Time to step between the pages of another Historical Romance! This time around, we're in the 1920s and experiencing a love beyond compare... yet society frowns upon it. Do they seek the freedom they need and deserve, or buckle under the pressure of societal obligations and expectations? Does love really conquer all? Join me as we welcome Rachel's Random Resources and today's blog tour guest...
A Manhattan Heiress in Paris
by
Amanda McCabe
About the book...
Step into the roaring 1920s Parisian music scene
Leaving Manhattan…
For a secret Parisian affair…
New York darling Elizabeth Van Hoeven has everything…except freedom. But now Eliza’s traveling to study piano at the Paris Conservatoire and falling for jazz prodigy Jack Coleman in the process! A love like theirs is forbidden back home, and as they make beautiful music together under the Parisian lights, Eliza and Jack face a difficult choice: the life they’ve always known, or the possibility of a life they never could have imagined…
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~~~ SPECIAL EXCERPT ~~~
(Excerpt—Eliza visits Shakespeare and Company)
She turned into a new neighborhood, onto the rue de la Bucherie, and found herself standing in front of a green-painted shop with white stone floors above. A gold-painted sign proclaimed it to be Shake speare and Company, and painted along the wide windows were “Lending Library” and “Books for Sale.” Carts of books lined the sidewalk, with more tumbling in the windows.
Really, she should have dinner and go to bed early, she had so much work to do tomorrow. The light around her was turning amber at the edges, the day growing later as the cafes grew more crowded. But she was very tempted by those images of books spilling out the doors, the alluringly dusty window displays of such forbidden authors as James Joyce. She’d heard about Shakespeare and Company, of course—they were notorious for the racy volumes they sold, the eccentric people who gathered there, even in New York. It was surely a place her parents would hate. So she had to go in. She stepped through the open door, enveloped by the delicious scent of leather and dust, of books. Several people were gathered on chairs and stools, reading from the overflowing shelves, a bust of Shakespeare and sketches of modern authors watching it all. One man, large, dark, shabbily dressed, was talking loudly. A woman with wavy, short brown hair, dressed in a sharply-tailored black skirt and white blouse, a long gray cardigan drawn around her, worked behind the counter. “Can I help you find something in particular?” the woman asked cheerfully. “I’m Sylvia, by the way, the owner here. If you’re not sure what you want to read, we have a lending library where you can bor row anything you like, just two dollars.”
“Thank you! I’m Eliza Van Hoeven, new to Paris. But I guess you could tell I’m American,” Eliza said with a smile. “What a glorious shop you have. And it’s true, I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.” She scanned the shelves—Elizabeth Bowen, Dorothy L. Sayers’ Whose Body, Colette, Marie Co relli, DH Lawrence, poetry, mysteries, Edith Wharton.
“That’s the best way to start,” Sylvia said. “The right book always lands in the right hands.” “Just like the right piece of music comes to you at the right moment,” Eliza said.
“You look like a poetry sort of girl,” the large, dark man in the corner boomed. “You should try this one, daughter. Yeats is always a fine place to begin. Or this!” He held out a plain, green-bound book to her. Three Stories and Ten Poems by E. Hemingway.
“Daughter?” Eliza asked, bewildered.
Sylvia laughed. “Don’t mind Hem. He calls all the pretty young girls that. And that’s his book, he’s always trying to sell it. But I must say, it is good.”
This definitely seemed like the sort of crowd who would know about jazz clubs. “Tell me,” she said, “have any of you heard of a place called Club d’Or? Where might I find it?”
An enthusiastic chorus went up, extolling the club’s cocktails, dance floor—and especially their mu sic. “I heard they had a wonderful new horn player,” a woman with a sharp black bob and thick eyelin er said in a smoky voice. “American, of course. You must know him, mademoiselle!” Eliza laughed. “We don’t quite all know each other in America, I’m afraid.” But she did hope that horn player was Jack.
“Minette, you silly fool, America is a big place,” Hem boomed. “But we should all go! We can get Fitz, too, he’s always up for a cocktail or ten. And you, daughter! You can see the real Paris there, raw and bright. No frills. Only true things. I’ll tell you about the bullfights I just visited!” Eliza smiled happily. “I would love that, thank you.”
Paris was indeed wonderful, she thought—and if she could see Jack again, it would be the complete cat’s pajamas.
Chapter Twelve
Eliza gasped when the doors of the Club d’Or opened and she was swept inside. The place throbbed with raw, exhilarating life, washing over her like a warm, silvery wave, carrying her forward. Hem ingway held onto her arm, keeping her from falling
It didn’t have the sleek glamour of the Stork Club, but it had so much more. It had a mellow ele gance, a joyfulness, a whirl of fun and life. It was cozy even as it was grand, all red and gold and mir rors and life.
“Ah, mesdames, messieurs! A table, yes?” a woman said. Eliza looked over to see a tall, stout, smil ing woman in chic black silk, her hair a flame of red curls swirled atop her head, smiling at them. “This way, this way! I am Madame Galliard, my husband owns the club, do let me know anything you might need.”
She led them to a small, round, gold cloth-draped table beside the dance floor, and bustled around sliding gilded chairs closer together, waving to a waiter in a gold brocade waistcoat to bring champagne. No need for Prohibition subterfuge there! Eliza grinned with that sense of freedom she felt everywhere now.
“And food, oui?” she said. “Some oysters to start?”
Hem robustly kissed her on both cheeks, making her turn as red as her hair and laugh loudly. “Mad ame, I am in love with you! I have found you at last. Your establishment is the finest in all of Paris.” “Tatie, leave the lady alone or she might not bring us those oysters,” his wife said with an indulgent smile on her pretty, freckled face.
“All are most welcome here, at any time. We always have food and drink, oui!” Madame Galliard said with a wave of her beringed hand.
“Madame,” Eliza said quietly, studying the empty stage in front of them. “Is—is Monsieur Coleman playing this evening?”
“Ah, you know Jacques?” Madame Galliard said with a delighted little clap of her hands. Those rings sparkled in the mellow lights.
“We met in New York,” Eliza answered. “He is wonderful musician.”
“He is a great asset to my husband’s club, we’re fortunate he came to Paris,” Madame said. The champagne arrived, and she leaned over to pour generous measures into everyone’s glasses. “Any friend of Jacques is a great friend of ours! He’ll be out very soon, mademoiselle. Now, drink, drink! I will send the food out, just call for me if you need anything else.”
She bustled away, disappearing into the swirling, silken crowd, and Eliza sipped at her bubbly drink with a secret little smile. She would see him again soon!
But what would he think when he saw her?
“Jacques?” the poet-lady, Minette, asked.
“Jack Coleman. He plays the trumpet,” Eliza told her. “He is amazingly talented.” “And handsome, too, oui?” Minette teased, making everyone else laugh and Eliza blush again. She would never be a sophisticated Parisian at this rate!
A musical note suddenly sounded, low and achingly sweet, and the roar of the room crested and was silent. Everyone turned to the stage.
The song was mournful at first, lazy, a sexy ballad, a bit of the blues in its rhythm. A trumpet solo, flowing as the sea, introduced the melody, then a piano came in, higher, more birdlike, drums with a high arpeggio that landed seemingly at random, in a whole different song. The trumpet played on, above it all, like the player was talking to her alone.
“Monsieur Jacques Cole-maaan!” a stout man with a grand mustache and well-cut suit announced, filled with excitement. “All the way from Manhattan to play only here at the Club d’Or!” Lights clicked on all around the stage, golden and sparkling like the champagne, to reveal the musi cians. Eliza could see only one of them, though—Jack, sitting at the edge of the band, absorbed in his
horn, wrapped in his music, as angelically handsome as she remembered, the lights glittering on his sharp cheekbones, his elegant hands flying. The song swung higher, turning merry, light, fun. “Come on, daughter, let’s dance,” Hem roared, and seized Eliza’s hand to twirl her out of her chair and onto the dance floor. It was packed already, everyone swirling and swaying, beaded gowns shim mering, feet flying. The air smelled of champagne and sweat and expensive perfumes, everything hot and bright.
“Ah, now, you see, this is a real place,” he said. “This is how it should always be.” “Do you know, I think you’re absolutely right,” Eliza cried over the cresting beat of the music, the laughter and stomps of feet.
“Of course I am. Writers see the truth, you know, raw and real. At least they do if they’re any damn good.” He dipped her low, making her head spin, and she laughed. “Musicians can see it, too, I’m sure. That’s what all art does. It tells us the real deal.”
Eliza turned and kicked, a flick of her silver shoe, and found Jack watching her. He looked startled, his eyes wide—and then he smiled, that slow, white, sunny grin that made everything warm again. She waved at him happily, and he nodded before raising his horn back to his lips.
His long, tapered fingers
danced over the valves, summoning forth those glorious sounds, and she remembered his it had felt when he touched her.
The song changed to something slower, something with the easiness of a hot summer’s day, and Eli za found herself with another partner. Over the loud music, the laughter, she twirled again and again, her head spinning with delight and new freedom.
Soon a female singer appeared and launched into a quieter song, only a piano to accompany her as she trilled of love and longing and summertime. Eliza spun around, and found herself landing in Jack’s arms.
She couldn’t help but smile, her happiness threatening to burst out of her altogether at being so close to him again. Feelings his touch around her, surrounded by the scent of his citrus-greeny soap. For an instant, she couldn’t breathe at all.
“So you’re here, bird girl,” he said with a slow smile.
Eliza laughed. “Yes. I met some new friends at Shakespeare and Company, and…” She waved to ward their table, where a round of cocktails had just appeared. A handsome blond man, dressed as if for a regatta or something in a crisp blue jacket, a beautiful chocolate-box blonde in pink chiffon on his arm, had just arrived and was scooping up the drinks. Probably Hem’s friend Fitz. “They wanted to hear the very latest musical sensation to arrive in Paris. So here we are!”
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About author Amanda McCabe...
Amanda wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen--a vast historical epic starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class (and her parents wondered why math was not her strongest subject...)
She's never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA Award, the Romantic Times BOOKReviews Reviewers' Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers Choice Award, and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Santa Fe with a Poodle, a cat, a wonderful husband, and a very and far too many books and royal memorabilia collections.
When not writing or reading, she loves taking dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs, and watching the Food Network--even though she doesn't cook.
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