Monet's Angels Read online

  The camisoles, the drawers and the nightgowns… it only seemed like yesterday they had worked on this task. Oh the tedium of domestic life, Papa’s shirts, the ironing they demanded.

  ‘My grey skirt and I’ve a new blouse which is prettily tucked,’ Lilli was saying. ‘It will be quite suitable if the sun shines but what if it rains?’

  Blanche gazed at the girl’s anxious face and laughed. ‘I shouldn’t worry about that. If it rains, well then that is the perfect excuse to take shelter somewhere. And while you are waiting for the shower to pass, you can talk, make each other’s acquaintance.’

  Lilli’s expression softened. ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘I speak from experience, Lilli. You remind me of myself when I was about your age. I was in love with a young man but it was early days and I was unsure what he thought about me. One day, we went for a walk and like you I’d planned my outfit. Although it was summer there had been quite a lot of rain. We hadn’t gone very far before we felt the first drops.’ She smiled, recalling how they had turned to each other and then laughing, hurried for shelter. ‘There was a little stone building, we sheltered inside and he kissed me.’

  ‘Oh madame, really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ Blanche laughed at the girl’s wondering face. ‘I was young once even if you find it hard to believe. I wanted the rain to last forever. I wanted to stay in that moment with his arms round me and feel his heart beating so close to mine. Don’t worry about the rain.’

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Anywhere… the moon even. I just want to be alone with you, to kiss you and hold you in my arms, to hear the sound of your voice. It’s been terrible these weeks sitting together painting, feeling you so near and yet so far.’

  She laughed. ‘You seemed so occupied with your work. I thought it was only I who couldn’t think of anything else.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not true. Maybe I am better at hiding it and Monet keeps a sharp eye on us Americans.’

  They decided to walk through the fields in the direction of Vernon. Once there, they would have tea in one of the cafés near the street of the Old Clock. They set off, talking and laughing with the sheer joy of being together once more. But the day, which had begun clear and bright, clouded over and it began to rain, only a light shower to begin with but steadily becoming heavier.

  ‘We’ll get soaked. What shall we do?’ moaned Blanche.

  ‘Find shelter.’ He seized her hand. ‘Come on, run.’

  To their relief they had not gone far before they saw ahead of them an old stone building. Breathless and laughing, they flung themselves inside.

  ‘Look at you!’ gasped Blanche, ‘with your hair plastered to your head.’

  ‘You look a little bedraggled yourself,’ he teased.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she looked down at her wet clothes.

  ‘And perfectly beautiful,’ he added.

  She lifted her head and he cupped her face between his hands. He bent to kiss her throat and her mouth. He stroked her breast and her mouth opened under his, she forgot everything except her need for him. There had been such an ache of separation, what mattered was they were together again. He whispered with his mouth against her hair, ‘my love, my love.’ She murmured ‘I love you.’

  ‘I want to marry you,’ he said. ‘Take you to America or Paris or wherever you want to come with me.’

  ‘I should say I can’t, she thought, can’t leave Giverny, Monet and the family but I can’t be without you. She felt as if she were being torn apart.

  She pulled away and looked up at him. ‘We must take care not to hurt Monet.’

  ‘Of course, I understand that but we will be together. We must, Blanche.’

  They came together again, hungrily reaching out for each other, Blanche knew such an intensity of physical longing she had never imagined existed. She longed for him to touch her and, understanding this, he undid the buttons of her blouse, bent his head to kiss the curve of her breast as the material fell away. She closed her eyes as she felt his fingers stroke her nipple and buried her face in his hair. This time it was he who moved away. ‘Not here,’ he said quietly.

  With their arms around each other they gazed out beyond the entrance of the building and noticed with a sense of surprise the rain had stopped. He took her hand and they stepped outside and began to walk back the way they had come. With every step she felt herself being carried nearer to the house and Monet and the complexity this represented. Somehow she must overcome it because she couldn’t bear to lose John Leslie.

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ she said. ‘He will put every obstacle in the way.’

  He paused, turned to her and took her hands. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But we belong to one another.’

  A while later, as Giverny came into sight, they halted, both reluctant to take the steps that would separate them.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you,’ she said.

  ‘How long is Monet away?’

  ‘He won’t return until tomorrow evening.’

  They looked at one another and laughed as school children laugh when there is nothing really to laugh about.

  ‘Tomorrow? Can you get away so that we can spend the day together? We could meet in Vernon. ’

  She smiled at him. ‘Yes.

  * * *

  When she arrived back at Le Pressoir she found her mother, Suzanne and Marthe having tea on the balcony.

  ‘Oh dear!’ exclaimed Suzanne. ‘Someone got caught in the rain.’

  To Blanche’s relief no-one asked her where she had been nor noticed there was a button missing from her blouse. She laughed and turned the attention onto her mother.

  Maman, what are you doing out of bed?’

  ‘I couldn’t stay there a moment longer. Monet fusses so but I am feeling much better.’ She reached for another almond biscuit, seeming restored to her usual self.

  Blanche longed to slip away to her room, to savour what had happened that afternoon but her mother patted a chair and poured her a cup of tea.

  ‘Anyway, poor Blanche has done enough. It’s time I took up the reins again.’

  Suzanne caught her sister’s eye. ‘So you’ll be able to get back to your painting tomorrow?’

  Blanche helped herself to two almond biscuits. She was ravenous. With glance averted she said: ‘In fact, I thought I would go to Vernon tomorrow, I need one or two skirts for winter. There should be a fabric sale about now. I’ll take them to Madame Renée to make up.’ She returned Suzanne’s gaze. ‘There are several other things I need so it might take some time.’ She hoped her voice didn’t sound forced or her colour give her away.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ agreed her mother. ‘It will do you good to have a day out. You’ve worked hard over this past week. You might pick up some gloves for me, you know the ones I like, suede, in grey I think.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ Suzanne gave her a sly smile, ‘to help you choose the fabrics?’

  Blanche took a sip of tea, controlling the urge to shout ‘No!’

  ‘I think I can manage alone, thank you.’

  They seemed to be satisfied and the conversation turned to a friend of their mother’s who was leaving her husband: far more interesting. Blanche was grateful Monet wasn’t present, he would probably have seen right through her.

  The following morning she waited until everybody had disappeared for their various activities, Marthe and Germaine to visit some friends, Suzanne to read in the library, and then went to her room. She stood in front of her wardrobe, choosing and discarding until finally she settled for a pale grey flannel skirt and flower sprigged blouse. She brushed and brushed her hair until it gleamed and crackled with electricity then arranged it into a loose bun so that tendrils escaped and framed her face. She seemed to see the face of a stranger in the mirror, one about to do something dangerous. She panicked. What was she thinking of, setting out to meet this
man, defying Monet? She was behaving in a way young women in her position should never behave. She thought, I could stay here and somehow let him know I can’t come, after all. But he would be waiting for her and she could not let him down. When she came downstairs the trap was waiting for her and took her into Vernon.

  He was sitting in the café they had chosen, smoking a cigarette, and in the moment before he saw her, he looked like a formidable stranger and she had the urge to turn and run away. But then he glanced up and the light came into his eyes.

  ‘Blanche, you’ve come.’

  All her fear was dispelled. She sat down at the table. ‘I said I would.’

  ‘I know but I wondered… maybe something would stop you.’

  All the longing and apprehension was in their gaze.

  ‘What will you take?’ he broke the silence. ‘I know nothing about your tastes, how you like your coffee or whether you prefer tea or even whether today you would prefer an aperitif before I take you to lunch.’

  Her hands were shaking, she felt slightly out of breath. ‘An aperitif, I think. Something fresh.’

  ‘Martini?’ he suggested. ‘Let’s have a dry Martini.’

  ‘Is that what you Americans drink?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  When they arrived she took a tentative sip.

  ‘What do you think of it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s fascinating but difficult to define… herby, a bit tangy, what’s in it?’

  ‘Vermouth and gin.’

  She laughed, ‘You’ll have me drunk.’ But she began to feel steadier.

  It was easier away from Giverny where the weight of family seemed to pin her down; here she felt this thing between them could be possible. He put his hand over hers and she gazed at him, seeing the eyes, the mouth she now knew so well. She yearned for him to kiss her.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and have lunch.’

  He led and she followed through the streets of Vernon. They passed the market and she saw the stalls heaped with fruit and vegetables, seeming so bright and shining and she was filled with a simple joy. They walked along rue Potard and she thought she had never fully realised how the buildings were so imbued with history and how singled out she was to be here, now, living in this moment.

  The little bistro where he took her was quiet, it was still early for lunch, and the smiling waiter said they could have any of the blue clothed tables. They chose one set back in an alcove and John Leslie ordered a bottle of white Bordeaux. The sole she chose was beautifully cooked in a white sauce studded with grapes, it fell off the bone; the wine was dry but fragrant.

  ‘It is to your liking, madame?’ the waiter enquired.

  ‘Oh very much!’ she laughed.

  She felt her skin was glowing and that her eyes shone; she was beautiful and amusing. Everything that was good and important came together as it usually only did in a dream. She seemed to step outside her ordinary self and become a woman in love. Nothing could go wrong. Around them people arrived and left and still they sat on. They were only dimly aware of time passing, sometimes speaking, sometimes silent, holding hands across the table until the last petit four was eaten, the last cup of coffee drunk.

  John Leslie paid the bill then looked at her. ‘Shall we go?’

  She followed him out of the bistro not knowing where they were going and not caring. She had surrendered herself and would go wherever he led.

  The hours had passed while they sat in the bistro and the shadows were falling across the square. The earlier warmth of the day was fading and she pulled on her jacket.

  John Leslie drew her arm through his and they walked like this for a while. It felt so right as if they had done this many times before.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ she asked.

  His expression was nervous and vulnerable. ‘Would you… that is, shall we go to a hotel?’

  She hesitated.

  ‘Only if you would like to,’ he said quickly. ‘Otherwise we could…’

  She raised her head to kiss his cheek. ‘I think it is a wonderful idea,’ she said.

  * * *

  In the bedroom with its rose strewn wall paper, light streaked through the slatted shutters and lay on the wooden floor. There was utter silence as if they were the only two people in the hotel. They paused and Blanche felt the sweetness of being alone together, invisible to the outside world. They turned to each other and smiled then their mouths met, tenderly at first but then more urgently, filled with longing. ‘I love you,’ she said. Their bodies moved in and out of the dim light as they undressed each other. She watched his face as he looked at her and, although she had always envied Suzanne her slight figure and tiny waist, she knew by the expression in his eyes she was beautiful to him. She reached up to stroke the fine skin of his shoulders and chest then they drew closer, their bodies fitting as if already known to each other.

  It surprised her how simple and easy it was as if she instinctively knew what to do. She touched him, tentatively at first and then with more insistence. He drew in his breath and guided her towards the bed. Here he laid her down and she felt the softness of his touch between her legs. She looked up and met John Leslie’s gaze while his hand continued to caress her. Then he lent forward and kissed her, but gently this time. His mouth was firm and strong and she responded, opening her mouth to him while his hands moved upwards and touched her, delicately, tantalisingly. She heard her voice whisper, ‘yes,’ and her body softened, yielding to him, while his tongue flickered against hers. She felt herself opening, opening to him, wanting him to go on touching her, not to stop this pleasure he gave her. His fingers slipped inside her, still gently and she saw he felt the moisture welling up. She moaned, felt herself swelling, budding, blooming in an explosion of joy.

  He took her hand and guided her, helping her fingers to move up and down, regulating the tempo if she went too fast but soon she understood what to do, as if she had always known how to give this delight. There came the moment when she reached up her arms to him and he came into her, joining them together.

  She opened her eyes and raised herself to gaze round the room almost surprised to find herself here. His arm tightened round her and she turned back to him, her hair covering her face as she bent to kiss him and they came together again. Later, as the light changed and the room grew shadowy they lay looking into one another’s eyes until they fell asleep.

  When she woke, her first thought was: what a waste of their short time to sleep. He stirred and opened his eyes and she saw in them an instant of bewilderment as to where they were.

  ‘What’s the time?’ She remembered she had asked the trap to return at six.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She got out of bed and looked at her watch. ‘Five o’clock, I must go soon.’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Not quite yet. Come back to bed.’

  She hesitated; she knew she dare not be late.

  ‘Please.’

  She looked back at him, propped on his elbow, watching her. She smiled and moved towards him and they made love again. The light was going from the day, the room was shadowy and had become somehow familiar. She could believe that they had overcome their difficulties and were truly never to be parted again.

  She stirred. ‘I…’

  ‘I know, you must go.’

  She washed, admiring the pretty flower sprigged jug and bowl, and put up her hair, trying to rearrange it into the bun she had made so carefully earlier in the day. She stood at the window for a moment, gazing out over the rooftops to the darkening sky. There were trees where starlings were gathering in preparation for the night. She opened the window to listen to their scolding chatter. John Leslie came up behind her and put his arms round her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t go, Blanche.’

  She sighed deeply. ‘I must, you know I must. They will be waiting for me and Monet returns tonight.’

  ‘Can
we meet like this again?’

  ‘As soon as I am able.’

  He turned her round to face him. ‘I can’t live without you.’

  His expression reflected her love amid the pain of separation. For a moment they gazed at one another, lost for words.

  Then John Leslie said, ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  The trap set her down in the road before the house and she went quietly in, hoping to go straight to her room. But as she passed the library, her mother called out: ‘Is that you, Blanche?’

  As she entered, she saw to her dismay that Monet was there. They were both staring at her and it seemed as if they must know. She felt her mouth was swollen and her hair wild.

  ‘Good evening, Blanche,’ Monet said. ‘I hear you have been doing some shopping.’

  ‘Where are your packages?’ Maman asked. ‘Did you leave them in the trap? I’ll get someone to bring them in. You did remember the gloves, I hope?’

  Blanche said quietly: ‘I’m afraid I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh Blanche, I was relying on you!’

  ‘I didn’t buy anything at all.’

  Monet lit a cigarette. ‘I see.’

  In that moment she realised he did see, he had seen for some time, while she had pretended to herself she had deceived him. Maman was looking from one to the other with an expression of bewilderment on her face.

  Blanche turned away from their searching gaze and rushed out of the room, up the stairs to her bedroom where she lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. She heard the voices of her sisters as they went to their rooms, and the bell rung for supper. She heard everyone going downstairs and their voices and laughter in the dining room. There was the rattle of the trolley as the courses were taken in and out. She lay there in the dark for what seemed like hours and hours until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  In the morning she was up very early and was sitting in the dining room when Monet appeared for his breakfast. He muttered a greeting and then settled to his food, turning the pages of Le Matin.

  Blanche spread a croissant with apricot jam and eagerly sipped her café au lait. In spite of everything she was hungry. She kept glancing across to Monet but he appeared engrossed in the newspaper. The silence between them grew and became charged with tension. At last she could bear it no longer, she cleared her throat. He continued to read.