Avignon, France
April 1895
I laid the freshly cut roses on Erik’s grave.
“Come, Veronique.”
I extended my hand to our daughter. She was nearly five years old, and possessed not only of Erik’s jet-black hair but also his rather solemn demeanor. Even at her young age, she preferred the company of books and animals to that of children; in that regard, she took after me.
“Maman, I do not see why we cannot go to the circus,” she complained as I boosted her up into the caleche. She could see the tents in the distance and was curious about them.
I stepped into the little coach and took up the reins, flicking them gently across Josephine’s back. She trotted off smartly, leaving the hilltop cemetery behind.
“I told you, my dear. They do unkind things to people in those shows.”
She pouted a little, her green eyes flashing just as her father’s used to do. “It’s not fair, Maman.”
“No, my child, I suppose it is not. But that is the way of things. When you are a grown lady, you may choose to visit the circus. For now, I will choose that you not.”
I pulled the coach up behind our mas, a Provençal farmhouse. Just as I had always wished, it had terra cotta plastered walls and blue shutters to protect against the mistral winds. It was sunny and beautiful in Avignon; I planned never to leave. The modest house was like a palace to me. I loved each room, from the chambers with their iron bedsteads and boutis quilts to the colorfully tiled kitchen with its simple furnishings and plain dishes. This was, at last, truly a home for me.
Veronique and I lived alone. Even the Provençal sun had not been able to stop the dampness in Erik’s lungs; we had not left England soon enough to keep the pleurisy at bay. Toward the end of his life, he was bedridden and coughing blood: his beautiful voice was ruined. Veronique was not quite four years old when her father died. One day I would let her read his journals, the which I treasured. Despite the cruelty he had inflicted on me more than once, I loved him and cared for him until the end of his days.
I was grateful that he had died in France, where Zareh helped me to arrange a proper funeral and burial. The idea of Erik’s remains suffering the humiliation of an anatomist’s knife was more than I could bear. I still missed Joseph Merrick, and it pained me that Doctor Treves cared more about making a name for himself than about the gentle soul he had exploited toward that end.
I unharnessed Josephine and brushed her before turning her out into the pasture. Hotspur, Angel and Cesare were grazing there already, and she galloped out to meet her companions. Ours was a happy little estate.
“Maman,” Veronique slipped up behind me; she had also inherited her father’s stealth. “May I see if Elise has had her kittens?”
“Yes, my dear, but be careful. She may not want you there if she has babies.”
“No, Maman. She will let me. And yes, I know to keep Pierre away.” I had already taught her that father cats sometimes kill their own offspring and that my spoiled house cat would be no exception.
I sighed as I watched my black-clad daughter head off to the garden shed where the little calico had made her nest. I still did not believe in the custom of mourning garb, but it had its uses. When Erik’s will was read, leaving me the entirety of his substantial fortune, I was grateful for the black weeds that held off potential suitors. I had no male guardian, and so was considered ripe spoils for the taking.
It seemed that every Provençal man, truffle hunter or burgess, was determined to pay court (“after a decent interval, of course, Madame”) to the Widow LeMaitre. Dressing my daughter and myself in black was like donning armor. None of the Provençal men had a hope of turning my head anyway; Erik had spoiled me to the point that only someone truly special would do when I was ready for courting again. And that day, I had long since admitted to myself, was unlikely ever to come.
It had been a lonely time without him, though. Sometimes I would look back on the short time we had together, amazed at what we had packed into those few years. He gave me the home I had always wanted, as well as financial independence that most French women would never see. I could travel freely, and all of our holdings were in my name alone. Zareh administered the funds for me from his Paris home, and I lacked for nothing.
I went into the house and took off my coal-scuttle bonnet. I changed out of my plain black dress into a lavender calico frock; the lighter fabric was so much more comfortable as the days grew warmer, and Erik always loved to see me in that color. I sighed, remembering the simple flannel night rail he had bought for me on our wedding trip; Erik had always known what looked best on me.
It was the hottest time of the afternoon. For tea, I planned to prepare a simple snack for Veronique and myself: saucissons and brioches with hot chocolate. I would make her supper later. As for me, I had never fully recovered from one aspect of the melancholia that struck me in London: I still ate very little.
Veronique came in and sat down on the settle near the fireplace.
“Still no kittens, Maman.” She was obviously disappointed.
“They will come in their own time, my sweet. Now, play your violin lesson for me.”
The tune that Veronique’s instructor had taught her was a simple one, and she performed it nicely for me. She put down the instrument, and sighed.
“I wish Papa were still here to play for us, Maman.”
“I do, too. But he is with the angels now.”
“Is it true that some people thought he was the Angel of Music?”
“Yes, that is so. And some others thought he was a very bad man indeed.”
“Hmm.” Veronique got down from the settle and went to look out the window. “Which was he, Maman?”
How on earth could I answer that question? How could I explain Erik’s complexities to a child? Angel or devil? In my mind, he had certainly been both at different times.
To buy myself time, I unpinned my hair and sat down next to the hearth to brush it out. After the incident in London I had not cut it again, except for a fashionable fringe across my forehead, and so it was past my waist. I usually kept it tightly braided as I worked around the mas, so it rippled as I loosed it
“I am going to sit in the garden for a while, Veronique. You may play indoors if you would like, or you may join me.”
“I will play inside, Maman,” she said, and got out her dolls. I slipped my feet into a pair of espadrilles, which Erik had called my “peasant shoes,” and went out to the garden.
I had created an arbor there, with shady awnings and a comfortable, pillow-covered chaise, for Erik during his last days. I often napped there in the afternoons; it was a good place to think and remember.
Indeed, I fell asleep there that afternoon and was awakened by my daughter.
“Maman, there is a man coming up the walk toward the garden. He doesn’t look very tidy.” Veronique also had her father’s fastidious habits about clothing.
“May the saints preserve me from another Provençal farmer,” I sighed as I ran my fingers through my locks to smooth them. “I don’t think I can take it today.”
“He’s not a farmer, Maman. His clothes are too nice, even if they are dusty.” She turned to face me. “Besides, I have never seen a farmer who walked with a stick.”
“You know that is not so, Veronique. Shepherds use sticks.”
“Not like that one, Maman. It is a fancy black one with a blue ball at the top.”
It couldn’t be, I thought. Surely there were other such walking sticks in the world. This was, no doubt, some stranger whom I could hopefully dismiss so that my daughter and I could have our tea in peace.
“Go inside, my dear,” I said. “It would be rude not to lay a place for this gentleman at tea-time.” I would deal with this caller as best I could, but he might not take a subtle hint.
I smoothed my skirts and went out to the walkway. As I drew closer, I recognized our visitor and ran down the pavers in my delight to see him.
�
��Gilbert! Oh, my dear Gilbert!” I would have thrown my arms around him, but there was something uncertain in his demeanor that deterred me. Instead, I came to a halt and waited for him to speak. He had a closely-trimmed Van Dyck beard now, and wore a handsome suit of chocolate brown superfine with a green brocade waistcoat. The ensemble suited his coloring perfectly.
“Hello, Claire.” My friend stopped on the cobblestones. “I saw Zareh in Paris, and he told me where you were. I’m sorry about Erik; Zareh also told me about his illness. I lost Honor as well, to the typhoid.”
I remembered Maggie’s letter telling me the news; I had been so consumed with nursing Erik that I had not written back. I apologized, but he waved my words aside.
“I came to Avignon as soon as I could, hoping to see you. Your home is a bit of a walk from the railroad station and I was unable to hire either a station fly or a horse to bring me here. Could we have a seat? This has been rather a long walk and I would like to rest my leg.”
“Oh, my goodness. Of course. You must come in and meet Veronique. She will be so pleased to know one of her father’s oldest friends.”
“Could we sit down outside for just a moment? I should like to tell you some things first.”
“Of course.”
I led the way to my shady little arbor. Gilbert took off his jacket and hat, and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His hair was cut fashionably, a bit longer than it had been before, in a tousle of waves untamed by brilliantine. He took a small sketchpad from the pocket of his coat and handed it to me as we sat side-by-side on the chaise.
“Please, have a look. I drew these years ago and have carried them with me.”
I opened the notebook and was surprised to see sketch after sketch of me. In some I was on horseback, at the Opera Garnier; I guessed that they were done from memory. The one that most touched me was clearly done in the London house, while I was asleep. My hand was curled under my chin; under it Gilbert had written Shakespeare’s words: “Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand.”
I looked up at him in confusion.
“They are beautiful sketches,” I said quietly. “Why are you showing them to me now?”
“I am an old friend of Veronique’s father, but I am more than that.” He moved closer to me and put a gentle hand on my waist. “I am also the man who still loves her mother after all of these years.”
I looked into Gilbert’s warm brown eyes in amazement. His presence alone was testimony to his devotion. Unless he had changed so much that he wanted the money I had inherited. I was crestfallen, and it must have shown in my face.
“Claire, say the word and I’ll be gone. I know I took a risk coming here; I even took lodgings in town. My feelings for you have never waned. I also know I’m not good enough for you; you’re a wealthy woman and you deserve a gentleman. You deserve far more than I can offer you. But I had to try.”
To my surprise, I longed to touch Gilbert’s tousled curls more than anything in the world. I reached out a tentative hand and laid it on his cheek.
“My dear, dear Gilbert,” I sighed as he lowered his mouth gently to mine, just as he had done once many years before. My fingers entwined in his hair and I began to cry as I let Erik go at last. That chapter in my life was truly closed, even as another opened.
Gilbert held me for a few minutes, his fingers toying with my hair, and murmured endearments. It seemed as though we had always been together; in some ways, we had.
“My darling Claire, we have so much to talk about,” he said as he dried my tears with his thumb. “Let us go inside.”
* * * * *
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THE SEDUCTION OF GABRIEL STEWART Page 17
