Since I’ve so often reached into my imagination for solace, emotions now slip past my mask. “My mother could’ve been anyone, really. Maybe a prostitute who dumped me in an alley.”
This is one of my darkest fears about my parentage, and myself. That not even a mother could love me or want to keep me. That I’m made of sin and vice, and that’s why no one ever adopted me or came back for me.
Anna squeezes my shoulder. “I’m sure your mother wasn’t a prostitute.” Her smile is illuminated by the fire, light dancing on the little gold cross she wears around her neck. Unlike me, she wears hers more in faith than habit. She’s the kind of person who believes things without proof. Still, I find her words and her friendship comforting.
“So how did you get your name—why Marthe?”
Now I roll my eyes. “I was the first girl at the orphanage—so the Americans called me the First Lady, like Martha Washington.”
Anna laughs. “Well, you see, then? You were practically born to bring bewigged old ladies to life.”
“It’d be easier if Adrienne was here in the flesh to model.”
Anna turns so I can see her profile in firelight. “Well, I’m here in the flesh. I could model for you.”
That idea actually sparks something. The faith I saw glimmering in Anna’s eyes—that’s what the baroness wants me to capture, but I can do it my way with a modern sensibility. I can show Adrienne Lafayette without the powdered wigs, portraying her as she might look now, like Anna, the dark-eyed, dark-haired, devoted young wife of a soldier husband . . .
While I’m studying Anna—the point of her eyebrow, the curve of her earlobe, the glossy dark curls, and the downy hair that swirls at her nape . . . she shivers. “I hate this cold. I don’t know how you survived growing up in these mountains.”
I can’t remember it being this cold before, but I say, “You get used to it. Take the blanket from the bed if you want it.” Instead, she decides to just kick off her oxfords and slide under the covers, so I grouse, “You’re fired as my model! You have no work ethic.”
Anna fluffs the pillow. “I’m industriously warming up the bed for you! It’ll be toasty if you don’t give me the bum’s rush.”
I don’t give her the bum’s rush. I keep sketching, losing myself in the lines, trying to bring this version—my version—of Adrienne to life.
When my hands are stiff, the hour is late, and I’m too tired to go on, I look up to see that Anna has fallen asleep in my bed, bundled in hat, mittens, and sweater. Trying not to disturb her, I slip quietly under the covers, but she stirs, turning to me on the pillow, tucking my red-knitted scarf around my neck. We’re nose to nose, her perfume smells wonderful, and I suddenly realize that I can’t remember sharing a bed with another person before.
Oh, there were fumblings in the back of Henri’s Peugeot. This is a different kind of closeness, one that I don’t have a name for. And as I ponder it under the knowing gaze of Madame Beatrice’s portraits on the wall, I feel truly warm for the first time since the war began.
SEVEN
BEATRICE
New York City
January 1915
“Mrs. Chanler! Mrs. Chanler!” cried the gaggle of reporters when I stepped out of the motor in front of the Vanderbilt Hotel. “What do you say to critics who accuse you of defying the president’s policy of American neutrality?”
In the three cold winter months since returning from France, where men drowned in the mud of the Marne to halt the German advance, I’d caused a bit of a stir. And today I was armed with a plan and a new hat. No more drooping plumes of cowardly ostrich for me. No, the times called for mink—a clever little scrapper.
Festooned with a French tricolor cockade, my mink hat would make for a glamorous photo. I still knew how to take a picture, thankfully. Thus, I waited for the cameras to start snapping. Then, in wordless satisfaction, I sashayed right past the reporters into the hotel, where buttoned-up bellhops closed ranks behind me. This was my hotel, after all. Well, my husband was half owner of the place anyway. Still, I was the one who chose the fan windows, the stone for the vaulted ceilings, and just a touch of Italian Renaissance on the facade for posh whimsy.
I considered stopping by Mr. Vanderbilt’s office to apologize for the ruckus outside, but intent upon the leaflet I clutched in gloved hand, I marched directly to Suite 123—the offices of the Lafayette Fund, the new war relief charity where I now served as directress. And with each step, the vile words of the leaflet’s accusation poisoned my every thought: