Dear friends,
I have published another book! I am very excited to share the second in my series of historical romance novels set in Belle Époque Paris. This story is connected to the first one, but you don’t have to read them in order.
If the idea of reading books out of order grates against something inside of you, let me just say that I recently gave up on the idea of reading books in order. As long as they stand alone (which many series do, especially in romance), I will no longer adhere to order in my reading life, and I have begun reading the latest instead of the first. It’s been very freeing. Perhaps one of the wildest experiences a reader can have, aside from reading a wild story.
Like my first book, Complications in Paris was inspired by the literature of the late 1800s and early 1900s. In this case, Henry James. I read The Ambassadors a few years ago because it is about Americans in Paris. The protagonist in James’s story is a stepfather who is sent to Paris to fetch a stepson who has gone there for a vacation and is refusing to come home and marry the young woman his family has chosen for him. I loved this book for so many reasons—it’s about people who become obsessed with Paris and France and refuse to leave, it’s evasive in such fascinating ways, and it turns out the stepson is involved with a much older French woman. I have not been able to stop thinking about The Ambassadors, so I borrowed Mr. James’s plot and turned it into a romance novel.
Complications in Paris is written from the point of the ungovernable stepchild, in this case, Diane Talbot, and the Frenchman she falls in love with. Paris was already very much a tourism city. They had begun holding World’s Fairs and attracting tourists from all over the world. Travel was also much easier because of advancing technology. Paris also had a reputation and distinct personality.
I have been researching the history of cancan dancing for a future essay (next month!) and because it is my character Diane Talbot’s favorite pastime. This dance, which is today associated with a chorus line style performance involving high kicks and frilly skirts, started in the 1830s as a participatory quadrille with couples dancing together in working-class dance halls. At the time, the close contact and high energy made the dance a little scandalous even in France. As cancan dancing evolved into performance and was exported around the world, it played a role in Paris’s sexually liberated reputation and allure.
Pitting this reputation against the conservative views of Diane Talbot’s American stepmother and father was a lot of fun. I think Mr. James probably also had fun. I hope you love it!
The book also got an amazing five-star review from Reedsy Discovery, which you can read here: Complications in Paris. While you’re there, please click the button to upvote my review. This will put me in the running for further exposure on their site, which would be so helpful to me!
Book three is in the works as well and will maybe *fingers crossed* be ready this summer. Everything about this project has also been really fun, and filled with so many surprises. I honestly thought I’d publish these books and no one would notice or care! It has been the opposite of that. I appreciate everyone’s support so much.
Enjoy!
June 1901
The music swung in a wild crescendo to finish the song, and Diane Talbot, and everyone in the crowd around her, erupted in cheers. She’d been dancing on the outdoor floor of Moulin Rouge for nearly an hour. Her legs were shaky from so much kicking, and her heart thumped like a big drum in her chest. All around her, ruffles fluttered and skirts fell back into place. Legs, dressed in stockings with lace trim, settled onto the ground to wait for the next song. Men—some in white ties and tails, others in heavy eye makeup and not much else—caught their breath. Across the crowd, Diane’s sister, Catherine, who’d been dancing as well, was weaving through the people to get to her.
“Let’s get some water. I’m too thirsty to kick anymore.” Catherine’s light brown hair fell in wisps around her flushed face. The sisters linked arms and headed inside toward the bar, where a woman in a skimpy sequined dress was singing on the stage, and nearly every eye in the place was on her. She was like a rare, shiny bird. “God, this place never fails, does it?”
“Do you mean Paris or the cabaret?” Diane flicked her feather boa at her sister.
“Both, actually.”
“Two waters, s’il vous plaît,” Diane said to the bartender.
“I’m ready to go,” Catherine said as she slumped onto a freshly vacated barstool in front of them.
“Do you mean Paris or the cabaret?”
“Both, actually.”
“Stop it. We settled on three more months before arguing about it again.”
“You’re the one who brought up Paris.” Catherine’s chandelier earrings swayed and sparkled with each shake of her head. The bartender set two glasses of water in front of them.
Diane rolled her eyes and took a drink of her water. After so much dancing, she couldn’t say another word without something wet.
The debate about staying or going had become so regular for the sisters that they’d had to agree to put off the discussion as well as the departure. Delaying the departure part was all that mattered to Diane; she didn’t want to return to Woollett or her parents’ house in the middle of nowhere. Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly nowhere. But everywhere was nowhere compared to Paris, as far as Diane was concerned. She wanted to stay for as long as she could. The sisters had come over for what was supposed to be a season. On the day of their return, they ripped up their tickets and sent the maid home on the steamer alone. Daddy was furious and swift to close his wallet, as Diane expected he would. Granted, being cut off from their father’s money had been difficult. But she couldn’t make herself care when she could come to the cabaret and dance whenever she wanted. In Paris. Paris!
Leaving made absolutely no sense to Diane. Her sister was the one who didn’t get it. But they’d agreed not to talk about it for three more months, so Diane let it go and focused on the part about the cabaret. She wasn’t ready to leave there either. “Can’t we hang around long enough for one of these French gentlemen to buy us dinner? I’m hungry.”
“We can find something in the kitchen at home. I have to work in the morning.” Catherine worked in the law office where Diane was no longer employed. It had been her first job, and she hadn’t lasted long. They moved a few steps away from the bar to finish their water, and someone else in need of a drink quickly took the stool.
“You’re no fun at all,” Diane pouted. She couldn’t stay alone—not in France or at Moulin Rouge. As she spoke, one such French gentleman sidled up to them, waiting for a turn at the bar. He was taller than everyone else around them and dressed in a black suit, white tie, and black top hat. There was a white rose pinned to his lapel. When their eyes caught, he nodded, smiled, and politely looked away.
“Can I just say one last thing about leaving Paris?”
Diane shrugged. “As long as we note that this time I’m not the one breaking the rule we agreed upon.”
“We can’t stay forever. We can’t do this forever.” She waved her empty water glass around as if to suggest everything about the cabaret. “And planning our return is not only sensible but also empowering. We get to do it on our terms, rather than Daddy’s.”
“I’m just not ready to think about it, though,” Diane whined.
“She’s right, you know,” the Frenchman said. He was facing them now, leaning an elbow on the bar like he was holding it up. And involving himself like he was a part of their conversation?
“Excusez-moi,” Diane said, dragging out the syllables with attitude.
“Pardon, mademoiselles, but I overheard, and she’s right.” The man, who looked perfectly comfortable inserting himself, tipped his head toward Catherine. “Planning your departure from Paris will allow it to happen on your terms. As mademoiselle has said.”
“Well, no one asked you.” Diane narrowed her eyes. So typical. A man inserting his opinions. How original. Every man she’d ever known well had been the same way. “But my terms are not leaving Paris.”
“I thought that wasn’t possible?” The man was regrettably dashing with blue eyes and golden blond hair; obviously the sort who relied on his looks to cover up for his rudeness.
“Do you always feel the need to comment on topics that are none of your business?”
He looked between the two sisters, confidence and that specific French sort of snobbishness that she both loved and hated oozed from him. His face flushed and his mouth quirked with indignance. “Well, as a Parisian, I have to say the departure of every tourist is a victory. Au revoir, mademoiselles.”
Diane’s mouth fell open as he moved off to get the bartender’s attention. He exchanged a few words with the barman and then nodded at her and Catherine as he walked off into the crowd.
“How rude,” Diane said before he was out of earshot. Didn’t he know you are supposed to ignore other people’s arguments?
“Oh, stop, I think he liked you.”
Diane hadn’t thought of that. Her face grew warm—though definitely not because she liked the idea of him liking her. She was warm from dancing. “I doubt that.”
“Didn’t you see the way he was looking at you? He didn’t even seem to care that your hair’s a mess. He barely looked at me because he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
Maybe she should have asked him to buy her dinner instead of chasing him off. Then she thought better of it. “Well, I didn’t like him.”
Diane finished her water and then set her and her sister’s empty glasses among a few other dirty ones on the edge of the bar. Just as she was getting ready to relent and leave the cabaret, Catherine pointed across the room.
“Hey. That’s Charlotte.”
“Deveraux? I can’t believe it. Where?”
Catherine grabbed Diane’s arm and pulled her through the crowd, calling after their housemate whom Diane still didn’t see. Then there was Charlotte in her feathered hat on a man’s arm—probably her aristocrat friend she was crazy about.
Charlotte was a regular girl from the provinces who happened to be a wildly talented writer. Diane liked her because, as far as the Parisians she’d encountered, being from America was as backwoods as being from anywhere outside of Paris. They called it backwoods at home, but here it was provincial. Even the word for uncultured was fancier in France.
“I thought that was you,” Catherine exclaimed. “Diane didn’t believe me.”
“It’s not that I didn’t believe her,” Diane said, sizing up the man on Charlotte’s arm. He was the one sending all the gifts and messengers to the house. He was handsome, she had to admit. “You never come out! I’m surprised to see you is all.”
“We’ve only just arrived. I was at a party in the seventh, and then we took the metro here.” Charlotte looked up at the man and continued, “Catherine and Diane Talbot, this is my friend Antoine de Larminet. Antoine, these are my housemates. They’re sisters.”
Diane smiled and held out her hand to Antoine, which he kissed. Then Charlotte stepped aside to introduce another person. “This is Monsieur Guillaume Allard, who was hosting the party. A group of us came from his place.”
That was when Diane’s eyes landed on the rude gentleman from the bar. For a second, she thought she’d made a mistake, or that the interloper was once again interloping. But no. Charlotte ushered him forward.
“You again,” Diane raised an eyebrow at Guillaume, who looked as surprised as she was to be reacquainting. He scowled, but the glimmer in his eyes was playful, like he was thrilled to be meeting her again.
“Diane and Catherine Talbot, enchanté.” He kissed Catherine on the hand. When Diane held out hers, he leaned past it and air-kissed her on the cheek. A quick, dry brush of his soft mouth and the stubble along his jaw against her skin. And Diane, it turned out, wasn’t mad about meeting him again either.
“We were just discussing leaving and apparently met your friend Guillaume,” Catherine continued, unfazed by the coincidence. “I’m ready, and she’s not.”
“Now that Charlotte and her friends are here,” Diane said, recognizing her opportunity, “you can take a cab home, and I’ll stay with them.”
“Can’t you stay, Catherine?” Charlotte said.
“I almost feel like it, now that you’re here,” she said regretfully. “But I have to work in the morning.”
“So go home. I’ll be fine!” Diane assured her sister.
“I’ll keep you company.” Guillaume stepped forward, as if his presence might be appreciated. His blue eyes caught Diane’s again, and something warm and pleasant stirred in her stomach. Probably because she was hungry.
He continued, charm unabated. “I need to make up for the poor first impression I fear I left.”
Diane’s annoyance with this man faltered again; here was another opportunity. “It will cost you dinner, monsieur.”
“Good, then it’s settled,” Catherine said. “I’ll get out of here, and you can stay with them. Will you see me out?”
“Of course.” Diane turned to Charlotte then. “I’ll meet you back here in a few minutes?”
“Okay.”
“We’ll get a table outside,” Guillaume said as the sisters walked away.
Diane groaned. “Can you believe that guy is Charlotte’s friend? He’s probably a terrible snob.”
“So why are you staying with them?” Catherine smiled wryly.
“To visit with Charlotte, silly. She never comes dancing with us.”
Outside, the night air cooled Diane’s balmy skin like drink of water. People mingled on the sidewalk and foot traffic streamed from one club to another. Montmartre was alive and filled with the energy of nightlife. A cab of revelers was emptying out just as they reached the street. Catherine waved to get the driver’s attention.
“Can you take me to 77 Rue de Fortuny?”
The driver obliged with a nod.
Before stepping into the carriage, Catherine turned to Diane. “I’ll see you at home.”
“I won’t be long.” For a moment, Diane considered following her sister into the cab and going home to bed. But it wasn’t even eleven yet, and all the pieces of an interesting evening were falling into place. First, the nosy and admittedly handsome stranger turned out to be Charlotte’s friend. And that Charlotte had turned up with an obviously monied group of friends. Diane just couldn’t go home when things like this were happening. She smiled at Catherine. “I still can’t believe you want to leave.”
“Do you mean Paris or Moulin Rouge, darling?” Catherine didn’t wait for a response; the question a tease, anyway. She pulled the carriage door closed and smiled and waved goodbye to Diane through the grimy window.
With a flourish of her feather boa, Diane kicked her leg high into the air and swept it back down to land in a deep bow. Catherine laughed as the cab drove off. When Diane turned back toward the club, the red windmill spun slowly against the dark sky and the night showed no signs of stopping. Diane, invigorated by the possibilities of it, hurried back inside to find Charlotte. They’d said they were going outside to look for a table, so Diane passed through the front of the house where the woman was now on a swing that had lowered down from above the stage. Her audience still watched from their tables.
All the curves and chambers and red reminded Diane of the diagram she’d seen of the human heart. Moulin Rouge was kind of like the heart of Paris. Of course, there were the fancier places and the palaces and the new tower that everyone loved. But here—where eclecticism reigned, and people from all walks of life came together to be part of this raucous, creative, burlesque experience—was the real Paris. The heart of everything that made the place so grand. This was why Diane couldn’t fathom leaving and going back to dull, boring Woollett. Nothing in that whole town was red.
To find out what happens next, you can order a copy of Complications in Paris at your favorite bookstore, read it in Kindle Unlimited, or request a copy at your local library. You can also click here to order: melinda-copp.com/books.
Thank you for reading!
Melinda
You’re reading Melinda’s Letter, a monthly email about books, culture, and life from essayist and historical romance author, Melinda Copp. I’m also on Instagram, Facebook, and Bluesky.