certain sort of Parisian. There were statesmen, artists, ladies of fashion, longtime followers of the Bonaparte ascendency, and newcomers to Paris.
Since Mr. Whittlesby had never bothered to attend one of Emma’s Fridays, she had a fairly shrewd guess as to what had drawn him here thistime, and it wasn’t her chef’s pastries. He managed to make his way to her without tripping, quite the feat given the size of his sleeves and the otherworldly tilt of his head.
“Does that hurt?” she asked, in lieu of hello.
“Do you mean the endless ache of my perpetually broken heart?”
“No. I meant having your head at that angle. I’m sure the muse wouldn’t mind coming down a bit, just for the sake of your joints.”
“Ah, Madame Delagardie! It is plain you have never known the unremitting servitude of the muse! The grueling apprenticeship one must endure! Which is precisely why you are in such perilous need of my aid in penning your theatrical masterpiece.”
“I haven’t agreed to pen any such thing,” Emma said, “so I’m afraid your services shan’t be required. Do try the brioche, Mr. Whittlesby. I imagine even humble supplicants to the muse stand in need of sustenance from time to time.”
She tried to move away, but Mr. Whittlesby stepped in front of her. “We sip on the nectar of the Graces. Can’t I persuade you to join me in drinking from their cup?”
“I make it a practice to avoid all libations this early in the day.” With relief, Emma spotted her cousin Robert Livingston, the American envoy, making his way across the room. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Whittlesby. I believe my cousin Livingston is trying to attract my attention.”
He wasn’t, but it would do. The claims of a poet had to rate below those of the American minister to Paris, the man who had negotiated the sale of Louisiana to America for a sum that would keep Mme. Bonaparte in diamonds for some time.
She left Whittlesby standing by himself, frowning after her.
Wiggling away through the throng, Emma extended a gloved hand to her cousin. They weren’t an embracing sort of family. “Welcome, cousin Robert! My humble salon is honored by your presence.”
“Impertinent child,” said cousin Robert equably. He didn’t pinch hercheek, for which Emma was deeply appreciative. Her rouge would have come off on his glove. “Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than gad about like you?”
Emma batted her eyelashes at him. “But I gad so well.”
Cousin Robert shook his head, only half jokingly. “What your parents would say…”
Emma tilted her fan to form a screen for them. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Like so many gentlemen of a certain age, cousin Robert rather enjoyed being flirted with by a pretty young thing. All within the bounds of propriety, of course. Paris propriety, that was. At home, manners and mores were different. Emma remembered that, as through a glass darkly. She wasn’t sure she would know how to get on there; not anymore.
“I know Mr. Fulton needs no introduction to you,” cousin Robert said, indicating the man beside him.
“Genius never needs an introduction,” said Emma, lowering her fan. Her cousin’s protégé had been in Paris nearly as long as she had. His panorama had created something of a stir several years back, making him all the rage—until the next rage, that was. “How go the plans for the ship without sails?”
“Steamboat,” Fulton corrected. He seemed to fizzle with energy, from his tightly curled hair all the way down to the bottom of his boots, which shifted impatiently on the faux marble floor. He bent a reproachful look on Emma. “I know
you
know better, Madame Delagardie.”
“Flattery, flattery, Mr. Fulton.” Emma sighed. “I should have thought a man of science would be above such things.”
Fulton turned to cousin Robert. “Your cousin, sir, has the most wonderful understanding of the mechanics of hydraulics.”
More hard-won than wonderful.
Since Mr. Whittlesby had never bothered to attend one of Emma’s Fridays, she had a fairly shrewd guess as to what had drawn him here thistime, and it wasn’t her chef’s pastries. He managed to make his way to her without tripping, quite the feat given the size of his sleeves and the otherworldly tilt of his head.
“Does that hurt?” she asked, in lieu of hello.
“Do you mean the endless ache of my perpetually broken heart?”
“No. I meant having your head at that angle. I’m sure the muse wouldn’t mind coming down a bit, just for the sake of your joints.”
“Ah, Madame Delagardie! It is plain you have never known the unremitting servitude of the muse! The grueling apprenticeship one must endure! Which is precisely why you are in such perilous need of my aid in penning your theatrical masterpiece.”
“I haven’t agreed to pen any such thing,” Emma said, “so I’m afraid your services shan’t be required. Do try the brioche, Mr. Whittlesby. I imagine even humble supplicants to the muse stand in need of sustenance from time to time.”
She tried to move away, but Mr. Whittlesby stepped in front of her. “We sip on the nectar of the Graces. Can’t I persuade you to join me in drinking from their cup?”
“I make it a practice to avoid all libations this early in the day.” With relief, Emma spotted her cousin Robert Livingston, the American envoy, making his way across the room. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. Whittlesby. I believe my cousin Livingston is trying to attract my attention.”
He wasn’t, but it would do. The claims of a poet had to rate below those of the American minister to Paris, the man who had negotiated the sale of Louisiana to America for a sum that would keep Mme. Bonaparte in diamonds for some time.
She left Whittlesby standing by himself, frowning after her.
Wiggling away through the throng, Emma extended a gloved hand to her cousin. They weren’t an embracing sort of family. “Welcome, cousin Robert! My humble salon is honored by your presence.”
“Impertinent child,” said cousin Robert equably. He didn’t pinch hercheek, for which Emma was deeply appreciative. Her rouge would have come off on his glove. “Do you imagine I have nothing better to do than gad about like you?”
Emma batted her eyelashes at him. “But I gad so well.”
Cousin Robert shook his head, only half jokingly. “What your parents would say…”
Emma tilted her fan to form a screen for them. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
Like so many gentlemen of a certain age, cousin Robert rather enjoyed being flirted with by a pretty young thing. All within the bounds of propriety, of course. Paris propriety, that was. At home, manners and mores were different. Emma remembered that, as through a glass darkly. She wasn’t sure she would know how to get on there; not anymore.
“I know Mr. Fulton needs no introduction to you,” cousin Robert said, indicating the man beside him.
“Genius never needs an introduction,” said Emma, lowering her fan. Her cousin’s protégé had been in Paris nearly as long as she had. His panorama had created something of a stir several years back, making him all the rage—until the next rage, that was. “How go the plans for the ship without sails?”
“Steamboat,” Fulton corrected. He seemed to fizzle with energy, from his tightly curled hair all the way down to the bottom of his boots, which shifted impatiently on the faux marble floor. He bent a reproachful look on Emma. “I know
you
know better, Madame Delagardie.”
“Flattery, flattery, Mr. Fulton.” Emma sighed. “I should have thought a man of science would be above such things.”
Fulton turned to cousin Robert. “Your cousin, sir, has the most wonderful understanding of the mechanics of hydraulics.”
More hard-won than wonderful.
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