The Worthington Wife Read online

  Heavenly yeasty scents of bread wrapped around Julia, along with another rich scent of coffee roasting. Small tables sat on a cobblestone terrace. Across the road from them, a railing followed the Seine, and beyond the railing the water rippled.

  Julia looked in the café. Inside sat old men and young women with lipsticked mouths. But no Sebastian. “He’s not yet here. I am early, of course.”

  “Have some coffee. I’ll sit with you and leave when he comes.” Cal pulled out a seat for her.

  A waiter wearing a long white apron came to them and took orders. Her café au lait arrived in an enormous bowl-like cup. Frothy milk defied gravity to sit upon her cup, already melting away into the hot drink. She cradled the cup and sipped.

  She was here. In Paris with Cal. Except there could be no romance in it. She had to make him see he should be with Alice. “Cal, you should bring someone special to Paris,” she began.

  He set down his coffee. Slowly, gently, he drawled, “Sheba, I already have—”

  “Julia!”

  She looked up and saw golden hair beneath a white hat—brilliant and gleaming in the sunlight. “Sebastian!”

  Her brother looked utterly stylish in a white boater, white trousers and a white jacket over a shirt of pale pink and a tie of the same color. As she stood, he embraced her, kissing her cheek. “Julia, my angel. My savior. My dearest one.”

  She lifted her brow. “I know you too well. When you slather on compliments like marmalade on toast, you are up to something.” For example, there was his engagement to Zoe, when he needed a marriage and had tried to make Zoe believe he loved her. But then Julia saw the shadows under her brother’s eyes and knew he was truly troubled.

  Sebastian looked toward Cal, then leaned close to her ear. “This one looks wilder and more interesting than Dr. Campbell.”

  “Behave,” she whispered.

  “If that is what you wish, then behaving is all that I will do, my dear.”

  “This is the Earl of Worthington.” She inclined her head toward her brother. “My brother, Lord Sebastian Hazelton.”

  Cal held out his hand. Sebastian took it and they shook hands as Cal said, “Call me Cal. I don’t believe in titles. I’m an American.”

  Sebastian cocked his handsome head. “I recognize you. I think I’ve met you before. At Bricktop’s place. Don’t think we had a formal introduction.” And under his breath, to her, “More intriguing all the time.”

  “Cal lived in Paris to paint,” Julia explained.

  Sebastian murmured by her ear, “A wild, artistic American. Have you brought him here—” He broke off. He coughed. “Wait. You are my sister. No love affairs for you.”

  “Sebastian,” she whispered fiercely. Of course she couldn’t have a love affair with Cal. But deep inside, she felt an astonishing pang of regret.

  And despite Sebastian’s lightheartedness, his eyes bore sadness.

  Cal stood. “I should leave the two of you to speak of your private business. I think I’ll go to my favorite bookstore. Shakespeare and Company. A gathering spot of Americans in Paris. When should I return for you, Julia?”

  “I know the store. I’ll bring her to you,” Sebastian said.

  As soon as they were alone, she asked, “What is wrong, Sebastian?”

  Coffee arrived for Sebastian—the waiter didn’t even have to ask his order. Sebastian took it with thanks. He swirled it. “Just seeing you, having you here, is a blessing for me, beloved sister.”

  “You look so thin and pale, Sebastian. I am terribly worried about you.”

  She had always admired Sebastian’s courage. He had fallen in love with a handsome young man, Captain Ransome. It was still forbidden in England. She knew of the trial of Oscar Wilde. She knew Sebastian could be arrested and imprisoned. Yet she knew Sebastian was a good man who was only seeking love. He truly cared for John Ransome. And to be together, both men had left England to live in Capri, and now in Paris.

  “John left me,” he said bluntly.

  Her heart broke at the pain on her brother’s handsome face. He looked a lot like Nigel except his hair was gold and his eyes a stunning green. “I thought you were both happy.”

  “We were,” he said darkly. “But John’s family issued him an ultimatum. He had to return or he’ll be dead to them forever. I told him there’s nothing for him there. How can he be happy trying to live a lie, living a life without love? I didn’t see how he could go back, after we’d been living together in Capri, then Paris, but his parents have told their friends he went on a tour of Europe with me—that we are friends from school. They believe that if he ‘quells his disgusting proclivities’ as they put it, he can return to the army. They actually want him to marry ‘for appearances.’”

  “You were considering marriage for appearances, once,” she reminded him. “It was Zoe who realized that was a foolish idea. You can’t condemn Captain Ransome if he does the same things you thought you must do.”

  He grimaced. “I know. I didn’t feel like getting beaten to a pulp by English louts trying to prove their manliness. It’s why I came here. But did John leave for his family, or did he leave because he no longer cares for me?”

  “Didn’t he give you his reasons?”

  “We fought, I got roaring drunk, and when I woke, he was gone and only a note remained.”

  He drew a folded paper out of his pocket. “You want too much from me,” it read.

  “Do I chase him, Julia, or do I accept defeat? I’m happy to live in exile as long as I have John. Yes, once I was engaged to Zoe, but only because she needed a hasty wedding herself. I’ve changed. Love is too important to toy with, too important to cast aside. John is willing to give me up to return to England and live a lie, rather than accept exile. Perhaps there’s no hope for us.”

  “I think—I think you should fight for love.”

  “What if I fail? Having a broken heart hurts.”

  “I know. But you do heal.”

  “As you have. Admirably, Julia. But why are you with the wild American?”

  She explained about Cal and Worthington Park. She could not reveal Diana’s secret—Diana had not given her permission, but Sebastian believed she’d come to Paris only for him, and she couldn’t bring herself to disabuse him of that.

  “So you’re going to marry the wild American?”

  “No! He has no interest in marriage. And neither do I. I’ve decided that instead I should grasp life on my own terms. I won’t marry without love. And I won’t marry a man who wishes to put me in a box or a gilded cage.”

  “Julia, there will eventually be a man who loves you enough, who does not see your desire for freedom and autonomy, your desire to be equal to him, as a price to pay but rather an asset.”

  Her heart ached, but she smiled to hide it. “That is rather lovely.”

  “I agree. I surprise myself. Perhaps I should have taken to writing prose instead of painting.” He winked at her. “Do you want me to take you to the most shocking Parisian clubs?”

  She knew he was teasing. But she called his bluff. “I came to Paris to experience adventure.” And to see what she really wanted in her life. “Tonight I am definitely going to wild clubs.”

  She finished her coffee with a flourish. It was lush and strong and gave her a jolt that shot to her fingertips and toes. “I have spent twenty-seven years being dutiful and ladylike. It hasn’t brought me anything I wanted—love, a home, a family. Now I am going to begin my life all over again. I am going to try being wild. Then, I am going to help you heal your rift with John Ransome. You deserve to have love, Sebastian.”

  * * *

  Julia quickly saw Paris was a place one must go with someone one loved.

  With Sebastian, she met Cal at the bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, where she bought a travel guide t
o Paris and met sparrowlike Sylvia Beach. Then the two men together took her everywhere. On a boat on the Seine. To view the monuments—L’Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower. Her day was a whirl of cafés and flowers and many glasses of wine. Then they returned to the hotel, having dinner with Diana and David on the rooftop of Le Meurice.

  At night, lights glittered all around, reflecting on the Seine to make the river appear to be full of diamonds. Julia changed into a sheath of a dress, pale blue with silver beads. Her dress glittered and sparkled every time she drew breath, but it was nowhere near as brilliant as the lights of Paris.

  She had been to jazz clubs. Before Nigel married Zoe, she and Zoe had gone to a secret downstairs club in London where—to Julia’s shock—a dancer had taken her clothes off.

  She was rather nervous. Paris must be even wilder than London. She had boldly told Sebastian she wanted an adventure. But did she?

  The five of them made their way to the neighborhood of Montparnasse, past cafés with lights that gleamed on cobblestones and wrought iron fencing and on the faces of chic women. Cal pushed David’s chair and she had linked arms with Sebastian. Diana walked at David’s side.

  As they reached the famous Café de la Rotonde, Cal clasped her hand. Threaded his fingers through hers and she felt it. A whoosh. All of Paris stopped in its tracks—and if a man could stop Paris, that man had to be truly something.

  She had to release his hand so he could steer David inside, into a room filled with cigarette smoke, crammed with people—women in brief dresses or plain trousers, men dressed in either immaculate dinner jackets or threadbare sweaters. There appeared to be an understanding that the young man in the chair must have been wounded in war, because a path was cleared for them all.

  “Cal!” someone called. Cal sat her at a table, and greeted many friends, introducing her.

  As Cal fell into conversation with fellow artists, a young gentleman smiled at her from another table. He asked if he could break off the end of the baguette in the basket on their table.

  She handed him the whole thing. He waved his hands. “Not all that. I’d be asked to pay.”

  Another man joined him. “Still nursing that one cup of coffee?”

  The first man smiled. He was young, tanned, with curling black hair. “Ten centimes for the cup and I can sit for the day and sketch.”

  The other man laughed. “I would like to sketch that lovely one.”

  Julia blushed and looked up as Cal returned with a bottle of red wine and five glasses that he held adroitly by their stems.

  The noise grew louder—she could hear the debate of the two men beside her better than she could the conversation at her table. The man with the black hair insisted the new art would be found in the objects used by the masses—automobiles, the newfangled toaster, furniture. “Mass production allows us to bring great art—to bring beautiful but practical form—to all people,” he declared. “We must educate people so they learn to throw off Victorian fuss and frippery. And see the beauty of simple form—of a form that follows from its function.”

  They argued vehemently. Then the second man left and the black-haired man leaned to her and pointed to the walls. “Those sketches are mine.” He grinned. “People come to Montparnasse to sin disgracefully. How unfortunate I didn’t get to do it with you. Unless you wish to come to my studio and I will paint you. Then make love to you.”

  “The lady is with me,” Cal growled.

  “Actually I am not...exactly. But as delightful as your offer is, I must decline. My time in Paris is limited and my schedule is already thoroughly booked,” she said politely.

  That was how it would be done in the drawing room. But the man put his hand on her knee, bent to her and kissed her neck. She was shocked into immobility.

  Until Cal hauled the man off. He helped her to her feet. “We’re going. There’s a fight about to break out.”

  “Between you and he?” she inquired. The dark-haired man was cursing eloquently in French.

  “It might, but that wasn’t the one I was thinking about. That intellectual debate in the corner over there is about to erupt into a brawl.”

  And it did, just as Cal whisked her out, followed by Diana and Sebastian, pushing David’s chair.

  Julia tried not to look shocked. “Did you paint in places like that? That man wouldn’t accept bread from me in case he had to pay for it. Are they really so impoverished?”

  Cal grinned. “We all were. The proprietor, Libion, would let me stay there and drink his coffee if I gave him a picture or two to keep up until I could pay.”

  That didn’t make sense. She was certain he had done more than have one dinner at the exclusive Le Meurice, so how could he not have afforded to pay for coffee? But ladylike training would not allow her to say he was lying—questioning him would imply that. David had told her Cal had made money, but she had thought it was enough to care for David.

  “What would you like to do with all of Paris here for your pleasure?” Cal teased.

  “Sebastian has promised to take me to a jazz club,” she said. “Let’s go together.”

  Sebastian and Cal then traded names of clubs back and forth—names that didn’t mean anything to her. Cal suggested one that made Sebastian’s brow shoot up and Julia said quickly, “That one. I want to try that one.”

  David and Diana decided to return to the hotel, and Cal acquired a taxicab to take them, helping David out of his chair.

  It was strange—she was eager to be shocked, and terrified of it at the same time. It made for a rather intoxicating mix of emotions as they made their way through the steamy streets of Montparnasse. Finally, Cal led her beneath an awning that read Dingo American Bar and Restaurant. He held the door for her and murmured, “One of the favorite bars of the ex-pat American painters and writers. A lot of my friends are here.”

  A long wooden bar stretched before her, crowded with patrons. Simple stools of bent wood gathered around small tables. Here was more hazy smoke. Sensuous music drifted out, much more mournful and aching than any jazz she’d yet heard. It called to her. The whole night felt like a surge of electricity—and she was thrilled by the glow but also afraid of the shock. It was so crowded, noisy, wild. She was used to crushes at balls, but this was a world she didn’t know.

  However, everyone seemed to know Cal. Especially the women. Women wanted to talk to him, touch him, slip away into a dark, quiet corner of the bar with him.

  Cal was invited to a table. A good-looking man with dark hair and a bourbon in front of him pulled out a chair for her. Julia sat as Cal made introductions. On her left, the handsome man who had pulled out her chair was named Ernest Hemingway. “The writer,” Cal added. “And his wife, Hadley Richardson.”

  On her other side sat Zelda Fitzgerald, famous in America, the embodiment of the “flapper.” And wife to F. Scott, who had written the rather stunning novel The Great Gatsby. Julia felt awed to be there—she had never run with the artistic set or the Bright Young Things.

  Zelda had bobbed blond hair and compelling, emotive eyes. Mrs. Fitzgerald burst out with the most intriguing and unusual comments. “Why do they call you ‘ladies’?” she asked pointedly. “Isn’t it rather obvious that is what you are? And for those who aren’t called ladies, what is that supposed to imply?”

  Julia was taken aback. “Do you know,” she answered finally. “I truly don’t know. It was really a way of distinguishing those who wanted an elevated position. It goes back centuries.”

  “Are you slavishly devoted to having a title?” Zelda demanded.

  Julia knew how to be polite in awkward situations. “I’ve never thought about it, since I keep mine no matter what.”

  “Do you?” Zelda drank the rest of her cocktail. “How positively open-minded of your country. Marriage is the ruin of any woman, you know. I haven’t any idea why we rush
to do it. It’s all we girls are brought up to hope for, isn’t it? You build your whole life on the idea of landing a man who’s worthwhile. Then, once you’ve done it, it doesn’t take long before you realize there’s not much to it. It can stifle a woman. Once you’re married, you’re not interesting. Unless you are really good at something.”

  Julia managed to follow the swift, dramatic speed of her words. She asked, “Do you write?”

  “A little. I was trained as a dancer. I’m quite good. If I were dedicated, I could really be something, you know. Something really dazzling.”

  “Well, you are, aren’t you?” Julia’s heart panged. There was something a little desperate about Mrs. Fitzgerald. Beneath the beauty, the perfect brazen flapper loveliness, she looked haunted. “You are both quite famous in America. The predominant couple of the Jazz Age.”

  Zelda shrugged. As if it was of no consequence. As if it wasn’t enough. Then her gaze went to her husband and became a little wilder. “You see the woman he’s talking to? That creature in the man’s tuxedo? She’s the kind of woman who entices a man until he just can’t look away.”

  Julia saw a kind of anguish in Zelda’s eyes. She, like Zelda, had been raised to plan for marriage. Now she was going to have to build an entirely different future. And she could see Zelda was searching as she was—and maybe was as lost, for all she was lovely and famous.

  Hemingway was talking to Cal. Leaning over to hear Zelda, Julia couldn’t hear much of the men’s conversation. She heard the term “bullfighting,” then talk of Italy and Spain. She gathered Hemingway admired Cal for having been a pilot in the War.

  Zelda leaned close.

  “I have a daughter, you know,” she said. “Just the most precious thing. When she was born, I was coming out from the ether and I said the most unrelated things. He wrote them down, you know. Scott. And he used them. The words that came right out of my mouth when I didn’t even know where I was. It would be so much easier to be a beautiful fool, wouldn’t it?”