He squeezed my hand against his side. “Oh, come on, Babs. It’ll be fun. You need to let your hair down every once in a while. You wouldn’t begrudge a man having fun on his birthday, would you?”
“No, I suppose not . . .”
“Great. Did you know that more champagne is served at the Moulin Rouge each year than anyplace else in the world?”
“I didn’t know. Although I’m not sure I should drink . . .”
“It’s my birthday, Babs. Just try a glass of champagne to toast my big day, all right?”
“Just one, though.” I fought back the memory of us drinking together at Bar Hemingway on the night we’d met. At least Precious and Prunella wouldn’t be there to keep them coming.
As we headed down the Boulevard de Clinchy, I spotted the iconic red windmill and the bright neon lights announcing the Frou-Frou revue performed twice a night. I’d seen pictures, of course, of the famous cabaret dancers with their frilly skirts and high kicks, but I’d always imagined the whole experience of the Moulin Rouge as being a little naughty. Definitely not the sort of place to which Kit would deem appropriate to take me. So it was with almost a feeling of defiance that I entered on Drew’s arm, determined to enjoy myself.
Tiers of white-clothed tables dressed with red table lamps surrounded the stage. A bottle of champagne was already waiting for us as we were seated near the stage, and as Drew pushed in my chair, he spoke close to my ear. “You’re in for a treat tonight, Babs. I want you to enjoy yourself.”
I felt a warm shiver of anticipation jump along my spine. “But it’s your birthday,” I protested as he seated himself across from me.
“Trust me. Seeing you enjoying yourself will be the best kind of present.”
The waiter poured two glasses of champagne. I was about to make a small toast to his birthday when Drew raised his own glass. “To La Fleur. Without whom we never would have met.”
I didn’t want to toast the enigmatic La Fleur, but I didn’t have a choice. I took a small sip, allowing the bubbles to tickle my nose, then another larger one, hoping to forget all about La Fleur for at least an evening.
When I awoke the following morning, I kept my eyes closed, still feeling the rhythm of the music of the cancan inside my head. I opened one eye, and then the next, aware of two things at once. The first was that I was not in my bed. The second was that I wasn’t alone. I sat up quickly, my head spinning, aware that I was fully dressed except for my shoes. I had an odd recollection of kicking them off to climb onstage with the dancers and Drew pulling me back. But surely that had been a dream?
Drew lay supine next to me, shirtless, but at least wearing his pants and socks. Certainly that meant we hadn’t, well, we hadn’t. The opulent surroundings told me that we were in his room at the Ritz and not still in Montmartre, although I had no memory of returning to the hotel.
He appeared to be sleeping, although he wasn’t snoring. Kit didn’t snore, either, so I must be a good judge at choosing sleeping partners. I allowed my gaze to pause on Drew’s naked chest, at the smattering of gold-tinted hair and the pronounced muscles that moved under his tanned torso as he breathed. My fingers twitched, wanting to reach out and touch that smooth expanse of skin, to remember what a man’s bare skin felt like under my hand.
Instead, I clenched my hands into fists and began to slide out of the bed, being careful not to disturb the bedclothes. I wanted to escape to my own room, to pretend this hadn’t happened, but the need to use the water closet was too urgent to be ignored. I tiptoed across the carpet toward the bathroom, carefully closing the door behind me.
As I turned on the golden swan tap to wash my hands, I looked into the mirror above the vanity. For a long moment I simply stared, not recognizing the woman who looked back at me. Her fine gray eyes were wide and worldly. Knowing, somehow. Me, yet not me. The sleeve of my dress had slipped from my shoulder, revealing one of the new brassieres Precious had helped me select. It was lacy and feminine and lifted me in places where I hadn’t been lifted since before my first child. I leaned forward, staring at the face of this woman who’d experienced life and love and loss. But whose eyes still shone with light. It was the face of a formidable woman. A woman who wouldn’t recognize defeat.
I returned to the bedroom, quietly moving past the bed toward the door.
“Are you back for some rompy-frumpy?”
I jumped at the sound of Drew’s voice. I slowly turned to see him lying on his side facing me, a sly grin on his face.
“It’s rumpy-pumpy,” I corrected, my mouth lifting in an involuntary smile.
He raised his eyebrows in question.
“No, I’m not. Unless . . .” I indicated the bed with my chin, hoping he’d understand what I meant.
He shook his head. “No, we didn’t. Although it wasn’t from lack of trying. You tore my shirt to shreds trying to take it off me. I thought it best if we slept it off before we did anything . . . rash.”
I nodded, relieved and disappointed at the same time. “Yes, well. I should go.”
He held his hand out to me. “Don’t.”
I looked at his hand and then his eyes, both telling me to stay. I remembered the woman’s reflection in the mirror, my reflection, and smiled. I reached behind my neck and slid down the zipper of my dress, letting it fall to my ankles, revealing my new undergarments. And when I saw the look on Drew’s face, I finally understood their purpose.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Aurélie
The Château de Courcelles
Picardy, France
April 1915
There were so many bits of her body she had never quite understood the purpose of until now.
Aurélie lay curled up against Max on the narrow camp bed, in the drowsy peace of the dark room. Her head was pillowed against his collarbone, and she knew she ought to feel exactly what Hoffmeister had called her, a German officer’s whore, but she couldn’t muster the energy.
She didn’t feel ruined; she felt as though she had always been here and always should, with Max’s chest rising and falling beneath her cheek, flesh to flesh beneath his scratchy blanket.
Out of the darkness, she heard Max’s voice, just above her head. She could feel the words before she heard them, feel them reverberating in his chest. “Would your mayor marry us?”
“Acting mayor,” said Aurélie. “The real one’s gone off to war. Wait. Did you say marry?”
Max raised his head slightly, looking down at her. “But, of course. You will marry me, won’t you?”
Aurélie scrambled up slightly, or as much as she could in the narrow space between Max and the wall, the movement causing all sorts of interesting things to brush against each other. She really hadn’t thought. Not of marriage, not of consequences, not of anything beyond the moment. “But you can’t marry me.”
Max wiggled up slightly against the pillow. “Is it because I am not a Catholic? I had thought, in France, one could marry by civil ceremony.”
“Well, yes, one may. But there are other concerns—for one thing,” Aurélie said, falling back on the easiest excuse she could think of, one that didn’t involve complicated questions of loyalty and honor, “you haven’t asked me.”