And that, she knew now—when it was too late—was the true tragedy.
She couldn’t let it happen. She had to fight for another chance. Her lungs were about to burst. Help me, she prayed once again. With a surge of desperation, she shot upward, breaking the surface and taking a deep, rasping gulp of air.
But as she did, something heavy crashed into her, cracking her head. She reached for it, flailing, hoping to use it to keep afloat. But her arms lost all sensation and the world spun madly as she felt consciousness begin to slip away.
Her last bitter thought as blackness stole upon her was of the cruel irony of fate.
I ask for help and this is what I get!
Chapter 1
I must be in heaven.
Mason stepped from the carriage and into a perfect world. The rain was gone and it was a glorious Parisian day, the sky a brilliant blue, the air shimmering and dappled with fleecy clouds. The merest trifle of a perfumed breeze rippled through the bare branches of the trees that lined the fashionable Rue Lafitte.
And there before her, a line of people awaiting admittance to the Galerie Falconier stretched all the way down to the Boulevard Haussmann. A placard beside the entrance displayed, in French, words that seemed to have been snatched from a dream:
Exhibition of Paintings
By the Celebrated
American Impressionist
Mason Caldwell
As she took in the scene, she caught her reflection in the gallery window and almost didn’t recognize herself. She was corseted and bustled into a concoction of the palest pink, topped off with a playfully insouciant hat sporting ostrich feathers. Swathes of lace cascaded down in a veil to delicately obscure her face. Her newly dyed black hair made her look faintly exotic, masking her usual fresh-scrubbed country appearance. She liked the change. It made her feel so mischievous that she had to resist the impulse to spin about in glee.
Lisette stepped out behind her. “Are you ready for this, chérie?”
Mason looked at her friend. She was an effortlessly beautiful woman of twenty-two, raised on the streets of Montmartre—and wise to all its ways, despite the childlike innocence she exuded—with a tumble of sunshine blond hair, a pouty smile, and a lithe yet curvaceous body that was a prime attraction of the Cirque Fernando, where she was the featured trapeze artist.
“Ready?” Mason took an excited breath. “I’ve been ready for this all my life.”
The dreamlike atmosphere continued as they entered the gallery. Auguste Falconier, the same man who’d said such scathing things to her before, now actually rushed forth to usher her in with welcoming arms. “Ah, Mademoiselle Caldwell, at last! The invited guests are all here and, as you have seen for yourself, the public outside clamors for admittance. Those inside are so eager to buy the paintings that the moment the preview is over, they will be trampling over one another to give us their money!”
He gestured past the foyer into the salon beyond. What she saw inside was just as she’d always imagined it: a crowd of wealthy patrons circulating with champagne in hand to admire her canvases, which were tastefully displayed throughout the high-ceilinged rooms of the former Second Empire row mansion.
“Allow me, Mademoiselle—may I call you Amy?”
Lisette nudged Mason and she started at the sound of the still-unfamiliar name. Rousing herself, she answered, “Yes, of course. By all means, call me Amy.”
“Then, Mademoiselle Amy, allow me to show you our most heart-wrenching tribute to the artist, your late sister.”
He led them to a glass display case. Inside was a collection of well-used personal effects: paint box, palette colored with rich smears of dried oil paint, tin can filled with brushes, stained smock, broad-brimmed straw hat, and in the center, a coat and a pair of shabby brown shoes.
“The shoes were those left by your sister on the bridge before she ju—” He corrected himself hastily, “Before she entered immortality. A last-minute idea on my part. I find them indescribably touching. Somehow they speak of her dedication, her poverty, and in the end, her desperation and tragedy.”
Mason regarded the grimy shoes—the leather faded and worn, the toes scuffed from numerous painting expeditions in the Oise River Valley—and had to put her hand over her mouth to keep from smiling. It was too funny. She had other, nicer shoes, but none she’d have chosen to ruin on a midnight walk in the rain.
I’d love to see the look on this phony’s face if he knew I wasn’t the sister Amy just off the ship from America, but the dear departed herself.
Falconier allowed a moment of reverential silence before speaking. “I cannot tell you what an honor it is to represent an artist of such innovative genius as Mason Caldwell.”
Lisette, rolling her eyes at the hypocrisy, put a hand on a shapely hip and spoke for the first time. “Genius? Was it her genius you referred to when you called her style impossible? When you told her to get them out of your sight?”
The proprietor drew himself up in outrage. “Mais, pas du tout! I said no such a thing! If someone of my staff dared to utter such defamation, I will discharge him from my employ immediately!” He turned to Mason with both hands on his heart. “I can say, Mademoiselle Amy, in all humility, that I recognized the monumental gift of your sister from the first.”
Lisette, who feared nothing and no one, shook her head. “Ooh-la-la!”
“But come, everyone is eager to pay you their respects.”
Falconier marched off, full of his own self-importance. Lisette put a hand on Mason’s arm, waiting until he was out of range, then whispered to her, “Remember. You’ve never been to France before. You do not speak a word of French.”
When they caught up to Falconier, he said, “I realize, Mademoiselle Amy, that you are still raw from your tragedy, but we have some gentlemen of the press here who are panting to talk with you about our beloved Mason. And it is always wise to strike while the iron is hot, n’est-pas? So if you don’t mind, please to follow me.”
He didn’t pause long enough to see whether she minded or not, but proceeded into the main salon where a group of gentlemen stood waiting with pencils and pads in hand and eyes hungry to embellish a story that was fast becoming the rage of Paris.
Mason had always dreamed of being the center of attention, all eyes on her, pencils poised to jot down every word she uttered. But it had been such a rush to pull herself together for this charade that she hadn’t had time to fully formulate her story.
Don’t slip. Don’t let them suspect who you really are.
As she joined Falconier, she dabbed her eyes with her veil, as if brushing away a tear, and said with a feigned air of sorrow, “Yes, it’s been quite an ordeal. But if it will help the legacy of poor Mason, of course I’ll tell them whatever I can.”
As she spoke, Lisette translated for those in the group who didn’t understand English.
Falconier cleared his throat. “Gentlemen of the press, may I present Mademoiselle Amy Caldwell, the sister of our late-departed and much-missed artist. And with her, the lovely Mademoiselle Lisette Ladoux of the Cirque Fernando and Folies-Bergères. She was, as you know, a close personal friend of the artist and her primary model.”
A thin man with a goatee began the proceedings. “Mademoiselle Caldwell, I am Etienne Debray of La Gauloise. May I ask, why do you think it is that your sister’s work was so unappreciated in her brief life?”
Mason considered the question, then spoke slowly, “I know little about art, but I think her paintings may have threatened the people who always want things to remain the same.”
“Why do you