humility, that I recognized the monumental gift of your sister from the first.”
Lisette, who feared nothing and no one, shook her head. “Ooh-la-la!”
“But come, everyone is eager to pay you their respects.”
Falconier marched off, full of his own self-importance. Lisette put a hand on Mason’s arm, waiting until he was out of range, then whispered to her, “Remember. You’ve never been to France before. You do not speak a word of French.”
When they caught up to Falconier, he said, “I realize, Mademoiselle Amy, that you are still raw from your tragedy, but we have some gentlemen of the press here who are panting to talk with you about our beloved Mason. And it is always wise to strike while the iron is hot, n’est-pas? So if you don’t mind, please to follow me.”
He didn’t pause long enough to see whether she minded or not, but proceeded into the main salon where a group of gentlemen stood waiting with pencils and pads in hand and eyes hungry to embellish a story that was fast becoming the rage of Paris.
Mason had always dreamed of being the center of attention, all eyes on her, pencils poised to jot down every word she uttered. But it had been such a rush to pull herself together for this charade that she hadn’t had time to fully formulate her story.
Don’t slip. Don’t let them suspect who you really are.
As she joined Falconier, she dabbed her eyes with her veil, as if brushing away a tear, and said with a feigned air of sorrow, “Yes, it’s been quite an ordeal. But if it will help the legacy of poor Mason, of course I’ll tell them whatever I can.”
As she spoke, Lisette translated for those in the group who didn’t understand English.
Falconier cleared his throat. “Gentlemen of the press, may I present Mademoiselle Amy Caldwell, the sister of our late-departed and much-missed artist. And with her, the lovely Mademoiselle Lisette Ladoux of the Cirque Fernando and Folies-Bergères. She was, as you know, a close personal friend of the artist and her primary model.”
A thin man with a goatee began the proceedings. “Mademoiselle Caldwell, I am Etienne Debray of La Gauloise. May I ask, why do you think it is that your sister’s work was so unappreciated in her brief life?”
Mason considered the question, then spoke slowly, “I know little about art, but I think her paintings may have threatened the people who always want things to remain the same.”
“Why do you think there is such interest in her now?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t answer that. Perhaps it’s just that her time has come.”
As Lisette translated, Mason noticed a man standing by himself several yards behind the reporters, staring at her with a penetrating gaze. The first thing she noticed was his size. He stood a full head above the rest of the crowd, with prominent wide shoulders and large hands that offered a captivating contrast to the ease with which he wore his expensively tailored suit. He’d forsaken the beard Parisian men favored and was clean-shaven, emphasizing the sculpted line of his jaw. He was the most arresting man she’d ever seen. But it wasn’t just his individual features—dark hair, wide forehead, thick brows atop piercing dark eyes, vertical creases on either side of his mouth—that made him so. As handsome as he was at first glance, it was the energy he projected that riveted her attention, one of action and excitement, and the promise of adventure. It hit her like a physical blow. Raw. Feral. Brazenly sexual.
For a moment, she lost track of what Lisette was saying. Why was the man looking at her this way? She’d never seen him before, but he was inspecting her with a cheeky sort of intimacy. She felt positively naked beneath his unflinching scrutiny and had to resist the urge to adjust her clothing. Was it possible that he recognized her? But no, she’d taken great pains to change her appearance—dyeing her hair, wearing carefully applied cosmetics, even chopping off the long eyelashes that were her most noticeable feature.
She dragged her gaze away and forced herself to concentrate.
Another reporter asked, “But, mademoiselle, there is no precedent for what is going on here today. Surely much of the interest is due to the harrowing circumstances of your sister’s demise. Such a wretched death for one so young, so beautiful, so talented.”
Someone piped up with, “But it has done wonders for her career.”
There were some snickers from the spectators who’d gathered round.
Falconier held up his hands. “Please, gentlemen, have some respect!”
The questioner added, “I certainly meant no disrespect. I only meant to point out that there is a quality to her life and death that seems to move people in a way that I have never seen before. She never had a patron, never sold a painting, never had the slightest encouragement from what we can tell. And yet she worked on, giving everything to her art, including, finally, her life. That is the mark of a true martyr, a…Joan of Art.”
As he coined the phrase, a silence descended on the crowd, as if suddenly realizing that they were a part of something larger than what had first been apparent.
Mason, taken aback by this, wasn’t sure what to say. She glanced about at the dumbstruck crowd. As she did, her gaze met and held that of the man standing on the fringes. He gave a slow, single nod of his head that baffled her.
“Jeanne d’Art,” repeated one of the reporters. “C’est formidable!”
The newsmen were now writing furiously. As they finished, another of them asked, “What are your plans for the paintings?”
Mason waited for Lisette to finish translating before she answered, “Monsieur Falconier will try to sell the eighteen here today—”
The intriguing man at the back shook his head, distracting her. She stumbled, then continued, “With the stipulation that, should the committee deem them acceptable, they be made available to be displayed at the World’s Fair this summer. I understand they turned her down once, but Monsieur Falconier seems to think in light of the recent publicity…”
“Are there more paintings?”
Mason hadn’t expected the question. But on impulse, she said, “Yes, many.”
As she translated, Lisette tossed her a quizzical frown. This wasn’t part of the plan.
Falconier looked pleasantly startled. “Really! But this is magnifique! And where are they?”
Thinking on her feet, Mason said, “My sister shipped them back to me in Massachusetts. I could have them sent over if anyone wanted to see them.”
Falconier had brightened considerably at this news. He rubbed his smooth, white hands together, and his eyes sparked with the glint of avarice. “Want to see them? The world will demand to see them! And you may rest assured that the Falconier Gallery will be the enthusiastic broker for these masterpieces.”
Lisette couldn’t help but smile at his greed. “How kind of the monsieur,” she quipped.
One of the reporters was nibbling thoughtfully on his pencil. “What do you surmise will happen to all this interest? Will it continue to grow?”
“I can answer that question.”
Mason
