La Femme Read online

  “I don’t think you realise how beautiful you are,” said Mimosa.

  The countess was flustered by the compliment, also a little unnerved. “Well…” she began, touching her throat.

  “It’s a plain truth,” Mimosa continued, “and it saddens me to think you’ve lost sight of that.”

  “I’ve not lost sight of reality,” the countess said. “You are kind to flatter me, but the truth remains I am not a frothing girl with all the attributes of youth. Men, on the whole, like women young.”

  “Nonsense,” said Mimosa. “I dare you to say that to my grandmother, who even to this day has men dying for love of her.”

  “Perhaps maturity is viewed differently among your people.”

  “It is, but mainly is this not down to how you view it yourself?”

  The countess considered. “I see the wisdom in your words. Even as a girl, I believed in what my mother told me: that I should think myself wondrous at every social event I attended.” She sighed. “Somehow, over the years, that conviction slipped away, and now it is more difficult to put on the mask than it was.”

  “What if I could help you put on that mask once more?”

  The countess narrowed her eyes at Mimosa, but she was smiling gently. “I think you have a streak of wickedness in you, my dear.”

  “That is something I do not intend to let slip over the years,” Mimosa said dryly. “Well, my lady?”

  “Supposing… supposing you could do such a thing, how would it happen?”

  “Slowly,” Mimosa replied.

  *

  Zachary Wilde first saw her reflected in a tall silver vase. He was arrested by the sight of the slim figure that filled the gently swelling shape as if it had been painted there. He raised his eyes and saw a woman inspecting an array of candelabra on a merchandise table nearby. She wore a long dark coat cinched tightly at the waist and a wide, night-blue hat adorned with trailing black feathers. He could tell she wasn’t young but on the other hand she appeared ageless.

  This was the night of the grand opening of the new Wilde Emporium: a gargantuan indoor market that offered the produce of many distant lands; its food hall was a delight to all senses, oozing unidentifiable perfumes from dozens of unimaginable types of fruit and vegetable. In its cosmetics department were the same pigments and unguents that adorned the faultless faces of exotic foreign queens. Gowns and gentlemen’s suits of curious cut were displayed on the clothing floor, if anyone could actually see them through the pressing throng of inquisitive customers.

  Zachary Wilde was pleased with the launch, but then it was no less than he expected. Now he was watching a woman in a vase, a somehow mysterious addition to his triumphant night. She did not appear to be reflected elsewhere, and yet a mass of receptacles of different shapes and sizes, fashioned from different materials, were arranged together – some with shining surfaces.

  Wilde approached his customer. “Might I be of assistance, madam?”

  The woman raised her head somewhat slowly from the item she was inspecting and regarded him. She did not appear to know who he was. She smiled. “I’m just looking, thank you.”

  He lifted a matte black, three-pronged candelabrum, turned it in his hands. “This was found in the catacombs of the city of Parnella.”

  “I am not anticipating a funeral.” Her voice was low, humorous.

  Wilde replaced the item on the table and laughed. “Yes, perhaps its origins should remain a secret.”

  Again she smiled. “I imagine your employer would prefer that.”

  “Well, if you need any help, please ask.”

  “I will.”

  Wilde was about to move away when an impulse seized him. He removed a calling card from the inner pocket of his suit. “Perhaps you would care to join us for a small reception once the emporium has closed. You would be most welcome.” He offered the card.

  The woman took the card and inspected it, holding it from her as if she was long-sighted. “Why is this?” she enquired. “I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

  “I don’t believe we have either, but my wife and I are inviting people who we feel will be… interesting.”

  The woman laughed. “I’m gratified to give this impression upon such short acquaintance.”

  He held out his hand. “Zachary Wilde,” he said.

  “Areta Winward,” she replied, offering her own hand in return.

  *

  Countess Areta did not attend the Wilde reception but left the store discreetly once Zachary Wilde had moved on to talk to other customers. She felt rather dazed. Two days before, Mimosa had quietly informed her she must attend the launch of the emporium. The girl had been working on their project, she said, employing the ancient arts of her grandmother. The countess need do nothing but be present at the event. Zachary Wilde would notice her there, and in this way the scheme would begin. The countess must not pursue the acquaintance beyond the first meeting, whatever was offered to her.

  Areta had to concede that all had gone as Mimosa had predicted, yet was there really magic at work here? Could it not be simple coincidence that Zachary Wilde had spoken to her? He was making his rounds of the floors after all, talking to everyone, hoping they would buy. He most likely told many of them they were ‘interesting’ and asked them to attend his reception. He could smell influence and money and no doubt scented it on her. This trait must be essential in his kind. And yet, the countess could not help but think of the fact that despite his groomed, affluent appearance, and the strong mien he wore that adorned all men of power, he had the most remarkable eyes. If anything, there was a deep sadness in them. This in itself was more attractive to an intelligent woman than gruff bravado, swaggering self-love or the blithe assumption than any woman would fall before him. These were not the beliefs of Zachary Wilde, she could tell. Something had influenced him. But no… It must have been coincidence.

  *

  As for Zachary Wilde, he found himself scanning the room throughout the sumptuous reception, seeking the tall, slender woman he had seen reflected in the vase. He remembered the exaggerated, attenuated shape of her. She had been somehow different to all he knew, gliding in a world that seemed removed from his. He found this extraordinary because he wasn’t given to noticing women in that way. But he wasn’t surprised she didn’t appear. As time separated him from the meeting, she no longer seemed real.

  *

  Something can be made extraordinary by a single change to its being: a blue swan, a swan with human eyes, a swan with the voice of a woman. Or a small green cat. When Areta stepped out into the crisp autumnal air, with the blazing radiance of the Wilde Emporium behind her, she saw such an animal trotting up to her, tail held high, its great yellow eyes staring right at her.

  No, she thought to herself. No. Do not speak. Do not drive me from my mind.

  The way the animal was looking at her, she was truly afraid it might speak. How could she have such a notion? Before she’d left the villa, Mimosa had given her a calming elixir to drink, which must have affected her in an unexpected way. A cat could not be green, could it? Unless some rich woman had dyed her pet. People did that, didn’t they? Areta turned away. She was rarely out alone, especially at night, and felt unsettled. The cat followed her, twined around her legs, mewing. When the countess glanced down, it raised itself to its hind legs, butted her coat with its head. She needed a carriage. This was a silly venture. Why had she agreed to go along with it? Briefly, she pressed both hands to her face. When she lowered them, the cat had vanished and a vehicle was approaching, which halted before her. She saw Mimosa inside it, beckoning, and then the door was open and she was stepping within. She lay half swooning on the plush upholstery as the carriage took her home.

  *

  The Emporium was dark and still, although occasionally the ponderous chandeliers would tinkle as if a breeze stirred their crystal drops and beads. Zachary Wilde had sent his family home. For now, he wanted to walk in his property, absorb the feeling of it, t
he sense of all those who had been there before. He was drawn inevitably to the second floor, where household accessories were displayed. Moonlight came in through the vast windows, conjuring gleams and stars in the cut glass, the polished surfaces, the silken drapes. Wilde’s steps were almost silent upon the thick carpet. He smiled, thinking of how one day his ghost might haunt these halls and people would whisper of it. In that instant, the past, present and future seemed to converge and he felt disorientated. Was he already dead? Or was he visualising the emporium as he hoped to build it? No, he was walking within it, flesh and blood; his store existed and he was alive.

  He came to the display of vases, which were gleaming in the moonlight. As he approached, he saw within the tall silver object that dominated the display the attenuated shape of a woman. Impossible. He glanced to the candelabra table, but no one was standing before it. Was this the answer? Her reflection had never been in the vase at all; it had been and was something else, a collection of objects around the room that mimicked the shape of a woman.

  And yet, even as these thoughts formed in his mind, the woman reflected in the vase began to walk away, recede into the swollen image of the store. She rippled like ink until she was no more than a distant dark thread.

  Wilde continued to stare at the vase without blinking for several long seconds. Was he going mad or simply overtired? He worked too long and too hard and perhaps this incredible vision was a symptom of that.

  *

  Over the following weeks, Mimosa arranged for the countess to be present in places where Zachary Wilde might be. She must not speak to him at all, and if possible not even catch his eye. She must merely hover at the edge of his vision, then disappear. Carriages were placed carefully to expedite this. The countess must seem to be a part supernatural creature, appearing and disappearing like a phantom. Mimosa had requested from her grandmother a particular perfume that was made on the family estate by female servants, who were tied intimately to the grandmother through a lifetime of witcheries and schemes. The countess must adorn herself with this scent whenever in the presence of Zachary Wilde, for it would linger on the air, long after she had departed the scene, and make him think of her. The countess was disturbed the girl might have revealed everything to her grandmother, but Mimosa stressed this was not the case. She liked to wear that scent herself sometimes, so it was not unusual to ask for it. When the green crystal bottle arrived, astonishingly quickly, it held within it all the spicy nights of the south, a breath of heavy lilies, a touch of earth.

  *

  The countess began to enjoy her little excursions; a visit to a theatre, an open air concert, a charity event held by the Wildes. She realised that she often passed by people she knew but they never acknowledged her, as if she was invisible to them or somehow changed beyond recognition. She did not, however, attempt to speak to them, in case this shattered the magic. She was content to be the ghost, gliding among the people, taller than most. She did not know exactly what Mimosa was doing, for the girl never included her in any of the procedures she undertook. She had no idea if the plan was working.

  *

  Zachary Wilde became a haunted man. Surely it could not be possible that the woman he was beginning to see more and more often at public events wasn’t real? And yet he could never get close to her; she was always some yards ahead of him. Then she wasn’t there at all. She left behind a lingering scent that somehow transported him, made him think not only of her but fantastic landscapes, exotic creatures, magic. He felt she must have a message for him, or was important in some other way, but how? If he could not speak to her, he could never find out. He shrank from confiding in anyone else about these visitations, as he chose to think of them. People would think him mad or else put some prurient slant upon the situation, which would demean what he was experiencing, and anyway was far from the truth. He dreamed of her, and when he awoke, her scent was in his bedroom, eclipsing the scent worn by his wife who slept beside him. The woman had told him her name but now he couldn’t remember it, only that it began with an A: Aria, Arianna, Ava? The information had slipped from his mind. He had men who did clandestine tasks for him sometimes, but he shrank from asking any of them to search for a tall woman whose name began with the letter A. He could visualise their bemused expressions vividly, and even if they were the sort of men who would not talk, they would know.

  Often, Wilde went to his emporium at night, hoping to glimpse the woman’s form in the silver vase, but it was never there again. He realised upon one of these starlit excursions that he must arrange another event, because she was sure to be there, and this time he would be as tricky as she was. He would be invisible in the crowd, creep up on her and take hold of her arm. He would root her in this world with him and then… then something could be said or done.

  The year was fading fast. Wilde felt he had to act before it ended. He would host another charity event in two weeks’ time, just as the first festival decorations began to appear in houses, streets and stores. He would hold the event at the Glass Fortress, a building popular for such occasions, in the sprawling Raven Park to the north of the city. He would invite everyone of importance: landowners, rich merchants, doctors, scholars, lawyers, artists, actors… anyone of note. Surely his fascinating ghost would not be able to resist such a sweetly-baited trap?

  *

  “I hope you are ready,” Mimosa said to the countess, one morning at breakfast, “because very soon you must speak again to Zachary Wilde.”

  The countess froze in the act of buttering a piece of toast. Her husband had already left the table. “I’m not sure I want to.”

  Mimosa smiled. “I know how you enjoy teasing him, but you must speak to him.”

  The countess was assaulted for a moment by a hideous image of panting breath and grappling bodies, which seemed altogether gross and undignified. “Why?” she asked feebly.

  Mimosa reached out to touch her arm. “You can have a secret companion, a man in love with you, who will travel with you to marvellous realms. The enchantment must gain strength. You may speak of love with your eyes, with the very images you create before you, and kisses need not venture beyond the eyes. Do you trust me?”

  The countess stared hard at the girl. “I do,” she said, “whether against my better judgement or not, I do.”

  “Good, for I love you as I love my grandmother, and she, as well as I, want wonders to be yours.”

  “You have written to her about this!”

  “No.”

  “Then…?”

  Mimosa smiled, and all the secrets of women were held in that smile.

  “I see… Well, all right, if it must be so. But I have no idea what to say to him.”

  “Some things should remain unscripted,” said Mimosa.

  “But what about the restrictions you placed before, such as not agreeing to go anywhere with him, or even speak these last dozen times I’ve seen him?”

  “When he makes a certain invitation to you, you must accept,” Mimosa said. “You will know when this happens. It might not be the first invitation. You must let him catch up with and speak to you, and let him believe he has snared you himself, through his own wiles.”

  *

  The Glass Fortress was beautiful, a radiant fairy-tale palace dusted with the lightest touch of fresh snow. As Countess Areta alighted from her carriage some distance from it, the flakes settled softly upon the shoulders of her coat and upon the wide brim of her hat – the same dark garments she had worn the first time she’d spoken to Zachary Wilde. She walked slowly to the gleaming edifice ahead of her, which through the light snow looked as if it were made of ice. A scrum of carriages jostled at the entrance, as guests wished to avoid the snow; when Areta entered the building, she was the only one touched by it.

  A man in dark red livery offered a tray to her, on which stood tall glasses filled with sparkling wine. Areta took one and sipped from it. The Fortress was filled with people, too many of them. Voices were loud and sounded hysterical
to her. Every other woman seemed to be dressed in bright, festive colours, while she was this dark, looming creature; long black feathers trailing from the crown of her head.

  Areta walked around the edge of the room. She could not see Zachary Wilde amid the throng but then there were so many people, all pressed together. Still, at previous events she’d been able to spot him straight away. He wasn’t tall, certainly not as tall as she was, but he stood out remarkably: a neat man, with a short tidy beard and just the slightest unruliness to his thick, dark hair, which came to his collar. Areta noticed his wife sitting on a plush couch against the far wall, surrounded by friends and accompanied by her eldest daughter. This woman must see Zachary Wilde every day; to her he might be a mundane entity, hardly noticed. They’d been married many years. Areta smiled a little to think that some predatory female might even think that about her own husband. How sad and grim that the familiarity of years erodes the initial wonder of first meetings. In fairy stories, the tales end often with marriage, the princess and her prince. As far as she knew, no one wrote stories about those same characters after twenty or more years had passed. What would there be to say, other than to write about routine and boredom or in lucky cases comfort and companionship? No, it would be the grandchildren of those fairy-tale princesses who would be having the adventures by then, woken with kisses, rescued from peril and carried before brave knights on white chargers with their gowns and hair trailing down.

  What am I doing? Areta thought. What is possibly to be gained from this other than a brief frisson like a firework lighting the sky, its marvels gone in seconds? She sighed. Mimosa meant well, and clearly enjoyed this little game, perhaps more than Areta did herself. But the time had come to end it. Waiting longingly for a man to appear in a room was a feeling that should remain in memory, for there could be no fairy-tale, no marriage, but possibly a variety of disasters.

  Areta put down her empty glass on a spindle-legged table and at that moment, someone took hold of her arm, very firmly. Alarmed, she turned at once and saw she had been apprehended by Zachary Wilde himself. He must have discovered her scheme somehow, learned her purpose. Perhaps she would be asked to leave.