Liberty Silk by Kate Beaufoy Page A

look, then gently laid his hand over hers. ‘Then you most certainly cannot refuse my offer of a square meal,’ he said, ‘if you are eating for two.’
    ‘Oh!’ His solicitude made her want to cry harder.
    ‘There, there,
pauvre petite
. Dry your tears.’ Count Demetrios handed her a big linen handkerchief. And when she’d cried herself out and blown her nose, he leaned back in his chair, shook his head mournfully and said: ‘Things have come to a pretty pass. It is imperative that we get some food inside you – and none of your protests,’ he added, as she made to object once more. ‘I am putting my foot down, as they say.
Garçon!
’
    Jessie consulted the menu briefly, avidly, and then, remembering her manners, requested the count to order for her.
Bouillabaisse
, to be followed by
fricandeau
of veal, with sorrel and asparagus.
    ‘And bring some spinach,’ the count instructed the waiter, before resuming his scrutiny of her. ‘You look peaky, young lady. You must not allow yourself to become deficient in iron.’
    ‘You’re so kind,’ she said. ‘So very, very kind.’
    ‘
De rien
.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to you – and to your baby. When are you due?’
    ‘In April.’ Jessie made a little moue. ‘I’ll start to show in a couple of months, and that will be bad news.’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘I’ll be out of a job – and out of lodgings as well. Madame Perron, the
patronne
of my hotel, allows no women with children to lodge there. As soon as she finds out I’m expecting, I’ll be out on the street.’
    ‘Well, we simply cannot allow that to happen. Where are you residing?’
    ‘In the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux, on the rue du Coq d’Or.’
    ‘That dosshouse!’ Count Demetrios looked genuinely aghast. ‘Forgive my language, Madame, but that is no place for a young gentlewoman like you. We must get you out of there at once.’
    ‘But I can’t afford anywhere better.’
    He looked at her thoughtfully, and his eyes appeared more hooded than ever. ‘I have a suggestion to make, Madame—’
    ‘Jessie, please.’
    ‘Jessie.’ He acknowledged her Christian name with a small incline of his head. ‘I may be in a position to procure some rather more lucrative work for you.’
    She gave him a sceptical look. ‘What kind of lucrative work can a woman with child expect to get?’
    The count tapped the side of his nose. ‘You’d be surprised. I have a friend – a very talented young artist – who has expressed dissatisfaction with his recent work. He goes from one commission to the next, earning a lot of money in the process, but he is currently suffering from feelings of
ennui
and chronic disillusion. He has had enough of “churning out” – as he calls it – the society portraits that
le tout Paris
is clamouring for, and he’s looking for someone fresh and unspoiled to sit for him. I think I might persuade Monsieur Lantier—’
    Jessie’s jaw dropped. ‘Not Gervaise Lantier?’
    ‘Yes. You know him?’
    ‘No, but I know
of
him. Scotch told me that he sells every canvas almost before it’s touch-dry. Is that an exaggeration?’
    ‘That is no exaggeration – Monsieur Lantier is a wealthy man. But is he a happy man? That remains to be seen.’ Amused at her incredulity, the count lit up a cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. ‘Coincidentally, I met Monsieur earlier today, and he extended an invitation to me to come to a soirée this evening, at the Boulevard Péreire. Might you care to join me?’
    She looked doubtful. ‘What kind of a soirée?’
    ‘The comtesse de Valéry holds a salon in her apartment on the first Friday of every month. Many of the cultural and intellectual élite of Paris attend.’
    ‘So it’s a very swagger event?’ she asked.
    ‘Black tie.’
    That settled it, then. She could not go, simply because she had nothing to wear.
    ‘I have no—’ she began, then her gaze fell on the bundle at her feet which contained the silk gown that she