AllFreeNovel
Share Us
There had to be some deity with a bow and arrow toying with her because this was too perfect. “It’s a beautiful name,” Manuela said, charmed beyond reason. “Corazón,” she said, trying the name out.
Cora grimaced and turned her attention to the door. “It’s what one names their pet parakeet,” Cora shot back, making Cassandra giggle. Manuela was about to protest when Cora spoke again. “The sign, Cassandra,” she reminded her friend, redirecting the conversation away from her name.
“Yes, of course,” Cassandra responded and turned to Manuela.
“There’s a sign to enter your parlor?”
“Indeed there is,” Cassandra affirmed, equally serious. “Not just for my parlor but for any gathering of sapphists. It must be done to be allowed inside.”
Cora made a sound of agreement and leaned against a sideboard as Cassandra continued with her explanation.
“What is it?” Manuela asked in a low voice.
“How did Monsieur Coffignon phrase it, Cora, dear?” Cassandra inquired, her countenance the very picture of sober contemplation.
Cora placed a hand under her chin, seemingly considering the question, and a prickle of something began itching at the nape of Manuela’s neck.
“I believe the exact words werequasi-Masonic signs...” Cora began but paused when the side of her mouth began to quiver.
“Ah, yes,” Cassandra continued. “‘A quasi-Masonic sign, involving a rapid movement of the tongue and lips, a flutter if you will.’”
“Precisely,” Cora choked out as Manuela’s jaw dropped.
“A flutter of the tongue and lips?” she repeated, now quite certain she was being had. Cassandra and Cora managed to maintain straight faces, even as the color in their necks became increasingly flushed.
Suddenly the door to the parlor opened and a very blonde woman wearing trousers sauntered out. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she had a kind face, and she looked at Cassandra with enough intensity to electrify the room.
“Darling, are you torturing our guests again?” she asked in a thick accent, then sent a reproachful grin in the direction of the duchess who was hiding behind a supposed fit of coughing. “Cora, I expected better from you.”
She extended a hand to Manuela while still sending disapproving—if clearly amused—looks toward Cora and Cassandra. “I am Frederica Holtz-Carvajal, Cassandra’s lover. Welcome to our home.” With her arm firmly around Cassandra’s waist, she smiled warmly at Manuela as if the words she’d just uttered weren’t earth-shattering. Two women sharing a home in the middle of Paris. No hiding, no pretending to be friends. An explosion erupted in Manuela at the very notion. The blood in her head rushing so fast she thought she could hear it. Only after a long moment did she realize she hadn’t introduced herself.
“I’m sorry,” she said, a bit addled. “I am Manuela Caceres Galvan. Thank you for letting me join you.” She smiled and shook the hand Frederica offered.
“And I do apologize for these two,” Frederica said, contritely while the others grinned. “Since Ali Coffignon publishedLa Corruption à Parislast year, they have been entertaining themselves with this ridiculous secret-sign business.”
“Ah,” Manuela said, understanding dawning on her. “I see,” she said, utterly charmed. It would be much easier if the Duchess of Sundridge remained a sphinx, but she insisted on revealing herself to be a woman of a much more complex nature. One that included a sense of humor.
Manuela had one too.
“So, Your Grace,” she said, turning so she was facing the taller woman, “are you not going to demonstrate your secret sign? Since I would very much like to attend the gathering, I would be obliged if you’d show me.” She batted her eyelashes for effect, bringing on another coughing fit from Cora. Frederica barked out a laugh, and so did Cassandra as she tapped her friend’s back.
“Seems like you’ve met your match, Corazón,” their hostess declared. “Let’s go introduce you to everyone else.” Cassandra took Manuela by the arm as they made their way into the parlor. “There are a few friends I’d like you to meet, and they will be very interested in speaking with you too. We’ve heard a lot about you.” That was delivered with a coy look in Cora’s direction.
The parlor was an ample space, painted in a soothing sage and gray, accented with dark woods and leather. There were multiple settees lined along the walls, a few oversize ottomans and four very large wingback chairs in front of the hearth. Art covered almost every inch of the walls. Some she recognized as Cassandra’s work, but there was a wide array of styles.
A large sideboard on the farthest side of the room was laden with food. Her mouth watered at the familiar smells from home, which she had not enjoyed since she’d departed from Venezuela. From where she stood she saw a platter of fried fish, what looked like boiled cassava topped with sliced fried onions. There were sweets too. Orange rinds and figs in syrup and even sliced pineapple. It was a tropical feast.
“Ladies, we have a special guest visiting from Venezuela this evening,” Cassandra announced. Over a dozen faces turned in their direction at once, before everyone erupted in greetings, and hugs and kisses were offered. The first surprising thing was that in this room, the Duchess of Sundridge was simply Cora. She was not as at ease as she’d been when it had just been Cassandra and Frederica, but the women here evidently knew her well enough to circumvent formalities and greet her by her name.
“To avoid everyone speaking all at once, I will make the introductions,” Cassandra offered, projecting her voice with impressive volume. “The first rule of survival in a home with an Italian father and a Brazilian mother is to be louder than everyone else,” she joked.
“These two are Louise and Madeline.” The two women sitting on a settee in the corner were a little older than Manuela. Louise was smaller with a delicate face and dark hair. Madeline, whose hand she was holding, was younger and strikingly beautiful. “They both teach at Aristide Pasquale’s academy. You will have to meet him while you’re here.” Manuela nodded in astonished silence as she shook hands. Académie Pasquale was where she’d wanted to attend in those brief months she was here in Paris, but her parents wouldn’t allow it.
Next she was introduced to Celestine Montrouis, a Haitian sketch artist who also lived in Paris. There were a few physicians, two of them a couple, one from Barranquilla in Colombia, and the woman she referred to as her wife was Austrian and had studied with Frederica. The third couple, Patricia and Diana, were a pair of Brazilian portrait artists, friends of Cassandra, who had arrived for the exposition but were considering remaining in Paris. Although it seemed one of them would likely lose her inheritance if she went through with it.
“Are you here for the exposition too?” Patricia asked. Manuela shook her head, suddenly very aware that all these women had probably in some way walked away from the path she’d chosen in order to live as they were.
“Yes and no,” she said. “I have two pieces at the Rapp Gallery, but I have other personal matters here as well.” Self-conscious of her cryptic answer, she sent a sidelong glance in Cora’s direction. The duchess was staring at her openly, waiting for Manuela to expound on her reply. Thankfully she was saved from having to say more by another introduction. Cora stayed away as Cassandra took Manuela around the room, but whenever she looked up, she found the duchess staring intently at her.
