"François will help us get around much more easily. He knows Paris and Montmartre and the Impressionists and…"
Anna raised her hand, gently covering Ingrid's mouth. "Sssh. Yes, I know, I know. I'm sorry Ingrid. I'm just a bit disappointed."
"But you'll see, mum, everything's going to be okay. I mean, you do like Jean Paul don't you?"
"Well, from the little I've seen of him, I suppose he has my approval."
"That's generous of you! So I can continue to see him because he has your approval eh?" Ingrid rolled her eyes. "And you'll be fine with François. He's nice too." And with that, Ingrid shut the bathroom door.
Thoughts jumping feverishly, Anna walked out on to the balcony. Ingrid had jettisoned their plans with remarkable speed, and there was no doubt she wanted to explore the possibilities that Jean Paul presented. That she preferred to be with him rather than her mother hurt. It shouldn't, but it did.
Losing Jeremy had been the single most painful experience of her life. And she was losing Ingrid too fast. Not to the ultimate finality of death but to life; to her own life where time would unveil the paths and journeys she'd take. Most of which would be without her mother. Anna wondered if her role as a mother, giving birth and raising her children, was over. The thought that this might be the case in the near future, if it wasn't already, was hard to accept.
She stared down at the square. The night atmosphere was different. Gone were the bustling daytime workers and eager tourists; it was the turn of a different crowd—out to dine and see the sights by night. People sauntered along in dribs and drabs. Laughter rose carelessly into the air.
Anna watched an old woman with an empty basket hobble along, thinking how she shouldn't have dumped her sour feelings into Ingrid's lap. Unlike before Jeremy's death, when she hid behind propriety pretending something was okay when it wasn't, these days she kept little or nothing back. She had to or otherwise she couldn't cope; even now, when she was calming down, her emotions were too near the surface.
Her thoughts circled back to the evening with the Frenchman and his nephew, and how the unexpected change of plan had thrown her. She must try harder; she needed to learn how to be adaptable, flexible.
When she re-entered the room Ingrid had fallen asleep, her long hair, a loose plait of gleaming copper, spread out behind her as she lay on her side. God, she was beautiful. Anna came around and gently kissed her daughter's smooth cheek.
Restless and not wanting to sleep, Anna went to the bathroom. She examined her reflection, deciding her age didn't show too much, especially if she tilted her head back. At that angle the bags under her eyes didn't show. She was lucky and her figure remained slim; carrying and giving birth to two children didn't show. It had been a long time since she'd thought of how others perceived her as a woman in her own right, not as an appendage of Greg's.
She thought of Greg with a flush of guilt, but as she recalled their most recent argument, bitterness laced her mood. Greg had sought release from his grief over Jeremy by burying himself in his work, which had left each coping with their sorrow alone.
She felt unsettled and out of sorts. On the one hand she'd banked on enjoying this time with her daughter, but it was becoming apparent she was going to spend her visit to Montmartre in the company of a man whom, to be honest, she thought vain and exasperating. And about whom she knew nothing.
On the other hand, what had Ingrid meant when she said You'll be fine with François? Was it her imagination or had his gaze been frankly appraising when they'd been introduced? He'd been caught off balance, but she would swear he'd been pleased. She pushed her misgivings to one side, finally deciding she'd at least be able to keep an eye her daughter and that young Frenchman. There was no way she would allow the pair of them to go off by themselves. Who would trust a charming and talented artist?
When Anna opened her eyes the next morning, she was disoriented, and gazing at the unfamiliar ceiling, couldn't think for a minute where she was. Turning her head, she saw a patch of clear blue sky out of the window, and heard the muted sounds of traffic in the distance. Then she remembered and relaxed, relishing the promise of the day ahead.
She stretched with anticipation. Abruptly it came. The memory. Since his death, thoughts of Jeremy were never far away, and when she woke, the first topic that always came to mind was a scene from his life. Sometimes the memories were fresh and bright as if happening right there in front of her as if she were in a cinema watching a film on a screen; other times the memories were shrouded, vague images, and she'd have to work at the details of when and where the episode had taken place.
And no two memories were of the same event. This time he was smiling as a friend dropped him off on his first visit home for Christmas after starting uni. She'd been watching out for him from an upstairs window, expecting him at any moment. He leaned into the car to get his bag out and said something to his friend. They'd both laughed before Jeremy turned and walked towards the house, hoisting his bag on his shoulder, his face expectant, his walk confident. The familiar ache of loss, a permanent companion, lessened a fraction as she sent him a soft kiss.
Anna took more time and care than usual getting ready, gathering her hair up into a large clip, and picking out another of the new dresses chosen for her by Ingrid.
"Paris is making you glow," Ingrid teased as they entered the lift on their way to meet François and Jean Paul. "That shade of blue suits you."
The four of them met in the foyer after breakfast. Ingrid gravitated towards Jean Paul, who carried a large satchel over his shoulder; they were two magnets unable to resist the pull. They immediately fell into an animated conversation that excluded everyone else.
"We must first visit the Basilica of Sacre Coeur," François informed her as they stepped out into the sunshine and busy streets of the Place de Tertre.
"We must?" She wasn't going to pass judgment this early in the day, but if he thought he was going to take over her time without any consultation whatsoever, he was in for a shock.
"From there, the whole of Montmartre, and Paris, is laid out before you. It's a magnificent view."
Okay, maybe he did know the city better than she did. As they waited for Ingrid and Jean Paul to catch up, Anna studied François's profile. His looks weren't classical by any means, but his strong nose, jaw and full lips would make him an interesting subject to sketch.
He took her elbow as they crossed the road.
His touch was warm and dry, his hands strong. She flushed as her body reacted with pleasure to the contact and his close presence. She'd never been unfaithful to Greg, never had any inclination to, and almost sniffed out loud as the thought of indulging in an affair at this stage of her life flickered through her mind. As they reached the other side of the road, she wrenched her arm out of his grip.
Surprised by her sharp movement, he looked at her, his eyebrows rising.
She looked away to hide her annoyance at the fact that, as well as not being able to talk with Ingrid because she was so wrapped up in Jean Paul's every utterance, she had to contend with a letch of a Frenchman.
The pavements were narrow, and it was impossible to create any distance from him. As they walked, the aftershave he used kept tickling her nose. She actually liked the perfume, a pleasant musky smell, which annoyed her even more. How could you enjoy something and reject the source of that enjoyment at the same time?
François insisted that as they weren't invalids the funicular route was out, and they were to go by foot. In no time at all, Ingrid and Jean Paul were well ahead. As she and François climbed the wide flights of steps up to the church, the dome of the Basilica rose up in front of them, an ever larger luminous half-moon, and more of the two side domes, like bridesmaids flanking the bride, became visible.
Anna took several rest stops on the way up under the pretext of enjoying the view. She paid no attention to the many tourists chatting in different languages as they strode up the steps passed her, enduring the heat and climbing far f
aster than she did. She hung on to the handrail hoping it wasn't obvious how much she needed it. But when they reached the top, the effort of getting there was forgotten as she stood stunned by the beauty of the church. The idea of being an architect was one of several career ideas she'd explored at school, but she hadn't attained the grades needed in mathematics. She stared up at the intricate embellishments and the statues of saints gazing down on supplicants with compassion; the sheer size and scale overwhelmed her.
"Impressive, don't you think?" François's voice in her ear made her jump.
She spun around to find him standing so close she breathed in his scent. Why couldn't the damned man stand further away? Did he think there was something wrong with her hearing? "Where's Ingrid?" she snapped at him. She checked the area, searching for Ingrid and Jean Paul, her gaze flicking here and there, her heart rate increasing, the distressingly familiar rush of panic. "They were right in front of us. Where have they gone?"
Chapter Eight
All cultures welcome and adore babies. When we see them, we are reassured of our individual continuation, as well as that of our species. A man who presents a tough, hardened exterior can croon and melt at the sight of a beautiful healthy baby, whereas a woman whose physicality, by nature is more delicate, can‒if her child is threatened‒transform into a fiery dragoness.
Paris, July 1873
"How cold is it outside?" Louise finished tying the bow under Benoît's chin and picked up a blanket. The infant waved his arms and legs emitting cries of discomfort. He didn't like his mother fussing.
"Louise! It's July." Hélène watched the panic appear in Louise's eyes. Louise had been the carefree bold cousin she looked up to, but it wasn't about Louise anymore.
Benoît was coming up to two weeks old and settling into a regular routine of eating and sleeping. Her cousin had been up and active the day after the birth, but it was taking longer than expected before she had enough energy to do much else other than take care of the house and the new baby. This morning she planned to walk to the bakery at the end of the street, purchase bread for the day and return. It would be enough for both mother and baby.
"If it'll make you feel better, I'll pop outside and check?"
"You think I'm being too fussy." Louise glanced out of the window. "It's… I'm not sure. He doesn't seem himself. Here," Louise passed her another blanket, "you never know."
How you could tell a baby's real character barely two weeks after they'd entered the world was beyond Hélène, but she wasn't going to argue with Louise over any matter relating to Benoît. She rolled her eyes, but popped the extra blanket into the basket.
No sooner had they emerged from the shade of the apartment building into the warm air of the July day than Irene, along with several neighbors enjoying their morning gossip, descended on them like a flock of large birds thrown a tasty morsel. Swift hands plucked Benoît from his mother's arms, passing him around from woman to woman. They cooed, clucked, patted, stroked and commented on his abundant hair, size, eyes, and skin color. No detail escaped their sharp scrutiny. Louise lit up, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, and she beamed at the women's compliments, nodding her head in agreement at the gems of advice each offered.
"It's a good thing he wasn't sleeping," commented Hélène as they extricated themselves from the group of women and moved off down the street.
"I think giving birth is the hardest thing I've ever done," said Louise, "but it is the most worthwhile. And look," she stroked Benoît's cheek, "I have him."
"You're sure you can manage? I can easily come back with you before leaving." Hélène eyed Louise juggling the bread basket and the baby as they came out of the bakery.
"You mean can I walk one block back to my house and make it up to my apartment?" laughed Louise. "Making it through that crowd of women is a much tougher challenge. Off you go. You don't want to keep M'sieur l'artist waiting."
Hélène stood uncertain, checking Louise's progress up the road for a few minutes before heading off for the studio.
Luc's behavior puzzled Hélène during the current sittings. He was civil when giving orders on her position, or arranging her hair the way he wanted, which he continued to do, but it was as if she had become an object consisting of straight lines and curves, light and shade; as if being transformed into a two-dimensional image on canvas was her sole purpose for existence. He didn't seem to see her, the person; it was as if she wasn't real to him anymore.
Most sessions he hardly spoke to her for the three or four hours other than a formal 'Bonjour' when she arrived, 'Take a break' and 'Fine' during the sitting, with a final 'I'll see you tomorrow' as she departed. Yesterday he'd not pointed out her late arrival—something he would have previously pulled her up on with a sarcastic comment.
How he could be so different from her first sittings for him was bewildering. Then he'd been chatty and silent in turns, punctuating his work with lively conversation. She'd learned a lot about other artists who influenced him‒Manet in particular‒and of his opinions on the artists in his circle. Cezanne, Renoir, and Degas were names, among others, he discussed frequently, and regardless of her ignorance of art in general or their work in particular, she knew Luc's opinions of them.
These days he conducted himself with polite reserve. She understood his silence and absorption in his work was his way of being professional with her, but she missed the other Luc, preferring the friendlier chatty, if moodier, artist she'd met when she first sat for him. The man who at present painted her showed a different personality. Which Luc was real, and which one was a facade?
As she sat facing him today, she couldn't help but compare him with Claude. Two different men. One was tall, muscular with physical work, fair haired, ruddy complexion, and wore his thoughts openly on his face. The other was smaller, wiry, and leaner with dark permanently unruly hair because he constantly ran his hands through it when thinking. One had clear, bright blue eyes, and was honest as a summer's day; the other had brown eyes, often dark with mischief, but whose expression changed, like his moods, from lively humor to inscrutable in the blink of an eye. They were opposites. One had a life where the body moved with the rhythms of the earth, the other appeared ruled by his emotions and a dedication to his art.
Hélène had tried, but couldn't forget Luc's declaration. She wondered if he would deny his words if she had the courage to bring up the subject. But what would be the point of that? Her stay in Paris was nearly at its end, and the sittings for Luc would finish as soon as the portrait was complete. Louise and Benoît were healthy, and the date of her wedding moved closer. In a few days, she'd be on her way home to Claude, and this would be history.
"I'll see you tomorrow, M'selle Hélène," he said as the session ended.
"Au revoir, M'sieur Marteille," she said accepting the daily payment.
As she climbed the stairs to the apartment, she could hear Benoît's plaintive crying. She quickened her steps. Inside Louise was walking around the room, shushing Benoît as she rocked and attempted to soothe his fretful cries.
"Thank God you're home. He's been crying for ages. It doesn't matter what I do or what I try. I've changed him, I tried to feed him, but he keeps crying." Louise struggled to keep her tears back as the words tumbled out. "I have to get Pierre's dinner and I have to clean the place, but I was so tired after going out this morning, I fell asleep. Until Benoît woke me."
Hélène stroked the baby's forehead. His soft skin felt too hot.
"I'll fetch Irene and after that, I'll take him."
Louise smiled relief on her face. "Of course, of course. But don't be long."
Irene was in the middle of preparing a meal for Henri and her brood, but she immediately handed the wooden spoon she was stirring the stew with to her eldest. Shouting instructions behind her as she banged the door shut, she hurried downstairs behind Hélène.
Irene's concern when she held Benoît, feeling his forehead with the back of her hand, was apparent. "He's very hot. It may be
nothing but a small fever." She unwound the blankets Louise had swaddled him in, looking from one to the other. "Babies often get them. They come and go quickly. But," she paused and lowered her voice, "get Collette, or better, if it's possible, a doctor. A baby's health isn't something you want to take any risks with, is it?"
Tears trickled down Louise's face.
"Tell me where to go and I'll get whoever you want," Hélène said. She'd had experience with newborn lambs and kids. They could appear fine at first, but die for no apparent reason in the days and weeks after birth.
Leaving Irene holding the squalling infant, Louise took Hélène aside. "Do you know if Luc was planning to stay at the studio?" she asked.
Hélène looked blankly at her.
"Hélène, do you know if Luc was planning to stay at the studio? How far along with the painting was he?"
"It's nearly finished." Hélène couldn't understand what Luc had to do with any of this.
Louise's kept her voice low. She shot a glance at Irene, obviously not wanting her to hear.
Irene had opened Benoit's vest and was dabbing his face and chest with a damp cloth, making soothing noises. His cries had quietened but not stopped.
"Look," Louise hissed impatiently, "Luc paid for Collette. I'm sure he'll do this for me. If Irene's saying we should fetch a doctor…" she left the rest unsaid.
Hélène finished the sentence off in her head: it must be serious.
"I'll go to the studio first." She picked up her shawl and threw it around her shoulders, preparing to leave. Luc was full of contradictions. He had generously given money for her cousin's midwife, but she'd never have known if Benoît hadn't gotten sick.
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