She approached the canvas. “May I see it?”
“No. I never allow the subject to see a portrait until it is done. A lesson I learned long ago.” He dropped the last of his painting supplies in the case, closed it, and handed it to her. “If the subjects see the unfinished work, they are always disappointed, sometimes even critical. So I always make the person wait until the portrait is finished.”
Curious, she leaned around him, trying to see, but he blocked her view. “Tess ...” His voice trailed off with the warning. Then he said, “Take my paint case and Augustus and go back to the house. I will follow.”
She made a face and started back to the château, knowing he chose to walk behind her so that she would have no opportunity to catch a glimpse of the canvas he carried on his easel.
When they reached the house, he left her in the kitchen and took the portrait up to his studio, telling her when he returned, “It won't do you any good to try taking a peek at it when I’m not here. I have locked the door to the studio.”
She made no reply, but her exasperated glare made him chuckle as he walked away.
***
Over the next several days, Alexandre continued to paint her portrait in the meadow and then he confined himself to his studio for an additional two days, putting the final touches to the painting, finishing it nearly a week after he had begun.
He dropped the brush into a jar of linseed oil with the same relief he always felt when a painting was finished and turned away from the easel. He didn't pause to examine the canvas, but then, he never did.
As always, finishing the work had left him tired and drained, and in the midst of summer, the studio was beastly hot, even with the windows open to catch the sea breeze. What he needed, he decided, was a swim.
On his way out, he found Tess in the kitchen. The worktable was littered with scraps of fabric, snippets of thread, and other sewing materials. In her hands was one of the pieces of soft white flannel he’d purchased in the village, and to it she was attaching a length of willow-green ribbon. She glanced up as he entered, but she didn’t stop her work.
“What are you making?” he asked, coming up to stand beside her.
“A skirt for the baby.”
For the baby. Her voice was so soft. Tender. He leaned closer, staring at the tiny garment in her hands, and a deep wave of longing hit him, a sudden yearning for what he'd almost had, for what he’d lost.
She went on, “Thank you for the fabric. The green is nice for either a boy or girl.”
Boy or girl, that wasn't why he'd picked out that particular color. He'd chosen that color because he thought Tess's child would have Tess's auburn hair and green eyes.
Her needle glinted in the afternoon sunlight pouring through the high kitchen windows. “Thank you for purchasing so much. There will be enough flannel for blankets, too.”
Alexandre turned away, muttering something about work to be done. That was nonsense, of course, for the painting was finished, but there was something else that needed doing, something important. He went upstairs to the bedchamber he was now using and took a key from a drawer of the dressing table—a the key to a room no longer used, a key he’d thought would never again be needed. Leaving his bedchamber, he walked to the two locked doors at the end of the corridor, unlocked one, and went inside.
He was looking for one particular thing, and he knew exactly where it was. Pushing aside packed crates and trunks and pulling back dust-covering sheets, he knelt down before a tiny wooden cradle.
It was the only thing still in the house that had been the baby's. He'd given away all the clothes and toys, unable to bear the idea of having them in the house, but he had not been able to part with this.
He gave the cradle a push, watching as it rocked back and forth for a baby that had never been lulled to sleep by its movements, and he remembered the past.
I don't want a baby. Her voice came back to him so clearly. He could recall her every word, as if it were only yesterday. I hate this baby. What if something goes wrong? I'll die, just like Louise. I'll die.
Alexandre took a deep breath and slammed down the door to the past, He curled his fingers into the cut-out hearts at the head and foot of the cradle, lifted it, and left the room. He set the cradle down long enough to lock the door, then took it into Tess's chamber, placing it in her newly made nursery.
He found a rag and wiped away the dust until the polished oak gleamed, until the painted flowers were bright again. Then he left the room and went for his swim, wishing the water could wash away the guilt that weighed down his soul.
***
Tess knotted the last stitch and cut the thread. She smiled down at the finished baby skirt for a moment, then folded it neatly and placed it atop the pile of other completed baby clothes in the basket beside her. She added her sewing supplies to the basket and took it upstairs, humming softly under her breath as she went. But when she entered the nursery, her humming stopped, her steps faltered, and she stared in utter astonishment, for in the middle of the small, empty room was a cradle.
Alexandre must have put it there that morning, she realized as she knelt, setting her sewing basket on the floor beside her, to examine it more closely.
It was a lovely thing of polished oak and painted flowers, and she ran a hand over the wood, tracing the pattern of painted forget-me-nots. So she'd been right about him, then. He’d had a wife and a baby once.
They must have died. He had given her this cradle because he had no use for it now. Tess pressed her lips together, her heart aching for him as she imagined him here alone, grieving for a dead wife and child.
She wanted to go find him and thank him for his gift. She wanted to tell him she knew, that she understood. But he was so private. He would be embarrassed by her sympathy, and he certainly wouldn't want pity. Tess’s hand fell away, she stood up, and left the nursery.
In the end, she managed to thank him for his gift without causing him any embarrassment. She did it in an offhand, casual fashion as they prepared dinner together in the kitchen. He didn't offer any explanations for the cradle's existence, and she didn't ask for any. But her heart ached for him just the same.
***
It was several days before Alexandre allowed her to see the portrait he had done of her, and when he lifted the linen sheet from the easel, she could only stare at the canvas, unable to believe she was looking at herself.
He had captured perfectly the reddish-brown shade of her hair peeking beneath her hat, the brilliant colors of the flowers surrounding her chair, the pale orange of Augustus' fur as he sat on her lap.
He had made no effort to conceal her faults. She still had a chin that was too pointed. Her nose still had that funny little dent at the tip that had irritated her since childhood. He had made no effort to minimize her pregnancy either. And yet, her features and form had a softness she'd never seen before when she looked in a mirror. There was a glow about her she knew was an artist's fancy. She didn't feel like she glowed. Most of the time, she felt tired and achy and fat. “I can see why women waited months to be painted by you,” she told him truthfully. “You make us look quite nice.”
He laughed. “Nice? Nice is all you can say?” His eyes teased her. “I suppose that's better than awful.”
“It's hard to be objective about a painting of yourself,” she told him, staring at the portrait. “But...” She paused, considering. “I like it.”
“That is what matters most.” Leaning closer, he confessed, “I'm quite fond of it myself. I believe I shall hang it in the front hall.”
Tess groaned. She wasn't sure she liked it quite that much. But after Alexandre had gone, she lingered, continuing to study the painting. He truly had a gift, she thought, for color and light. She leaned closer, studying the wildflowers surrounding her chair, and what she saw there made her smile.
Barely discernible on the petals of a red poppy was a tiny, delicate figure with wings. It was a fairy.
Chapter Twelve
When Tess
went for a walk the following day, Alexandre accompanied her. It was a golden-brown day in late summer, hot and dry, but there were still a few wildflowers in the meadows. When she bent to pull a handful, he noticed how she placed a hand to her abdomen as she leaned down.
They passed through the meadow and into the forested foothills of chestnut trees, cork oaks, and pines, where they paused beside a pond. “Is all of this your land?” she asked.
“Yes. >From the sea to the foot of the Massif des Maures.” He turned, pointing west. “And from here past the vineyards to the road leading into Saint-Raphael.”
They headed out of the trees and into another meadow. A stream, low in the late summer heat, meandered through the green-gold grass, where they paused again. “This stream is the border between my land and the farmer beyond.”
She did not reply, and when he glancing at her, he realized she was standing with her hands on the bulk of her belly, taking slow, deep breaths. He felt a glimmer of alarm. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, smiling, still breathing deep. “The baby’s kicking, that’s all.”
He looked down, watching her hands smooth over her roundness, remembering the night they’d stood under the stars in the courtyard and he’d felt the baby kick. He wished she would let him put his hand there again, feel the movement, but he didn’t ask.
Instead, he turned abruptly away. “We should go back. We have walked a long way, and you should not overexert yourself.”
They started back, but as they came out of the trees and into the Meadow of the Fairies, Tess suddenly stopped. He paused beside her with a worried glance, but she didn’t seem in any discomfort.
She was staring off into the distance, her attention caught, but when his gaze moved past her, he saw nothing unusual. “What are you looking at?”
She didn't answer. Instead, she began walking in that direction, and after he had followed her for several feet, he realized what had caught her attention. A large white goose sat in the shade of a plane tree, and as she approached, the bird began to flap its wings in alarm, but only one wing moved. The other hung helplessly by its side.
She paused, turning to look at Alexandre, and when he saw the question in her eyes, he knew what she was asking. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”
“If we leave her here, the foxes will eat her.”
It wasn’t her words, it was her eyes that told him he’d already lost this battle. Looking down at the goose, seeing its limp wing hanging in a pitiful fashion, he sighed, giving in to the inevitable. “I suppose I could fashion a splint of some sort for its wing,” he said doubtfully.
Her smile was a heady reward. “Thank you,” she whispered, standing up on her toes to curl her arms around his neck. She buried her face against his chest. “Thank you.” Her voice was muffled against the front of his shirt.
He tensed at the intimate contact. Every contour of her shape became burned in his memory as he slowly lifted his arms to wrap them around her. He could feel the roundness of her belly against his hip, the softness of her breath warming his skin through the white linen shirt.
He moved his hands up and down her back. It felt so good to hold, to be held. It was warmth and sunlight after living for years in the shadows. He bent his head, hesitated, smelled the fragrance of her hair and closed his eyes. His lips touched the silk of her curls. He stood there, motionless, drinking in the scent of her, the feel of her, stealing as much as he could.
Her arms moved, sliding away from where they curled around his neck, and his arms tightened around her shoulders in protest. But she didn't pull away. Instead, her hands moved slowly down his chest. His muscles tightened as her hands slid over his hammering heart, over his ribs, and around his waist to press against his back.
Hope, something he had lost long ago, reawakened inside him. He moved his head lower, touching his lips to the pulse in her temple. His fingertips brushed lightly up her spine, to the nape of her neck. He cupped her cheek, and when she turned her face, pressing her lips to his palm, he felt his hardened, brittle heart shatter into pieces at her feet.
His fingers raked through her hair. Pulling her head back, he lowered his head slowly, giving her plenty of time to turn aside if she chose. But she didn’t resist. Her lips parted in silent invitation, and he hesitated no longer. He brushed his lips over hers, his eyes open to see hers flutter shut.
He felt her hands against his back pulling him closer. He deepened the kiss, savored the forgotten softness of a woman's lips, tasted the special sweetness that was a kiss.
The pointless, empty life he’d lived these past three years was forgotten as he held Tess in his arms. The deep ache, assuaged before only by a brush and canvas, was destroyed by the touch and taste of her mouth.
Tess couldn't believe what was happening. Wonder was what she felt, wonder and awe. The queer little ache deep within her was longing. She recognized it now, a longing for something she had never experienced at a man's intimate touch. Tenderness.
The kiss became fuller, deeper as Alexandre's tongue touched hers. She rose up on her toes and tilted her head to deepen the kiss even more, moving one hand up to his neck, to tangle in his hair.
Alexandre...His name was a prayer on her lips, a prayer that this magic moment would go on and on, that her new life here with him would last forever. She had never known a kiss like this, but she knew she wanted kisses like this for the rest of her life.
It was he who finally broke the contact, moving his lips from hers to touch them to her cheek, her forehead, her hair. His arms relaxed for a brief instant, then tightened again as he cradled her head against his chest. She stood in the circle of his embrace, savoring for a few more sweet moments the feel of his arms around her, and then she pulled back enough to look into his face. She couldn’t have hidden what she felt, and she didn’t try. All she could do was hope he felt it, too, that she wasn’t imagining it in the black depths of his eyes.
They stared at each other, shaken, reluctantly pulling back by degrees until only fingertips touched, until rapid breathing slowed, until pounding hearts resumed a normal rhythm. Then, at the same moment, both of them pulled back one more fraction of an inch, and the contact was broken. Once again, they were separate, isolated entities.
Tess longed to press herself against him again, but instead she turned away, looking down at the injured goose that had been forgotten. “We'll have to carry her home,” she said. “She won't simply follow us.”
He moved toward the bird with the intention of lifting it, but the goose honked belligerently at him and nipped at his hand. He gave her a wry glance. “Have you any suggestions as to how we might accomplish this?”
They finally managed to carry the bird by fashioning a sort of hammock, using Tess's petticoat and two tree branches, but after carrying the bird back to the château and setting it on the kitchen work table, they found they had a new problem. When Alexandre tried to examine the bird's broken wing, the goose struggled and honked and batted her good wing at him every time he came near.
“Ouch!” he cried, jumping back after the goose nipped his hand. “This bird is a menace. It hates me.”
The goose, however, did not seem to hate Tess. When she came close and reached down to touch her, the bird didn't protest or struggle in the least. Tess glanced at Alexandre, who was now standing several feet away. “I think I'll have to do this,” she told him.
“I have a better idea,” he said. “Why don't we just cook it for dinner?”
She saw the teasing glimmer in his black eyes. “You're only saying that because the goose doesn't like you.”
“Very true. But I like goose. Roasted, with stuffing.”
“Alexandre, do be serious. What do I do?”
“I don't really know,” he confessed. “I've never set a bird's broken wing before. We'll need some linen to bind it, I suppose,” he said, considering. “And a leather strap.”
After Alexandre had found the necessary materials,
they set to work. He had Tess to measure the length of the broken bone, and he cut a piece from a scrap of leather harness that was slightly longer. He used his razor to cut two lengthwise slits, one at each end of the strap. Then, following Alexandre's improvised instructions, Tess hooked the ends of the strap over the joints on each side of the broken bone to act as a splint, and bound the wing tightly to the goose's body using the strips of linen.
“The important thing is to make certain it stays set so that it will heal,” he told her when she had finished, leaning as close as he could to examine her handiwork. “Is it tight?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Look at it every day to make certain it isn't coming loose.”
They carried the goose in its makeshift hammock out to the barn, and put it in one of the stalls of the stable. They watched as the goose walked around in a circle, honking and flapping her good wing. But the broken one seemed securely in place for the moment.
“She seems to be all right,” Tess said without looking at the man beside her.
“Yes,” he agreed without looking at her.
Yet, neither of them moved to go, and each of them knew the other was thinking of what had happened that afternoon.
They turned to each other at the same moment. Tess looked at Alexandre, and thought she was fat and awkward.
He thought she was beautiful.
She thought he was the strongest, gentlest man God ever made.
He thought he was a lost cause.
They stared at each other, their own insecurities convincing them that the feelings they had shared were imagined. Both spoke at once.
“I'll bring the goat and the donkey in from the pasture,” she said.
“I'll pick vegetables for dinner,” he said.
And as they went to do their respective chores, they both wished they had the courage to prove themselves wrong.
Prelude to Heaven Page 12
