Monet's Angels Read online

  She sat in the stern of the rowing boat and they glided through the water. She noticed the green reflections, the alteration of light to shadow and then to light again. They came to rest under a canopy of over hanging willow trees and she listened to John Leslie telling her about his life. It seemed to her so romantic, how he was born at sea on a clipper ship in the South Pacific, which might explain, he said, his affinity with water. How he was determined to be a painter and studied in Germany but Paris had always been his goal, where he sits with his friends in cafés for hours and discusses art and politics. And then he tells her of how they couldn’t decide where to go to paint for this summer.

  ‘We wanted to find a new location so we consulted the destination board at Gare Saint-Lazare and decided Pont-de-l’Arche was appealing. As we approached Vernon, Metcalf pointed out a little village of white houses and a Norman church and said how lovely it was. At Vernon, we were told the village was Giverny. We agreed that if Pont-de-l’Arche was not to our liking we would return to Giverny, the following morning, which was exactly what we did.’

  ‘Is that true?’ she asked.

  ‘It could be.’ He laughed. ‘Or it could be that we just got out at the wrong station.’

  ‘Well, whichever it was I’m glad you did.’

  He brought her hands to his mouth and kissed them. ‘And so am I.’

  Ahead of them the river sparkled with points of light, inviting them out of the shade, the sun was warm on her face. Blanche felt perfectly happy.

  Later, when they met up with the others, Robinson said: ‘I have a surprise for you, Breck. Monet has invited you to visit him.’

  What could have caused this change of mind, Blanche wondered. Curiosity, perhaps?

  How strange the invitation should arrive at this moment, almost as a sign. She caught Lilli’s interested eye, realised she had sighed aloud, and stuffed the envelope into her skirt pocket. It was the turn of the household linen but as she counted sheets and pillow cases, her mind was busy wondering when would be a good time to broach this to Papa.

  ‘There is a tear in m’sieur’s coverlet, madame.’

  She glanced at it, he was clumsy at times but she wouldn’t scold, she wanted him to be in a good mood.

  ‘I can mend it so as it won’t show,’ Lilli was saying.

  ‘Good Lilli, thank you. Can I leave you to finish the rest on your own? There is something…’

  Blanche hurried from the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, ‘I won’t forget about the shawl.’ She was impatient to show the invitation to Papa and, of course, she chose the wrong moment.

  He was in the garden, supervising the removal of wallflowers, which had now gone over, making ready for a planting of antirrhinum. The new young gardener, his face flushed beneath a straw hat, was trying to obey her stepfather’s snapped orders.

  ‘No young man, don’t dig them out, pull them out. That’s what we do here, the moment they’ve done their job. No expense spared, no sentiment either.’

  Approaching them, Blanche saw an old man with a bushy white beard, a soft hat clapped on his head. She experienced, as she often did these days, the dismay of seeing him growing old.

  ‘Papa, can you spare me a moment?’

  Reluctantly, he ordered Michel to carry on with the job and followed her to sit on a garden bench while she read out the invitation.

  ‘Répondez s’îl vous plaît.’

  In the pause that followed, she stared at a bed of pelargonium, noting the hot pinks and reds, and nearby some small mauve flowers whose name she did not know; she marvelled, as she often did, how in nature there was no clash of colour. Imagine wearing a mauve frock with a red cape. She glanced sideways and saw he was also staring straight ahead, his hands resting on his stick.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t think it is possible,’ he said. ‘I’m not used to socialising with these Americans any more, Blanche. I wouldn’t know what to say, besides I am too busy with the painting.’

  She had to speak up, she must. She always bit her tongue, stifled her complaints, but now she must. ‘Oh Papa, could you not do this for me? I should so much like to go.’

  He laughed. ‘You want me to sacrifice my precious time for the frivolous party of a mediocre painter? It is hardly worthy of me, Blanche.’

  Anger suffused her. Sacrifice! He didn’t know the meaning of the word. Yes, she was going to voice it, why shouldn’t she? She had held her tongue on so many occasions; this was too much, it needed to be let out. ‘It would be the first time in your life if you did,’ she retorted. ‘This household has always been ruled by your painting. Nothing must interfere with it: luncheon at eleven-thirty because you need the afternoon light, no guests for dinner because you need to go early to bed. And then there are your moods, the black ones when your work goes badly, the euphoria when it flows, we have all supported those. It is we who have sacrificed… I…’

  She reached for her handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, but sometimes I feel in despair when I think of how fulfilled I was as I sat at my easel and painted. Then… well… I was aware of who I was, Blanche Hoschedé, where my destiny lay. Now, oh the loss, the desolation.’

  He did not speak, sighed, laid his hand on her arm but she shook it off.

  ‘Leave me alone and get back to your garden.’

  She watched his bent figure walk slowly away and pursed her lips against the inevitable defeat. I will not feel guilty, I will not, she told herself. I will stand firm, hold up my trident to the offending hordes and not be vanquished: Boudica, wonderful warring woman. For once I will think about myself. She felt the old impotence in the face of his unbending will. She was back to that day when he had said, ‘I don’t want to let you go. I need you here, working with me.’

  An image came into her mind: the day of Suzanne’s wedding, Butler taking her mother’s arm and her sister and Monet leading the way along a sun-bleached path. Wedding March Robinson had called the picture he painted more than two weeks after the event, filled with movement: the wind in the bride’s veil, the groom’s leading leg depicted in mid stride, almost like a photograph. To Blanche, that picture had represented something else, had seemed enigmatic, expressing the fleeting moment, the flux of life. There were also, it had occurred to her, disturbing elements that threatened the joy. Suzanne’s gown and her billowing veil were much less white than those elsewhere in the picture: the men’s collars, the little girl’s hat, Maman’s dress, it was somehow a colour of foreboding. As the marchers, all in effect faceless, walk down the dusty path past the overgrown remains of a crumbled cottage, the lower part of Suzanne’s white wedding gown, trailing in the dust, takes on a much darker tone. Suzanne’s face behind the veil is barely visible, ghostlike. The dust, like the crumbling cottage, hints at mortality, while Suzanne’s gown and veil more nearly resemble a shroud.

  She remembered how her misgivings had been realised over the next few years. Robinson died in New York from a severe asthmatic attack. Three years later, after a lingering illness, Suzanne was also dead and buried in the churchyard of Sainte-Radegonde. In one way or another, both she and Blanche had been defeated.

  Dinner that evening was a dismal occasion. Marie had prepared a game dish, which Monet attacked with gusto while Blanche sipped a glass of wine and stared at her plate. She was considering her outburst of that afternoon, her determination to stand firm and fight him on this issue. Now, she told herself, she should have known better. Hadn’t she lived by his side long enough to understand the way his mind worked? He might be a great artist but on a personal level, he could be contrary as a child and, as such, one had to be more foxy.

  ‘How is the game?’ she asked.

  ‘Surprisingly good, the girl is coming on.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say it.’

  He glanced up and considered her. ‘But you’ve scarcely touched yours.’

  ‘I haven’t much appetite this evening, Papa.’

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p; He helped himself to more of the sauce. ‘Or perhaps you are sulking.’

  Blanche said nothing.

  ‘Because I wouldn’t agree to this picnic.’

  She met his gaze and shrugged. ‘Maybe you don’t recall Mr Harrison? Robert Harrison? He was a friend of Robinson.’ And John Leslie, she thought. ‘He might not have been the world’s greatest painter but he was always a connoisseur. I have an idea this has been arranged to honour your work. It just seems rather ill mannered to snub him, but if that is how you wish to behave…’

  The meal ended, coffee was brought in.

  ‘Plum brandy?’

  ‘No thank you, Papa.’ She heard the liquid poured into a glass.

  ‘Blanche?’

  She glanced up.

  His smile was rueful. ‘You had better accept the invitation,’ he said. ‘Or I shall never hear the last of it.’

  – EIGHT –

  JUDITH

  T

  he morning they were to drive into Vernon, to shop for the picnic, Judith was late for breakfast. She had overslept and then spent ages choosing her outfit for the trip. When she finally came downstairs, wearing a two-piece of tunic top and bias cut skirt in Chanel beige, she found the dining room was empty except for Robert and Harry, lingering over their pastries. They looked up as she appeared.

  ‘Good morning, young lady.’ Robert leapt to his feet. ‘What can I fetch you? The oeufs bénédictine are very good now that we’ve finally persuaded Madame Baudy to substitute that salt cod and potato for ham, or there are chops or herring.’

  She grimaced. ‘I’ll just take coffee and a brioche, thank you. I’ve been eating far too much since I came here.’ Her regime had slipped and she was anxious she might be putting on weight.

  ‘Please yourself.’ Robert poured coffee into the blue and white bowls, added cream to his own and went back to his pain au chocolat.

  Harry laughed at him. ‘Piggy.’

  Robert shrugged. ‘Say what you like, I love the way the French enjoy their food, and their wine for that matter. I’m with Monet there, the palate is a God-given pleasure.’

  Judith screwed her eyes shut for a moment. ‘It’s the wine I’m bothered about. It’s wonderful while you are drinking it but the next morning, ugh!’

  ‘Then don’t drink it,’ Harry retorted. ‘no-one’s forcing you.’

  Robert reached over for a chunk of bread, he smeared it with cherry jam and took a bite. ‘If you really don’t feel like coming into Vernon this morning, Harry can help me.’ He smiled at his friend.

  ‘No, I want to come. I’ve never been to a French market before and you said you’d show me the gargoyles.’

  ‘Okay. Finish your coffee and we can go. You coming with us, Harry?’

  Judith was relieved when he said he would prefer to spend the morning in the studio. She wanted to share this excursion with Robert alone.

  ‘You look all geared up for the run,’ he was saying. ‘But be careful you don’t trip over that scarf, it does rather trail all over the place. Maybe choose something more practical?’

  She was horrified. Change her Knossos scarf! ‘Oh no, I paid enough for it, it’s meant to be worn, to be seen.’

  She did a few steps of the Turkey Trot in defiance and even Harry laughed.

  ‘Let’s go then.’

  ‘Drive carefully,’ Harry called after them.

  They stepped out into the sunshine where the scarlet automobile waited, gleaming as it always did from Robert’s loving care. As they rushed through the country roads, lined with poplars, under the high blue skies, Judith felt a surge of joy at being alive. What could equal this bright June morning in rural France and the prospect of meeting the great man only hours away? When the boy brought the reply from Le Pressoir to the terrace table where she sat with Robert, they had ordered champagne.

  ‘This is a triumph,’ he exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t at all sure we’d pull it off. Obviously, Madame Blanche has some influence.’

  Once more the mention of that name made Judith feel uneasy without understanding the reason why. On the other hand, maybe she had reason to be grateful to the unknown woman.

  Vernon was crowded this Saturday morning. Robert cautiously parked his vehicle near the Notre Dame Collegiate and they stepped out of the blinding sun into its cool interior. Light shone through the stained glass windows, illuminating St Jacques and St Genevieve in their glowing reds and greens, the more sombre Stations of the Cross. The ornate organ, set against its backdrop of the rose window, seemed poised to pour out majestic chords.

  Judith was enthralled. She stood in the central aisle and threw out her arms. ‘This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life.’

  ‘What about the Notre Dame in Paris?’ Robert questioned dryly.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t have time to visit. I was too taken up with the couturier houses… and museums, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Outside, Robert clapped on his panama and they walked round the building while he pointed out the grotesque stone figures jutting from the façade, their sad and twisted faces gazing out, trapped in stone. ‘In medieval times, the church was seen as powerful enough to turn evil around to work for its own good. So, gargoyles are the wicked fire- breathing demons that have been converted by the power of the church, which they now protect, spilling only water from the heavens out of their mouths.’

  ‘You know so much about this country,’ Judith said as they made their way down rue Potard.

  ‘I’m fascinated by the history, Judith. America is young and go getting but France is ancient, its houses and monuments have witnessed so much, everywhere is stamped with the past. I’m in love with its culture, its food and its language.’

  ‘Do you plan on ever going back home?’

  ‘Not if I can help it. ‘

  ‘You’re so lucky, Robert.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a question of luck, more knowing what it is you need and going all out to make sure you have it.’

  ‘I meant you don’t have anyone expecting great things of you. My father’s parents were émigré German Jews, they came to New York with nothing and gradually made their way. It was a struggle and Father never forgot what it was like when he was a child. He set out to make a lot of money.’

  ‘And succeeded by all accounts.’

  ‘Yes, but he always has the fear of losing it all, slipping back to the kind of lives my grandparents lived. Mother tells him to ease off but he won’t, I don’t think he can. He loves the power of money and position. And I’m supposed to carry it further by making this marriage with a rich Harvard boy.’

  Robert halted outside one of the half-timbered houses. ‘My, that’ s a great deal to lay on a young lady’s shoulders. Do you love the gentleman in question?’

  ‘I really don’t know. He’s charming to me, generous, always buying me nice presents. But maybe I don’t understand what being in love is. I’ve never met anyone else to compare him with. Tell me something, Robert, have you ever been deliriously in love?’

  ‘I hardly think this is a conversation for a carefree summer morning, ‘Robert said abruptly. ‘Let’s talk about it some other time. Look at this building, Judith, the Hotel des Fleurs. See the carved heads, how striking they are; each one is unique.’

  Judith stared at the inscrutable expression on the nearest carving’s face, the hooded eyes, long nose and wry mouth. She thought of how long it had been there… centuries. While tourists came and went it endured, gazing sightlessly ahead. It dawned on her how singled out she was to be here in Vernon on this particular Saturday morning, seeing these marvels in the company of an intelligent, sensitive man; so far life was on her side, guiding her into this fresh, new world. She would give herself up to it, go where it led her. How really very easy it was. She told herself: I will not marry Charlie.

  In the centre of Vernon, the market was in full swing. Judith delighted in the colour and sou
nd, the calls to look and buy from the fishmongers, the morning’s catch of fish laid out to the customers’ view, the dull rhythmic beat of the butcher’s knife. The fruit and vegetable stalls made a magnificent display: fennel, scarlet tomatoes and olives, green and black. There were great heaps of glistening cherries, tiny, wild strawberries nestled in white tissue, purple plums.

  ‘You just ache to paint it all, don’t you?’ Robert remarked. ‘It’s one huge still life.’

  They shopped for cheeses, Roquefort, creamy Camembert and Brie; they chose plump tomatoes, cucumbers and heads of lettuce. There was Normandy cream for the strawberries, olive oil from Provençe to dress the salads. A pillowy woman sliced ham to the precise thickness of Robert’s command.

  ‘We’ll buy the bread tomorrow morning so it’s fresh,’ he said. ‘And I’ve ordered tarts and pies from Madame Baudy, especially a tarte tatin, it’s Monet’s favourite. Harry and I will pick up the wine later on. We know an excellent cellar. It will be a feast.’

  Later they sat in a pavement café watching the passers-by. A woman in a black dress crossed the road bearing a pannier on her back loaded with bread, some children ran along bowling hoops. There was a man on a penny-farthing. Judith ordered their coffee and pain au raisin, her pleasure complete when the waiter apparently understood her French.

  ‘I want this to be the picnic supreme,’ Robert was saying. ‘A replica of those paintings they did in the early days when the Industrial Revolution set people free for leisure, you know, all those river scenes and boating parties. I want to recreate that marvellous sense of freshness and light, of celebration, people interacting.’

  Judith had little idea what he meant and wondered what she would reply if he continued. She smiled and nodded but there was something she needed to ask him: she wanted to know whether Blanche would like her.

  He shrugged. ‘How could she help it? Pretty young lady like you?’

  ‘You said she was a painter?’

  ‘Yes and a very good one; she came to Giverny before she was twenty but already Monet had taken her under his wing when he saw she was talented. Like him, she has painted the gardens and the lily pond but one of my favourites is the view of Giverny from the hilltops. It looks like a little jewel.’