Read Online Mademoiselle Chanel by C. W. Gortner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. W. Gortner
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how much he threatens. I’m going to buy a château and breed the best racing horses this country has seen. I don’t care what anyone thinks. We have one life. I intend to live it by my rules.”
Although I still did not find him particularly attractive, my feelings toward him deepened in ways I could not explain. Perhaps because I had never met anyone like him, his brazen confidence and nonchalant air burrowedinside me until I found myself eagerly awaiting his arrival, the rest of my existence taking on a grayer hue when he was not there.
Adrienne probed me about him. “Has he expressed his intentions?” she asked as we lay tumbled on our cot, having spent the night dancing with Balsan and his friends. “I see how he looks at you. He watches you every moment. He doesn’t seem to care that you sing in the café or mend petticoats. Do you think he might love you? Has he tried to kiss you yet?”
I felt her trembling; I had the impression she had already been kissed more than a few times. Her questions only roused my anxiety, for Balsan had not so much as touched my hand. He had reason, even if I did not afford him opportunity. He must know that others in his circle had tried in his stead; I was also young and pretty enough, if not beautiful, to entertain several admirers, as Adrienne did. Yet I did not want to. I had no interest in those boastful men. Balsan was the only one who appealed to me, so why did he not stir any of the feelings I had heard Adrienne go on and on about with her baron?
I wondered if there was something wrong with me. I had never wanted to belong to any man save my father. Had he imparted such a harsh lesson that I could not bring myself to rely on anyone? Did I not want to get married and have a family of my own? Adrienne had made it her entire reason for living, but I—I felt none of those yearnings, though surely these were the only acceptable ambitions for girls like us.
“Balsan and I are just friends,” I finally said, and I turned away, silencing her questions.
But I soon found myself watching Balsan as much as he watched me, for a sign that I meant more to him than a casual dalliance. He asked me about my past, expressing an interest that made me more insecure, for when gentlemen did that, Adrienne had said, it usually meant they were debating our suitability.
In my eagerness to appear more than what I was, I spun outrageous stories of how my father had gone to America to build his fortune aftermy mother died, leaving me and my sisters with caring aunts, who had us educated by the nuns. I never mentioned Aubazine or my lost brothers or that I had turned my back on my grandparents. After I heard these falsehoods reel from my lips, I waited, breathless, for him to burst out laughing and chide, “Coco, what a liar you are!” But he never did. He accepted everything I told him and I began to see how easy it was to conceal my past. After all, other girls must find themselves in my position, especially as I took pains to elaborate that I’d chosen to earn my own way, because the alternative—to be sent to a matchmaker or wed one of the boys whose families knew mine—was unacceptable.
“Though of course,” I added airily, “I hope to marry someday.”
“Of course.” He leaned to me. “It seems we both share an intolerance for expectations. Perhaps we are destined for each other, ma petite Coco.”
It was the first time he had alluded to a possible future together and it roused equal parts hope and consternation. My plans had not come to fruition; I had not sold a single hat. No milliner in Moulins would give me the time of day. I was still under Madame G.’s thumb, singing my throat raw in the café, and though the money in my tin slowly increased, if no one wanted to buy my hats, what could I do? At this rate, I feared I would become my mother—enslaved to work that paid enough to keep a roof over my head but never enough to raise me out of the gutter. Balsan could change
Although I still did not find him particularly attractive, my feelings toward him deepened in ways I could not explain. Perhaps because I had never met anyone like him, his brazen confidence and nonchalant air burrowedinside me until I found myself eagerly awaiting his arrival, the rest of my existence taking on a grayer hue when he was not there.
Adrienne probed me about him. “Has he expressed his intentions?” she asked as we lay tumbled on our cot, having spent the night dancing with Balsan and his friends. “I see how he looks at you. He watches you every moment. He doesn’t seem to care that you sing in the café or mend petticoats. Do you think he might love you? Has he tried to kiss you yet?”
I felt her trembling; I had the impression she had already been kissed more than a few times. Her questions only roused my anxiety, for Balsan had not so much as touched my hand. He had reason, even if I did not afford him opportunity. He must know that others in his circle had tried in his stead; I was also young and pretty enough, if not beautiful, to entertain several admirers, as Adrienne did. Yet I did not want to. I had no interest in those boastful men. Balsan was the only one who appealed to me, so why did he not stir any of the feelings I had heard Adrienne go on and on about with her baron?
I wondered if there was something wrong with me. I had never wanted to belong to any man save my father. Had he imparted such a harsh lesson that I could not bring myself to rely on anyone? Did I not want to get married and have a family of my own? Adrienne had made it her entire reason for living, but I—I felt none of those yearnings, though surely these were the only acceptable ambitions for girls like us.
“Balsan and I are just friends,” I finally said, and I turned away, silencing her questions.
But I soon found myself watching Balsan as much as he watched me, for a sign that I meant more to him than a casual dalliance. He asked me about my past, expressing an interest that made me more insecure, for when gentlemen did that, Adrienne had said, it usually meant they were debating our suitability.
In my eagerness to appear more than what I was, I spun outrageous stories of how my father had gone to America to build his fortune aftermy mother died, leaving me and my sisters with caring aunts, who had us educated by the nuns. I never mentioned Aubazine or my lost brothers or that I had turned my back on my grandparents. After I heard these falsehoods reel from my lips, I waited, breathless, for him to burst out laughing and chide, “Coco, what a liar you are!” But he never did. He accepted everything I told him and I began to see how easy it was to conceal my past. After all, other girls must find themselves in my position, especially as I took pains to elaborate that I’d chosen to earn my own way, because the alternative—to be sent to a matchmaker or wed one of the boys whose families knew mine—was unacceptable.
“Though of course,” I added airily, “I hope to marry someday.”
“Of course.” He leaned to me. “It seems we both share an intolerance for expectations. Perhaps we are destined for each other, ma petite Coco.”
It was the first time he had alluded to a possible future together and it roused equal parts hope and consternation. My plans had not come to fruition; I had not sold a single hat. No milliner in Moulins would give me the time of day. I was still under Madame G.’s thumb, singing my throat raw in the café, and though the money in my tin slowly increased, if no one wanted to buy my hats, what could I do? At this rate, I feared I would become my mother—enslaved to work that paid enough to keep a roof over my head but never enough to raise me out of the gutter. Balsan could change
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