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“Ah, très bien, Manu.” She grinned at the nickname for her he’d adopted and his clear excitement for her.
“You were the one who found the work. I should be giving you a share.” He immediately looked cross, his cheeks bulging in outrage, which made her laugh. She’d been asked to paint four pieces for a new hotel that would be opening the following year. “I saidshould,” she pointed out, with a finger in the air, “not that I would. These funds are going toward getting a small space for the collective,” she told him, with satisfaction. There had been many moments just like this one in the last two months. Moments of satisfaction in seeing her dedication and passion yielding fruits. This was a new—and not always comfortable—feeling, granting herself permission to feel gratified in her achievements. One of the many things polite young ladies could never do, but lesbians who lived on their own terms certainly did.
She’d discovered a new passion while working with her community of artists and their budding collective, finally understood what it meant to strive with purpose. She had lofty plans, they all did, to secure not only a meeting space but eventually find something large enough to serve as a communal studio for those who could not afford one. They’d even discussed the possibility of hiring solicitors on retainer in the future to help them with contracts as well as brokers to help them procure new work. Their plans were ambitious, and it would take time and effort, but she believed in their talent and their potential. They were a small but mighty group, and every day there was more demand for the work of artists like them. The world was changing, and the women of their collective were actively working to meet the moment.
In truth, her life had gained such meaning that it would be almost perfect, if it wasn’t for the glaring hole in her heart Cora had left. Cora, who had sent her that note, and a few others regarding business, but had yet to come see her. She had not set eyes on the duchess since that morning at the church, and there were days when she thought she’d lose her mind with longing, with the need to touch her.
Manuela missed her. Shelovedher.
And she was grateful that Cora had heeded her request for time. She’d needed to find her way in Paris. To stand on her own two feet. So far she’d done it. She wasn’t Prospero and Consuelo’s daughter, or Felix Kingsley’s fiancée, or even Cora Kemp Bristol’s lover. She was Manuela Caceres Galvan: artist, teacher, organizer. She was her own person. A woman who had broken with everything in her past and brick by brick erected a new life for herself. That woman would only accept a lover who was strong enough to do the same, but now, two months on, she wondered if Cora had reconsidered what she was willing to give up for Manuela’s sake.
“Have you heard from Cora?” she very casually asked Pasquale, as she busied herself with wiping down the table the students used for mixing the paints. She was facing away from her friend, too embarrassed to look him in the eye while she asked. He didn’t answer right away or give her the usual, apologeticnot yet. She tried not to let her imagination get the better of her and start creating scenarios in which he’d come here just to tell her Cora had fallen in love with someone else or decided she wasn’t worth the trouble.
There was a rustling behind her, and then he cleared his throat. “I have, actually,” he told her, and she turned so fast a pile of palettes tumbled to the ground. He laughed sympathetically, that kind smile she’d learned to trust completely tipping up his lips. “She asked me to give you this.” There was an envelope in his hands, and Manuela had to hold on to the table not to join the scattered utensils on the ground.
“What is that?” There was no quieting the anticipation in her voice.
“I have not opened it, chérie,” he said chuckling, extending his hand so she’d take it. She sucked in a breath as she reached for the white paper and began to shake when she saw theCKBseal stamped on the back. The prudent, respectable thing would probably be to wait until she got home to open it. To read it in private, but Manuela had never been very good at patience.
Princesa,
A sound between a whimper and sob escaped her lips, and a moment later Pasquale was pressing a handkerchief into her hand.
I know how hard you’ve worked the past couple of months to carve a path for yourself in the world, and my deepest hope is that you’ve left a place for me to walk with you wherever you choose to go from now on.
If you have, if you want to... I will see you soon.
There was a time and place below her signature.
“That’s tonight,” Manuela exclaimed, when she looked at the date. Immediately she began to move, and though there was a very tiny voice inside her—which sounded a lot like Aurora—telling her to not run off before she knew what to expect, she could not stop. She was halfway to the door when she remembered Pasquale was there with her. “Pasquale, my apologies—”
He shook his head and came to help her with her coat. “Please,” he waved a hand at her, his eyes bright with mirth. “I already have a fiacre waiting for you outside.”
“You do?” she asked, surprised. She wondered if he’d known what Cora had been doing and didn’t tell her, then decided she was much too happy to care.
“I suspected whatever was in that letter, you’d likely want to go somewhere else after you read it.” He winked at her as she buttoned up her coat. “I assume it is good news.”
She felt the smile splitting her face. “I think so,” she said, with caution. “I hope so. I will tell you in the morning.”
It was what her heart wanted, still. Since she’d walked away from the life she’d almost lost herself to, she’d harnessed her strength. For the first time she’d acted as ifheractions and her desires mattered. But still, in this newfound place where she could make choices, there was only one thing she wanted.
“Pasquale told me an American banker had purchased them,” said the woman standing with her back ramrod-straight in the foyer of 82 Boulevard St. Germain. It was torture, but Cora made herself approach slowly, as if she were coming upon a doe in the forest. Her blood rushed all at once to her head, urging her to get close enough to touch. She answered Manuela instead.
“He did,” she admitted. “It took some convincing for him to part with them.” And an ungodly amount of money. “But I was determined to have these here.”
Manuela didn’t move or even acknowledge Cora’s admission, keeping her attention on the art on the wall for a moment that seemed to stretch out forever. When she turned, her eyes shimmered with emotion. Cora could barely contain herself. This woman could always humble her, remind her she was a mere mortal and there were still things that could bring her to her knees.
“I wonder how your gentlemen’s club clientele will feel about my Eurydice.” She smiled then. It was easy and slightly impish, and it filled Cora’s lungs with oxygen for what felt like the first time in months.
It felt like years, like a lifetime. She had come here to implore, beg, whatever it took. But her negotiation skills were never very sharp when it came to this woman. Cora had spent more hours than she could count conjuring up this face, this body in her mind. Remembering every detail, every inch of Manuela, and yet none of it could hold a candle to what she had in front of her. Her dress, a simple walking suit, was still done in one of those vivid colors Manuela loved. This woman was not the seductive siren from Le Bureau or the brash heiress from that fateful luncheon. There was a certainty in her now, in the way she stood tall, that made Cora’s heart thump in her chest.
It’s time, Cora, she’s here.
It was barely eight in the evening, and like so many other days in the past few months, it felt as though she’d lived a lifetime since she’d woken up that morning. The difference was that today she’d cut the final string tying her to her previous life. It had taken weeks to dissolve her interests. To extricate herself from all the ventures and schemes that over the years had become her fuel. In just a month Manuela had transformed all those things that seemed all-important into hindrances.
The heiress who had made a mockery of the Duchess of Sundridge’s so-called achievements, standing silently, waiting for her. Cora, who had always been too bold for her own good, took a step toward her. Her eyes eager for the face, the eyes, the lips, the riot of dark lush hair that had bewitched her since the moment this angel had landed in her arms at Le Bureau.
“There won’t be any gentlemen admiring these paintings, not unless you deem it so,” she finally said.
