Monet's Angels Page 10

  Then Hattie remarked: ‘What an awful daub.’

  Robert eyed it again; there was something about those muddy colours and the angry brushwork he found disturbing. He turned and saw Judith had come out of the wood and was standing a short distance from the group. Had she heard Hattie’s comment, he wondered.

  The party that returned to Giverny was much quieter. The heat of the day had tired them and they had all worked hard. Judith trailed behind, seeming in a world of her own. Robert’s thoughts turned to a bath, a change of clothes and a cocktail on the terrace, preferably with Harry. As they stepped into the cool entrance hall, Lucien Baudy passed through and said there was a letter for Judith.

  She seized the cream envelope, tore it open and read, then turned to Robert with a triumphant smile. ‘I win this round!’

  – THIRTEEN –

  BLANCHE

  O

  n these summer days, when it was too hot to be outside, Blanche had taken to spending some quiet time in her room after luncheon. The house was still, there were only the subdued sounds of Annette washing up in the kitchen. Lilli would be ironing, Marie putting her feet up before she started preparing supper. Papa, of course, was working.

  As she stole up the stairs, for some reason not wanting anyone to know where she was, and closed the bedroom door behind her she felt she was keeping a clandestine appointment.

  There was a velvet padded seat by the window and here she sat and gazed out over the garden, though not really seeing it. She concentrated on Maman, her illness, her death and the funeral. Sometimes she cried as she had not been able to do in the weeks of supporting Papa, now and then she spoke aloud of love and yearning, even anger that Alice could leave them. Over the past week, she had started to examine their lives together. Today, she looked back to that time when they were living in the chateau at Montgeron. In her mind’s eye, she saw the expanse of parkland, the rose garden, the pond; giant white turkeys with drooping red wattles roamed over the grassy hill and beyond, the red brick building could be glimpsed through trees. She thought of her sister Marthe, of the two of them wheeling their dolls’ prams along the paths, always together, fussing over Josephine and Isabelle, making sure their porcelain faces were protected from the sun; but there always seemed to be another real life baby in the family. She smelled the crisp autumnal air, heard the crack of rifle shot, saw dead pheasants and rabbits lying on a leafy forest carpet.

  Always there was Maman: kind hearted, eager to please, the perfect mother, inventing games and outings for them all during the long summer days in the country. She found it difficult to conjure up her father, a shadowy presence who came and went. If she thought of him, it was with a sense of the unease he brought into the house when he returned from his trips to Paris. There would be anxious conversations and her mother went about the place looking strained until more guests arrived, as they always did, and once again, she became the delightful hostess.

  ‘How brave you were, Maman,’ she murmured. ‘I would come to your room to watch you dress for dinner. I’d watch while you arranged your hair and put on your jewellery. You’d be wearing one of your beautiful gowns, the rose silk was my favourite. When you’d finished, you’d stand up and say, “Well how do I look, Blanchefleur?” All smiles, all worries gone and I’d feel so proud you were my mother.’

  Down in the garden she saw Michel come from the greenhouse with a box of plants under each arm. He knelt by one of the lozenge flowerbeds and began to plant them. He was wearing a straw hat, you needed one in this heat; it must be tiring working under that sun, it was warm enough here in the room. She took up a fan and moved the still air.

  She was seeing the train that brought Monet to the chateau, arriving along the tracks Papa had had put down through the parkland. Though how they could afford to commission an artist was a mystery to her, Maman had said. After a while they became used to seeing the man with long hair and a dark beard at his easel, painting every day. When they were curious, he didn’t shoo them away as their father would have done, instead he explained patiently how this colour mixed with that made this. They watched the paintings grow and were fascinated, Blanche especially. He noticed this and singled her out and she became his slave. There was something about him so expansive and grand, the way he slapped the paint onto the canvas with a hand that never faltered. She also noted that, when her father was away and it was just her mother and Monet in the chateau, the atmosphere altered and there was laughter and fun. She heard her mother singing in her room on the day they all made an excursion to Bois de la Grande for a picnic. They walked along the avenue of trees with their leafy branches lacing over ahead and Monet said it was better than going to church, any day.

  ‘Oh Maman, you didn’t scold him as you might have done anyone else, devout as you were. Instead we all took hands and strode along singing Frère Jacques, singing and singing until we tired of it.’

  Blanche laid her fan in her lap. And then there was the surprise of being told yet another baby was on the way. Could it be that Monet was the father of Jean Pierre? no-one had ever said anything but as things had turned out…

  One afternoon, she stood on a chair to open an upper cupboard and fetch down some of her paintings. She had tried to put them out of her mind but the conversation with that American girl, Judith, resonated, the remark that she, Blanche, was spoken about in New York. She carried them over to the light: Monet’s House, The Pond at Giverny and two or three others, and examined them critically. They were good, no doubt about that, she had a fine eye for colour and the atmosphere was tangible, of a garden heavy with foliage, waiting for its summer flowering. She surprised herself by not feeling upset or angry, the reactions she would have expected; it was as if she were examining with a dispassionate eye, admiring what she saw. They stirred memories of other, happier days.

  1888

  On Tuesday of the following week Monet had announced his intention of going into Rouen and she had managed to slip away, unnoticed. She hurried along the street towards the pink washed house, praying he would be there but preparing herself in case he wasn’t. With her heart beating fast, she peered through the foliage into the garden and there he was, seated at his easel, intent on his work. There was no sign of anyone else. She called softly to him and he looked up, grinned and came quickly to the garden gate.

  ‘John Leslie!’

  ‘Blanche!’ his eyes shone. ‘You’re here.’

  ‘I had to see you,’ she whispered. ‘I couldn’t bear it any longer.’

  ‘No need to whisper, there is nobody here. Come in.’

  She stepped into the garden and they stood for a moment gazing at each other then he took hold of her hands.

  ‘I was praying you’d come,’ he said. ‘It’s been such a long time.’

  ‘A week.’

  She looked at him, the sun on his dark hair, the sharp curve of his cheekbones, his mouth, the truth of his presence made her catch her breath. Her sense of separateness vanished and she was just Blanche, heart pounding, mouth dry with a mixture of delight and anxiety.

  ‘It has seemed like forever,’ he said and she saw the longing in his expression.

  Maybe people could see what was happening? She felt it was written as clearly on her face as it was on his. Thank God, no-one had said anything at home, not yet…

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come before, I have had to go out painting with Monet, every day,’ she told him. ‘Listen to him going on about haystacks.’

  ‘Haystacks!’

  ‘It is what he is painting at the moment. You have no idea how difficult it has been for me, out in the fields with him each day, talking about atmosphere and changing light and reflection when all I wanted to speak about was you. And at home, I have to behave as if everything is as usual when the truth is everything is utterly changed.’

  He brought her hands to his lips. ‘It is, isn’t it? Everything is changed. I find it hard with my family, too.’

 
; Why should it be a secret? she wondered. Why can’t I share this happiness?

  ‘I cannot understand his loathing of us Americans, it seems out of all proportion,’ John Leslie said. ‘What have we ever done to him?’

  ‘It is what you represent,’ she replied. ‘As interlopers in his precious domain. He will tolerate you as painters but apart from Robinson he sees you as a threat to the way things are done at Le Pressoir.’

  She looked up and met his gaze. He caressed her face and kissed her gently. ‘The others have gone to Vernon to the market. They went early and I’m not sure how soon they’ll be back.’

  Over his shoulder she gazed at the easel. ‘Won’t you show me your painting?’

  It was a simple subject of orchard grass and the beauty of apple trees in snowy blossom, the candid promise that spring offers, every year.

  ‘A Normandy orchard: I came across it a couple of months ago. I thought I’d finished it but when I fetched it out today, I saw there was still work to be done.’ He indicated areas on the canvas. ‘I love that time of year, don’t you, with everything coming to life again.’

  Blanche, gazing, wondered but will the promise be fulfilled? What is to happen to us? Spring has gone and summer is passing, when the autumn comes he will be gone. The uncertainty returned.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. He looked into her eyes then, it seemed, into her mind. ‘Blanche, don’t worry. I am planning to come back here next summer, only then I’ll stay with the Baudy family. I am trying to persuade them to transform their property into a small hotel. Somewhere where we can create a colony of painters, maybe even build some studios.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You always ask me that. Yes, really. I am attracted to this style of painting. Since I’ve been here my work and my palette have changed radically. Never mind what anyone says, I intend to become an impressionist.’

  And you want to be with me? She asked him silently.

  As they spoke they were aware of the two levels of dialogue starting again. They avoided the topic of Monet although he was as close as if he were beside them, the threat to their happiness.

  ‘I don’t want you to go ever,’ she murmured.

  ‘I will have to for a while, there are my studies to follow.’

  She felt a stab of panic. ‘I’m afraid something will happen to prevent your coming back and I won’t ever see you again.’

  It was all right while they were here and now and she could feel his solid presence, hear his voice. But she knew, when the moment came to say goodbye, the wrench would be so terrible she didn’t know how she would bear it.

  ‘Oh darling Blanche, of course you’ll see me again and I’ll write to you, often. Don’t worry it will all turn out just fine. We’ll overcome the problem with Monet, I’m sure.’

  They moved into each other’s arms and she clung to him, her face wet with tears, closing her eyes as if to shut out the world.

  ‘Promise me,’ she whispered. ‘Promise you’ll come back. I think I’d die if you didn’t.’

  ‘I promise,’ he said.

  After a while, Blanche mounted the chair again and stowed her work back in its hiding place. There was no time for painting these days but perhaps she would try a little sketching.

  With a start she remembered she had arranged to see Lilli today. She glanced at her watch. At four o’clock, she had said, we will have a dress rehearsal for the dance, it was nearly half past. She hurried across to the door only to find the young woman hovering outside in the corridor.

  ‘Oh Lilli, forgive me. I must have dozed off in this heat.’

  ‘Beg pardon, madame? I don’t want to disturb you, if you’re feeling unwell.’

  Blanche became brisk. ‘Nonsense I am feeling perfectly fine, and we must try everything today with the dance on Thursday. Now have you brought the frock and the shoes?’

  ‘Yes, madame. I hope they will be nice enough.’

  ‘I’m sure they will and the shawl to set it off.’ She opened the door wider. ‘Come in then.’

  Lilli followed her into the room where she stood clutching her package.

  ‘Shall we begin? I need to see the frock on you first.’ Realising the girl’s shyness, she added, ‘You can go behind the screen to change.’

  After a moment, Lilli emerged. She wore a close fitting dress, blue with white spots, and edged with white at the neck and cuffs, buttons ran down the front. It was a country dress, Blanche saw that at a glance, but the girl looked fresh and charming in it. The shoes were a surprise, pretty and pointed with a low heel.

  ‘My father has a friend who is a shoemaker,’ Lilli explained when she commented on them.

  ‘So far so good,’ Blanche smiled. ‘But we are going to do something rather special with your hair. If you’ll sit before the mirror and take out your pins?’ She smiled at the girl’s surprise. ‘I promise you’ll be pleased with the result.’

  Lilli released her hair from its neat bun and shook it out. It fell down her back like a rich golden wave. She touched it protectively. ‘You’re not going to cut it, are you, madame?’

  ‘Cut hair like that? It would be a sin!’

  Blanche busied herself, assembling the items she needed, the Marcel curling iron, comb and pins. There was also a horsehair rat to give extra fullness but, fingering the texture of Lilli’s hair, she decided she probably wouldn’t need it. They waited for the iron to heat. How grateful she was that Papa had had electricity installed a few years ago. You never knew where you were with those awful old tongs that were either too cold or too hot. There was nothing as unpleasant as the smell of burning hair.

  She brushed out the tangles, grateful that Lilli had washed her hair recently; it crackled with electricity. Annette was inclined to be lazy about personal hygiene, sometimes unpleasantly obvious when she served at table. She divided the hair and pinned the top section out of the way. The iron was ready and she set to work taking up strands of hair, not too little, not too much, and making soft curls all round the girl’s head.

  While she worked, she talked. ‘Did you know curly hair is meant to indicate a sweeter temperament? Straight haired girls are considered reserved, even awkward. Silly old wives’ tales, of course, but I do think waves look romantic.’

  Lilli was charmed. ‘I’ve always wanted curly hair.’

  ‘I’m afraid it won’t last, though. You’d have to do this every day.’ Blanche ran her fingers through the curls, turning them into soft waves. ‘There, prettier still.’

  ‘Oh thank you, madame.’

  ‘We haven’t finished yet.’

  She pinned back each wavy strand to form a full bun, leaving a few soft curls at the nape of Lilli’s neck. Next she curled the front section before pinning it back but left more tendrils to frame the face. Blanche felt a flutter of satisfaction as the style took shape, its effect to make Lilli’s face look rounder, softer. It was almost like creating a painting, she thought, as she tucked a stray strand into place, smoothed over with a comb. Finally she stepped back and fetched a hand mirror so that the girl could see the back of her head.

  ‘There, not exactly the Gibson girl look but on those lines.’

  Lilli gave a squeak of delight. ‘That’s never me!’

  ‘It most certainly is. Now let’s try the shawl.’

  She pulled open a drawer and lifted out the silk shawl, pastel blue and rose silk with self coloured embroidery. She arranged it round Lilli’s shoulders.

  The effect was impressive. From a pretty country girl, Lilli had become an elegant woman, one who held herself proudly, whose clear blue eyes surveyed herself solemnly in the mirror, whose mouth curved in a secret smile. She seemed unable to tear herself away.

  ‘You’re pleased?’ Blanche asked at last.

  ‘I am enchanted, madame. Thank you for taking this trouble to help me.’ Her expression changed. ‘How will I manage for Thursday?’

 
Blanche smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll do it all again for you then.’

  ‘Oh thank you! I’ll be the belle of the ball.’

  She looked so young and excited, so full of expectation of what the evening might bring.

  Blanche laughed. ‘You will and I hope that Michel appreciates it, too.’

  Let her have her heart’s desire, she thought. Don’t let Lilli be disappointed.

  1889

  John Leslie sent her a letter from Paris where he was spending the Christmas holidays with his friends. At first she had been despondent that they would not be able to stay in contact; Monet opened any correspondence that arrived at the house.

  ‘Poste Restante,’ John Leslie had announced. ‘That is the answer. Go to the post office in Vernon and set it up before I leave.’

  It was a simple matter to say she was going to do some shopping in town and then pass by the post office to pick up letters, although she always felt a guilty twinge as she did so, glancing back over her shoulder as if someone was watching her.

  His letter spoke of how much he missed her and that she was always in his thoughts, then went on to describe his lodgings and the concierge whose blanched face and pale hair ‘reminds me of a plant that has been kept in the dark too long.’

  ‘Her meanness is legendary and even now in the depths of winter my room is unheated although there is a chimney piece. I’ll tell you something: there is nothing like the damp chill of a house that is never heated. It penetrates to your very marrow. When I and some of the other tenants got up a petition to complain, she produced a charcoal stove, the kind that can be wheeled from room to room. However, there is such competition for it that often one has to rely on a good circulation to keep warm. I do a great deal of jumping up and down and flapping my arms. In particular, there is a French lady who ‘borrows’ the stove and ‘forgets’ to bring it back. In spite of all this, Paris is still a wonderful place to be. I wish you could see the snow on the streets, the branches of the trees in the Luxembourg Gardens bowed down under its weight and, of course the great church of Notre Dame which, at the moment, looks like a strange iceberg. Enough, I must get to the point of this letter. Darling Blanche, I have some news to tell you which I know will gladden your heart…’