Especially in light of my husband’s cloak-and-dagger note to meet him at noon and to come alone. I could think of no reason Willie would demand to see me alone if it wasn’t to scold me and command me back across the ocean. Well, I wasn’t going to permit him to be an imperious king. In a marriage such as ours, he hadn’t the right. So I paid the extortionist price to the French milliner, clapped the tricorne atop my head, and set out, singing, “Yankee Doodle dandy.”
Before the war, the opulent restaurant, with its art nouveau panels, was meant for midnight debauchery. Now my afternoon appearance caused a sensation. I’d hoped the shimmering silk of my dark blue tea gown would remind my husband that he’d married a woman with a spark not even his neglect could snuff out, and as I sashayed to the table, an admiring white-aproned waiter nearly dropped a bucket of champagne over the iron rail, while other gentlemen stood in tribute.
Except, of course, for the one man who ought to have.
My husband sat stubbornly puffing a cigar, making not even the most cursory attempt to rise in greeting. It was an appalling breach of protocol meant to either convey fury or embarrass me. Fortunately, this wasn’t the Ritz, where estranged spouses lunched to keep up appearances; no one expected conjugal regard here.
Willie was impeccably groomed, graying hair slicked back. He gave off an aura of cool indifference, though his gaze was hot with aggravation. Well, he wasn’t the only one.
I put a hand on my hip. “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit?”
He blew a ring of smoke. “I wasn’t aware you were waiting for invitation; it rather seemed as if, in coming into a war zone without my permission, you’ve taken it upon yourself to do as you please . . .”
Refusing to let him ruffle my new iridescent feathers, I slid into the bistro chair. “You left me little choice, darling; I could scarcely ask permission from a husband who doesn’t answer my letters. But I don’t intend to cherish this up against you! Oh, no, I’ve come in a spirit of goodwill.”
He glowered over his starched collar, coat stretched tight over his still-athletic shoulders. “A spirit of folly, I say. Don’t you realize the war is just thirty miles away?”
His pretense of husbandly concern seemed laughable and didn’t deserve a serious reply. “What safer place could there be than at the side of my husband, a genuine war hero?”
This was, I admit, not very sporting. Given his age and recent injuries, his days as a sharpshooting rough-riding man of action were over, and I knew it nettled him not to be in the fight. Lunching with his wife while other men covered themselves in battlefield glory undoubtedly did not help his mood.
The waiter approached. “Another cognac, Mr. Chanler?”
Willie nodded. “The Furlaud label.”
“Excellent choice, sir.” The waiter smiled. “Champagne for the lady?”
I nodded. Iced champagne was the drink of choice here, and the only way I’d get through the afternoon would be to drink it by the bucket. Willie ordered for us, then set his cigar on the edge of the ashtray. “You look well, Beatrice. Have you done something with your hair?”
“I chopped it off.” Cut in what would become the emerging flapper style, my bobbed hair made me feel lighter—more modern. “Do you like it?”
He paused a moment, then begrudgingly admitted, “Actually, I do.”
Well, maybe this conversation was going to go better than I feared.
“The boys are well?” he asked. “I hope you’re keeping them active; you’ve seen the state of the world. We’ve got to toughen them up if they’re going to make their way in it.”
“Since you didn’t like the idea of leaving them on a windswept crag in the Roman tradition, I’m considering the Spartan example. Shall we send the boys out to murder Helots, or is there enough slaughter happening in the world now?” I removed my gloves as he glowered. “Now, tell me the point of the secrecy of our meeting. I know you and Jack Chapman don’t always see eye to eye, but under the circumstances—”
“The Chapmans are going to beg me to get Victor out of the trenches.”
“Of course they are.”
Willie scowled. “Victor doesn’t want the transfer and I can’t convince him. My nephew is a grown man and I’m done meddling in his affairs.” Just then, steaming bowls of soup came to the table—printanier with green leeks, peas, and parsley pureed in a broth, thickened with egg yolk. Given the food shortages, it was the best that could be had.