The woman, normally jovial, even at this hour of the night, glanced up toward the stairs. “In the garden. He said he waits for you.”
“Merci, Nanette.” She hurried toward him, through the starlit atelier and out into the fragrant night. In one corner, Andre sat in a wicker chair, his eyes on the doorway as she appeared there. He had a wine glass in his hand, half full, the green bottle on the table next to the remains of his al fresco dinner.
As she approached, he rose, gallant as ever before to position a chair for her. She rose up on her toes and kissed his lips that tasted of the vin rouge. “Are you well? Is your mother? I saw a valise in the foyer just now. Do we have a visitor?”
“I’m well as is my mama. No, we don’t have a caller. Sit, please. Tell me about your visit. I assume Killian had his coachman bring you home.”
“He did,” she said, grateful at the news to sink into the chair he offered and accept his gesture to fill a glass for her.
“I thought he would. Best at this time of night instead of a hack. Did you have supper?”
“Yes. We all did. Julian arrived this afternoon.”
“Julian? From England? Why?”
She bit her lip. “Lily has left him.”
“Mon dieu.”
“He doesn’t know where’s she gone.”
“He must be out of his mind.”
“He is.”
Andre took a drink of his wine. “Has he any idea why she’s gone?”
“He does. And as you might expect, he keeps it to himself. But he says he was slow to solve some of their problems.”
“A pity.” Andre took another sip and swallowed slowly. “They do love each other. It could even be a grand passion, despite the circumstances of why they married.”
“He returns to London tomorrow. He sends his regards to you and asks you to forgive him for not calling.”
“Unnecessary.” Andre brushed it off with wave of a hand. “He must find his wife. And what happened when you talked with Ada?”
Marianne took a sip of wine. “Well, that turns out better than we anticipated. The situation is much less severe than we thought. She’s very upset and promises to be more intelligent about her choices of friends from now on. She apologizes and hates herself.”
“And will Killian send her home to Baltimore?”
“No. She’ll stay. To go would cause more problems and she prefers to be here with her family.”
“A good choice,” he acknowledged. “And what of you, ma cherie? Did you and Killian discuss how you will return to his fold?”
“No.” She summoned her courage, happy and yet skeptical of how he’d receive her decision. “I won’t, you see.”
He arched both blond brows and in the moonlight, he appeared wary…but not surprised. “No? Why not?”
“I must sort a few things out for myself before I do anything.”
“What does that mean?” Anger tinged his voice.
She gulped down the urge to fling herself into his arms and declare her love for him. But he deserved better than that. He deserved a full accounting of her resolutions and her failures. “I will leave here tomorrow morning. That’s for a brief—”
He looked away. “It’s for the best.”
Her thoughts rushing, crowding out logic, all those sentences she’d planned skipped away. She hated the feeling of being surrounded, closed off. And she’d never felt it with him. “It is.”
He inhaled sharply as if she’d struck him.
“I must take a few days by myself.” She’d always craved solitude, too much at times. But she needed it now to sort her thinking and to fortify herself for the new decisions she must make.
“I see. A holiday, is it?”
She hadn’t planned where to go. Only why. “Not a vacation. No.”
He stood. “It’s as well. I cannot say I didn’t expect you to leave. I depart myself now.”
“What? Now? That’s why your coach is here?”
He nodded. “The house is yours. Leave at your leisure.”
To her shock, he turned abruptly and left her there in the garden. Her mouth open. Her heart aching.
She understood his feelings. His hurt. But what could she explain to him if she hadn’t fully sorted it out? If she knew a piece of her self-knowledge was missing, how could she understand her love for him?
She ran to him. Caught up to him. Took his arm. “Please let me explain. I don’t want you to think ill of me.”
He gazed down at her, his blue eyes dour in the moonlight. “Marianne, I don’t think ill of you.”
“I must sort my thoughts. I have so many faults. Lacks I must repair. I see them now. And if we are to be good together, I must winnow and sift. You have given me so much but I must find all the pieces of myself.”
“You change. We all do.”
“Yes, but even now, I’m not complete.” She had to tell him the parts she had discovered about herself. She rushed on, without reason, thoughts spilling from her lips. “I’ve been a coward. Hiding from myself.”
He cupped her cheek. “Oh, my darling, you have not a cowardly bone in your body. What’s more, you’ve become brave in ways you never expected.”
“Not totally. Not yet.” She took his arm. “I want to come to you, whole.”
“My sweet darling, don’t you see? I have valued you as you were and saw you as you might be. I valued you more than my own sanity. More than my work. More than my friends. Even my mother. There is no higher value than that. But I cannot wait any longer. I despair and that is new and terrifying to me.”
“I don’t understand. You lo—”
He slanted a finger across her lips. “I cannot work. And in work have I always found myself.”
That she understood. So had she found herself in her own endeavors.
“I am lost. Lost without you.”
“But I’m not gone—”
“You are. Still. To yourself. By your own admission here tonight. And I cannot pass my own life waiting for your revelations.” He swept one hand up into her hair. Her pins fell like raindrops and her tresses cascaded over her shoulders like a shroud. Lifting her face, he bent down to bestow a kiss. She stirred in his embrace as she always did. Pressing against him, she gave her all to the emotion of making love to him again and to her astonishment, he finished his sumptuous exploration of her mouth—and stepped back. “Go with my blessing. But do not return to me.”
She sucked in her breath.
He put up a finger. “Promise me.”
Tears burned her eyes but she would not shed them. “No.”
He smiled sadly. “Then I promise you, if you should come to me, I will not receive you.”
Chapter 14
Two days later, she took a hack from Montmartre down to the Rue de Provence. Since she had left his house, she had not slept. She had not eaten. And she had not allowed herself the luxury to cry.
Under her arm, she carried a large portfolio that she had purchased in the Rue Clichy yesterday. Patricia Farmer and her sister had recommended the shop that sold artists’ supplies and Marianne was delighted with her choice. Half her height and as wide, the leather case was big enough to hold her largest sketches. Quite a few of them, too.
She entered Monsieur Montand’s gallery, announced herself to his assistant and passed the interim by strolling around his display. She noted a vibrant blue and white landscape done in the impasto style of one noted impressionist artist and grinned at the dramatic statement it made. In bold stroke and quantity of paint, the scene spoke of a violent storm on the Seine.
Next to that painting were two sketches in pencil and watercolors. Done in washes of pale pinks and creams, the drawings were ones she knew well. They were of she herself. The studies of a woman in the throes of passion, her mouth open in a sigh, her back arched, her thighs together but bent at the knees, the two renderings showed not merely a woman in her climax, but a woman in love.
The euphoria of that moment—of thousands of mome
nts in Andre’s arms—washed through her. He had seen her in those minutes. Recreated them for others to learn what love looked like.
Ironic that it took his departure from her life for her to experience the torment of his loss and the beauty of what he’d bestowed upon her. Now she had to do the same for him. If she could.
Marianne had no need to read the signs of attribution. Still, she forced herself. Her gaze devoured the words—and she relived the ecstasies they portrayed. “Remy. Studies of Dawn.”
She caught her breath. Since she’d left Andre’s studio soon after he had two nights ago, she’d become dizzy, angry, determined. Fired onward by the urgency to accomplish a few vital changes to her life before she launched her plan to win Andre back. If she could.
“Madame Roland!” Edouard Montand marched forward, his winged mustache and sharp goatee trim as ever, his dark little eyes aglow. He gave her a small bow, his firm hot hand to shake and then asked her to join him in his office. “I’m delighted to see you here, Madame. This way, if you please.”
Inside his neat well-appointed office, she took the overstuffed chair he offered. “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur.”
“You saw Remy’s two watercolors, I noticed.” He took a chair opposite her, instead of sitting behind his massive oaken desk.
She marked his wariness. Did he think she’d be embarrassed by their display? “I did. They’re quite dramatic. I like them immensely. And I do believe you will be able to sell them for a handsome price.”
“Monsieur Bonnet, who fires Remy’s bronzes, was here this morning on another matter and he tells me that there is a third. Larger. More exquisite.”
“He is correct.” That one of her was so lifelike she shivered at the memory of Andre’s hands on her, rapture incarnate.
“But he says Remy does not part with it.”
“Is that so? Good to know.” Come to think of it, she had not seen it in the studio on its easel that last night she was there. Had he taken it with him?
“Bonnet says that third one is extraordinary. That I could sell it for five times what each of the two will bring.”
“Bonnet should know,” she said with less tact than she wished. She was eager to get the niceties done. “He has an eye. As do you.”
“Thank you. You are kind. But I am so happy you’re here. I sent round a messenger to Remy’s atelier yesterday only to have him turn back without delivery. He learned from Carré that Monsieur le duc was gone and so were you.”
She swallowed her despair over that. “Yes. The duc de Remy has gone south for the harvest. And to visit his mother. He hasn’t seen her in many months.” He’s been too attentive to me.
“I hope she is well.”
“As far as I know, yes, she is.” Marianne must end this dance around the real reasons for Remy’s departure and her own to be here. “I’ve come here because Remy sent me.”
“He did? Is there a business matter we did not conclude to his satisfaction?”
“No, no. And I would not dare to presume to discuss such matters with you.” She patted the edge of her portfolio. “I’ve come to show you the best of my own sketches.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed. As I think you know, I lived with the duc de Remy these past few weeks.” She was not embarrassed to declare it, but proud that Andre had nurtured her, proud he and she had been lovers.
The man had the politesse to fix his gaze on hers and merely nod.
“He made me promise him that I would produce enough works to have a collection of those I considered my best. Those, I was to bring you and allow you to critique them.”
Montand rubbed his hands together. “Marvelous. I must thank the duke when I see him again.”
“Monsieur,” she said, his charm luring a smile from her, “you haven’t seen any yet.”
“Madame, I saw the one. It whet my appetite for more. You see the reason I sent word round to Remy’s atelier yesterday was because I wanted to tell you of the sale of your sketch.”
“Of Andre?” Shock ran through her.
“Of Andre,” he said with a teasing grin on his lips.
It struck her that to his art dealer, she called Remy by his given name, not his title. To be so familiar with a man of business was unheard of. Rude. Even wives did not always address their husbands by their given names. Such intimacies were truly that. But she had been Andre Claude Marceau, the duc de Remy’s lover. For nearly one glorious month, she’d been his beloved. And she missed him with every breath, every heartbeat. She was not ashamed to admit it.
That she was in misery without him was a matter not to be alluded to here. “Forgive me, Monsieur Montand. I am remiss. To whom did you sell the portrait?”
“The mayor of Calais for the City Council.”
She frowned. “Why would the mayor of Calais wish to own my portrait of Monsieur le duc?”
“They negotiate a commission with him for a composition in the town square in front of the Hotel de Ville. The mayor was in Paris on holiday, saw your sketch and wished to purchase it for the town hall. To commemorate Remy and his work for them. To hang there in its frame in perpetuity.”
In Calais, they wished the great sculptor Remy to provide them with art for their people. Inside, her heart stumbled on a profound humility that she’d found a way to help them honor him. “I must say that’s utterly wonderful.”
“It is.”
“Did the mayor take it with him?”
“He did.”
“Remy will be honored. As for me, I’m overwhelmed. Thank you. I never thought to have anything hanging in a French city hall.” Feeling teary, she wished to speed her interview. She could bask in the glow of her own success later. She lifted her portfolio. “I’ve brought these for your viewing. I hope you’ll be frank with me about their potential.”
He rose and took the case from her. “Let’s put it on my table and let me get my loop.”
She stood by as he removed her sketches and watercolors from the case and spread them on the table. He took out his various magnifying glasses, put them to his eye and bent over her works, one by one. And then he returned to examine each again.
More than an hour later, he went to his desk and sat down to face her, his expression blank.
“They’re terrible. I can see it.”
He shook his head.
“I knew the portrait of Andre was unique. And I’m pleased the mayor of Calais bought it. I’ll take that as my one great success and be grateful.”
“You do not understand, Madame.”
“I do. I can see that sometimes a person produces an outstanding work of art. I’m pleased…no, thrilled it was of Andre. Pardon me, to me he is Andre.” Andre. She shot to her feet. “I’ll collect these. Those others I gave you a few weeks ago, as well, and I’ll not bother you again, Monsieur.”
He stood. “Madame Roland. Please sit down.”
She smiled through her pain and lifted a shoulder. “There is no need to be polite. Monsieur, please.”
“Madame, I am not polite. I am in earnest. Your works are worthy of an exhibit of their own.”
“Oh,” she laughed. “What? No. Surely.”
He chuckled. He tapped on finger on a sketch. “Madame Roland, your studies here of the laundry woman and this one of can-can dancer are realistic, yet evoke sympathy. Understanding. They are better than the ones you gave me weeks ago of the men in the Place du Tertre. But this one? The mother bathing the fat baby? Charming. Touching.”
She sat down with a thump. “You’re quite serious.”
“I am.” He sat, too. Folding his hands over his middle, he grinned at her. “I will take them all and sell them for you.”
She flung back her head and laughed. Presently when she was more logical and less giddy, she said, “But Monsieur there is a problem.”
“What is it?”
“Andre told me I was not to allow you to sell any of my works. I was to ask you for the address of your competitor and take my work there for
him to sell.”
“Like hell I’ll do that!” he roared good-naturedly. “I’ll have a word with your Andre when next I see him, Madame. He is too domineering. Beware of that.”
“Oh, I am, believe me, Monsieur.”
He leaned toward her. “I like your work, I’ve sold your work, and I can sell more of it.”
They grinned at each other for a long satisfying minute.
“And so I suppose,” he said to her, “I should tell you what the mayor of Calais paid for your sketch of your Andre.”
She giggled. “Please do. All the details. I seem to have forgotten to ask for that bit of news.”
Her hired hackney coach from the Tours railway station was an old, uncomfortable conveyance whose age, she estimated, to be twice hers and three times its proper retirement. The springs were non-existent, the squabs thin as a centime, the oiled window shades grimy and the horse, ancient and very, very slow. If the coachman was a happy lad, she took that as a good omen.
He was thrilled to be going so far as the Chateau de Remy. His eyes danced and he veritably licked his lips at the money he’d earn. “The sculptor’s chateau? Oui, I can take you there, Madame. But the fare is heavy.”
She didn’t care.
“Charge me what you must, Monsieur,” she told him. But as she dug her pocket watch from her reticule and checked the time, she silently acknowledged that the forty minutes it had currently taken her was worth the charge he’d quoted her. He should walk on.
Along the roadside, beefy dark brown cattle grazed in the warm September sun. In the valleys near the copse of trees, a hazy mist hung in the air and lent a foggy mystery to the rolling green landscape. Small farms clustered together here and there. Fat pigs gazed at the carriage through wooden pens. Chickens scooted around the yards. Children played stick ball and stopped to gaze at the travel coach as it passed them.
A border fence appeared along the road. Pale grey and white limestones hewn from the earth had been piled up three feet high or more to demarcate a boundary. Its sturdy structure announced to her the wealth of whoever owned the land it bound.
Then the coach slowed. The wooden wheels ground against cobbles, screeching loud as a scalded cat. She pushed back the curtain with one finger to see they turned into a wide lane. Before her was no limestone fence, but a ten foot tall brick wall that ran across the cobbled lane for a mile or more. Every three feet along the wall stood a white stone guardian, statues of men outfitted as Roman sentries.
Daring Widow: Those Notorious Americans, Book 2 Page 24
