Between Two Seas

by Marie-Louise Jensen

‘So be it. I shall miss you.’

  ‘Not for long, I don’t suppose,’ I say, and he laughs again, with genuine amusement this time. ‘There’s another thing,’ I say boldly. ‘When will I be paid for the two months I’ve worked?’

  Perroy glances at me briefly, and then looks away. ‘I will send for you tomorrow morning and settle with you. Will that be satisfactory?’

  I curtsey. ‘Merci.’ I turn to leave. I’m almost at the door when he speaks again.

  ‘Marianne? I have a word of warning for you.’

  ‘What kind of a warning?’ I ask in surprise.

  ‘Not everyone in this town you love so much wishes you well,’ he says quietly. He looks quite serious now. The satirical laughter is absent from his face for once. ‘You might like to know that I’ve come into some money. Enough to pay my hotel bill, my journey, and more.’

  ‘You sold a painting? You told me.’ I can’t imagine what this has to do with me.

  ‘Not at all. Well, yes, that was the bargain for the world to see. But my painting was not worth so much. No, ma petite, I was offered a large sum of money for my painting, and in return, I was to remove you from Skagen. To take you far away. And keep you away.’

  There’s a singing in my ears. I stare at him in shock and dismay.

  ‘Who would do such a thing?’ I hear myself say, but even as I speak, I know who it was. I even saw the transaction taking place. ‘It was Christensen,’ I say, and my voice sounds very far away. ‘Why?’

  ‘I know nothing of why.’

  ‘And that’s what you were going to do?’ I ask, horrified.

  He shrugs. ‘Of course.’

  I feel faint with shock. The floor isn’t entirely steady under my feet.

  ‘So why are you telling me?’ I ask.

  Another shrug and a grimace.

  ‘Maybe I have a soft spot for you after all,’ he murmurs. ‘Maybe I’m pleased you’re too wise to come.’

  ‘And will you give the money back?’ I ask, stupidly. My mind seems to be working very slowly. Perroy shakes with silent laughter. His serious look has vanished, and his laughter is mocking me again.

  ‘Non, ma innocente! What is he going to do about it? Set the police on my tail for failing to kidnap you? No. The wolf has been fleeced, and I find it fort amusante!’

  I frown at him. I’ve never found anything less funny in my life. My own uncle wants to be rid of me. So urgently that he will pay someone to remove me. And who’s to say the Perroys would have kept me with them once we were away from here? Anything might have happened to me.

  ‘So was it all a lie, then?’ I ask faintly. ‘You told me that I’m good at painting. Was it just part of this scheme?’ I can hardly bear to hear the answer. But to my relief, he shakes his head.

  ‘I tell you truly, Marianne, that you are a more gifted painter than I. I do not like to admit it, but it is true. It was a pleasure, teaching you.’

  I feel unaccountably tearful suddenly. ‘Thank you,’ I say finally. ‘Thank you for everything. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Perroy starts to laugh again. ‘I wish I could see Christensen’s face when he finds us gone and you still here,’ he says. He is still laughing softly to himself as I leave the room and make my way up the stairs to bed.

  When I go into Madame’s room in the morning, it’s empty. The bed hasn’t been slept in, and her hairbrushes and perfumes are gone from the dressing table. In three swift strides, I cross the room and pull open the wardrobe. Only two dresses are hanging there. Every other item of clothing is gone. In a panic, I turn and run down to the kitchen to find Fru Brøndum.

  ‘So, Marianne,’ says Fru Brøndum, coming back into the office where I’ve been nervously awaiting her. ‘It seems that you’re right. As far as I can discover, Monsieur Perroy and his wife left in the early hours of the morning in a cart they hired in Vesterby. They will have boarded the early morning train from Frederikshavn by now. Are you telling me you knew nothing of their plans to leave last night?’

  ‘Friday. They told me Friday. He said he had enough money to pay his bills. I know he had, I saw it.’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t paid us for the last month, and he hasn’t paid you at all, you tell me. I’d be surprised if he hasn’t left other debts in the town besides. But he has left one picture and his painting tools and his wife has left two dresses.’

  She pauses and smiles at me. Her rather severe face relaxes and looks kind.

  ‘Now it seems to me that you can least afford the loss. You need something by way of payment. Would you like the dresses? They look good quality and might sell well.’

  I catch my breath, knowing what I’d like to ask. I wonder if I dare. It’s generous of her to consider me at all.

  ‘If it’s agreeable to you,’ I venture, ‘I should prefer the painting things instead.’

  She looks taken aback. ‘Well yes, if you like, but I should say they’re worth far less.’

  ‘Not to me,’ I assure her.

  ‘Very well, that’s settled then. Now, as to your position here. We’re still busy, so I can offer you lodging and a small wage until the end of July, possibly a little longer. It would be for general duties—kitchen work, cleaning, whatever needs doing. Will that suit you?’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, touched and relieved. ‘Thank you very much indeed. You’re very kind.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  It’s hot and sticky in church today. I can feel the perspiration trickling down my back and my head is aching. Next to me, Hannah is trying to fan herself with her handkerchief. The sermon seems to be taking forever. I glance at Hannah and she grimaces at me.

  From where I’m sitting, I can see the back of Peter’s head, his fair hair neatly combed. I gaze at him longingly, thinking of the smiles we used to exchange, the walks home after church. I despise myself for my weakness, but I long to be friends again. I ache to feel the touch of his hand on mine, to see his eyes light up in laughter. I can’t help wondering if he too is unhappy, or whether he has forgotten me already.

  On the way out, we gulp at the air, expecting it to be cooler, but even outdoors it’s sultry and humid. I feel a cool hand on my arm and turn around to see Anna Ancher smiling at me. Glad to see a friendly face, I smile back.

  ‘I hear you’ve been learning to paint,’ she says. I feel the familiar mixture of anger and shame rush over me. My face must cloud over, because an amused look crosses her face.

  ‘I’m not interested in gossip,’ she says calmly. ‘Just in painting. I had my first lessons from a visiting artist too, you know. Karl Madsen taught me and my cousins. A more trustworthy teacher than Perroy turned out to be.

  ‘I’ve seen your sketchbook, Marianne. I was very interested. I wanted to mention to you that I and two of my friends are planning to start a small school for women to learn painting. So few people will teach women, you see. That makes it almost impossible for them to gain entry to the Academy or any other art school. So if you would like to call round one day soon I’d very much like to talk to you further about this.’

  ‘Thank you, I will,’ I answer warmly. ‘I’d be delighted to in fact.’ I’m so excited it’s hard not to shout for joy.

  ‘That’s settled then,’ says Anna Ancher with a smile. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you soon.’

  She moves on past us and leaves the church.

  ‘Did you hear?’ I breathe to Hannah. We only have time to exchange gleeful looks, before the minister, Andreas de Place, stops us. He’s standing just outside the church greeting as many of his parishioners as he can.

  ‘How do you do?’ he asks, shaking us by the hand. ‘Very hot today, very hot indeed. We sometimes get this weather towards the end of July. There’s a thunderstorm on its way, mark my words.’

  We barely have time to nod and smile at him before he’s talking again: ‘Of course, it will be much better for us once the church has been extended. You know about our plans, of course? Yes, indeed, next year we hope. The church is o
verflowing, especially with all the summer visitors. Most gratifying!’

  De Place beams at us as though he’s personally to be congratulated on the growing popularity of the town. ‘Ah! Hr Christensen, a hot morning, is it not? As I was just observing to these young ladies.’

  I turn and see Christensen just behind us. He avoids looking at me, merely stepping past me to greet the minister. Mikkel, standing behind his father, manages to send me a swift apologetic glance. His mother glares at me. I meet her eyes straight on, meeting her dislike with my own. Indignantly, she gathers her skirts and sweeps past me. I smile to myself as they all walk away.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hannah asks in a quiet voice. She sounds hurt. ‘Why did Mikkel ignore us? We haven’t done anything wrong, have we?’ I sigh and tuck my hand in her arm.

  ‘No, Hannah. It’s because of his father. It’s he who doesn’t want Mikkel to be friends with me. I don’t think you have anything to do with it.’

  ‘What does he have against you?’ Hannah sounds bewildered. I haven’t told her everything that Perroy told me the night he left. ‘Is it those stupid rumours about Monsieur?’

  ‘No, it started before that. Soon after I arrived here. I can’t explain it. Perhaps he plans a wealthy marriage for Mikkel and is terrified he’ll fall in love with a penniless nobody like me.’ I try to speak lightly, but Hannah is very quiet. Perhaps she’s thinking that she, too, is almost penniless. Fatherless too. Whereas Christensen owns not only his own house and boat, but also several other properties in the town. And it’s common knowledge he married for money.

  ‘Did you think he looked well?’ Hannah asks after a while.

  ‘Who? Christensen?’

  ‘No, silly. Mikkel. I thought he looked pale and ill.’

  ‘Living with that father is enough to make anyone ill,’ I remark bitterly. ‘Would you like to catch up with them and see if we can speak to Mikkel alone?’

  ‘I can’t. I promised to hurry straight back after church.’ Hannah sounds wistful. It’s not our Sunday off, we both have to work.

  ‘I’ll go then. If I run, I can be back in a few minutes. No one will miss me.’

  ‘Give him my … best wishes,’ says Hannah.

  I leave the sand street and weave round on small paths behind the dunes and houses until I judge I’ve overtaken them. Then I cut back through to the street, hiding out of sight behind a shop. I wait, out of breath, for Mikkel to appear. It’s only a moment until his parents march past, arm in arm, stiffly upright in their Sunday best. Mikkel’s brother and sisters are with them. Mikkel has dropped a few paces behind, moodily kicking up sand as he walks. I step forward and wave to him as he passes. I don’t dare call to him in case his parents hear.

  He notices me at once and his face lights up. Then he nods to his parents with a frown and walks on past. What now? Do I wait? I decide to give him a few minutes.

  Sure enough, I soon hear running footsteps in the sand and Mikkel comes tearing around the corner.

  ‘I told them I had to call on my friend Carsten,’ he says softly. ‘Where’s Hannah?’

  ‘She has to work. So do I, but I wanted a word with you. Are you all right? Hannah is worried about you. She says you look ill.’

  Even as I say this, I realize it’s true. Mikkel’s face is pale and drawn, and there’s a look of deep unhappiness in his eyes.

  ‘Marianne, I can’t be seen with you. Something has made my father absolutely furious. He’s forbidden me to ever speak to you again. He’s been in such a rage the last few weeks, I don’t know why.’

  I could tell him why, but I don’t. He looks anguished, and I’m sure there’s more.

  ‘Tell me everything,’ I invite him.

  ‘I’m forbidden to continue my studies with Mogens, the schoolteacher. You know he was still coaching me. I told you what my dream was. It’s over. My father burned my books. From now on I’m to concentrate on fishing and helping him in his other businesses. I can’t bear it, Marianne.’ Mikkel’s voice breaks and he turns away, angrily brushing his hand over his eyes. I put my arms around him and hug him. I don’t know what else to do.

  I’m up to my elbows in brown soap and water for the next few hours, washing floors. The humidity grows and the temperature soars. My anger keeps pace with it. By mid afternoon, I can scarcely breathe, and I don’t know whether it’s the weather or my own rage. I’m scrubbing at a particularly stubborn piece of dirt when it becomes clear to me what I must do. Something I should have done months ago. I wipe my wet hands on my apron and go and seek Fru Brøndum.

  ‘I’m sorry to ask,’ I say, ‘but would it be possible to have an hour off work? There’s something I urgently need to do. Of course I’ll make up the time later.’

  Fru Brøndum is covered in flour, baking almond cakes for tea. I’ve never known anyone who works as hard as she does. She looks surprised, even disapproving for a moment, but then, unexpectedly she nods.

  ‘You’re a hard worker, Marianne. I trust you to make up the time,’ she says. Rare praise. I’m pleased.

  I change as quickly as possible into my best dress, and brush my hair. Then I take my mother’s letter to Lars Christensen out of my trunk. I only have a short distance to walk, no time for my courage to fail. It’s not until I’m knocking on the door of Mikkel’s house that it deserts me. Mikkel’s mother answers the door. She stares at me, a look of incredulous outrage on her face.

  ‘I wish to speak to Hr Christensen,’ I say, and my voice shakes only a little. She gasps.

  ‘Impertinence!’ she exclaims. I wonder what her husband has said to her about me. She begins to close the door, but my anger flares up again, and I put my foot against it and push my way into the house. I’m not as tall as Fru Christensen, but I draw myself up to my full height.

  ‘I insist on speaking to your husband,’ I say loudly. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Not for you he isn’t!’ Fru Christensen tells me haughtily.

  As I hoped, the sound of our voices carries, and Christensen himself appears.

  ‘What’s going on?’ He gives me a withering look, but there is a flash of something else behind the look that makes me pause momentarily. It looked almost like fear.

  ‘I’ll thank you not to come making a scene in my home,’ Christensen says. His words are cold and biting.

  ‘I want to speak to you. Alone. At once.’ I don’t know where I’m taking the courage from to speak to him so boldly, but it works. He hesitates only a moment before pulling his watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulting it.

  ‘I can give you five minutes of my time,’ he says, and snaps his watch shut. He then leads the way through the sitting room, where Mikkel and his brother and sisters are sitting. Mikkel has a copy of the Bible open in his hands, but he’s not reading. He sends me a look of pure horror when he sees me. I shake my head at him very slightly as I follow his father through into another room. It has a bed, but is obviously mainly used as an office. There’s a large desk strewn with papers. Christensen sits down stiffly in his chair at the desk. He doesn’t offer me a seat, so I’m forced to stand before him. I see him glance at the letter in my hand and I put my hand out of sight behind my back.

  ‘Well?’ he asks.

  I can feel hatred and anger churning inside me. I make an effort to master it, to speak calmly, but I don’t succeed. I’ve been rehearsing what to say to him all afternoon, but now the words desert me. After a moment’s painful silence, I end up blurting out: ‘Why do you hate me so?’

  Even in my own ears it sounds childish and petulant.

  Christensen observes me narrowly before replying. ‘You are mistaken,’ he says heavily. ‘I don’t know you.’ His voice hardens as he continues: ‘But it is quite natural that I should object to a Frenchman’s whore as company for my son.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ I cry passionately.

  Christensen looks at me almost triumphantly, and I sense that I won’t get anywhere with anger and indignation. I need to be as cool as
he is. I clench my trembling hands into fists and try to bring my temper under control.

  ‘Do you believe all the gossip you hear?’ I ask with a creditable attempt at calm. I force myself to look at him. ‘No. In fact, I expect you helped make those stories up.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ he snaps dismissively, but I can see a slight flush under his tan, and I wonder if I’ve hit home. He gets up and walks to the window and back. Then he leans on his desk watching me.

  We both stand in silence for a moment, and I try to find the words to say what I really came to say. And I pray that I’m doing the right thing. In the end I come straight out with it: ‘I think we both know the truth about my parentage,’ I say.

  Christensen sits down abruptly in his chair. He’s gone as white as a sheet.

  ‘You know who I am, don’t you?’ I ask. ‘You don’t dislike me because of any connection I had with Perroy. It started long before that. As soon as I arrived in Skagen. You were shocked at the very sight of me. I suppose your brother must have … ’

  ‘My brother?’ Christensen gasps. He clutches the edge of the desk and leans forward, a look of painful intensity on his face. ‘What do you know of my brother?’

  ‘That he was my father,’ I say, and I’m surprised how calmly I’m managing to speak. This feels unreal, like a dream. The truth is out. There’s no going back. ‘Which makes me your niece, doesn’t it? Why would you hate your niece, Hr Christensen? Hate her so much that you would pay someone as unreliable as Perroy to take her off to Paris?’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ Christensen gasps. ‘You can’t prove it.’ His eyes dart about unsteadily.

  I shrug. I can’t prove it, but I don’t need to. We both know.

  ‘I can prove I’m who I say I am,’ I tell him. I produce my mother’s letter from behind my back and lay it on the desk in front of him. ‘This is a letter my mother wrote to your brother before she died,’ I explain. ‘I don’t know what it says. You’ll see it’s still sealed.’

  Christensen stares at the letter without touching it. He looks almost afraid of it. I see a muscle below his right eye twitch. I still don’t know how much he knows.