9
Fiona
Mr. Pierre Bassetwas late by almost thirty minutes. While I’d waited, I paced around the apartment, so nervous I knocked over a vase. Somehow, it landed on the rug and didn’t break. I had no idea if it was worth anything but wouldn’t have liked to have had to pay for damages.
I’d dressed modestly in a dark blue dress that hung loosely over my small frame. The apartment was warm, so I opened all of the windows in the front room.
The sounds from the street were loud with cars honking, engines revving, and the shouts and laughter of pedestrians. I’d been here without my parents for only three days, and the loneliness made my bones ache. Gabriella was sweet and seemed keen to please, but the language barrier between us kept us from any meaningful conversation. She was a round-shouldered young woman with a golden braid down her back and had managed to tell me that she’d come from a village in the Loire Valley, just outside of a castle. I’d wanted to know more, but that was all I could understand.
Now a knock on the door drew me away from the window. I yanked open the door. A man around Papa’s age stood before me. Like my father, he was handsome, with one of those faces that had probably aged well, making him as good-looking as he’d been in his youth if not more so. Did he use this to his advantage when it came to preying on women?
“Miss Barnes, I presume?” A clipped, posh accent. London society, like Papa. I shivered.
He had thick salt-and-pepper hair that sat on top of his head in waves. A trim mustache gave him a sinister look. Or was I just reading too much into it?
I said a silent prayer, asking God to look after me, as I opened the door to let him come into my sitting room.
Gabriella appeared, taken aback that I’d opened the door myself. She recovered quickly, taking Mr. Basset’s thin overcoat and hanging it in the skinny closet.
Mr. Basset lifted my hand to his mouth to brush it against his mustache. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally, Miss Barnes. Your father’s friends were quite persuasive and effusive about your talent. I hope I’ll not be disappointed.”
“I hope that as well,” I said.
“Your father knows a lot of powerful people.” His fat tongue flicked over his top lip.
I led him over to the piano. “Yes, sir. He left England and a title to move to America.”
“What would possess a man with ‘Lord’ in his title to do such a thing?” he asked this while taking in the piano with what seemed to be irritation.
“My father has the heart of an American,” I said. “He wanted adventure and control of his own destiny. That was more important to him than a title.”
“Only a man with a title would think such a thing. It’s as absurd as abdicating a crown, which we’ll never see. Not in our lifetime, anyway.”
I thought this a strange thing to say, but the English were taken with their monarch.
Mr. Basset took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. “Warm today, isn’t it?”
“I’ve opened the windows. Will it be too noisy?”
“Yes, we’d better close those so I can hear your voice without the background of Parisian drivers. Nasty business, cars.”
I shut all three of the windows, all the while feeling the stare of Mr. Basset on my backside. By the time I turned around to face him, sweat dribbled down the small of my back.
“They didn’t mention your comeliness,” he said.
“Photographs were not part of the application process,” I said, feeling for a moment as sassy as Cymbeline. I’d taken an immediate dislike to the man.
“Perhaps they should be. You’d have gone to the top of the list.”
“What do we do first?” The sooner we started, the sooner we could be done.
“Let’s see what you can do, my little songbird from the American frontier.”
I bristled with irritation at his condescension. He knew nothing of where I came from or how hard I’d studied. Regardless, I succumbed to his authority, running through scales and other exercises.
At the end of the hour, he came to a stop at the end of the piano bench. “We have a lot of work to do. However, it’s not an impossible task to make you good enough that you won’t embarrass yourself or me at the recital.”
“Recital?” I gulped in air, hot and perspiring, and wished I could open the window.
“Yes, we’ll arrange for a showcase at the end of our time together. This will be a chance for you to demonstrate what you can do. Directors and nightclub owners will be there. Often my girls will be offered contracts afterward. If I deem you ready, of course.”
“What would I need to be ready?”
He sighed, as if I presented a great burden. “My dear girl, I shall not overwhelm you with that rather tedious list at this time. I’ll not have you discouraged before we even begin.”
Without asking permission and as slippery as a snake, he sat on the piano bench next to me. “We must begin with breathing. You’ve the technique of a peasant calling in her sheep.” He placed his hand on my back. “Now, breathe into your stomach. All the way.”
My breath was shallow from nervousness. I could barely gather a regular breath, let alone one that would allow me to hold a note for any extended period.
I didn’t want his hands touching me, but I didn’t know what else to do. Was this what a teacher of his caliber did?
“Do it again.” His hand crept around the front of me and to my horror pressed into my belly.