Читать книгу The Daughters of Nightsong - V. J. Banis - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

Lydia Nightsong saw her daughter leave the house and hurry down the hill, hair swinging freely. She knew April hadn’t told the entire truth when she said she spent her afternoons with Kim Lee, the old tutor who lived over the bake shop. Lydia had run into the old Chinese one morning and had playfully admonished him for indulging her daughter with all his romantic tales of China. The old man hadn’t understood, saying he hadn’t seen April in several weeks.

In one way Lydia was relieved that April wasn’t spending all her time with Kim Lee. The old tutor lived with too many fantasies, embroidered too many Utopian tapestries of the China he dreamed of returning to one day, a China that no longer existed. It was wrong to fill the young girl’s head with romantic pictures, clouding her eyes to the truth. The China Lydia knew was a hard, cruel place where people groveled at the feet of the rich and where killing, cruelty and torture were traditions. They were an enigmatic race who would gladly lay down their lives to give honor to a friend, and on the other hand just as willingly feed a newly born infant to the dogs if it happened to be a female child.

She knew; she’d seen all the pagan horrors with her own eyes, horrors she tried so hard to keep from April. Now, however, Lydia thought perhaps she should not have protected the girl from all those terrors. Perhaps if April had seen what Lydia herself had seen, things would be different now and April would be more content with her life.

Lydia could understand a little of April’s unhappiness. It was far from easy being even part Chinese in San Francisco, where oriental labor was bought for a penny and where their number and reputation made the Caucasian population uneasy, an uneasiness that grew into prejudice and distrust, ultimately to hatred. April was extremely beautiful; yet in spite of her loveliness, she could not hide the fact that she was part Chinese, and bigotry invariably trumps beauty.

Lydia turned from the window and drew on her gloves. If April weren’t visiting old Kim Lee in the afternoons, then where was she spending her time? Her daughter, surly and resentful for so long, had actually been pleasant of late. Almost friendly, Lydia thought as she tucked the papers she’d been studying into her reticule.

Well, she couldn’t think of April now. There was too much to be done. Empress Cosmetics was operating again. This time it was her own money that was financing it and she was making a handsome profit. For the first time in her life she was learning how it felt to be rich, to not have to worry about money. Those earlier years as a missionary’s daughter in China, hard as they had been, had been a comfort when compared to some of what she had endured since.

“The carriage is here,” the housekeeper said, breaking into Lydia’s memories.

“Thank you, Nellie.”

She would be glad to be rid of her memories, Lydia told herself as she tied her light half-cape about her shoulders and started out of the salon with its lead glass windows and its perfect view of the city from atop Nob Hill.

Outside the air was hot and damp from the previous night’s fog. A summer sky of delphinium blue hung over the harbor where Balclutha, the three-masted sailing ship, was laying at anchor after having just completed another trip around Cape Horn. When it sailed again, it would be carrying cases of her latest beauty creams en route to her new markets in the south while the new railroads carried her Empress Cosmetics to the north and east.

A trolley clanged as the carriage started down the hill, making the horse whinny and grow skittish. The wheels sank into the trolley track grooves, making the carriage lurch sideways before correcting itself. Lydia gripped the arm rest to steady herself. She felt a familiar pang as she passed a large three storied house with tiers of leaded windows and gingerbread trim. There were several such mansions on Nob Hill but this one was particularly unwelcome to her eyes, though she found she could never keep from looking at it.

She never wanted to see Peter MacNair again and why she’d purchased a mansion within a stone’s throw of his she did not know. Of course Nob Hill was convenient and it did represent the epitome of success and respectability, a respectability she had coveted greatly. Why should she have to feel intimidated and live elsewhere simply because the MacNairs had their mansion on Nob Hill?

Lydia drew back in her seat as the front door of the MacNair house opened and Peter MacNair stepped out into the bright of the day. He was as handsome as ever, so tall and muscular, with sandy brown hair that spilled carelessly over his forehead. She watched until he’d brushed back his hair and clamped his hat on his head before dropping the curtain back into place. She could close her eyes and picture how his dark brown eyes turned black when he scowled and the way they smoldered with passion when he looked at her.

She would never allow him to look at her in that way again, she vowed, as she felt the familiar need stirring deep inside her. She had made her success, she had built her fortune, but the price had been high. She’d lavished all of her love on April, a daughter who did not seem to notice or appreciate it. She had a son, too, however, still in China. Perhaps one day, now that she had the money to afford it, she would return to China and bring home the child she’d been forced to abandon. Perhaps he would be more appreciative of his mother’s generosity.

The carriage drew up in front of the gleaming white and pink marble facade of Empress Cosmetics. Lydia found herself wondering if it had all been worth it. Yes, she said to herself, quickly and with determination, thrusting any doubts from her mind and climbing down from the carriage.

The interior of Empress Cosmetics was as luxurious and impressive as its outside, all mahogany and leather, hand carved paneling and rugs so thick they deadened even the heaviest footsteps. Muted Tiffany shades softened the light of the desk lamps, giving the impression that one had walked from harsh reality into a world of make-believe merely by entering the offices.

“You’re late,” Mrs. Clary said good-naturedly. “Morris has been biting his nails.” She helped Lydia off with her cloak and followed her into her private office.

“Sorry, Evelyn. I spent the better part of the morning going over those new proposals from New York. Did you have a chance to check on what the railroad would charge for shipping that many cases?”

“Too much,” Mrs. Clary said as she laid her report on Lydia’s massive desk. “It’s bad enough that they overcharge their customers, but when they find that the customer is a woman, the price goes higher.”

Lydia bit down on her lower lip and tugged at a stray curl of red gold that had managed to get loose from its pin. “I found when I began this venture that the world of business is not very tolerant of female executives. You should know that by now, Evelyn.”

“It isn’t fair.”

Lydia picked up the report and frowned at the high cost figures. “Nothing is fair, Evelyn, but thank goodness we can afford to pay their blackmail. Tell Shipping to send the Marshall Field order by Pacific Rail. I’ve already told them I want the Wanamaker shipment to go by boat. The Balclutha will take it tomorrow.” She threw down the report. “Now, what’s Morris biting his nails about?”

“The Nez!”

Lydia gaped at her. When she recovered from the surprise she said, “He found one?”

“From Paris, supposedly. He wouldn’t tell me anything except that. From the look of him, he’s ready to jump out of his skin with excitement.”

“Tell Morris to come in. You’d better sit in too, Evelyn. If he’s found a true Nez, we’ll have cause to celebrate.”

A Nez. It wasn’t a particularly attractive title for a man with such unique talents—at least she wouldn’t take too kindly to people referring to her as a “Nose.” But in the cosmetic business, a Nez was as rare as peonies in winter and the most valuable asset a perfume manufacturer could have. He was the equivalent of a taster in a scotch distillery. A truly fine Nez—and there were only a handful in the entire world—could not only tell, by sniffing, which blossoms a perfume contained, but how many blossoms, when the flower was grown, when harvested, and the composition of the soil in which it was grown.

It took true genius to be a Nez, and Lydia had to remind herself not to become too anxious or expect too much. They had searched for a long time for someone who could duplicate the Empress’s perfume. Was it possible that the search was ended, that Morris had finally located the man?

Morris Hurley, Lydia’s head chemist, was a little man, lean and spare. His sandy hair had gone thin, so he wore it very long on the side and brushed carefully across his large bald spot. He had pale eyes that were watery with excitement as he hurried into Lydia’s private office.

“Well?” Lydia said when Mrs. Clary had closed the door.

Morris put his fingertips on the top of the desk and leaned forward on the tips of his toes. He looked as if he were fighting to keep himself from pouncing on her with joy. “His name is Andrieux. Raymond Andrieux,” he said, badly imitating the French pronunciation. “I’ve checked and he’s the very best, Mrs. Nightsong. He’ll come high, but from all evidence, he’s worth whatever the cost.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “If he’s so good, why is he so available?” she asked.

“Ah, but that’s the rub,” the chemist said. “He isn’t exactly available. Let’s say he is unhappy where he is.”

“Which is where?”

Morris glanced at Evelyn Clary, then at Lydia. “I don’t know if you are going to like this, Mrs. Nightsong, but he’s with P.M. Cosmetics.”

“Peter MacNair?” Lydia groaned. “I should have suspected he’d be involved in some way. Why is it every time I turn around that man is standing in my way?”

Mrs. Clary said, “Perhaps because he enjoys placing himself there.” She gave Lydia a knowing grin. “He certainly has spent a great deal of his time trying to speak with you, Lydia. I remember....”

“That will do, Evelyn.”

Lydia remembered without any help how persistent Peter had been when she had been almost destitute and laden under debts she thought she’d never be able to pay. Peter’s attentions, she’d learned, were not for her; they were for what she’d taken out of China. She could close her eyes and still feel the cat that brushed against her, frightening her half to death that dark, horrible night when she’d stolen into the Dragon Empress’s vault and taken her personal perfume, a perfume created exclusively for the dowager’s imperial use. Peter MacNair knew as well as Lydia that whoever succeeded in duplicating that fragrance would corner every perfume market in the world.

“Nightsong,” she mused, as she turned back toward the windows. That was the name she intended to give the duplicate perfume when it was marketed, a name she’d chosen for herself when she’d immigrated.

She frowned as it occurred to her that even the name she’d chosen—Nightsong—had originated with Peter MacNair. That night in Peter’s hut, when he’d made her get out of her wet clothes and dressed her in a silk robe, was suddenly clearly etched at the backs of her eyes. She could see the wall of his rough bedroom where some artist, centuries before, had done a painting—a branch of a plum tree in full blossom and a bird on a branch, singing to the slightly curved rim of the moon as it started to rise above the horizon. It was little more than a few deft strokes of the brush, really, in the manner of the Chinese artists, and yet it seemed to capture the scene in all its eloquence. Lydia remembered, too, vividly gazing at the exquisite painting and fancied that she had only to listen to hear the nightingale’s song to the moon, that she could actually catch the fragrant scent of the pale blossoms.

“I call it Nightsong,” Peter MacNair had said, coming to stand behind her. Taking hold of her....

With a shiver she threw off the memory of that night, not really knowing whether the shiver was one of pain or pleasure.

Nightsong. It had given her so much trouble, it had caused deaths and on more than one occasion attempts on her own life and the life of her daughter. The Empress had never forgotten her transgression and Lydia knew that even today that evil woman still wanted her dead. And all because of a perfume, a perfume that seemed to be cursed, as if within its haunting fragrance lay some power for evil, the blossoms of some dark flower as destructive as it was intoxicating. Perhaps that was the secret of its desirability.

For a brief moment she was tempted to turn and tell Morris to forget this Nez, this Raymond Andrieux, to let him stay with Peter MacNair’s company. But that would be foolish, she told herself. In one devious way or another Peter would succeed in getting the perfume away from her. If Raymond Andrieux was the only man capable of duplicating it, then he had to be on her side, in her employ.

“When do I meet this Monsieur Andrieux?” she asked, turning to Morris.

“Perhaps dinner together. I could arrange....”

“No,” Lydia said, cutting him off. “This is a business matter not a social one. And I think the fewer people who see us together, under the circumstances, the better. You’re sure you’ve checked him thoroughly?”

“Thoroughly,” Morris assured her.

“Then arrange for him to come to my home late Thursday morning when I know most of the business people on Nob Hill will be in their offices.”

* * * *

Raymond Andrieux came as a complete surprise. He was an extremely good-looking man, tall and young and well-built, with deep green eyes, chiseled features of perfect proportions and a wide, agreeable smile. Like so many Frenchmen, Raymond had a thick head of deep black hair that waved down across his forehead. He had a sensual look about him. His masculinity was overpowering, yet it was toned by smooth delicate olive skin and graceful eyebrows as dark as his hair.

His eyes laughed when he took Lydia’s hand and touched it to his lips. “Enchanté, Madame.”

He was as charming as he was handsome, Lydia noted after chatting for half an hour. She liked his friendly nature. She admired his self-assurance. She didn’t think him callous or brazen, but she was certain he was the type of man who did whatever he set out to do, regardless of who got hurt in the bargain. She was not sure she liked that, but she respected it.

“And your obligations to Mr. MacNair?” Lydia asked.

Raymond shrugged. “But what obligations, Madame Nightsong? There are none. I feel he brought me to America under false pretenses.”

“False pretenses?”

“He represented to me that he had a scent that was incapable of diagnosis, a scent he claimed would revolutionize the perfume industry. Unfortunately, he has nothing but ordinary essences that are, forgive my bluntness, commonplace, très de deuxième qualité, very second rate.”

Lydia hesitated, then got up. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, Monsieur Andrieux, I have something that may interest you.” She started out of the room just as April appeared in the doorway.

April said, “Oh, I’m sorry, Mother, I didn’t know you had company.”

“April,” Lydia said, smiling as she turned to Raymond. “My daughter, Monsieur Andrieux.”

“Mademoiselle,” he said, letting his eyes move slowly over this ravishingly beautiful young woman.

He looked at her in a way that made April frown. It was as if he were thinking impure thoughts as he undressed her with his eyes. She blushed and managed, “How do you do.” Even the touch of his lips on her hand made her want to pull back.

Raymond smiled at Lydia. “Very beautiful,” he said. “So like her mother. But I must confess it is difficult to believe that you are mother and daughter.”

April didn’t care much for the fake smile. And she hardly looked anything like her mother. There was something false about the man, she decided, as she turned to her mother. “I was just going out.”

“Very well, but try to be home early. I’m not going into the office today. Perhaps you’d like to go to the theatre this evening. Bernhardt is appearing as Camille at the California Theatre.”

Raymond said, “Magnificent performance. You will not regret seeing it.”

April said, “We’ll see. I must hurry, Mother. Very nice meeting you, Monsieur.” She let him kiss her hand again but disliked it intensely.

“Charming girl. Charming.”

There was something disturbing about the way he hooded his eyes as he looked after April. “Well,” Lydia said when they were alone, “excuse me, please. I’ll only be a moment.”

She removed the small vial that she’d guarded all these many years, the bottle that contained the essence made especially for the Dowager Empress of China. Lydia uncapped it as seldom as possible for fear its intoxicating aroma would gradually vanish.

When she handed the vial to Raymond he looked questioningly at the tiny bottle. “Oriental. Chinese to be precise. Sung Dynasty, I would say.” He carefully lifted the stopper and sniffed. His brows knit together as he studied the aroma. He smelled it again and gradually his face began to light up.

“Magnificent,” he breathed. He smelled it again briefly before he recapped the vial. “But the essence is definitely not Sung Dynasty. Very new. It was concocted no more than ten years ago, perhaps less.”

“Do you think you could duplicate it?” Lydia asked, trying not to appear too anxious.

Raymond shrugged. “It is possible. Unfortunately, the oriental blossoms are sometimes difficult to identify. It’s a question of how the essential oils were extracted and distilled. On first guess, I would say that what we call the enfleurage method was employed, but it is merely a guess. I would need a laboratory to find out for certain.”

Lydia beamed as she took away the vial. “I have whatever you will need, Monsieur Andrieux,” she said. “And, I’m familiar with the Chinese method of enfleurage.”

He let a sly twinkle spark his eye. “If we are to be working together, perhaps you would honor me by calling me Raymond.” He reached for her hand.

“Raymond,” she said, feeling a slight tremor run through her as his lips touched her skin. “And you don’t think Mr. MacNair will prove a problem?”

“As I said, Madame, I am not interested in the MacNair products, while with you I find myself surrounded by magnificent temptations.”

She was not altogether displeased with his flirtatious manner. It had been a long time since she’d appreciated a man looking at her the way Raymond Andrieux was. “If you don’t have to rush off, perhaps you’d care to stay for lunch, Monsieur....”

He raised a warning finger.

“Raymond,” she said with a laugh.

“I’d be delighted.”

“I’ll put this away if you’ll excuse me,” she said, clasping the vial.

She was so elated she scarcely felt the floor under her feet. She was certain he’d be able to duplicate Nightsong and from then on there would be no limit to what she could do.

As she replaced the vial in the safe she kept telling herself that Raymond had to reproduce the essence...he just had to.

When she turned to leave the room Raymond Andrieux was standing blocking the doorway.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I was looking for some place to wash my hands.”

Lydia felt suddenly nervous, yet she could not deny that a part of her was flattered. “Yes, of course,” she stammered. “It is the second door down that hallway.”

He didn’t move.

There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. She’d seen it before in other men’s eyes.

“We haven’t discussed pay,” Raymond said with an immodest smile.

“I doubt if that will be a problem. My company turns a very nice profit. I am sure we can agree upon a figure.”

He eyed her brazenly and she found herself enjoying their little game. Raymond said, “Of course money is of importance but there are other things.”

He took a step toward her. “I would be very reluctant to even consider analyzing the perfume without some kind of an understanding.” His smile was intoxicating. “I have the exceptional talent of remembering a fragrance once I’ve inhaled it. It sticks inside my head. I have difficulty getting rid of it until I’ve copied it.”

Lydia felt a sudden tightness around her heart. “You mean...?”

He nodded. “The talent is not unusual for a true Nez.”

With a faint smile she said, “Are you blackmailing me, Monsieur?”

Raymond chuckled. “Of course. My price will be high.”

“And if I don’t meet your price, you’ll reproduce the scent for Peter MacNair.”

He shrugged. “Possibly.”

Raymond simply extended his hand to her and instinctively she reached for it. A moment later, without her knowing quite how it happened, he was holding her hard against his chest. He felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek and when he turned her face to his, he tasted the sensual loveliness of her mouth.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I can’t help it. This isn’t exactly what I’d planned for our first meeting.” She tried to laugh but the moment was too important for levity.

“Ravishing,” he whispered as he kissed her hair, her throat, her eyes.

The intensity of her reaction startled her and she could feel it invoking a response in Raymond as he pulled her tighter against him and pressed his body harder against hers. Her lips parted, perhaps to protest, but in the next instant she was lost to him. She seemed to have lost her senses to everything else about her, even to where they were standing, and yet she was acutely aware of everything about this handsome Frenchman.

She felt his hardness, the pulsing of his need for her as it pressed against her thigh. Suddenly a flash of memory blinded her—she saw Peter MacNair standing naked before her in a Chinese hut. He seemed to be beckoning to her, smiling encouragingly as she felt his hot, wet lips kissing her mouth, her face.

Like lightning shattering the dark, suddenly it appeared to her as if all the secrets, all the wonderments were made clear and all problems resolved.

Raymond moaned softly as he took his mouth from hers, bringing her back to the moment. “Forgive me, Lydia, I cannot help myself. You have blinded me to all reason,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

Yes, she thought. Pray God forgive us both, for she knew that he was no more to blame than she. Some strange need was drawing them together, changing his hair to brown, his face to Peter’s face. Her body longed for his body as some suffocating sweetness robbed her of all rationality.

She moved away from him slightly, keeping her eyelids lowered. As she undressed she didn’t want to look at him; she knew that this was not Peter MacNair. Suddenly she bit her lower lip. She didn’t want it to be Peter MacNair. She looked up sharply and stared into Raymond’s handsome face. Wantonly she stepped out of her clothes and opened her arms to him.

A moment later naked flesh pressed hotly against naked flesh and Lydia whimpered with an almost delirious delight as Raymond’s hands moved down her back, tracing the curve of her spine, outlining the fullness of her hips, her buttocks and still lower. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. As he lowered himself on top of her Lydia felt his breath, urgent and hot with passion and desire.

He ravaged her with his lips and tongue as she moaned softly and writhed against him. His hands fondled and cupped her breasts as he sucked the pouting nipples between his teeth, nipping them, causing tiny sparks to course through her.

She loved the feel of his firmness, his strength, the mat of hair on his chest as he made hot, passionate love first to one breast then to the other. A moment later he moved downward, easing apart her thighs as he rained kisses on her middle, igniting her like a torch as he manipulated her from one height to another.

When she felt the first scorching touch of his lips against the center of her being she was sure the world had stopped its rotation and that all life had ceased to be. He made love to her, first gently, tenderly, then pressing deeper, deeper, urgently, demanding. She knew it would be impossible for her to deny him anything.

Wave after wave of delicious pleasure washed over her as the almost forgotten ecstasy of sexual passion blotted out everything but the sensuous delights of physical love. There was a strangely sweet aching inside her that was gradually increasing in its intensity. An instant later something far deep in her soul exploded like a huge skyrocket and she felt herself flying off into space, leaving everything mortal behind.

Slowly she returned to the living and felt the tangle of bedclothes beneath her. She clung to him weakly, blissfully grateful for the fantastic pleasure that he’d given her. She sighed a deep sigh of relaxation and opened her eyes.

It took a moment or two before his face came into focus. A tiny gasp caught in her throat as she turned her head on the pillow. She felt the stinging at the backs of her eyes as the pangs of disappointment wracked her brain. She shut her eyes and silently spoke his name.

“Peter.”