Monet's Angels Page 11

  She hid the letter in the drawer of her night table and, during preparations for the festivities, often stole upstairs to read it once again. On Christmas Eve and after Midnight Mass, the family attended a party held at a friend’s house. Amid the jugs of cider and almond cakes, the laughter and conversation, she had something momentous to celebrate. Monet had sent an invitation to John Leslie and some of the other American painters to join him at Giverny – and spend a few months there. I won’t give you lessons, but we’ll wander about the fields and woods and paint together, he had said. A few months, she thought. A lot can happen in a few months, my darling.

  Suzanne came to find her where she sat apart from the others, savouring this news. ‘What is it, Blanche? Are you unwell?’

  ‘Oh, not you too. Maman is forever asking me that.’

  Her sister eyed her closely. ‘There is something, isn’t there? You can’t deny it. You seem so distant and sometimes when I speak to you, you don’t seem to be listening.’

  In that moment the weight of keeping this secret to herself seemed too much to bear. It was terrible not to be able to speak of John Leslie when it was really all she wanted to do, She longed to confide but at the same time was afraid.

  ‘Come on,’ urged Suzanne. ‘You can trust me, you know.’ She smiled so that dimples showed. ‘Are you in love?’

  Blanche said nothing.

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’

  Finally she nodded. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Oh, that’s easy. You are behaving exactly like all the heroines in the books I read.’

  Blanche was dismayed. Was it so obvious? If Suzanne had realised why not everyone else? ‘I will tell you,’ she said. ‘But promise me you will keep it to yourself.’

  That year the village was changing, American voices were heard increasingly along the street. Some of the villagers shook their heads and clicked their tongues at the sight of these young people who apparently did not work. Others sized up the situation and opened bars and cafés. Angelina and Lucien Baudy were the most enterprising. John Leslie’s persuasion had prevailed and with surprising speed six rooms were built in the courtyard of their property and then, with Angelina’s shrewd perception, they started on a studio. The young people needed to have amusement too; workmen arrived to construct tennis courts.

  ‘When will that noise cease?’ demanded Monet. ‘What are they trying to do? Force me out of my home?’

  In the midst of all this activity there came another letter from John Leslie. He would be arriving the following week. Blanche felt she would faint with joy.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she suggested to Suzanne. Her sister had a book in her hand and was obviously all set for a quiet session under her favourite tree. ‘Please?’

  They took the path by the river. It was a dull overcast day and the water was dark, showing no reflection but catkin buds were breaking through and celandine shone among the trees.

  ‘He is coming back,’ she said.

  ‘Oh Blanche, you must be so happy.’

  ‘Of course I am but afraid too. What if Maman guesses? She’s always watching me, these days. She’d be sure to tell Monet and then where would we be?’

  Suzanne laughed. ‘Oh don’t be such a misery! It will all come right in the end. True love always finds a way.’

  ‘You’ve been reading too many books,’ Blanche said. ‘Real life isn’t always like that.’

  But her sister tucked her hand under Blanche’s arm and urged her along the riverbank. ‘Remember what I said to you not so very long ago? We should each of us meet a wonderful man and marry and have lots of children. We’d bring them all to the house to visit and Monet would dote on them? A fairy story with a happy ending.’

  Yes Blanche remembered and how moved she had been by Suzanne’s innocence and hopes for the future. Now as then, she felt an urge to protect her from harm. She shivered. ‘You’re just an incurable romantic,’ she said. ‘Come on let’s go back, it’s turning cold.’

  On Thursday morning of the following week, the day of John Leslie’s expected arrival, she and Suzanne walked to the Baudy establishment, which was now proclaiming itself an hotel with obvious pride. On their enquiry, Madame Baudy told them that John Leslie would not arrive until later in the evening.

  Blanche sat with the family at supper, imagining the taxi drawing up, the welcoming voices as someone appeared to carry in his valise, and the figure of John Leslie following, marvelling at the changes he had provoked. She wondered if he would dine sitting at one of those red-check-clothed tables, or would he too have no appetite, only the longing for the next day?

  Maman’s voice broke in on her thoughts. ‘I met Madame Baudy in the village today. She tells me the Americans are returning for the season.’

  Monet gave a short laugh. ‘Hmm, surprised they can tear themselves away from the pleasures of Paris.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘When I think of myself at their age, oh, delicious!’

  Maman clucked her tongue. ‘Enough of that!’

  At once, Blanche’s joy was suffused with fear. John Leslie had told her of the cafés he frequented, his circle of friends and their discussions of art and politics. Now, to that scenario, she added young women: sophisticated, vivacious Parisiennes, maybe some without virtue. They laughed, they flirted, lovable charmers without a care in the world. Yes, he had sent her loving letters saying he missed her but when he saw her again, might she seem provincial and dull in comparison with what the capital had to offer?

  Monet was speaking of his forthcoming trip to Paris. He would be away from the following morning and would remain so for several days. He was going to see the World Fair where Eiffel held court atop his one thousand foot tower and a host of artists and personalities, Buffalo Bill, Annie Oakley, Gauguin, Whistler and Edison travelled to Paris to mingle and make their mark. But while others queued to mount to the second level, Monet’s goal was water lilies.

  ‘This man, this Latour-Marliac is a genius. I cannot wait to see the colours of these new hybrids. White, yes we all know white water lilies, but apparently these are pink and yellow and heaven knows what other shades.’

  ‘Very nice,’ murmured Maman.

  ‘Nice! Nice! They are wonders, Alice, possibly one of the wonders of the world. Listen, if ever I have enough money I’ll buy a piece of that grazing land and build a pond, and I’ll stock it with those Latour-Marliac water lilies.’

  What do I care about water lilies, Blanche thought.

  Next morning, she lurked in the library until she heard Monet’s valise being dragged down the stairs, he following, barking last minute instructions to Alice. There was a final ‘au revoir’ from her mother and the brisk trot of the horse as the trap bore him away. Blanche rose, took a last glance in her pocket mirror and stole out of the house. She felt her heart race as she hurried along the road, hoping he would think her pretty in the frock she had chosen for this occasion. Or was it too naïve after the fashions he must have seen in Paris? She didn’t know, in fact, she felt at that moment, she knew nothing about this business of wooing, which Suzanne appeared to have learned from the books she read. Blanche took a deep breath. One thing was constant: she loved John Leslie with her heart and soul.

  ‘Blanche!’

  He was standing outside the hotel in his shirt sleeves and she remembered their first meeting, her first impression of him: the contrast of tanned skin and dark hair against the open necked white shirt. But there was something in his expression that mirrored her earlier thoughts.

  ‘Am I dreaming or are we really together again?’

  Had he too feared the danger of their separation?

  ‘John Leslie! Oh, John Leslie!’

  They were in each other’s arms uncaring of curious stares, oblivious of everything except coming together until his hand raised her face and they kissed, a long, sweet kiss.

  After a while, they drew apart and he smiled at her. ‘I cannot tell you how happy I am
to see you again. Sometimes, I thought, I don’t know, that you might have changed your mind, gone back to your life with the family and I couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘Really?’

  He laughed.’ Sweetheart, why do you always ask me that?’

  ‘Because I can never hear enough times it is true.’

  ‘True, true, true… a thousand times true.’ He kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her closed eyes and returned to her mouth again. ‘I love you, Blanche,’ he murmured. ‘More than ever. Love, love, love you.’

  She raised her arms to him and his encircled her waist. The sun blazed and spotlighted them in its glare. After some time, Madame Baudy appeared.

  ‘My children, I do not want to interfere but perhaps it would be more discreet if you either came inside or went for a walk by the river.’ And to Blanche in French, she added: ‘You know how they talk in Giverny.’

  ‘I know,’ said John Leslie, who understood. ‘We are going.’ He took Blanche’s hand and hurried her away.

  ‘A pond!’ he smiled when they were sitting together by the river. ‘Well, that should keep him out of mischief.’

  ‘If only,’ breathed Blanche.

  ‘Perhaps tonight?’ he said. ‘What do you think? If I came to the house, could you slip out into the garden?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Come tonight. I’ll let you in by the gate at the back. With Monet away it should be easy.’

  ‘Well hello, look who’s here!’ A voice interrupted them, a female voice with an American accent. Blanche saw a young woman with blonde hair had arrived beside them. She was dressed in blue voile and wore a shady hat. ‘When did you get back then?’

  ‘Oh hello, Veronica.’

  The woman was looking questioningly at Blanche.

  John Leslie said quickly, ‘This is Mademoiselle Hoschedé. A friend of mine.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ The other smiled but it was obvious it was John Leslie who held her interest. ‘How long are you staying this time?’ she asked him. ‘Isn’t the Baudy marvellous? They’ve built tennis courts, did you know that? Maybe we can have a game sometime?’ she lowered her eyes flirtatiously.

  He seemed at a loss as to what to say. Her presence had clearly unnerved him. Blanche felt him tremble.

  The woman turned her blue gaze onto Blanche and something like realisation came into her expression. ‘Gee, I’m sorry if I butted in?’

  To her astonishment Blanche found she was jealous, jealous of the free and easy way this woman spoke, the assumption that she and John Leslie were friends. She was bewildered as she felt this jealousy mount within her. It was irrational, she knew, but uncontrollable and she had to get away.

  ‘It’s perfectly all right,’ she said. ‘I really must go.’

  With the sound of John Leslie’s protest in her ears, she rose and walked away and did not look back. She heard Veronica’s whining tone: ‘What have I done?’ and John Leslie’s curt reply: ‘Did anyone ever tell you it’s rude to interrupt a conversation?’

  Blanche hurried back to the house, feeling she wanted to cry. Her emotions were all jumbled up, love and pain, anger and sadness, like a great knot inside her. She longed to go to her mother and tell her all that was troubling her, as she had done when she was a child. She would love the indulgence of crying and being comforted and then to be told that, yes, there was nothing to worry about, yes, of course she could marry John Leslie. But she knew she had to keep quiet. That was the problem, she found it difficult to say very much at all to Maman these days, in case it veered onto this dangerous topic. It was the same with Monet, if she came near to the truth with him, her defences would break down and all the guilty happiness come spilling out. So over the past months they had worked in silence, painting side by side but, at least for her, with the sense of a great distance between them.

  In the garden that night, the moon only a sliver in the sky so that they were hidden in shadow, John Leslie took her hands in his and kissed the knuckles. ‘I wanted to come to tell you I love you.’

  ‘I know,’ she said feeling helpless. ‘And I love you.’

  She had spoken the words that up until then had been only in her head; they were out in the open now. Deception and lies that was what her joy had made her do. Just to hear his voice and the reassurance they had given each other made her unbearably happy. But the same happiness stung her as she gazed about seeing ghostly roses clambering over an arch, the dark mass of foliage, realising this was Monet’s domain, which he guarded jealously, and she was part of it; he relied on her and would never agree to her going very far away. She felt trapped here by the sediment of her life. She turned to John Leslie and he drew in his breath and with his thumb wiped away the tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Blanche what’s wrong? Oh my love, my love.’

  Somewhere in the house a light appeared, shining through a window.

  ‘I had better go,’ he said. His hands slipped out of hers and they hurried down to the gate.

  ‘Goodnight, Blanche.’ He kissed her swiftly and was gone.

  In her bedroom, Blanche undressed and lay between the unfriendly sheets. She thought: What shall I do? What shall I do?

  – FOURTEEN –

  CLAUDE

  B

  reuil says Michel’s work and dedication please him. ‘You know me, m’sieur, I’m not one to enthuse but I must admit the boy has gone beyond my expectations.’

  Aware of his head gardener’s critical eye, his perfectionism, Claude is surprised. Just what exactly has Michel been doing to gain such praise? To illustrate, Breuil takes him on a tour of the roses whose leaves now gleam dark green and perfectly formed without a trace of rust.

  ‘He went over them so carefully I’ll swear he didn’t miss a diseased leaf,’ Breuil says. ‘Took him hours. It’s surprising to find such patience in a young man.’

  ‘Excellent. I was really worried.’

  ‘Me, too but not any more, he won’t allow it to return.’

  It appears that the admirable Michel has since busied himself finding other jobs to do.

  ‘Young rascal even suggested we were behind on the seed collection,’ Breuil chuckles, obviously delighted with his pupil. ‘He’s already taken cuttings from fuchsia and penstemon, got them in cutting compost over here, in this shady spot, ready to pot up.’

  As he speaks, they walk slowly from bed to bed where each variety, zinnias, salvias, gladiolus and cosmos speak to Claude of some memory. Year in, year out, when their season comes around, they bloom again while the voices of those guests who walked among them are now silent: Pissarro, Cézanne and Berthe Morisot. Nasturtiums overspill the pathway where Mallarmé once spoke of the sound rather than meaning of words in his poetry.

  This garden, he thinks, was planted with regard to paintings not yet painted and the paintings were a response to a garden where the elements of colour and array are also a work of art.

  They arrive at the circle of grass where Alice once sat in the shade of the paulownia on such a day as this, doing her needlework. And here they find Michel sprawled, drinking from a bottle of lemonade.

  He springs to his feet. ‘Pardon. It has only been a few minutes.’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ commands Claude. ‘It seems to me you deserve a rest now and then after all the work I hear you’ve been doing.’

  The young man flushes.

  ‘What gave you the idea to take cuttings, I’d like to know?’

  ‘M’sieur Breuil lent me some gardening books, I’ve been reading those.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘There is so much to do at this time of year, what with the lack of rain. I plan to mulch tomorrow.’

  ‘Well done, that should help to keep the ground moist, eh Breuil?’

  He catches Breuil grinning like a proud father.

  ‘Your parents should be happy that you have such an excellent teacher. I had to start from scratch and learn as I went along. W
hen I first started painting, I tried to go my own way and my father threatened to cut off my allowance.’ He chuckles. ‘He told me to get it into my head that I was going to work seriously. He wanted to see me in a studio under the discipline of a reputable master.’

  He feels at peace with the world, this morning. He woke with a delicious sense of anticipation. When he said his habitual good morning to Alice, he added, ‘well, cherie, not long to go now. I am sure you are happy for me.’

  With Breuil’s permission, he cuts some roses and when Annette serves him breakfast he asks her to lay them by Blanche’s plate at luncheon. He drinks his café au lait, dipping a pain au chocolat into it. The taste is intense as it used to be. It seems to him that all his senses have come alive except, of course, his sight but at this moment he feels the others compensate for it. It is the imminent arrival of this American girl that is responsible. He always liked an attractive woman.

  Light floods into his studio, bird song comes through the open window. He takes up his brush and paints with firm, confident strokes.

  It is as if a cloud has lifted.

  At luncheon, Blanche gives a little cry of delight when she finds the flowers.

  He shrugs. ‘Bit of an apology for my awful moods.’

  ‘Ah well.’ She brings the flowers to her nose. ‘Which are these?’

  ‘Duchesse d’Angouleme and another gallica, I forget the name… Tuscany something.’

  ‘The petals look like velvet.’

  ‘Yes, the texture, the fragrance, makes you want to paint them.’

  He is enjoying his luncheon today without fault finding. The pike has come from the lily pond, caught this morning. It is always a favourite of his, the flesh lean and firm, but you have to look out for the bones. Marie has prepared it simply, grilled with a sauce of parsley, oil, garlic, salt and plenty of black pepper. Half way through, he sips a digestive glass of Calvados. Blanche also appears to have a good appetite.