Tides of Honour

by Genevieve Graham

  She had come in seeking shelter, had stayed long enough to be awed by the beauty, and now she stood at the exit, cloaked in sorrow. Was it supposed to happen this way? Was she supposed to come into a place of worship and lose hope instead of gain it?

  She didn’t want to go back home. Not yet. Disappointment pressed against her chest. She’d wanted so much—expected so much from this, her first visit to a place of religion. If God was art, she accepted that he was in her soul, but she didn’t plan to come back and visit him anytime soon. The ups and downs of being in his house were too hard on her heart.

  Her hat had dripped dry along the way, and when she put it back on her head, it was cool and damp but no longer sopping wet. She buttoned up her long black coat, put her hands on the oak doors, and pushed out into the rainy day.

  All she’d ever wanted before was to be beside Danny, to laugh with him and see the love in his eyes. She’d been willing to go anywhere, do anything to be with him. What was she supposed to do now that just about everything she loved about him was gone? He rarely smiled and never laughed. Not with her, anyway. He drank. He stayed out nights with his rough friends, and even worse, he often brought them home to sleep in their tiny home. Except how could she call it a home? To Audrey’s way of thinking, a home was a place where hearts beat in unison, where weak, rattling walls could be overlooked because love kept them strong. There was no unison in their house. No harmony either. Just the day-in, day-out ache of heartbreak.

  It reminded her a little of France, of surviving her grandmère’s smothering misery. Except she’d never known love with Céleste. That made this time even worse.

  Johnny wasn’t often there, since he ran rum for days at a time, but he’d settled easily into the company Danny kept, since he was a rough sort as well. Strong like his brother, with a rich, dark laugh. But Johnny, even when he’d had too much to drink, didn’t carry a contagious sadness with him. He didn’t wear the smothering cloak of anger Danny always wore. Johnny was a comfort to her, a friend, though she couldn’t ask him for help. She’d tried once, but he’d only shrugged.

  “He has to do that on his own, Audrey,” he said. “You gotta remember that Danny’s seen and done things that don’t just go away. But he’ll come around. Best not to mess with it.”

  In Jeddore, she’d sometimes lain in bed, waiting for the morning sun to light their room so she could watch him sleep. She knew the moment he awoke, knew he was sensitive to her own breathing patterns. His eyes would open first, and if it was a particularly lucky day, he was on his side and they opened to her. Before either of them said a word, it was understood and mutual: I love you. You are my world.

  Sometimes, lately, he wasn’t even there in the morning. He passed out in the living room with his friends or fell asleep with his head on the kitchen table, snoring loudly with the effects of too much rum.

  Oh, she wanted to understand. She wanted so badly to be the answer he sought, the comfort he so obviously needed, but he turned away from everything she offered. The war had been planted deep in Danny’s mind. Its roots had twisted and spread voraciously, unearthing more terrifying, loathsome memories. From those roots grew leeching vines of self-hate and self-pity which had bloomed into an armour so thick, he could no longer see the sky. And all of it was fortified by the unavoidable sight of his stump.

  What would have happened if he’d come home in one piece? Would he still have gotten caught up in this vortex, left her to watch helplessly from the side?

  She’d watched other women cope with their husbands’ depression. Some had joined their partners in the dark, drinking and fading into the broken, mouldy shadows of Richmond. Some peered nervously from behind cracked-open doors, their eyes swollen from tears, even blackened by fists. What she hadn’t seen was a woman who stood up for herself, who dared to make something of her life even if her husband had quit on his own.

  She couldn’t talk reason to Danny anymore. Couldn’t make him see. Any attempts to do that had been cut short, ending with his storming from the house without a response. He seemed bent on keeping to this path, too stubborn, too shackled by self-­defeating pride to reach for the lifeline she threw time and time again.

  If she couldn’t save him, she still had to save herself. As much as she loved him, and as much as she knew that deep down he still loved her, it appeared she’d have to do this on her own. Audrey was still young, and she had no intentions of allowing herself to ease into the acceptance of her life as it was now. She would not skulk in the dark, hiding from his callous words, his accusatory glares. While every nerve in her ached for the solid anchor of his arms wrapped around her, she would not beg.

  Growing up, she’d lived from place to place, moment to moment. She’d never had any real, defined dreams for her future—­other than moving to Canada and marrying Danny—but it made no sense that she shouldn’t have any. The world was changing. She’d learned that from the women in London, and though Halifax was smaller, she didn’t believe it was any less progressive. She would find proof, and she would do something about it.

  Antoine’s wife, one of the few women she’d met, would be no help in that regard. She was the perfect example of someone Audrey didn’t want to be: weighted down by all her children, satisfied with a vague belief that her job in life was complete. The woman sat around with nothing but complaints, and Audrey had never seen her with anyone outside of the house.

  Her husband, however, had vast connections. He was enthusiastic, intelligent, and innovative. He was charming and handsome and the centre of the city, as far as she could tell. She liked that Antoine had asked her to bring samples of her work before he asked her to paint his family. It was professional, and it made sense for a man who was so good in business to ask for references of a sort.

  It seemed like another lifetime, but only a few weeks had passed since Danny had carried her things, then left her at the ornately carved front door. She had stepped inside the Antoines’ grand house on a blast of cold November wind and smiled with apology as the maid took her coat. Everything about the house, from the outside in, seemed extravagant and thrilling, leaving her searching for words. She gripped the wooden handle of her bag hard; the artist in her ached to get it all down on paper.

  “This way, please,” the maid said in a soft French accent, and she led Audrey to the front sitting room.

  A large woman was there already, sitting like an overgrown toad on a sturdy chair, staring at Audrey through belligerent eyes.

  The little maid introduced the two. “Madame Antoine, may I present Madame Audrey Baker, the artist.”

  The toad blinked, attempted a smile. “Charmed. Lily, get Monsieur Antoine.”

  “Of course, madame.”

  Audrey and her hostess regarded each other in silence, and Audrey fought the impulse to run. Under the weight of the woman’s stare she felt completely out of place. She stood before a woman draped in jewels, surrounded by lush furniture and elaborate trimmings, witnessing a manifestation of wealth she’d never imagined.

  Madame Antoine’s flat little eyes examined her, blinking up from under her thin-plucked brows. “Do sit. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

  Four chairs and one central table took up most of the room. “I’m so sorry. Anywhere in particular?” The woman shook her head and the stack of curls pulled to the top of her head bobbed. Audrey took the chair farthest from her, then sat straight and prayed the master of the house would be a little less intimidating. She doubted it, though.

  “So you paint.”

  The woman’s rhetorical question was unexpected. “Um, yes, madame. I do my best.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “England. I lived a while in France, then I came across and have been living in East Jeddore.”

  Madame Antoine’s face was blank. “Where?”

  “East Jeddore? On the Eastern Shore.”

  The ol
der woman stared at her a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she shrugged. “One of those little fishing villages, I expect. And you have painted for whom in the past?”

  Audrey was so nervous, she decided to overlook the slight. “Well, mostly I paint for my own pleasure, but I have painted for a few families near my husband’s home.” She smiled sweetly, hoping to ease the tension. “I was very fortunate to be hired by Madame Eleanor Hartlin.”

  “Hartlin?” She sniffed. “I don’t know the name. Should I know her?”

  Audrey was struck by an odd sense of pity for the woman and her baseless belief in her superiority. To her, Audrey was nothing, as was everyone else not fortunate enough to be in her husband’s circle. “I wouldn’t think so, madame. She is quite an elderly woman but an impressive one nonetheless. She lives in Hartlin Settlement—”

  “There’s a settlement of Hartlins?” She rolled her eyes. “No, dear. What I wanted to know was if you’d ever painted for anyone, you know, from here.”

  “No, mon coeur. Madame Baker has only just moved to Halifax.” Mr. Antoine breezed into the room and offered a hand to Audrey. He never even glanced at his wife. Audrey stood, but he waved her back down. “Oh no, please. It is an inhospitable day out of doors, and you must make yourself comfortable now. Madame Baker, I am absolument charmed to see you again.”

  Lily appeared with tea, and the little maid stood patiently by while everyone poured a cup. Audrey concentrated on keeping the delicate china safe. She brought her lips to the rim but pulled away from the heat.

  “This is lovely,” she said through the steam. “Thank you.”

  Pierre Antoine beamed at her. “Thank you for coming to see us. Especially in this weather.” He sipped his tea without seeming to notice its dangerous temperature. “Now,” he continued, “I hope you don’t mind my getting right to business.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “As I mentioned before, my dear wife and I are interested in having our family’s portrait done by a professional, and I have been told you have quite a gift.”

  “That’s very kind, sir.”

  “Not at all, not at all.” His eyes went to the bag at her feet. “Are those the samples of your work I requested?”

  “They are. I hope this is what you were imagining. I’m afraid I don’t have a large collection. Most of what I’ve painted recently covers my mother-in-law’s walls,” she said, smiling shyly as she reached for the bag. She’d brought a few paintings she’d done of Danny and one of his mother, then she pulled out some pencil sketches of both landscapes and people.

  “Ah. Your husband,” he said, holding the pictures in front of him. He moved to show his wife, but she only flicked an eyebrow and looked uninterested. Pierre Antoine didn’t appear to notice her reaction. His eyes were fixed on Danny’s likeness. “Quite a handsome man. And your portrait reflects his character as well.”

  That was an odd comment, she thought. “You’ve heard something of my husband, sir?”

  Pierre Antoine’s eyes twinkled. “But of course. You know, a man such as myself has spies everywhere.” He winked, but Audrey wasn’t sure how to take his statement. How could he know Danny’s character? He chuckled. “Not to worry, ma chère. I do not speak of espionage. All I know is that he is a hard worker who was injured in the war. And now, well, now I know he has a talented and most beautiful wife.”

  His wife sighed with ennui and glanced over one shoulder, away from them both.

  Audrey blushed but didn’t look away. “Thank you, sir.”

  He watched her eyes for what felt like a moment too long, and she shifted uncomfortably. He nodded. “Bien. I have decided. You will paint our family’s portrait. Can you start today?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Pierre Antoine was called away from their portrait sitting more than once since he was needed for some sort of business, but he always returned with a smile and encouraged Audrey to continue. It took her weeks to complete the portrait, and though she was exhausted by it, she enjoyed the process so much she almost wished it could have gone on longer. Antoine sang her praises with the melodic enthusiasm of a Frenchman, and when she suggested it was time for her to move on, he contracted her to do individual portraits as well, offering more money than she ever could have expected.

  “This way,” he explained, “when I am dead, they will not all have to fight over this one painting, n’est-ce pas?”

  Other than when she sat for the portraits, Madame Antoine made herself scarce. When Audrey asked, he waved his hand, dismissing the question. “She is unwell” or “She needs quiet for her delicate condition” were his common replies, and eventually Audrey stopped asking. She preferred it this way anyway. Pierre Antoine had become a good friend, talking with her about people he knew, asking about her own story. They were on a first-name basis. He said she was a breath of fresh air, that her conversation helped him forget the day-to-day troubles of business. She had come to trust him, even opened up one time and mentioned that Danny was having difficulties adjusting to city life, which was taking its toll on her as well. When he looked concerned, she quickly assured him Danny was well enough and healthy, always able to work hard, because she knew Pierre was the real boss of the docks. One word from him and Danny could lose his job. That would destroy everything.

  After her portrait of the family had been hung on a prominent wall of their living room, he invited her to sit in one of the large armchairs and quietly admire it with him. She knew every brushstroke, every shade of colour from memory, but she tried to see it from his perspective, wanting to understand what he saw.

  “I very much admire your talent and skills, Audrey. You are so young, and yet your artwork seems somehow wiser than is possible for your years. It is a . . .” He shook his head. “Je ne sais quoi. I do not understand the craft, but I do appreciate art when it is done well.” He sat back and crossed his legs, smiling with fascination at her. “You must have made your teachers proud.”

  She had to laugh. She’d become entirely comfortable around him by this point, even looked forward to the times when he came and sat behind her, watching her paint. “Oh, no. I had no teachers.”

  “But this is amazing!” He shook his head and stared again at the painting. “You are superbe, ma chère! Incroyable.”

  Her cheeks bloomed. She couldn’t deny that his compliments and his obvious interest in her work made her feel good. He was rich, he was handsome, and he was probably about ten years her senior. When she left his house every day and went back to Richmond, she faced quiet evenings with a man who reacted entirely the opposite way around her. Danny was always tired, always morose. Lately he smelled more of alcohol than he did of his own scent, and she couldn’t remember the last time he’d complimented her. When had they last made love?

  Pierre leaned forward and gently rubbed his handkerchief across her cheek, then showed her the evidence: a smear of cadmium lemon paint left behind. She blushed. “I must be a mess,” she said, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

  He chuckled fondly and tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket, then set his hand on the arm of her chair. “A party. I shall throw a dinner party this coming Saturday night, which is . . .” He frowned, thinking. “Ah, oui. The second of December. It will be in honour of you, ma chère, and everyone will come to see ma petite artiste. They will see what you have created, and they will all hire you to paint for them. This is a wonderful idea, yes?”

  She stared at him, struck dumb. It was something she’d never imagined, and the idea was terrifying in the most exhilarating way.

  “You are teasing,” she scolded.

  “I am not! Twenty, maybe twenty-five people will come and they will all fall in love with you.” His eyes softened, and his hand slid from the chair’s arm. It settled on top of her hand, warm and confident. “How could they not?”

  He waited expectantly, eyes shining. The gentle p
ressure of his hand on hers set her heart racing, stirring up a confusing mixture of giddiness and guilt. A party for her? When she thought back on her life, she couldn’t remember anyone ever doing something like this, something so completely on her behalf. Oh, Danny was full of compliments for her—or at least he had been until recently—­and she knew he loved her. Danny had always praised her artwork, made frames, encouraged her. He’d viewed painting as something she did for fun—which also happened to bring in an unexpected income when they needed it.

  What he didn’t understand was that painting wasn’t simply for fun. When Audrey disappeared into the art, something within her was freed. All her life, when she’d needed to express herself, she’d run to her paints. What Pierre was suggesting with this party was saying so much more in her eyes. For Pierre to even think of organizing something so grand, he must somehow understand how vital the act of painting was to her. He was honouring her, opening a window and encouraging her to grow wings, letting her fly beyond what she’d known before.

  Of course, not only had Pierre given her a level of respect she hadn’t anticipated, with this party he would basically guarantee her future in painting by inviting his friends to meet her. What an amazing friend she’d found in Pierre.

  He was grinning to himself, doing calculations. “Oh yes,” he said. “I know exactly who would appreciate such a fine evening. It will be all the talk!”

  Her whole body tingled with pleasure at the thought. People coming in their fancy clothes, wearing expensive jewellery, seeing her as some kind of special artist? She hadn’t even known it had been a dream of hers until this moment, when it was being offered to her on a silver platter. She opened her mouth to agree, then stopped herself, suddenly mortified.

  She had absolutely nothing to wear to an event such as he was planning. Even her wedding dress had been worn down to a sad grey, and she had no baubles with which to dress it up. And what of Danny? What would he wear?