Old Mortality, Volume 1. by Walter Scott (latest ebook reader txt) 📕

photo of a much younger Gabriel with four other people. I pick it up for a closer look at the older man and woman, who could be his mother and father. And a boy and a girl who could be his brother and sister. Yes, I can see the resemblance. The dark wavy hair, the deep-set, dark eyes, the same strong features. This has to be his family.

I hear footsteps behind me and turn, photo in one hand, champagne flute in the other, a smile at the ready as I start to ask Gabriel about the people in the picture.

Only, it’s not Gabriel standing behind me.

A small, thin, well-dressed woman with short dark hair who looks like she could have just stepped out of the salon is regarding me with a quizzical expression. Her arms are crossed and in the crook of one hangs a crocodile Birkin bag. I’m no fashion expert, but even I know about this bag, and I’m 99 percent sure it’s real.

She says something to me in rapid French that I don’t understand.

“I’m sorry, my French is not very strong. Parlez-vous anglais, s’il vous plaît?”

She raises her chin and actually looks down her aquiline nose at me. “Ah, I see. You are American.”

Her English is perfect.

“Yes, I am.” I return the photo to the shelf.

“And you are?” she asks.

It takes me a moment to realize she’s asking my name. “I am Hannah Bond.” Foolishly, I set my champagne flute on the coffee table, close the distance between us, and offer my hand in greeting.

She regards my outstretched fingers for a moment before uncrossing her arms and giving my hand a perfunctory squeeze and recrossing her arms.

“I did not realize my husband was entertaining a dinner guest this evening.”

Her husband?

“The chicken should be ready in fifteen minutes,” Gabriel calls from the kitchen. “I’ve opened a bottle of burgundy for us to enjoy with the meal. Do you like red wine?”

He enters the room with a goblet in hand. “Here’s a sip to try. If you don’t care for it, I’ll open—” He stops short as soon as he sees the woman.

His wife?

“Veronique,” he says. “I was not expecting you home tonight.”

“Yes. I see.” Her expression is neutral as she looks back and forth between Gabriel and me, her head still held high.

Veronique is his wife. Nice. It’s slowly sinking in. Only it doesn’t make any sense.

Nothing inappropriate has happened. Except for my new underwear and the peck on the lips, which was pretty chaste by French standards.

I don’t know whether to stay or go. I wish one of them would say something to give me an indication of what I should do. If I leave too hastily, it implies that hanky-panky was on tonight’s menu. But if I stay—well, the situation feels more and more awkward as each second ticks by.

“So, Hannah is your flavor of the moment?” Her voice is lilting and amused.

“Excuse me?” I ask, willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe her English isn’t as perfect as I first thought. “I am Gabriel’s client.”

“I know, honey, they all are.”

Honey?

“Let me guess,” she continues. “He has prepared coq au vin for you and given you a sob story about how he loves to cook but hates to eat alone?”

She must read the astonishment on my face because she barks out a laugh.

“Do not feel bad. You are not the first. His law practice is like a garden that keeps producing fresh crops of… how shall I say… dinner guests.” She gives my body a once-over and shakes her head.

Then she waves her hand as if she can make me disappear. Her large diamond ring glints in the light. Gabriel is frozen in place. The glass of wine he was bringing me to taste is suspended as if he’s offering a toast.

Veronique sets her bag on the sofa, walks to a bar cart with a decanter and crystal glasses, and pours herself a drink of amber liquid.

“I should go,” I say to Gabriel while her back is turned.

He nods and at least has the decency to look sorry. I grab the wine from his hand, knock it back, and return the empty glass.

As soon as I disappear into the foyer to retrieve my purse and coat from the closet, Veronique lights into him in rapid-fire French.

I don’t need Google Translate to understand exactly what she’s saying.

July 1927

Paris, France

Dear Diary,

Helen had other plans and could not accompany me to meet Pierre tonight. I strongly considered staying in for the evening, because I worried that arriving alone would give him the wrong idea. Alas, as the clock ticked closer to seven, all I could think was how I do not fancy being a painter’s model forever. If I am to find a more advantageous situation, I must explore every opportunity. Pierre had promised an introduction, and I would be foolish not to take it.

I’m so happy I went, despite the evening getting off to an unfortunate start.

More about that in a moment.

We were the first guests to arrive at Miss Stein’s home. I quickly realized the heavyset man in the armchair by the fireplace was not a man at all, but a woman with terrible fashion sense and an unfortunate haircut that was more Julius Caesar than Eton crop.

She greeted Pierre by name. Her American accent clued me in that she was our host.

Pierre had the nerve to introduce me as his model. He did not mention that I was an aspiring fashion designer. After the introduction, I became invisible. I wondered if he had misled me, because it was curious that someone as inelegant as Miss Stein would have an interest in, much less connections to, the fashion world.

The longer Pierre prattled on about the form and symbolism in his current paintings, the more irritated I became with him. To quell my mood, I glanced about the tidy room, taking in the paintings and drawings displayed on the walls, some stacked two or