Madame Savaray looked at her petite-fille, eyes shut tight against the world. “My dear,” she said, softly, wishing she had done a better job of saving her. “You’re going to be all right again, in time.”
Aimée opened her eyes. “I’m terribly weak.”
“That will pass. I’ve written Lady Arrington that you are unwell. We’ll arrange your passage as soon as you’re fit.”
Aimée pressed the blanket to her chest. The milk had started a steady flow that trickled down her stomach. She wanted to cry; she felt enormous sobs welling up.
Madame Savaray could see the tears coming, and, as much as she understood, it was not something she cared to witness. It would only make things worse. “I’ll send Leonie up with some tea,” she said. “And Jacques is anxious to see you and give you a pat, pat.” Madame raised her eyebrows. “Apparently, this is what he calls a kiss? If you ask me, children ought to be taught the proper words for things, not indulged in comical nicknames.”
Tears sprang the moment her grand-mère closed the door, with sobs so overwhelming that Aimée felt completely out of control. She clamped her hands over her breasts as if stopping the flow of milk would stem this unbearable loss. She wondered if it was the nursing that had bonded her to the baby, or if they were bonded in a way people are when they survive something together. It didn’t matter now. Jeanne would soon forget the smell of Aimée’s skin and the feel of her body. She would create new bonds. It was Aimée who would never be able to replace the warmth of that small body nestled against her. Over time, she told herself, she’d learn to tolerate the grief, but she was new to this sort of pain, and didn’t yet fully understand the weight of it.
LONDON 1878
Chapter 26
Henri sat eating a tasteless meat pie, in a dank pub that smelled of yeast and rye and whiskey. He’d already finished two glasses of dark beer. Raising his head to the bartender, he pointed to his empty glass. “Could I trouble you for another?” He could hear the slight French accent he’d acquired.
With his own heavy brogue, the bartender said, “Not from these parts, eh?”
Henri said no, he was not. “Me brother-in-law runs an inn down the street if you’re lookin’ for one,” the man said, refilling Henri’s beer from a large pitcher. “Just ya ask for a Miss Gerty.”
The inn was an airless, two-story brick building, and had the same cool, damp feel as the pub. Miss Gerty, a woman with blotchy skin and gnarled teeth, led him upstairs, gave him a fresh basin of water, set an unlit candle by his bed, and left him to his own.
Henri collapsed on the bed and pulled the thin quilt over his legs. He felt miserable, with nothing to encourage him other than the possibility of seeing Aimée again.
The last time he saw her was at the train station, three years ago. She was standing on the platform wearing a green jacket that flared over her hips. Her hat was at a tilt, and the wind had undone her hair on one side. For a moment he stood close enough to touch her, but the train whistle blew, and she said a sideways good-bye, and stepped onto the railcar. A ripple of fear had swept through Henri, and he’d reached out and caught her arm. He needed something more, a good-bye that he could hold on to. But Aimée turned to him with a look of such despair, a look that said there would be no recovering anything, that he’d dropped her arm and let her go without a word.
Henri closed his eyes against the memory, against the filthy room and the dingy light that came from the window. He had made a promise to come here, had vowed on Aimée’s life, that night Jeanne was born. But he’d never wanted to do this. He’d never felt the urge to go back to his roots, dig them up, expose them. A thing died when you dug it up. Might as well leave it buried. The gallant search for truth, well, Henri just couldn’t see the point.
He rolled onto his side. Laughter came through the thin floorboards, and the bed reeked of a vile odor. Henri thought of moving to another room, or another inn, but he could barely afford this wretched place, and the next was sure to be just as bad.
What he wanted was to go home, to forget the whole thing. Two weeks ago, on the fifth of May, they had celebrated Jeanne’s third birthday. Henri could picture the candied violets Leonie had on the table, and the bouquet of bluebells Jacques had gathered. On the back of Jeanne’s chair hung a straw hat with a blue satin ribbon. Jacques had picked out the hat from the draper in town. There was also a porcelain doll with real hair; shiny, dark ringlets just like Jeanne’s. This had come in the post with no letter. Leonie set it on the table as she had with the gifts sent for Jeanne’s first and second birthdays. She refused to remove it even when Jacques begged her to. He was sure the doll would take all the attention away from the hat. But when Jeanne came tumbling down the stairs, she put the hat on straightaway and wore it all through breakfast.
Picturing his family, Henri shifted onto his back and closed his eyes, trying for sleep, which was impossible with the ruckus below. He hadn’t been honest with Leonie. He hadn’t even been honest with himself, until now. He would have put this trip off forever, made excuses for years, because he had not really come to fulfill some bargain made long ago in the middle of the night. It was his desire to see Aimée that had driven him here.
Despite the noise downstairs, and the rank smell of the bed, Henri’s breath deepened, and his eyes dropped shut again. As he sank into sleep, he felt a sense that something devastating and irretrievable had been set off, and he tried to come back up, but it was too late. He fell heavier and faster, until, finally, he slept.
* * *
The address in Henri’s pocket brought him to a large house on Sussex Place. He’d been in England for two weeks, and only yesterday received an official invitation from Lady Arrington.
He felt incredibly nervous following the butler into the drawing room, and when he saw Aimée perched on the edge of her seat, pale and unacceptably thin, he froze in the doorway. It reminded him of the night Jeanne was born. Her eyes were flat, her skin chalky, and her lips white. She looked childlike, and somehow terribly old at the same time.
“I don’t bite,” she said, and Henri was relieved to hear a flicker of the old Aimée.
He sat across from her, wheeling the brim of his hat through his fingers and smiling stupidly.
“What brings you to London?” Aimée asked, courteous and cold, her face an eerie, emotionless mask.
“I’ve come to see my father.”
“I see.”
“Yes, well, it’s an awful business. But, I suppose I’ve put it off long enough.”
Aimée’s lips twitched, but she said nothing.
“Are you unwell?” Henri scooted to the edge of his seat, longing to reach a hand out to her.
“I’m perfectly well, thank you.”
“You’re much too thin.”
Aimée gave a sharp laugh. “The English don’t take nearly as much pleasure in food as we French do.”
“No, they certainly do not. The inn’s served pigeon pie every night this week.”
“I’m simply tired to death of meat pie. Lady Arrington’s cook uses far too much clove.”
“Why do you stay on?” Henri looked around the room. Clearly there were servants, and yet everything appeared coated in a fine layer of dust. The furnishings, the floral wallpaper and gilt mirrors were elaborate, but unsettling.
He looked at Aimée, whose gaze rested slightly above his head. She had not yet looked him in the eye.
“Last month,” she said, her attention on the far wall, “I sold a painting for four hundred pounds and in the same week sought a commission for two hundred guineas, but then lost it to Sir Millais, who was paid over one thousand for the same project, which always enrages me, the advantage men have. And yet, it is never surprising.” There was no sentiment behind her words, as if the outrage had passed and left behind a dulled complacency.
“If it’s any consolation,” Henri said, “I’ve sold nothing since you left. If it weren’t for your papa’s money, I don’t know how we’d survive. I
keep painting, but I’m as unimpressive as ever.” He propped his hat on his knee. “You’ll get more commissions. It seems as if you’re on your way with your art, and that’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Louise Jopling’s The Modern Cinderella will be showing at the Paris Exposition Universelle this summer. That is what I want,” she said, and Henri saw a flicker of life still in her, “to be wildly successful.” She looked, all of a sudden, very much like her maman. “You know,” she stared right at him now, “that first day in the cottage at Thoméry I realized that I belonged nowhere.” She flicked her hand. “I might as well stay on here. It’s no worse a place than any other.”
The parlor door swung open, and Lady Arrington stepped briskly into the room. She circled around, stealthy as a cat, and planted herself in front of Henri, looking at him with pale, watery eyes like she’d caught him in some wicked act.
“You’re early,” she said. “Was that intentional? Did you wish to find me out?”
Henri stood up, her confrontation taking him by surprise. “My deepest apologies,” he said. “I’ve never been very good at keeping time.”
Lady Arrington had an unruly cloud of white hair that Henri imagined took a great deal of effort to keep under control.
“In England,” she said, her voice raspy and aged, “we observe the habits of good society, timeliness being one of them.” She lifted her chin, exposing her skinny neck and the boned line of her jaw. She was as elegant as the house, and as cold as the iron gates Henri had passed through to get here. “Are you an Englishman or a Frenchman? Aimée seemed unclear on that point.”
“Englishman.”
“And yet you have a French surname and an atrocious accent?”
“I’ve been in France since I was a child.”
“Yes, with the Savarays, I’ve heard.” Lady Arrington looked at Aimée. “Have you shown Monsieur Savaray your work?”
With resignation, and a tinge of contempt, Aimée said, “No. Is that what you wish me to do?”
“What else did he come here for?”
“Tea. You invited him.”
“There will be no tea today.” Lady Arrington swatted her hand at them, her head bobbing on her wiry neck. “Let him view the work if that’s why he’s come. Why do you sit here wasting his time?”
Without a word, Aimée left the room. When Henri stepped into the hall she was already mounting the stairs, her dress a river of black silk rippling behind her. He took the stairs two at a time and followed her into a room with high windows that gave off a pure, natural light.
At first, Henri only noticed the painting to his right, a naked child with fat thighs and rolls of pink skin, sitting on the lap of a woman whose chemise had fallen over one shoulder, exposing her breast down to the nipple. It was when he scanned the rows of paintings lining the walls that he was hit with the full force of Aimée’s drained pallor, her vacant wandering expression, her lack of interest in food, or anything that might sustain her. The one thing he had feared surrounded him.
He was looking at canvas upon canvas of infants. They were nursing, toddling, and bathing. There were newborns in laps and babies climbing on beds. Mothers were catching them. Washing them. Wiping hair from a brow, kissing a cheek, reading a book, picking a flower. The warmth and radiance of Aimée’s longing was magnificent on canvas. It made Henri want to take her in his arms and hold her as he should have done long ago, when he’d been too afraid of what real love might do to him.
Aimée stiffened when he looked at her, warned him with a hollow stare not to come any closer. “I apologize for the tea,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry if you were expecting something.”
“No.” Henri shook his head. “You were all I was expecting, or at least hoping for. Just you.”
She winced and turned to the wall, unhooking a smock and pulling it over her shoulders.
“I was thinking”—Henri ran a hand through his hair, the idea only now forming—“that I might convince you to accompany me to my father’s. He lives a fair distance outside of London, but I was hoping not to have to face him alone.” What he could not face was leaving Aimée alone in this bleak house surrounded by these canvases, relics of what she’d lost.
“I don’t see what use I’d be.” Aimée yanked the strings of her smock and pulled them tight around her waist, looking as if she might snap in two. “If you would kindly excuse me, I have work to get back to.”
“At least allow me to see you again.”
“What for?” Keeping her back to him she moved in front of her easel, straightening her shoulders with a slight, corrective gesture. “It’s not likely we’ll resume a friendship. You’ll go back to France, and I’ll stay here. What would be the use?”
Henri hadn’t counted on this level of abject misery. Aimée was indomitable, the gatherer of a strength that he had always counted on. He thought he’d come here and see that she was at least content, consumed with her work, and getting on with things as she always had. That was what he needed so he could return to his life with Leonie, to the children, and say it had all worked out.
Aimée picked up her brush. “Leave me, please,” she said. Then, in a voice Henri had never heard before, one trembling with emotion, she whispered, “Please, Henri, I need you to go. Just go.”
Not knowing what else to do, he left her.
* * *
For hours he walked under a gray English sky, a steadfast pulse of guilt like a second set of footsteps walking beside him.
Eventually, he found himself on a narrow street lined with women, their puckered mouths painted red as roses. Skirts were swept up, legs shown. Petticoats circled smooth white calves, exposing dainty ankles tucked into soft leather boots. He leaned into one girl, lured by her fleshy arms and full bust. Her lips were moist, and her tongue tasted of cinnamon. But after a moment, he pulled away, muttered an apology, and ducked down an alley.
Somehow, he made his way back to the inn. Once in his room, he splashed ice-cold water on his face.
From the moment he had met Aimée, as a bewildered boy, she had been there for him, sensitive and rigorous in her friendship. Letting him keep his silences, his secrets, but forcing him to get on with his life. He had moved forward because of her, because she’d shown him how. In return he had given her nothing. In return he’d betrayed her.
He scrubbed a rough towel over his eyes and cheeks and hands. He was not an honorable man. An honorable man would have faced what he’d done that night with Colette. Not him; no, he’d run away. And then, after abandoning Aimée without a word, she still came after him, loyal in her friendship, loving, committed. And what did he do? He went for Leonie because it was easy. It was the easy, selfish thing to do.
Snapping the towel in the air, he walked over to the bed and dropped onto his back. Not until Aimée was right in front of him at the cottage, and he couldn’t have her, did he show her any feeling. And that was the cruelest thing of all, showing her what might have been, the possibilities that had come too late.
Now he had her daughter. What more could he possibly take?
He turned onto his side, feeling the tremendous expanse of Aimée’s grief as if it were his own.
He could not leave her here, not like this.
Chapter 27
The house in Burford was exactly as he remembered: foreboding, but steadfast, able to withstand all manner of people inside its walls.
Low in the west, a black strip of clouds curled over the horizon, and a soft rain started. It whispered around Henri like a hushed warning as he made his way to the front door of Abbington Hall.
A tall, stern-faced butler greeted him. When Henri asked to see the master of the house the butler raised a single bushy eyebrow, gave an incredulous smile, and told Henri to wait in the library.
“I’d prefer the drawing room, if it’s all the same,” Henri said.
“The library’s where we show people.” The butler strode to the door.
Henri’s chest tightened, a
nd he could feel a line of sweat forming under the band of his hat. The windows were shut up, and it smelled of dust and age.
“Sir?” Behind him, the butler stood waiting to take his hat.
Henri handed it over, and the butler left with the hat held at arm’s length, clicking the door shut behind him.
With a slow breath Henri faced the room where books lined the walls to the ceiling, surrounding him. Somewhere, he knew, on one of these shelves were the books his father had written. Henri suddenly felt as if his lungs were collapsing. In a panic he looked toward the window, reminding himself of the sweet smell of grass, the cool rain, and the earth beneath his feet. Reminding him that past the heavy front door of this house the world still existed.
Trying for slow, shallow breaths Henri attempted to scrutinize the things around him without any particular attachment: the carpet, huge, threadbare, a floral pattern circling under his muddy boot prints, stenciled wallpaper, another floral pattern, a hunting painting—dogs and men and rifles—an English landscape of no distinguishable place.
Henri hated this room. He had tried to avoid it as a child. When his father was in a good mood, he’d make Henri sit in here and listen to him reminisce about the success of his first novel and the glorious, halcyon days before his marriage. Henri’s behind would grow numb in the leather chair, and his clasped fingers would tingle with impatience. The clock would strike the dinner hour, and still his father rambled on. Henri always had the sense his father had no idea who he was talking to. But Henri preferred these outbursts to the dark days when his father shut himself in his study. Then, Henri never knew what was coming, and he had learned to be cautious, to make himself scarce.
He wondered, now, why he hadn’t been more afraid for his mother. Maybe she’d seemed safe shut up in her room. He had thought she never left the house, until one morning he woke early and saw her walking over the hill. She walked swiftly, her head high, her coat flapping. He had the frightening feeling she wasn’t coming back, and he didn’t move from the window until her small figure emerged once more in the distance. After that, he woke every morning to watch for her return. As soon as he heard the front door he’d run downstairs with a frantic, “Good morning, Mama,” holding very still as she passed, hoping for the rare pat on his head, resisting the urge to hug her when it came.
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