“I am the person who bought it for you,” he reminds me. And then adds, “No woman in Paris—on earth—could hope to look more lovely in lavender. And those pearls . . .” He puts his hand over his heart.
“You are looking handsome yourself.” And it is true. In his formal-wear his appearance is dashing.
“I know.”
“Rascal.”
We descend the stairs to join the Rothschilds’ party and he leans in to whisper instructions to me. “Everyone who matters is here. Don’t speak at length with anyone who appears drunk, in particular the German ambassador, an unpleasant man called von Schoen.”
At the bottom of the stairs a butler escorts us into a mirror-lined ballroom illuminated by dozens of chandeliers. And beneath them, on the polished wooden dance floor, hundreds of people are laughing and chatting.
“And be careful of Lady Brochard. That’s her, near the window.” He inclines his head slightly to indicate a plump woman in a burgundy dress. “She’s known for her sweetness and for passing on malicious gossip. But Lady Saint-Amour is a gem.” I follow his gaze to a slender woman with auburn hair. “And all of the Barton sisters are delightful. Although I haven’t spotted them yet.”
“Is there anyone you don’t know?”
“In Paris? Not really.”
Over the sounds of tinkling glasses and conversation are the high, sweet notes of a string quartet. We move through the room and I catch snippets as we walk. Women talking of horses and furs. Men concerned that the price of food is rising. Is this a good time to invest in wheat? What about corn? A dark-haired man meets my gaze and we both smile. Who could possibly care about wheat on a night as elegant and promising as this?
The string quartet is playing something slow. Edouard disappears and the dark-haired man asks me to dance. Henri de Marguerie. His suit is immaculate and the band on his wrist reads Rolex. It looks to be a tiny clock of some sort. “It’s a wristwatch,” he says when he catches me staring.
“I’ve never seen one,” I confess.
“Soldiers use them. In a few years, everyone will have one.”
“You’re military?” I imagine his uniform: army, air force, navy? He would be dashing in anything.
“I was a pilot. You were magnificent tonight,” he says, and I allow him to continue complimenting me as we cross the dance floor. An orchestra replaces the string quartet and the new musicians strike up a waltz. He tells me about his family in London. I tell him about my time in Bombay. Then the musicians abandon Johann Strauss and begin playing a more scandalizing tune; I learned the accompanying dance my first week in Paris. The handsome aviator raises his eyebrows at me, asking if I’m willing to accept his invitation.
The floor clears and his chest presses against mine. I give him my hand and he stretches it out in front of me. “Ready?” he asks. I can smell the faint trace of soap on his skin and the musky scent of cologne on his shirt. In front of the baron’s six hundred guests we begin the tango, stepping on half notes, dipping on counts three and four. He’s a wonderful dancer, my aviator. I imagine he is equally graceful when he is dancing horizontally.
When our dance is complete the entire room erupts into applause. We make our way to Edouard and I tell him that henceforth all future engagements must come with dashing aviators. The man laughs. So does Edouard, as a blonde slips her slender arm through his in a proprietary way.
“Well done,” she says to me, though I can’t decide whether she’s sincere or mocking me. Her hair is swept up into a pile of loose curls. She begins to steer Edouard away and I study the way she walks, how she holds her long cigarette between her forefinger and thumb.
As the evening progresses, half a dozen men ask me to dance. When the musicians begin their last piece, however, it’s the aviator who returns. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you to your room?” he asks.
I search for Edouard and his sophisticated blonde, but they’re nowhere to be seen. I notice that other couples are retiring for the night. “Yes,” I say.
He walks me to the stairs. The thick red carpet feels like velvet underfoot; it’s nearly black beneath the low light of the chandeliers.
“You’re quite the dancer,” I tell him. “So gentle yet so strong.”
“As are you, my little mouse.”
“Is that what you think I am?”
“Yes, and you should be careful before I pounce!”
He chases me up the stairs, pretending to be a tiger. And when we fall into bed together, I’m not even thinking about Edouard’s blonde.
*
The next morning Edouard appears in my room without knocking, before I’ve had the opportunity to change from my dressing gown. “Pack your things,” he says. “Quickly.”
“We’re leaving? I thought we were staying until—”
“The baron wants you to dance again tonight. But Mata Hari never repeats herself. You must always leave them wanting more, M’greet.”