Suddenly, one morning it was the twelfth of July, 1935. …Today she was twenty … hard to believe … and today there would be a lovely picnic in the meadow.
“Please come with us today, Uncle Etienne,” Lucien pleaded at breakfast.
“No …” Etienne said. “I’m sure you and Mademoiselle will have a better time alone without your old uncle tagging after—”
“Please do come, we’d all enjoy it,” Jeanette broke in, convinced that he really wanted to come along.
“Well, thank you, Mademoiselle … in that case I think I will.”
It was settled. The children clapped their hands. The wicker pony cart was harnessed, the picnic hampers were placed in the storage box and everyone climbed aboard. Jeanette and the two little girls sat in the back of the cart and Etienne took the reins, Lucien sitting beside him. Away they went, going briskly along the bridle path until they reached the grove of olive trees at the far end of the estate.
When the unloading chores were finished, Jeanette and the children set off with butterfly nets and jars. Etienne leaned against a tree and watched. He knew he’d remember this day forever. Later, when he’d picture the scene in his mind, in order to paint it, every detail would be fresh and vivid.
They romped through the fields, their nets billowing out, and after an hour returned with their catch, the brilliant butterfly wings fluttering in the jars. Etienne thought they were too beautiful to be captured, and surprised himself by saying so. Looking at him, Jeanette thought how right he was. “Shall we let them go?” she said. “Your uncle is quite right. After all, the fun was in the catching.” And after a few objections from the children, they did let the gorgeous creatures out of their jars, and seeing them fly off, even Lucien, who’d protested at first, was glad they’d done it.
Jeanette now spread the white linen cloth on the ground and arranged the food on it—the salads, thick slices of country ham, stuffed hard-boiled eggs flavored with herbs, bread and butter, wine, milk, cheese and fruit.
After lunch, Nicole said, mysteriously, “Close your eyes, please, Jeanette.”
To make sure she wouldn’t peek, Desirée put her hands over Jeanette’s eyes. When she was allowed to open them, the children clapped and sang “Happy Birthday.” Astonished, and delighted, Jeanette watched as Lucien put down in front of her a birthday cake covered with white frosting trimmed with rosebuds and green-tinted leaves, bearing the inscription, in pink icing, “From All of Us Who Love You.” There was one candle in the center. Jeanette took the cake in her hands and looked at it, then at the children, and then at Etienne. In spite of herself tears came into her eyes as she put it down and gathered her charges together, hugging them.
Nicole said proudly, “We knew about it for a week, but Uncle Etienne made us promise we wouldn’t say, and we kept our promise.” To which Desirée added a “Me too,” and Jeanette felt the tears coming again.
When they’d finished the cake Lucien went to the cart and came back with several small packages, which he handed to Jeanette.
“Please open them,” Etienne said. “The children have waited a long time for this.” And Desirée confirmed with “Open mine first. …”
Inside Desirée’s package was a handkerchief embroidered with blue bowknots.
“My favorite color, blue,” Jeanette said. “It’s so beautiful, I’ll only use it on special occasions. …” Nicole’s gift was a blue satin handkerchief case. “Nicole, my beauty, I adore it, and I adore you even more,” Jeanette said, embracing the little girl. …And now Lucien’s moment had come. Jeanette gasped when she opened his gift—a small heart-shaped gold locket inscribed with the date. “Lucien, it’s beautiful. I’ll treasure it forever.” He smiled and said in manly fashion, “I’m glad you like it.”
Finally Etienne handed her his gift … a gold and blue-enamel music box decorated with hand-painted scenes of France. Slowly she lifted the lid, and as she did so the music box played Debussy’s Clair de Lune. Jeanette, deeply moved, did her best to thank Etienne, who in turn was clearly delighted by her reaction.
Afterward the children lay down on the blanket to nap and Etienne went off for a walk, saying he would return soon. As she watched him hobble away she thought what a pity for such a fine and decent man to be deprived of the pleasures other men took for granted. And that she too had taken for granted until she’d met him. …And she thought of how happy he had made her today, planning everything, and wished there were some way she could adequately repay him.
Shaking her head, she gathered up the remains of the picnic and put them in the cart, poured fresh water for the pony to drink and then lay down beside Desirée, her mind filled with thoughts, not of Etienne, but of Jean-Paul. …
Jean-Paul, who at the moment lay in a hayloft with his Provençal mistress, their bodies merging, as her diligent husband attended his fields in the heat of the summer’s day. …
How long she’d been asleep, or how long Etienne had been observing the four of them, she’d no idea … but she did know he was now gently tapping her on the shoulder, saying it was time to go back. She gathered up the sleepy children, wiped their faces with cold water, and they were on their way. … each with his own private thoughts about a very special day. …
When the pony cart came into view, as it approached the courtyard, Madame looked up, stunned. She was tending her rose garden, a task she performed daily, dressed in black cotton, a soft, large-brimmed straw hat tied under her chin with black ribbon. She stood with her mouth open, the spade in her hand. Etienne had not only spent the day with Mademoiselle and the children, he had driven the cart, which one of the grooms should have done. She flinched as she saw him help Jeanette down. What was the modern world coming to! That she should live to see a Dupré son pay such attention to a governess. She’d never seen Etienne behave in such fashion. True, Jeanette’s position was above that of a housemaid or a nursemaid, but still, as everybody but she seemed to forget, she was only a governess! Madame didn’t like it. Furthermore, she didn’t like Mademoiselle. She felt that in some way the girl was … calculating. …
Suddenly, a new thought entered her head. Was it possible … did Jeanette have designs on Etienne? Was she taking advantage of his … condition … to better herself? After all, who was she? A nobody whom Etienne had selected. Oh, dear God, I’m getting too old for all this … and she put her spade down, went through the French doors, through the sitting room, up the stairs to her rooms and asked Renée to draw her bath. Next she took a headache powder. She simply had to lie down and rest her mind before dinner.
Jeanette opened the double doors of the armoire and cast her eyes over her Provence wardrobe. In addition to the peasant clothes she wore during the day, she had brought with her mostly simple, conservative dresses, since she knew Madame’s distaste for anything but a uniform. She had selected her wardrobe with a careful eye to color and style, again so as not to antagonize Madame. There was, however, one exception, and today was her birthday. After all, she would never be twenty again. Tonight she couldn’t resist. Longingly, her eyes rested on the pastel blue silk dress, her favorite. Should she be bold and wear it? Did she dare risk it? Was she taking too many liberties? She hesitated, then made up her mind, feeling a new kind of exhilaration as she did so. …After her bath she splashed herself with cologne, then took out a blue silk slip trimmed with écru lace and held it up to her body. How she loved the feeling of the silk against her skin. …She put on silk stockings, attaching them to a garter belt, then high-heeled white shoes. She combed her hair, which was now slightly longer than shoulder length, since she had not cut it during the summer. Looking into the mirror, she put the comb down and twisted the thick brown mane into a coiffure on top of her head. After pinning it in place, she pulled back the sides … which made her neck look swanlike. Her skin had tanned just enough to give it a healthy glow, which further enhanced her deep blue eyes and dark lashes. She tinted her lips and cheeks a delicate pink, ever so lightly, embellishing the fin
e-textured skin. Completely groomed, she looked at her reflected image as though discovering herself for the first time. She was pretty; yes, she was. In fact, tonight she felt beautiful. Her eyes wandered to her breasts, which had developed and filled out, thanks to the good food and air of Provence. She was still slender, but her body had become fuller. Her pelvic bones no longer protruded quite so much, but her abdomen was still tight and taut. She was, indeed, on her way to becoming a woman, with the kind of potential she dreamed of, and yearned for. …When she finally stepped into the blue dress, she looked at her reflection full-face, then sideways. The dress was now slightly tighter around the bust, which pleased her … the heart-shaped locket Lucien had given her fit perfectly in the V-shaped neckline.
She pirouetted round the room like a ballerina, then gathered up the children and together they walked to the big house, where the Duprés were having their aperitifs in the sitting room … and where all eyes were now suddenly on her. Conversation stopped. Her heart was pounding as she said, “Good evening.” She went directly to the chair she usually sat in, crossed her feet at the ankles, held her hands in her lap, and sat with all the poise and dignity she felt unaccustomed to.
Madame swallowed her aperitif quickly and asked for another. Jean-Paul poured the rich liquid from the decanter and handed it to her … while Etienne thought he’d never seen anyone quite as lovely as Jeanette was tonight … and Jean-Paul for the first time felt a distinct male reaction to her. She was, no question, bewitching. Somehow he’d never noticed, and he promptly found himself wondering what she would be like in the same hayloft where he’d spent his pleasurable afternoon. But then he felt obliged to push aside his erotic fantasy, remembering his father’s anger at discovering him making precocious love to the upstairs maid, and telling him never to get involved with a servant, that it could only lead to all kinds of distasteful complications. …Better, his father advised, now that his son was, so to speak, of age, was a visit which he’d arrange. And Marshal Dupré was as good as his word, sending Jean-Paul to the address of a woman with a distinguished reputation in her profession. The upstairs maid, of course, was dismissed.
No … much as he desired this unpicked fruit, he would dismiss the notion.
Marie Jacqueline had noted the not unfamiliar expression on her husband’s face, and reflected that if only Jean-Paul wanted her own body as he obviously did this brazen nobody’s, she would gladly have given up her eternal reward in heaven.
The conversation was picked up by Etienne, who wanted to do all he could to put Jeanette at her ease. When dinner was finally announced, Madame gave her unbounded thanks to heaven. The salad was marvelous, crisp and cold, with Clothilde’s secret thyme dressing. The wine, selected by Jean-Paul, was poured into the pewter goblets. Dinner had been prepared to perfection by Clothilde (who had earlier cursed Jean-Paul for putting so much buckshot in the pheasants he had bagged the day before, but after she’d baked them in herbs and wine sauce and seen how good they looked, her antagonism was forgotten).
With a flourish of pride the butler walked completely around the table, showing off the game on a large pewter platter surrounded by an assortment of garden vegetables. As an added bit of color, Clothilde had arranged some pheasant feathers among the birds. It was a sight to behold. Madame definitely approved.
“Did you kill them all, Uncle Jean-Paul?” Lucien asked.
“Yes, indeed. You should have been there, Lucien.”
“Will you take me with you some day, please?” said Lucien.
“Of course.”
“Not until you’re older,” said Madame.
“Why, grandma?”
“Because first you have to be taught how to handle a gun—”
“Uncle Jean-Paul will teach me, and Uncle Etienne can come too—”
“No, Lucien,” said Etienne. “I’m afraid I don’t hunt.”
“Why not?”
“Well … I just don’t believe in killing.”
Jean-Paul directed an angry glance at his brother, his dear so pious, so long-suffering crippled bastard of a brother who couldn’t shoot worth a damn even if he wanted to. Half a man was all he was … good for nothing but helping in vineyards, picking grapes and keeping accounts … a crippled damn bookkeeper. …
The friction in the air didn’t go unobserved by Madame, who changed the subject abruptly with “And how did you spend your day, children?” (As though she didn’t know.)
“We had a birthday party for Jeanette,” said Nicole.
Madame forced herself to smile. “Where, darling?”
“In the meadow. Uncle Etienne planned it for us.”
“How nice of you, Etienne.”
“Yes. …Well, it was most delightful,” he said, not missing her tone.
Jeanette was becoming increasingly uncomfortable as she found herself the focus of the conversation. She wet her lips but remained silent.
“I gave Jeanette a handkerchief,” Desirée said.
“And I gave her a handkerchief case,” Nicole said.
Lucien bragged, “But I gave her a locket that Jeanette said she’d wear forever—”
“Indeed,” Madame said, narrowing her eyes. “And you, Etienne? What was your gift?”
Etienne was embarrassed by his mother’s rudeness in pursuing the subject. “My gift was an effort to thank Mademoiselle for what she’s given to the children.”
Jean-Paul was amused. It always diverted him when Etienne fell from their mother’s favor, however briefly. Etienne would be forgiven tomorrow; he always was. …
“How delightful for Mademoiselle to be so well appreciated.” What exactly, Madame wondered, had Etienne given her? She would have to find out later from the children. …“Well, in any case, happy birthday … Mademoiselle. I’m most pleased that your day was so pleasantly, and fruitfully, spent.”
To the best of Jeanette’s recollection, this was the first time Madame had ever addressed her personally, even in obvious sarcasm. “How very kind of you, Madame,” was the best response she could manage.
“May I offer my best wishes for a long life,” said Jean-Paul, “filled with many happy returns of this day.”
Jeanette could hardly get out her polite if heartfelt—in his case—thanks.
Marie Jacqueline, for once, said nothing, and thereafter everyone ate in silence. After the chocolate soufflé had been served and scarcely touched, the family retired to the sitting room for demitasse and brandy. Jeanette took up her post in the corner.
“Grandmother,” said Lucien, “Nicole and I would like to play a duet that Jeanette taught us.”
Taking up her tapestry, Madame answered, “Not tonight, my dear. We’ve all had a long day, especially all of you.”
“I’d like to hear them,” said Etienne, “and I think you’ll be pleased by their progress. …”
Madame didn’t look up from her handiwork. This … this girl, she thought, has obviously bewitched him, he’d never been so defiant about her wishes. She no longer seemed able to control him at all, but to disagree now would only widen the breach that had developed between them since she had come into their home.
“Go ahead, then, my children,” she finally said, drawing up a battle plan.
They played the little French song Jeanette had taught them with almost no mistakes, and Lucien crossed his left hand over his right in the proper place, which he loved to do. It made him feel like a real virtuoso. When they had finished, Uncle Jean-Paul shouted, “Bravo!” and applauded, as did Etienne. Marie Jacqueline remained mute.
“Now you play something, Jeanette,” said Lucien.
“Another time, Lucien.”
But Jean-Paul insisted. “Please, Mademoiselle, will you do us the honor? I’m sure Mother would enjoy it.”
In her fury, Madame stuck the needle into her finger as she attempted to push the yarn through the tiny hole.
Jeanette sat down on the bench as though she were awaiting the guillotine, her mouth dry, her palms sweaty.
She began to play the only piece that she could think of, Clair de Lune, the same tune played by the music box Etienne had given her. As she slowly began the poignant, haunting melody, the atmosphere in the room seemed to change. Her touch was soft … near-poetic. …Every note, every phrase did its job in conjuring up the appropriate images of moonlight and unfulfilled love. When she finished, there were tears in her eyes. She dropped her hands on the bench, stood up and turned to face the room.
Madame’s tapestry now lay in her lap. She, too, had tears in her eyes. She was not a woman to give compliments easily, but without even thinking she said, “Thank you, Mademoiselle. You play very well.”
Jeanette met her eyes. “You’re very kind, and now may I ask to be excused? It’s past the children’s bedtime. …”
And she finally escaped.
After that evening, although Madame spoke little to her in a personal way, Jeanette knew that she had gained new stature and respect in her eyes. …When they met in the garden, or at mealtimes, there was a reserved cordiality in their greetings. For Jeanette, this was enough. She was, after all, well aware of her position. She hadn’t been hired to become an intimate member of the Dupré family … except with the children. Still, she expected to be treated with dignity. She had certainly earned that much.
Days of Winter Page 28
