“You look wonderful,” Sophie said, but when Lucia frowned she added, “Perhaps I can find you a shawl.”
Lucia nodded vigorously.
“But truly, you look lovely. Such a figure! If only you did not have these scratches.”
Lucia looked down. The scratches on her chest were still prominent, but only because of the paleness of her skin. They would fade in a day or so. Even worse than the scratches was the red of the dress, contrasting starkly with her porcelain coloring. Virtuous ladies did not wear red gowns, and Lucia felt wicked wearing it, even in private. She really couldn’t go out in it. But then she caught Sophie’s expression, saw the eagerness to please, and gave in.
“It’s wonderful, Sophie.” Lucia hugged her, then bent to slip on the plain black shoes next to the couch. Those at least were appropriate, though a little too big. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for your help.” She glanced up. “You must be in a great deal of danger helping us like this.”
“Nonsense. There is nothing I would not do for Richard.”
“Richard?”
“Richard Wentworth. He is an old friend and now a high-ranking official in your English war council.”
“The Foreign Office, you mean?”
“Yes. We were lovers once. Before the turmoil.” Sophie sank onto the chaise. Lucia saw a nostalgic look in her eyes. She would never have imagined a brothel owner to be so romantic. Lucia sat next to her.
“Tell me about him.”
Sophie smiled. “I lived in Paris then and worked as an actress on the stage. When the Revolution came, at first I was as caught up in its fever as everyone else. Richard was excited as well. Though English, he was a—how do you say it—a proponent of reform. We all wanted liberte´, e´galite´, fraternite´. But the lust for blood is greater than the lust for justice, I am afraid. It sickened me, all the senseless killing, and it was worse in Paris. That was when I came to Calais. There was poverty everywhere, and I did what I could to survive. We all did. I worked my way up and made myself into Madame Loinger, and now I own this establishment.” She looked proudly at the room.
Lucia nodded. She’d never thought about why women became prostitutes. She only knew she’d been taught they were bad. But maybe they were just thrown into bad circumstances.
“I had not seen Richard for years,” Sophie continued. “We lost each other in all the madness of Revolution, and it was not safe for him in France. But he found me years later here, in Calais, and asked me to help him. He was smuggling aristos out of France with Ethan then. I agreed because I still loved Richard, but also because I felt I had to help. I could not stop the murders, but I wanted to do something.”
Lucia lowered her head, shame digging its claws into her heart. What had she ever done to help? Not that she could have saved aristocrats during the Revolution, she was too young, but what about all the injustices in England? What about all the needy there?
This woman, whom she had scorned as a trollop, risked her life for others, and Lucia, the respectable woman, did nothing but attend balls and soirees.
Sophie’s light voice penetrated her humiliation. “I try not to ask many questions now. I know Alex, Freddie, and your brother are English agents, but I do not want to know what they do. I do not tell my girls who they are. They think Alex is a distant cousin and Freddie a nephew. When your brother was here I told them he was another nephew. They must know this is not true—either that or they think I have an enormous family—but they will not say anything.” Sophie reached for Lucia’s hands, grasping them warmly. Lucia met her eyes, clear and honest in the bright light of the room.
“We are not disloyal. I do not think of myself in this way.”
Lucia shook her head. “Of course not.”
“But I have seen enough death for one lifetime, and I do not want another war, which will only bring more. Bonaparte lusts for power, and too much power brings misery to the people. I have seen it before.”
Lucia took a deep breath, too moved to speak. How could she have failed to consider her own obligations to her country and people? Her father was in Parliament, but when he mentioned such things, it was always in a vague, abstract sense. He talked about the rights of man and an end to poverty, but he did not really want anything to change. He did not want to give up the privileges membership in the aristocracy provided him. Her father, and most of the other lords, practiced politics for the position and the power. Reginald was the same, if not worse. They talked about ideals, about a better world, but never acted on them. She’d put her father on a pedestal all these years, but perhaps that respect was misplaced. Perhaps she owed it to rakes and dandies.
Ethan, Alex, Dewhurst, and now John risked their lives for their country and its people. They acted on their ideals, yet they would never receive any acknowledgment. Reginald and her father and most of the men sitting in the House of Lords and the House of Commons would receive the accolades.
How could Alex stand it?
She shook her head. Alex didn’t care. He avoided the beau monde because he saw through them, knew their hypocrisy. Here in Europe and on the open sea men were fighting a war and dying. And the ton pretended none of it was happening.
Lucia felt fierce pride in all of them swell her heart. No wonder Alex thought her a child. She was. Before she’d cared only for herself, her interests confined to fashion and social mores. But now she realized how futile, how silly, it all was. Gossip. Hats and gloves. Husband hunting. She would never find happiness or worth in these pursuits.
She felt as though she’d been asleep for years, only to be wakened now by Sophie’s words and Alex’s passion.
She choked back a sob, and Sophie gripped her hand. “What is it, che´rie?”
Lucia sniffed. “I admire you so much, Sophie. You’ve made me realize my whole life has been a waste. I’ve done nothing.”
“Nonsense,” Sophie said, wiping her tears away. “You can’t be more than twenty, and your whole life is ahead of you. We all do what we can.”
Yes, Lucia thought. Her whole life was ahead of her, and she wanted to do something good, make it mean something.
