Behind a Lady's Smile (12 page)

Genny pretended to see something interesting and started to walk away, just to be contrary. Mitch wasn’t particularly amused by her jest, so she wrinkled her nose and shooed him away.

When they’d gone, she turned her attention to the diners. Though the room was nearly filled, she could hear only a low murmur of voices and the soft clinking of cutlery on china. The round tables were covered with white tablecloths and glittering china and glassware. And the smells; she thanked goodness she wasn’t hungry.

Not ten feet from her, two couples, a man and woman with silver hair and a younger pair were escorted to a table so close, Genny stopped breathing momentarily. If she’d wanted to, she could have reached out and touched the older woman’s shoulder. As if choreographed, the men pulled out the women’s chairs, and the two women sat, then drew off their gloves and placed them on their laps, covering the gloves with a napkin. Genny concentrated on the women, watching what they did, how they acted, thinking this was likely a waste of time. But within a few minutes, she began to get a sick feeling in her stomach, as if she were watching a complicated dance that she would be asked to replicate, knowing she would never be able to do so.

A waiter took their orders and returned quickly with some sort of soup. The women sat ramrod straight, taking delicate sips, bringing the spoon up to their mouths without bending their heads. And they weren’t really sipping. They were pouring tiny portions into their mouths. Genny thought back on all the times she’d sat at the dinner table with her father and shoved the entire spoon into her mouth as she leaned over the bowl, and she could feel herself grow hot with something she had no name for.

To the left of their plates were five forks in five different sizes, to the right, three knives and various spoons. Everyone seemed to know which utensil was used for what, as if they were born knowing what they were. Genny watched, fascinated, as the girl, who appeared to be younger than Genny, delicately buttered her bread then took tiny bits of it between her thumb and forefinger and put it into her mouth. It seemed to take forever for her to chew the bread, and Genny wondered if it were particularly tough. It almost seemed to Genny that the young woman was counting out the number of chews each mouthful got. Tiny bite, twenty chews. Pause. Tiny bite, twenty chews. And when she spoke, she lay down whatever was in her hand, as if talking and holding utensils simultaneously was too difficult a task to master.

It was fascinating to watch her eat her dinner without ever bending her head to look at her plate. How on earth did she know what she was putting into her mouth if she didn’t see what was on it?

As each course was completed, the four laid the utensil they’d held across the plate, the useful end of the tool facing right. Every diner did the same thing at about the same time. Then, following a course, they all lifted their water goblets and took a small sip. Genny was getting thirsty just watching them.

If this was how her grandparents ate a meal, she was doomed to disappoint them. “Manners separate the classes,” Madeline had said, and Genny hadn’t truly known what she meant. “If you’re going to make a smooth transition into the highest levels of British society, you’re going to at least try to fool them, my dear. It’s all acting.”

Genny couldn’t help but think back on all the meals she’d had with Mitch, all the mistakes she had apparently been making. It was not only the way she ate, it was the way she saw the world, how she walked and talked and laughed. No one in this dining room was laughing. They smiled, or if a sound came out, it was quickly stifled with a pristine and starched napkin. When one man did laugh loudly, nearly every head turned, and every face held an expression of annoyance. Just thinking of sitting with her back that straight for so long was making her spine ache.

She was going to be a disappointment to her grandparents, the people who had written such heart-breaking letters. They had no idea of how she’d grown up, of how she could kill a snake, gut it, and eat it and think it was a grand meal. She could cut firewood and she had the callouses to prove it. They were fading, her hands growing softer, but her insides would never be soft. She’d never forget what it felt like not to eat for days simply because she hadn’t killed something for her table. She’d been proud of what she’d done—and still was. But the gap between who she was and the girl she suspected her grandparents would expect was far wider than she’d realized. She’d imagined throwing herself into their arms, laughing with delight, but if her grandparents were like these people, she wondered if they’d even crack a smile.

The girl who sat at the dining table, with her intricately coiffed hair and a gown of the prettiest blue Genny had ever seen, was as foreign a creature to her as these strange-looking plants that were hiding her. The girl likely could play the piano and recite poetry, and no doubt had beautiful penmanship. That girl could easily enter the world of her grandparents.

Soft footsteps coming toward Genny startled her from her turbulent thoughts. She looked to her right to see a woman coming toward her, her dress clearly marking her as a guest.

“You, there. Where might I find the powder room?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’m not familiar with this restaurant.”

The woman looked her up and down, obviously trying to assess who she was. “Are you not a servant here?”

“No, ma’am,” Genny said, looking around for Mitch.

The woman stared at her a long moment, then turned and left Genny with her heart pounding madly in her chest. She didn’t want Jason to lose his job for letting her in. Where was Mitch? The two of them had been gone for nearly a half hour. They’d told her to stay put, but Genny thought it would be best to leave the way she’d come in and was about to do so when a man, dressed in a fancy suit, walked quickly up to her.

“You do not belong here,” he said, looking her up and down with obvious distaste. “Leave immediately or I shall call the police.”

“I’m sorry, I . . . I was just watching people eat.”

“And hoping to attract a customer, no doubt.”

“A customer?” She had no idea what the man could mean.

“Don’t play dumb with me, miss,” the man said, looking pointedly at her chest.

Genny had a terrible feeling the man thought she was a soiled dove. “No, you’re mistaken. I was just—”

The man grabbed her upper arm roughly and began leading her toward the back room. “How did you get in here, anyway? This is a fine establishment. A respectable one. And you can tell your friends to stay away, too.”

He opened the door and pushed her roughly out, leaving Genny in the darkened alley, listening to the rustling sound of rats.

Hot tears filled her eyes as the man slammed the door shut. Never in her life had she been made to feel such humiliation. It was so beyond her experience, she was stunned. She looked down at the dress she’d thought was so pretty, and realized it was cheaply made and cut in a way that, while flattering, perhaps revealed too much of her shape. She’d thought her breasts were too visible, but Mitch’s mother had explained it was quite respectable. Now she felt almost . . . dirty.

Genny pressed her back against the rough brick of the building, feeling angry and hurt. Where was Mitch? What was taking so long? She pressed the heel of her hands against her eyes to stop her silly tears, but they came anyway.

Finally, the door swung open and there he was, all anger and frustration. “Genny, we told you—.” He stopped as if someone had placed a gag on his mouth. “What happened, darlin’?”

“Oh, Mitch,” Genny said, and threw herself into his arms, letting herself cry against his warm jacket. He brought one hand to the back of her head and the other around her shoulders, pressing her close. “It was awful. A man threw me out. He thought I was a . . . a . . .” she said between hiccuppy sobs. “And the way he looked at me, it was as if I were not quite human. I thought this was a pretty dress, but it’s not. It makes me look cheap, and my grandparents are going to think I look like a pro . . . pro . . . prostitute,” she wailed.

She felt him chuckle and she made a fist and hit him softly on his chest. “They’re not going to think you’re a prostitute, darlin’. There’s more good in your pinky than in most women’s whole bodies. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

She pulled back, looking up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “No, it was
good
that you brought me. I’m thankful you did. I can’t imagine if I had shown up at my grandparents’ door looking like this, thinking I looked p . . . pretty when I really look like a—”

“You don’t,” Mitch said forcefully. “And you won’t.”

 

Mitch wanted to punch something—hard—and figured that the maître d’ who most likely tossed Genny out would be a good target. “Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Genny grabbed his arm. “No, Mitch, let it lie. We were in the wrong. We weren’t supposed to be in the restaurant in the first place. We were trespassing. The man was just doing his job.”

Mitch pulled away and stalked back and forth for a bit while Genny watched, half bemused and half fearful he would go inside the restaurant and hurt someone.

“We’re getting you nice dresses,” he announced. “Like the ones those ladies in there are wearing. No one is ever going to look at you and think you’re anything but a lady.”

“The money . . .”

“Don’t worry about the money. I have money, and dresses don’t cost much.” He placed two hands on either side of her face, his eyes troubled. “I can’t stand to see you cry, darlin’. You know that. It makes me crazy.”

“I’m sorry.”

She gave him an impish smile, and he knew he was in trouble. He knew he was going to kiss her, right there in that dirty alley with the rats watching them. Hell, what was the point of trying not to when he knew he couldn’t stop himself. For two days he’d been trying not to stare at her, not to touch her, not to even talk to her. But right now, with her looking up at him and smiling, tears still in her eyes, there was nothing left to do but lower his head and press his lips against hers. She sighed. God, he loved her sighs. He moved his hands slowly to the back of her head, loving how silky-soft her hair felt, how willing she was to kiss him back. He wanted to taste her, wanted to feel her tongue and deepen the kiss, and he resisted as long as he could. But when she wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head, he couldn’t resist any longer.

“Open for me, darlin’. Let me taste you,” he said, and when she did, even though she probably didn’t know what she was doing, he thrust his tongue inside her lovely mouth, letting out a low moan of pure joy. It was clear Genny had never been kissed like that before, clear she didn’t know quite what to do, so when she moved her tongue tentatively against his, he pulled her closer, letting her feel exactly what she was doing to him. God, this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place, but he’d be damned if he would stop kissing her.

She let out the sweetest sound. He could only describe it as abandon, pure and lovely, and bringing the kiss to a level he’d never experienced with another woman. It was devastating, as though his heart was being torn in two at the same time his body throbbed with a need so strong it was unmanning. A rat scurried over his foot, and he thanked God for that rat, for if he’d continued kissing her much longer, he’d have done things no man should do to a good woman in an alley.

He pulled back, numb except for an insistent ache in his groin.
What the hell was he doing?

He chuckled and shook his head. “I told you I hate it when you cry. And see? You stopped.”

She looked up at him, dazed, eyes glassy now for a completely different reason, her lips slightly swollen from their kisses. It was all he could do not to pull her against him again. What was wrong with him? He’d never been the kind of man to lose control. All these foreign emotions roiling about in his head were making him crazy. He had to stop. It was only going to make it harder for both of them when he left her in England. He didn’t like the way she was looking at him, all doe-eyed and woozy. And he didn’t like the way he was probably looking down at her, like a man who needed more than a few kisses.

“Come on, let’s go home,” he said, more sharply than he’d meant. He softened his voice, adding, “We’ll go looking for dresses tomorrow.”

He held his arm out for her to take and you might have thought he’d handed her the moon, the way she smiled at him.

 

Louise Brunelle was one of the most sought-after couturiers in New York. She counted the likes of Mary Bishop, Caroline Astor, and Sarah McAllister as her regular clients. They flocked to her store, paid the exorbitant prices, because they all knew one thing: when you wore a gown she designed, you looked as beautiful as was possible. Her gowns were made of the finest silks, the softest wools, the most delicate lace. She embellished her creations with pearls, rubies, and amethysts, and once, for Mrs. Rockefeller, diamonds.

Though she’d claimed to have apprenticed under the famous Charles Worth, she had merely been a seamstress for the fashion giant. But she had learned quickly that her ambitions were nearly as high as her innate talent for knowing in one glance what cuts, colors, and fabrics would look best on a woman. Charles Worth may have been her inspiration, but her creations were all her own. When her husband died, leaving a small inheritance, she headed for America, where she knew she could bring high fashion to the nouveau riche. In the beginning, it was only her and one young seamstress carving their way into the highest levels of society. She rented in the poshest sections of the city and designed the interior of her shop to look like a wealthy lady’s parlor. It took years of hard work, but it had now paid off. Her designs rivaled those of Worth and the women of New York were more than happy to pay her exorbitant fees to claim they were wearing a Brunelle.

When her head seamstress, Joanna, came to fetch her, saying that a man had come into the shop demanding an entire wardrobe for the granddaughter of the Duke of Glastonbury, she withdrew from her desk and followed the seamstress to the shop’s main room, excitement churning in her chest. Her hopes were high—until she took one look at the pair. Then, she became annoyed. Clearly, this pair wouldn’t be able to purchase a handkerchief in her shop, never mind an entire wardrobe.