Ingrid was as good as her word, and had unpacked both of their suitcases, hanging their clothes in the wardrobe in an orderly un-Ingrid manner.
"Why don't you change, Mum, and we'll go and find somewhere to have dinner?"
The cheery words and smile on her daughter's face brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them away. "Good idea. You do have your father's character, don't you?"
"If you mean organizational skills, yes. Tomorrow we'll begin our detective work on the mystery of Hélène and Luc Marteille but tonight, it's us and marvelous Montmartre."
"Whatever did I do to deserve you?"
"A lot of pious activity in your last life!" Ingrid tartly responded as she straightened her dress. "I'll wait for you downstairs. That lobby is a great place to people watch, you know."
After her daughter left, Anna put the afternoon's events out of her mind. She decided to wear one of the new dresses Ingrid had chosen for her. Ingrid had insisted they both have a few new outfits before they left and shrewdly negotiated a promise for one designer shopping trip in Paris.
Anna chose a three quarter length, light blue turquoise cotton dress with pencil straps, and a shape that skimmed the waist and hips before flaring out into a mass of flounces near the hem. She would never have bought such a dress, but Ingrid's delight with how she looked in it, and her insistence she buy it, overcame her resistance.
Studying her reflection, she admitted Ingrid's choice was faultless. She styled her hair up in a chic French pleat, and dug out the matching pashmina shawl, draping the silky smooth material over her shoulders.
Ingrid wasn't in sight when Anna entered the lobby, and she assumed she'd popped to the loo. While waiting, she wandered through to the bar. On impulse she ordered a glass of white wine, letting the bartender choose for her. As she relaxed in a comfortable brown leather armchair, taking small sips of her drink, she had to admit, coming to Paris was a brilliant idea.
When Anna thought about her life, who she was, what she was doing, and pictured herself in relation to others. Her identity as an adult had mostly been as Gregory's wife, and Jeremy and Ingrid's mother. Before that she'd been her parent's only child.
These days her life was divided into pre and post Jeremy. Today the stimulation of new unfamiliar surroundings was prompting a paradigm shift in her perceptions. Anna felt strangely liberated as if she were floating; the possibilities for new experiences were so tangible, she could almost taste them.
As soon as she acknowledged the novelty of this feeling, guilt overwhelmed her. This was a particular guilt that hadn't appeared immediately after Jeremy's death, but one which insinuated itself, making its subtle presence known step by step. This dark guilt stood stealthily at her shoulder and whispered in her ear, asking how it was possible for her to enjoy living when her beloved first born lay with his beauty rotting to dust beneath the earth.
Ingrid's laughter disrupted her melancholy spiral of thoughts, and she was surprised to see her daughter and the young artist from the afternoon enter the bar, engaged in lively conversation.
"You remember Jean Paul, don't you? Well, it turns out he's staying at this hotel too."
"Madame." The young man gave Anna a deferential nod.
"Hello. For the second time." Anna smiled at the young artist, registering the engaging way Ingrid gazed at him. The past year or so, Ingrid had dallied with two or three boyfriends, but nothing serious until Matt arrived on the scene. Anna had watched as her daughter discovered the attraction of the opposite sex, wondering when the day would come when she moved from mild infatuation and friendship to her first love.
"I've invited him to have a drink with us. Ok, Mum?"
Jean Paul waited with a polite, but unsure, look on his face.
Feeling somewhat back footed, and with little choice in the matter, Anna agreed. She understood that in the unfolding scenario, 'us' meant Ingrid. "That's fine."
Sure enough as Anna watched, Ingrid and Jean Paul walked over to order drinks at the bar looking as if they'd been together for years. They chatted comfortably, and Anna saw nothing of the shy awkwardness that generally accompanies the first stage of getting to know someone.
She suppressed a grin as she observed her daughter flirt unashamedly. Anna was conscious of what her beautiful, clever daughter was doing. You instinctively accepted Ingrid's manipulations were without malice, and you accepted you'd benefit from going along with her; in the same way, you instinctively understood there was no point in not doing what she wanted. And she took after her father. No beating about the bush; if she made a decision, she went straight for the jugular.
As the couple returned, Anna felt instant sympathy for Jean Paul. To be honest, he didn't stand a chance. In true Ingrid style, one minute she was introducing Jean Paul, and the next had Anna agreeing it was a good idea for him to join them for dinner. As they exited through the lobby, Ingrid informed her that Jean Paul knew a chic restaurant nearby. Anna nodded, resigned to the fact that there was no resisting the spirit of impulse which had invaded her world today.
The streets of Montmartre were magic. Old-fashioned street lamps and lights placed halfway up the front of buildings, combined with brightly lit restaurants to generate a festive mood. Red canopies stretched over elegantly set tables on the pavement. Most of the eateries had seating both inside and out, leaving the road for pedestrians. Intuitively Anna searched for the Basilica. She was fascinated by the way the pale orbs, lit up by the lights from the district below, dominated the skyline—day and night.
When they arrived at the restaurant, Jean Paul secured them a table outside where they could watch people wandering by and enjoying the nightlife. Anna let the two youngsters' chatter float over her as Ingrid enlightened Jean Paul as to why he should give up meat. She had no inclination to participate. For the moment she was content to do nothing but be an observer.
"Mum, you look fantastic in that dress," Ingrid complimented her as they waited for the menu to arrive.
"Merci beaucoup. And what is it you're after?"
"Am I that obvious?" Ingrid's eyes looked particularly mischievous. "Jean Paul's uncle is going to join us. Is that all right?"
"Yes, I'm sure it'll be okay." Anna swallowed her reluctance. After what happened earlier, she'd decided to take everything in her stride. Be calm. What was another stranger?
"He will be 'ere soon," Jean Paul told them, putting his phone away and anxiously scanning the crowd. "Ah, 'ere he comes."
Anna suppressed a smile. He was trying so hard to please. She turned to inspect the approaching uncle. This was the third new person she was meeting that day. She hoped he would turn out to be more sociable than the one she'd bumped into earlier.
"Oncle! Ici!" Jean Paul stood and waved both his arms as if guiding a plane onto the landing strip. He turned to the two women. "Please, Ingrid, Anna, meet my uncle François."
Chapter Six
Seeing what the future holds is beyond our control. The one thing we can decide is our response to events. Nevertheless, we must be aware our reactions will have ramifications that echo down through time—for ourselves as well as for others.
Paris, July 1873
Since Émilie's illness she'd needed to sleep undisturbed, so a bed had been made up for Luc in a guest room on the other side of the house. Up early, Luc decided to absent himself from the house before anyone woke. Telling himself he didn't want to disturb anyone, he slipped out without looking in on his wife.
Yesterday had been pandemonium with Émilie, enlivened by the upcoming visit to her family home, instructing Marie and Annette in what to pack. Preparations for leaving would continue today, with the maidservants rushing around, and the children shouting with excitement. The fuss entailed for these journeys exasperated him, but the truth of the matter was he wanted to avoid answering awkward questions about his plans for joining his family in Brittany.
Setting off at a good pace, he breathed in the early morning air still laced with night's coolness. The
heat would come later. The faint grey mist layering the dew-wet grass among the trees in the park captured his attention; he studied the scene for a moment, thinking he must make a plan to come out and paint here one morning.
When he began a new work, he experienced a certain excitement, a particular keenness of purpose. The painting lived already in his imagination, and he would add details, needing merely brush, paint and canvas for the image to become concrete.
Today he was starting the new portrait of Hélène. One minute he was hot and jittery, the next cold and shivering, sure he was running a fever. Three days ago, overwhelmed by his chaotic emotions, and not needing her to finish off his current painting, he'd given Hélène time off. The thought of seeing her again exhilarated and petrified him. He had to keep a tight rein on himself.
Hélène walked along, feeling like a true Parisienne. Louise had given her a pretty straw hat adorned with a jaunty red silk flower. Lifting her chin high, she enjoyed the bright morning sunshine, eager to model for Luc's new painting. She had spent the last couple of days with Louise and baby Benoît, who was no longer a blood and mucus covered squalling newborn, but had transformed into a creamy complexioned infant.
Hélène took in the smartly dressed gentlemen hurrying along the streets as if their business was of the utmost importance, the laundresses loaded with huge bundles, market sellers pulling carts with a variety of goods, and the usual scruffy gang of urchins looking either to beg or steal. Soon she would be home, and the wooded hill of Montmartre with its windmills, famous artists, and Luc, would be no more than a memory. She drank in the sights, fixing them in her mind.
Luc lifted his prepared canvas on to the easel and fussed about organizing his paints. Trying not to think of Hélène was pointless. Of necessity, communication between them was minimal, and they'd never had a real conversation in the normal social manner, yet they spent hours together while she sat and he painted. Whilst he studied her in detail, and there was without doubt an intimacy in the situation, the relationship wasn't one of familiarity or friendship. He'd given a great deal of consideration as to how he wished her to pose today.
As Hélène turned onto Rue Gabrielle, she determined to make the most of the days she had left. Her stomach started to churn as she climbed the stairs, and by the time she reached the top, she couldn't control the trembling in her legs. She paused outside the studio door, taking a few deep breaths before knocking. Making sure her hat hadn't shifted from where Louise had carefully positioned it, she smoothed back the stray strands of hair sticking to her forehead. As she raised her hand to knock, the door swung open.
"Come in, M'selle." Luc waved her in. "Over there, if you will." He rattled off his instructions, pointing to a chair placed halfway between the chaise longue and his easel. "No, no," he said agitated, "Take your hat off first." He waved at the chair again. "Please, sit."
He was using his painting voice, as Hélène called it, the one he employed when instructing her how to position herself for the pose. She had confided to Louise how flattered she was that Luc wanted to paint her portrait. The local boys at festivals, where she'd never lacked partners for dancing, weren't in the same league as a Parisian artist. She perched on the edge of the chair.
"Yes, sitting up straight is good, but further back on the chair, I don't want you falling on the floor."
She looked up at him. No, it wasn't a joke.
"Look straight ahead. Yes, that's good." There was silence for a minute. He cleared his throat. "Please loosen your hair."
Hélène sat motionless.
"M'selle Hélèna, I need your hair loose for the picture. It's for art." He punctuated his words with impatience at what he obviously perceived as her rural backward attitude. "Please, your hair."
Hélène slowly raised her hands and reluctantly began pulling out the pins keeping her hair in place.
"Arrange it on one side. Like this." He demonstrated, arranging a head of imaginary hair, pulling it forward over one shoulder.
He looked so funny, she giggled.
"I'm glad you find me amusing, M'selle."
She wiped the smile from her face.
He pointed. "Your hair. Please."
Hélène took out the rest of her hairpins, and her hair, a mass of wheat-gold curls, fell down her back. Following his instructions, she lifted it off her neck, rearranging the bulk of it so that it fell over the front of her right shoulder. She started as he picked up a handful of hair.
"Your skin is perfect and your hair—how it glints in the sun. Ripened grain. That's what color it is."
Hélène kept her eyes fixed on the easel directly in front of her, doing her best to ignore how close he was. This morning, he seemed unlike his usual self, and generated an air of unpredictability. He made her nervous. When he touched her neck, heat from his fingers warmed her skin. The tingling wasn't an unpleasant sensation. She didn't reply to his comment, not sure what she could say, as he lightly smoothed and arranged her hair.
Touching her hair and skin was almost too much for Luc, and he sensed his control slipping. The fine silk of her hair slid through his fingers, and he moved away, clenching his hands as they began to shake. He busied himself, checking his brushes till his heart stopped thumping, his breathing slowed, and he could present some appearance of normality. "That's excellent, M'selle," he snapped. Not trusting himself to say another word, he started work.
Louise's advice to occupy her mind when posing was to picture something pleasant. She said it made you feel better, and then time passed before you realized it. Today that was easy, because yesterday Louise had walked into the kitchen with Benoît swaddled in blankets asleep in her arms, and waved a white envelope at her.
Hélène stopped cleaning, dried her hands and snatched it off her cousin. "It's Suzette's writing," she said stifling a shriek. "This is from Claude." She clutched the envelope to her chest, enthusiastic grin lighting up her face.
"His younger sister writes his love letters for him?" Louise's astonishment made her opinion clear.
Hélène's smile disappeared as she went on the defensive. No one was going to think badly of Claude for any reason. "Claude can write, but not well, and he asks Suzette to write for him because he feels it's important. He wants things, such as this letter, to be proper."
"Men!" snorted Louise. "Come," she patted the seat next to her. "Read it out to me. I'm your older cousin, and it's my responsibility to act as chaperone in your parents' absence. They expect me to see that you two love birds behave appropriately, even in your letters."
"Well, not the whole letter," replied Hélène playfully as they settled themselves on the couch. She opened the letter with care. Yes, there it was—a rose. A sigh of contentment escaped her lips as she tipped it out onto her hand. The rose was small, its dark red leaves veined with pink, and flattened through drying and pressing. She raised it to her nose and inhaled, closing her eyes so she could picture Claude‒the safe, secure Claude that she loved‒searching for the right flower.
"Does she pick and dry the flower for him?"
"Louise! Stop it. And no she doesn't. He's my betrothed and I love him. Stop making fun of him. He's clever in his own way. With the land, with animals."
"And he's so strong and handsome" interrupted Louise laughing. "Oh, forgive me, cousin. You are so easy to tease. Look at you! You'll be the prettiest blushing bride in the whole of Bordeaux!"
"Oh shut up," Hélène said. "Listen. Here's what he says."
My darling Hélène,
How are you? I hope you are well and the flower pleases you. I picked it from the bushes in Maman's flower garden. She and papa are in good health as is Suzette.
At present, the young lambs are fat and plump. We have had good weather and the crops are growing well.
I eagerly await your return. I miss you so much.
Much love,
Your fiancé
Claude.
He is missing you very much. Maman and Papa nag him the whole day to
do his work as he's mooning about the place quite love sick without you.
Your soon-to-be sister, much love and hugs.
Suzette.
"Suzette sounds sweet. Tell me how do his maman and papa treat you?"
Benoît opened his eyes, his little mouth pursed into an o shape, and a healthy high-nepitched wail burst forth.
Louise opened her blouse straight away, positioning him at her left breast.
His tiny rosebud of a mouth latched on to her nipple and he started feeding.
Hélène tried not to be envious as she watched her cousin. Motherhood suited her.
"Well, tell me. Are they ogres who'll make you work day and night?" Louise joked as Benoît suckled with quiet satisfaction.
They laughed as Hélène related tales of how her prospective father-in-law was overly partial to his home brewed brandy, continually hiding his weakness from his wife. But he'd get drunk and leave bottles lying around. Next, she'd throw out all the bottles she could find, including those with liquor left in them. After he sobered up, he'd go looking for the thrown out bottles.
"Apparently she was a beauty when she was young, but you know what farm work does to a woman's looks." She remembered how pleased they'd been when she and Claude told them they wanted to get married. The whole family had welcomed her.
Louise had made plans for her, the baby and Pierre, if he could get away, to visit her parents so she could accomplish two objectives; attend Hélène's wedding and meet her new extended family and introduce Benoît to his grandparents. "I'm looking forward to meeting them."
"Your mother will adore Benoît."
The object of their attention was satiated and his eyelids opened and closed as he drifted in and out of sleep.
Louise handed him to Hélène. "Walk him so I can clean up, will you?"
Hélène took the half-asleep infant, and settling him in her arms, walked around the room crooning a lullaby to him. He was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. She loved holding the baby: he was so small a bundle to be the source of these warm, soft feelings which welled up when she held him.
One Summer in Montmartre Page 6
