn.

“You are doing well, more muscular than I remember you being. Remember,
Cherie
, a woman hides her strength. It helps to keep the men guessing.”

“Yes, Mama, I remember. It hasn't mattered since I saw you last—I've been busy and have needed my strength.”

“It. Always. Matters.” She tapped a pearl-handled cane on the floor with each word. “If a man knows your strength, he can also learn your weaknesses. It's best to keep him focused on the weakness he thinks you have. Remember what happened with the American.”

Marie flinched like the words pinched her. “Every day, Mama.”

“And who are your friends? Did you need to bring them through the sewers? The front of the theatre is humble but much more attractive than the store room,
n'est-ce pas
?” She wrinkled her nose and studied Marie's face. “Ah, but you had a reason. You are in trouble.”

Iris's stomach tightened when she put together the woman's insight, her appearance, and the name of the theatre, which referenced the Bohemians, or wanderers. A memory came to her of being a child and hearing of a gypsy caravan coming into town. Her mother had wanted to take her to see the dancing and the special ponies, but her father had refused to allow it.

“Some people see more than others, and our daughter is special,” he'd said. Although her mother had pressed him for details, he'd remained vague and stood firm—one of the few times he did with Adelaide.

Now Iris faced the glittering black gaze of the formidable woman, who Marie introduced as, “My mother Lucille St. Jean, owner of the
Théâtre Bohème
.”

“Ah, this is the young woman who I have 'eard much about,” Madame St. Jean said. “And do you bring this trouble my daughter is running from? You have a deviled air about you.”

“I…I don't know.” Iris thought about the young man she'd seen behind them on the boulevard, how he seemed familiar. “I assure you I mean to bring no harm to your daughter.”

“Most harm brought to friends is unintentional.”
Thunk
went the cane. “But you have a good heart in spite of what circumstances have forced you to do. Like my Marie.”

Now Iris's look of curiosity was mirrored by Marie's. They glanced away when their gazes met.

“Come, come, Madame is waiting to help you look like a lady, not a
galopine
, a ragamuffin, in a borrowed dress. You need to fire your maid.”

Iris smiled at Marie's panicked look. “I'm afraid I've been without a maid since we left England. She ran off with a neighbor's footman.”

“Ah,
les jeunes filles
. They are impulsive, and their mistakes come back with a bite, no?”

Iris tried not to let on how the woman's words described her own situation too well.

“This is ladies' work,” Madame St. Jean said and turned her pinpoint gaze to O'Connell. “But you are one who is good with his hands. Come, let me show you where our gas light system is faltering. Perhaps you can study it while we work on dressing the girls and let me know what is wrong. Marie, bring Mademoiselle McTavish to the
Salle d'Étoile
.”

Marie led Iris down one side of the corridor while her mother brought Mister O'Connell in the opposite direction. Once Iris was sure she wouldn't be overheard, she asked, “How does she know so much?”

“Don't let her fool you,” Marie said. “She likes to intimidate in spite of playing the humble theatre owner.”

Iris nodded.

“Although the French are more tolerant of outsiders than the English, she needs to stay a step ahead of the law. Through the years she's built quite a network of spies and informants, whom she pays well to keep her abreast of the comings and goings of important people, particularly in this part of the city. I'm sure she knew all about every member of our party within half an hour of our arrival at the hotel.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” Iris allowed herself a full exhale, or at least as much of one as she could in her corset, which felt looser. She guessed anxiety over her deception took its own slow toll.

“But don't let your guard down around her. She is able to find out things from people that no one can extract from them, and you obviously have secrets.”

Lovely.
Iris pressed her lips into what she hoped was a serene
I've got this under control
smile. It faded when they reached the main dressing room, signified by a faded star on the lintel. The battered door opened to a frowning portly woman who took Iris in with a look of disdain.

“Marie, couldn't you find anyone better for me to work with? This one, she is so slight it will be like dressing a boy. And what is that smell?”

“We took the underground paths here, Madame,” Marie said and bussed the woman on both cheeks.

“No, it is her. She smells of sweat and fear. Could you not at least find her a new chemise?”

Iris barely remembered they were to stay for dinner, so upset was she after the dress fitting, when it seemed that the dressmaker counted and measured everything down to her ribs. She'd never encountered such a critical presence as Madame Beaufort, not even Adelaide on her worst days. Iris's chemise now banished to the incinerator and a new corset fitted to plump up what little she had, she couldn't argue with the smart figure she cut in her new white accented navy blue walking dress and simple but elegant
chapeau
, which resembled a man's top hat but was smaller, decorated with flowers and set at a jaunty angle. The only argument was over her gloves.

“They are
d
é
go
ȗ
tant
,” Madame Beaufort insisted. “I would rather risk the scandal of you going out bare-handed than have you be seen in one of my dresses with those. What is that, blood?”

“I helped a friend,” Iris said. She couldn't help but think that Edward, as difficult as he could be, was easier to deal with in his simple selfishness than the
modiste
, who seemed insulted Iris wouldn't take her direction and become something she wasn't.

By that time, Madame St. Jean joined them, and she cocked her head and regarded Iris with an interested expression. “I will send Marie out for
les gants
. Leave the
fille
alone.”

Marie was dispatched for gloves, and Iris faced the two dragons alone.

“Now for something for evening,” Madame St. Jean, who insisted Iris call her Lucille once Marie left, said. She assisted Iris out of the day dress, or tried to, but the sleeves caught on the pearl buttons of Iris's gloves.

“It will be easier to get your jacket off if you remove your gloves,” Lucille told her in a gentle tone. “Do not worry. I will protect you from seeing what you do not care for. It was stupid of Marie to lend you that brooch, but she does not know what you are any more than you know what she is.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Iris said, but she complied. How did Lucille know about her abilities? Or was she fishing for a reaction?

A purple silk evening dress that brought out similar tones in her eyes was followed by an afternoon dress and a travel ensemble. When she was down to her shift, Iris tried not to wiggle or fold her arms over herself, but a slippery silk chemise had replaced her cotton one, which had stiffened with all it had been through. She felt exposed although she was mostly covered, and she was relieved when they allowed her to put the walking dress back on. Marie appeared with gloves, which Iris slid on her hands. Now she felt fully dressed. The two older women allowed Marie to pick dresses and outfits from a rack in the corner.

“They're already fitted to me,” Marie explained with a sharp look at her mother. “I suppose it's good you didn't get rid of them.”

“No, she had them remade for today's styles so they would be ready for you,” Madame Beaufort said.

The
modiste's
statement left Iris to come to one of two conclusions. Either Marie had known she would be accompanying them to Paris or her mother had some sort of second sight indeed. Both possibilities made Iris uncomfortable.

“This is too much,” Iris insisted when they packed everything into a trunk that Mister O'Connell brought to the front hall of the theatre, from where a coach would bring them back to the hotel after dinner. “I only need the one outfit.”

“Nonsense,” Lucille said. “According to the letter of credit from Monsieur Cobb, you are to be taken care of. No one can fault his
générosité
.” Her tone implied there was plenty about him to find fault for.

Again, there was that added edge of resentment at the mention of Parnaby Cobb's name. It seemed others shared Iris's mistrust of the man, but as Marie's brooch had hinted, their feelings may have been founded on his actions.

The gas lamps dimmed and flared back to their original brightness. Lucille narrowed her eyes. “I suppose your Mister O'Connell is working on the system. I asked him to see if he could find a leak or something that would explain its inconsistency. With what I pay for the gas, you would think they would provide more reliable service.”

“You're still having problems with that?” Marie asked.

“Yes, one of the few troubles in my life I cannot blame on an ungrateful daughter.”

Marie looked to the ceiling with a sigh, and Iris studied her new gloves and wished she was back in her normal environment and life. But she also felt for Marie—Iris knew what it was like to have a demanding mother who didn't understand her and her desires. From what she could piece together, Marie had more of a taste for adventure than Lucille, or perhaps she didn't want a career as an actress.

They had dinner in Marie's mother's townhouse, which was adjacent to the theatre. Thankfully the pushy Madame Beaufort was absent, having excused herself with business back at the shop. Marie maintained an air of stiffness and discomfort that Iris felt as well, and she mostly pushed the food, some sort of beef dish with wine and served over noodles, around on her plate. It was delicious, but she was so tired she wanted to get back to the hotel and sleep for a week. The wine didn't help her feelings of fatigue, although it did give her perceptions a certain softness and blurred the edges of the halos cast by the gas laps. It also tied her tongue. Luckily Mister O'Connell managed to keep the conversation going with questions about Paris—he'd been before but not to this part—and the gas system, which seemed sophisticated once it branched off from the main delivery line.

“I'll admit it's not my area,” he said, “but I've worked on a few, mostly repairing the lines, and I've never seen one like that.”

“Yes,” Lucille said. “It was a gift from a patron, but it has troubles. In the theatre, we use lighting for dramatic effect. The unplanned ebbs and flows have been interfering with our productions, and we have had to use other means for spotlighting.”

“Are your neighbors having the same problem?” O'Connell asked.

“No, but most of them have not been able to afford the gas or install the lamps.” She gestured to the fixture on the wall, which Iris had not examined. But now she noticed it had the same three-tube structure as the ones in Cobb's train car.
I think I know who the patron is, but why would he interfere with the theatre?
She clenched a fist under the table and allowed her nails to sting her palm to sharpen her focus.
I can't go asking questions, though, because he's our patron as well, and at this point we're dependent on him, especially poor injured Edward. Perhaps the fluctuations have something to do with the system being in a building, not a moving train.
She glanced at the sideboard, where a plate of chocolate-covered cream puffs sat.
I wonder if she will allow me to bring Edward one or two.

After dessert, Lucille sent Mister O'Connell to tell the footman they were ready for the carriage. Once he was gone, she took Iris's right hand and looked at it. Iris had, of course, taken off her gloves to eat but lacked the energy to read the silverware.

“Your hand tells me many things,” Lucille said, “but not as much as it tells you.”

Iris tried to draw it away from the woman, but Lucille held firm. She traced Iris's palm with a fingertip, and tingles followed in the wake of its path. She then took Marie's left hand and placed it on Iris's. Marie's hand felt cold, and she looked at her mother with a fearful expression.

“You are both young women with gifts that are
merveilleux
,” Lucille said. “Even if you do not wish to have them because they have brought you difficulties as well as joy.”