He did several more sketches of her, each more complete than the last. “I don't think you shall ever do the actual painting,” she would declare as they walked back to the house after another session.
“I want it to be exactly right,” was all he ever replied. Though she still didn’t know quite why he wanted to paint her, she was relieved by his insistence upon remaining close by, and glad of his help with the household tasks, for as the days passed, she found herself able to do less and less. She tired more easily, her back ached continually, and she seemed to always be dropping things. She also became more absentminded, frequently walking into a room and forgetting why she was there. One evening in mid-August she found herself in the library, contemplating just such a predicament.
“Now why did I come in here?” she muttered, looking around the room with vexation, trying to recall her reason for being there. She was just about to give up and leave the room, when the low murmur of voices speaking in French floated up to her through the open window.
“What if he sees us?”
“We run, Pierre, as fast as we can.”
The voices of these unexpected visitors had Tess walking over to the window. She leaned out and found two boys about ten years of age crouching directly below, hidden from any view but hers by the shrubbery surrounding them and the shadows of twilight. She watched as one of the boys lifted his head above the bush and took a furtive look around the courtyard.
“I don't see him.”
“Maybe we should go back, Jean-Paul. We've made it to the house. Won't that be enough?”
“The dare was to go inside,” the boy called Jean-Paul pointed out. “We've got to get in somehow.”
Tess listened to the flow of their words in puzzlement, wondering if she had perhaps misunderstood the words of their Provençal dialect. What was the significance of a dare like this one? Surely, anyone who wanted to see Alexandre could just come to the door.
“I don't like this,” the boy called Pierre mumbled. “What if it's true what they say about him?”
Jean-Paul muttered something in reply Tess didn’t quite hear and took another look around. “I don't think he's here. C'mon.”
He started to move, but Pierre grabbed his shirt. “What if he catches us?”
“He won't.”
“Jean-Paul, I’m scared. If Papa finds out, he’ll give us the willow switch, I know it.”
“Don’t be such a baby.” Jean-Paul moved out from behind the shrubbery and Tess walked to the opposite window, watching as the two boys below move furtively toward the door to the kitchen. A dare? Why would they be frightened of coming to see Alexandre? And why should their papa beat them for it?
She leaned further out the window as Jean-Paul started to open the kitchen door, but a sudden cry from Pierre stopped him. Both boys whirled around to stare across the courtyard, and Tess looked up, all three of them watching as Alexandre entered the courtyard.
“There he is!”
“Run, Pierre! Run!”
With several whoops of terror, the boys ran toward the far end of the courtyard, scrambling over the stones of the tumble-down wall and racing away across the meadow as fast as their legs could carry them.
Still confused, Tess returned her gaze to Alexandre, who was staring after the two boys. His face was devoid of expression, and yet somehow, in the very blankness of it was pain that tore at her own heart.
Within her, the baby suddenly kicked, but Tess was too preoccupied with the scene below to savor the moment as she usually did. She pressed a hand to her mouth, watching in dismay as Alexandre sank onto a stone bench and slowly lowered his head into his hands.
The move galvanized her into action, and she went down to the courtyard. She didn't know why the two boys afraid of him, but at this moment, she didn't care. All she cared about was that their fear had brought a terrible expression to his face, and though she had no idea what she could say or what she could do, she had to do something.
She felt the baby kick again, thumping against her ribs as she walked toward Alexandre. He heard her footsteps on the loose stones and gravel, and he looked up as she approached. He sat up with a stiff, abrupt movement and turned his face away, pretending vast interest in a nearby lavender bush.
She halted beside where he sat and reached down to take up his hand. Without speaking, placed it at the top of her abdomen, right where the baby was kicking.
“Isn't it wonderful,” she said, spreading her hand over his and looking down at his lowered head.
The baby landed a powerful jab at her ribs and Tess drew in a sharp breath, but she was smiling when Alexandre lifted his head to look up at her, because the sadness was gone from his features and surprised awe had taken its place. They remained there for a long time, motionless as the shadows of night darkened the courtyard and the stars came out.
***
That night Tess found it difficult to sleep. Once those few intimate moments in the courtyard were over and both of them had retired for the night, Tess couldn’t help envisioning the incident with the two boys, and she couldn't stop wondering why they seemed terrified of Alexandre. She had the sick feeling whatever the reason, it was the same one that impelled him to isolate himself from the outside world.
Tess rolled onto her opposite side, punched her pillow, and closed her eyes, and her wayward thoughts moved on to another mystery. Who was the woman in the portrait?
After what seemed an eternity of these useless contemplations, Tess gave up trying to sleep and rose from the bed, but her mind did not stop asking questions. Who wore this? she wondered as she slipped a wrapper over her night dress.
A pregnant woman, to be sure, and probably Alexandre’s wife. Tess fingered the generous folds of delicate material thoughtfully. If that were true, what had happened to her? What had happened to their child?
She walked to the open window and stared out at the fat yellow moon that seemed to float in a black velvet sky, rubbing her hand over her abdomen. There were more important things to think about right now than Alexandre's past, she acknowledged with a sigh. What she ought to be thinking about was her own future and that of her own child.
She wanted to stay here. She wanted to continue keeping house for Alexandre, and she wanted raise her baby here. Not because she had nowhere else to go, and not because she was trying to hide, but because Alexandre was here, and he would be wonderful with the baby. A bit overprotective perhaps, especially if the child were a girl, but—
She stopped, suddenly realizing that what she was doing was building fairy-tale castles, and she reminded herself that Alexandre had said nothing about her staying here permanently. Why would he want to take on the responsibility of another man's child? He had seemed content with his solitude, so why would he allow Tess and her baby to stay?
Suddenly the summer breeze floating in from the sea seemed cold, and she stepped away from the window. She had to talk with him about the baby, find out exactly what her position would be after the child was born. And she had to begin preparing for the actual birth as well. Arrangements had to be made.
She would need a midwife. Tess bit her lip worriedly at that thought, for hadn't really thought about it before. If she arranged for a midwife, the woman would know about her, and in that case, she could be found.
That would only matter if the authorities were looking for her, and she didn’t know that they were. She took several deep breaths, forcing down her sudden panic. It had been five months since she'd fled England. If the Crown was searching for her with any diligence, wouldn't they have found her by now? Perhaps she was safe.
And it didn’t matter anyway. She had to have a midwife. And there were other things she needed as well. She had waited far too long already to begin preparing.
Tess went downstairs, moving carefully in the dark. In the kitchen, she lit a candle from the banked coals in the stove, then went in search of notepaper, quill, and ink, and she sat down at the table and made a list of everything she needed
to have for the baby. For some reason, pregnancy was making her so absent-minded, and if she didn’t write these things down, she’d forget, and she couldn’t run the risk of not having the necessary items when the time came.
Once she had finished, she lifted the paper, blowing on it to dry the ink, and scanned the list, and as she did so, she realized what she needed most was not written down. She needed Alexandre. She needed his support and his help. He would have to make the arrangements, for she dared not go to the village herself. He’d want to know why she didn’t simply visit the midwife herself, and she’d have to think up a plausible reason for that. And there was the money to consider. She had a mere five francs, probably not be enough to buy the midwife’s services and ensure her discretion, so Alexandre would have to provide the remaining coin required. She’d insist upon having it taken out of her future wages, of course, but she also knew there might not be any future wages. Alexandre might not let her stay.
Tess tried to reassure herself that everything was going to be all right, but it was still a long time before she tucked away her list, blew out the candle and went to bed—even longer before she finally drifted off into a troubled sleep.
***
“I am going to the village today,” Alexandre told her the next morning after the chores were done. “Is there anything you need?”
It was a perfunctory question, for she never asked him to bring her anything, but to his surprise, her answer this time was different.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I need several things. And while we are on the subject—” She broke off, setting her milk pail on the kitchen table and pulling out one of the chairs from beneath the table. “Could we sit down? I would like to talk with you about something. It’s important.”
Alexandre knew she'd seen what had happened the evening before, for he’d seen her at the library window. Did she intend to ask him why they had run away in fear as he'd approached? And what on earth would he tell her if she did ask?
He sat down opposite her and she pulled a folded sheet of notepaper from her skirt pocket. “These are the things I need for the baby,” she said and set the folded sheet on the table. “If you could obtain them for me when you go to the village today, I would appreciate it. And—” She paused to take a deep breath. “I shall need you to arrange for a midwife.”
“Now?” He felt a hint of panic. “Tess, you’re not having the baby now?”
“No, no. I think it’s a month or two away, at least, but it could be sooner, so I need you to talk to the midwife now, let her know I will be needing her when the time comes.”
Him? Go to old Françoise and arrange for her to come to his home and deliver a baby? She wouldn't come, not after Anne-Marie. She’d spit in his face. “Why can’t you go to her?” he asked, desperate. “Why can’t you make these arrangements yourself?”
“I just can’t.” She looked at him with those wide green eyes, and there was a plea in their depths. “Walking tires me so easily nowadays. And besides, I need to be as discreet as possible. I am a stranger here, and walking through your village in my condition would cause talk. People would learn I have no man with me, they would realize I am not married—” Her cheeks grew pink. “I know the midwife will want to consult with me beforehand, but she is no doubt accustomed to exercising discretion in such matters. So if you could ask her to come here, that would be best. I realize the midwife might think the child is yours—” She stopped again, her cheeks growing pinker.
And that was exactly why Françoise would never agree to assist, but he could hardly tell Tess that. He could hardly say that the last time Françoise had been here, his baby had died, his wife had died, and he and the midwife both knew the blame for their deaths lay with him.
No, he couldn’t say any of that, so he said nothing and wondered what the hell he was going to do.
Tess pushed the sheet of notepaper across to him. “If you could purchase these things in the village today, I would appreciate it.”
He took the paper and scanned the list of items in her small, neat handwriting. Cotton wool, bolt of plain muslin, bolt of cambric, bolt of flannel, yarn, strong twine, buttons...
“Buttons?” he choked out, feeling the need to say something, anything.
“I have to make some clothes and things for the baby,” she explained. “I had a bit of money left when I arrived here, but I doubt it’s enough. Of course, if you were to allow me to stay on as your housekeeper, you could take the sum out of my wages.”
“It doesn't matter,” he cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Tess, the money doesn't matter at all.”
“There is a suite of room upstairs by the servants’ quarters that appears to be a nursery. But it's so far away from my room that it will not be suitable for the baby. I thought I would use the little dressing room off of my own for the baby. May I make that into a nursery?”
Alexandre closed his eyes, listening to her soft voice as she spoke of nurseries and babies, as she asked his permission to make a home for her baby. Did she even have to ask? Of course, she could stay. She and the baby, too, as long as she wanted. But the look he saw on her face when he opened his eyes reminded him again that she took nothing for granted.
“I think,” he said, shoving back his chair and shoving the list in his pocket, “the little room off of your chamber will make a fine nursery.”
He was gone before she could even thank him.
***
The road to the village was long and winding and led past the vineyards. Alexandre never used it. Instead, he took the more direct path along the beach. As he walked toward Saint-Raphael, just the thought of having to approach Françoise brought a sick feeling to his guts.
He hadn't seen the old woman since Anne-Marie's death, but he knew what she thought of him. What they all thought. How could he stop at her cottage and explain Tess to her, ask for her help after what he had done? How could he look at her and see the accusation in her eyes? And even if he could face her, even if he could tell her about Tess, she wouldn't come.
He passed the path from the sea up to Françoise’s cottage and went on. There had to be some other way.
By the time he reached the village, Alexandre knew there was only one thing to do. He purchased quill, ink, wax, and paper, and then he wrote a letter, sealed it, and posted it.
Afterward, he went to the draper's and bought everything on Tess's list, an action that earned him several curious stares. But no one asked any questions. No one ever asked him any questions.
Chapter Eleven
“I'm not certain this is a good idea,” Tess informed Alexandre as he set up his easel in the meadow. She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable, for she’d never liked having her portrait done, and having it done now, well into her pregnancy, was even worse. “Wouldn't you rather paint a portrait of Augustus?”
He glanced at her hopeful face, then over at the kitten curled in the grass at his feet. “An excellent suggestion,” he agreed, bending to pick up the animal. He walked over to her and placed the kitten across her knees. “Augustus should be in the portrait as well.”
“I was hoping you would paint him instead of me,” she grumbled as he walked back to his easel.
He paused by his easel. “When I painted in Florence, women would wait months to sit for me, I’ll have you know. Never before has a woman told me she did not want to be painted by Dumond.” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Tess, you have wounded me.”
The sound of her name made her smile. For so long he had referred to her only as mademoiselle, but the day she'd taken that tumble, he had called her Tess for the first time. He had called her Tess ever since, and she liked hearing it on his lips.
He had done the final sketch the day before, on the canvas now perched on his easel. He had blocked out the basic shape of her and the surrounding scenery. Now, he took his pencil and added a few more touches to the sketch, and though she couldn’t see precisely what he was doing, she assumed he was sketchi
ng Augustus into the portrait.
He then mixed paint colors on his palette. At last, he turned to her, brush in his left hand, palette in the crook of his right arm, and laid the first stroke across the canvas.
It wasn’t long before Tess began to lose her self-consciousness, fascinated by watching him work. His brows were furrowed in concentration, and though half the time he was looking right at her, he nonetheless seemed to have vanished into his own world. When the ribbon slipped from his hair and was carried away by the summer breeze, but he didn't bother to retrieve it, and when his long hair blew across his face, he merely shook his head back to keep it out of his eyes. He only spoke when she stirred restlessly in her chair and all he said was, “Try not to move.”
He seemed oblivious to everything except the painting, and it seemed hours before he finally stopped working and tilted his head back to glance at the sun. Then he set down the brush, much to Tess’s relief. “We’re finished, I think.”
She gladly stood up, removing the kitten from her lap and bending back and forth at the waist to try and ease the stiffness she felt from sitting so long. “I can’t believe you finished the painting so quickly.”
“The painting isn’t finished,” he corrected as he wrapped the brush in a rag and dropped it into an open leather case nearby. “But we’ve made a good beginning today. It will take several days, I think, before it is complete.”
Prelude to Heaven Page 11
