No one seemed to notice the noiseless wake of two retreating women.
Duveen’s library was chaotic. This was his working space, its jumbled shelves a stark contrast to the pristine collection of valuable books kept behind glass in the living room. Papers and books covered a large desk. More books, some laid open facedown, were strewed across the floor and cushions of an old-fashioned green velvet sofa. The ginger tortoiseshell cat lay curled on the center cushion in a nest of someone’s white cashmere shawl. The room was stale with odors of cigarettes and recent meals.
“I take it you’re not married, that you are indeed a Miss Kydd?” Mrs. Goldsmith fit a fresh Lucky Strike into her black holder and lit it with a match from Duveen’s desk drawer. Seen close up, her hair had a reddish cast to it, like a rich Bordeaux.
“And planning to remain so for the foreseeable future,” Julia admitted, curious what the woman was getting at. She wanted to talk, but not about herself.
“Wise.” The older woman exhaled and continued briskly. “I have no particular interest in your acquaintance, Miss Kydd, and shan’t keep you long. I merely wish to warn you of a possible annoyance to us both. My husband is Arthur Goldsmith, as I’m sure you realize. I have reason to believe he is attracted to you and that he may even muster some effort to pursue your favors.”
Julia trusted her composure to hide her surprise, but her face must have betrayed something, because before she could speak, Coral broke into a wide smile. “Yes,” she said. “The notion appalls you, naturally. Arthur’s prospects as a lover are quite ridiculous, despite his occasional glimmers of charm.”
Her smile subsided, but the clipped edge to her speech did not return. “Oh, humor him if you like, Miss Kydd. A bit on the side is no threat to me. In fact, it would be rather a holiday.” Another smile spread across her meticulous features. “But while you’re welcome to a liaison of the more”—it widened—“strenuous variety, I will not allow it to interfere with our business. Do you understand me, Miss Kydd?” She paused, expectant.
Julia’s first thought was to wonder whom she might regale with this extraordinary warning. Austen would relish it, but he was midway across the Atlantic. For the moment, Julia only nodded. Bizarre as the notion was, she understood it clearly enough.
Coral continued, her words crisp. “As far as I know, you have no literary ambitions, beyond your hobby press. But I won’t risk not making myself clear. If you hope to parlay Arthur’s admiration into any favored consideration with our firm, for yourself or for someone else, you will find me a formidable opponent. Arthur may have few, mercifully few, weak moments of judgment, but I do not. I am not to be trifled with in this matter. I will crush any effort that might sully the Goldsmith imprint, Miss Kydd.”
Terms laid out, she again waited for reassurances. It was a remarkable performance, though Julia bristled at Capriole’s demotion to a hobby, as if she were a bored countess arranging types and papers instead of flowers or decorative bijoux. She subdued a fitting retort, however. She had her own agenda yet to pursue.
“You may be right, Mrs. Goldsmith,” Julia replied, “but I’ve seen nothing to cause you any worry.” Far from it. Her husband had barely deigned to notice her when they’d met at Liveright’s party, and had said nothing at all to her that terrible night at Carlotta’s. Julia couldn’t imagine what Coral Goldsmith referred to.
As Coral’s eyes narrowed, measuring Julia’s meaning and her tone, Julia helped herself to one of Pablo’s cigarettes from a rather squashed packet of Raleighs. Coral made no effort to pass along the matches, so Julia rooted in the drawer for another box. She lit her cigarette and drew the smoke deep into her lungs before releasing it. She must ask Philip to teach her how to blow smoke rings. She wished desperately for the skill and resolved to start practicing tomorrow.
Coral seemed about to speak when Julia inhaled sharply through her nose, turnabout being fair play. “But if he should develop an interest,” Julia added, with a stretch of syllables, “or I should sprout new literary aspirations, I’ll consider myself forewarned.”
Coral Goldsmith recognized this as the treatment in kind it was. For a long moment she eyed Julia, scanning for signs of insurrection. Julia returned the assessment.
Coral stiffened. Was she going to walk out? Julia feared she’d gone too far, alienating this arrogant woman before she’d asked about the situation with Eva. But before she could speak again in less chilly tones, Coral gave a bark of pleasure.
“God, I rather like you,” she said. “Arthur may cast his seed upon the rocks, but Christ, I’d go straight for you.” She laughed, a rich and lingering sound that explained much about her power. “How did you ever find your way into this day nursery of sycophants, Miss Kydd?” She tapped off her ashes into a saucer from the desk.
Julia did the same when she extended the saucer. “The usual way. I enjoy book people.”
Coral nodded. She cleared space on the sofa, pitching the cat to the floor, and sat. She patted the space beside her for Julia.
“I’ve only met your husband twice,” Julia said, easing the conversation around a bend. “On both occasions Eva Pruitt was the center of attention.”
“Christ. That fiasco.”
“I suppose you’ve lost money?”
Another crisp blasphemy. “A sure thing. Pablo swore it. Arthur trusted him, agreeing to a tidy advance on royalties before we had the manuscript in hand, and the little minx played us for fools. Now we may wind up with nothing at all. I suppose you know she blew that fellow’s brains out and disappeared herself, with both the manuscript and our money.”
Coral repeated Billie’s cavalier assumptions with a blasé resignation. As Julia had feared, in these people’s minds Eva was
