‘Sometimes things happen that make you lose your faith.’
‘Is that what happened to you?’
‘Hey, I’m still excited by my work—more than excited, profoundly inspired—but I’m a realist now. And that’s a much harder thing to be. It means you’re responsible for everything—luck, hope, belief.’
Gabriel stared at Julia, noticing for the first time that her lower lip was fuller than the upper. If it hadn’t been for the watching barmaid—an ex-girlfriend—he would have kissed her. Instead, he slipped his hand across the table and touched her, a tentative curl of his finger against her skin.
‘You have to leave a little room for spontaneity.’
Startled by the undeniable trickle of desire that had started to creep across her palm, Julia pulled her hand away.
‘I should get you home.’
They stepped out onto the pavement. Dusk had settled over Silver Lake. They had a view down a canyon populated by a forest of dwellings, all idiosyncratic in their design—1920s mansions, California bungalows, 1970s apartment blocks. At times like this, Los Angeles reminded Julia bizarrely of the hills of Tuscany.
Gabriel slipped his hand around her waist, an awkward movement that left her momentarily unguarded, then pulled her into an embrace, his mouth searching for her lips. There was no
ambiguity now as she found herself enveloped by his soft hair falling over her face, the tequila thumping in her head. And, to her amazement and shock, she opened for him, felt that instinctive rush of longing, his lust powerful enough to trigger her own. His erection hard against the linen of his trousers, insistent as he pressed himself against her; his hands everywhere, in her hair, under her blouse, reaching for her breasts; the beauty of him, his tongue, lips, his skin ridiculously soft, a wondrous contrast to the muscularity of his torso.
Julia’s body was thrown violently into memory, this sweetness of lust, of being wanted, of wanting. But as she ran her fingers down his body, she found his hips absurdly slight beneath her hands, his skin too smooth. She closed her eyes and tried to lose herself. But couldn’t. This was not her husband, the familiarity of his bulk, of his scent. There was a desperate edge of nervousness to Gabriel’s embrace that was all wrong. She pushed him away.
‘We can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘It would be exploitative.’
Lost for an answer he tried to kiss her again, but she turned her face away and he missed, his mouth awkwardly clashing against her cheekbone.
‘Julia, I’m not a child and you couldn’t corrupt me if you tried.’
But she was already walking towards the car.
45
Mayfair, 1861
THE CHURCH FILLED WITH THE pealing of bells. Kneeling, Lavinia looked up at the crucifix and wondered at the lives of the saints: did they experience corporeal passions? She remembered the trials of Saint Anthony in the desert, and Jesus’s temptations in the wilderness, but what of the female saints? A large silk bonnet suddenly blocked her view.
‘Are there sparks crackling behind me?’ Lady Frances Morgan whispered theatrically. ‘For I am sure I am about to be struck down.’
‘Lady Morgan?’ Lavinia glanced around; the priest was speaking to a parishioner on the far side of the church.
The dowager clattered her way along the pew to sit next to Lavinia. The priest—young, recently appointed, and well formed—hurried past. Lady Morgan arched her neck as her gaze followed his progress.
‘I am so pleased the Protestants don’t demand that their clerics practise celibacy. It seems such an unnatural restriction upon a man, even a holy one.’ She turned to Lavinia. ‘I should imagine it is to do with the notion of dedication. One sacrifices all for the worship of God. Sacrifice is a terrible thing. I don’t believe in it, nor in martyrdom. We only live once, my dear. There is no redemption in suffering. Now, I believe a stroll down Regent Street is required. There is nothing like the purchase of something frivolous to counteract an attack of religious fervour.’
‘I have my man with me.’
‘He can follow with the phaeton. The wind has blown the stench of the Thames away from the city and I, for one, need to oust the cobwebs from my bones.’
They stepped outside, where Aloysius was waiting beside the carriage, his cap tipped back, his eyes closed as he turned to the sun before another cloud obscured it, his countenance luminescent in its pale beauty.
Lavinia coughed politely. But Lady Morgan had already observed a subtle shift in the young woman’s poise. Taking Lavinia’s arm, she propelled her gently down the street. ‘We really must find you an occupation—charity work perhaps?’ she announced, glancing back at the coachman who was now swinging himself up to the carriage. ‘And quickly,’ she concluded.
Lavinia was perplexed. What had the aristocrat observed that she, herself, was unconscious of?
‘Trust me, my dear,’ Lady Morgan continued, ‘there is nothing more joyful than being exempt from the marrying game, the race to land a rich husband. Because, my dear friend, as the weaker sex, that is what we are all driven to: to seek the shelter and support of the male. And what a feckless sex we are. Economics drives the world, not the ridiculous notions of passionate love the novelists and poets peddle to us. I was indeed blessed by the benevolence of my late husband, for his premature passing allowed me to discover my vocation.’