Monet's Angels Page 7

  ‘But what is she like as a person?’

  ‘That I wouldn’t know any more. You don’t see her around the village much these days, but she was the life and soul of the party at one time. She was head over heels with a Yank.’

  ‘Maybe she just wanted to escape?’

  ‘Possibly. Possibly it was just true love.’

  They were back to that again.

  ‘I don’t think it’s like that with Charlie and me. We’ve just known each other since we were children. Mother made sure of that.’

  ‘Then don’t marry him.’

  ‘Oh Robert that’s just what I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘You should go where your heart leads you, that’s my motto. Charlie isn’t the only man on this earth.’

  What was he suggesting? She could never tell with him, he often seemed on the verge of saying something and then shied away. She wondered how she would feel if he wanted to kiss her. There had been nothing more than hand holding with Charlie and she was curious. On the other hand, he was rather old; it would be more like kissing your father.

  ‘What do you advise, Robert?’

  ‘I’m not advising anything just pointing out that if you really don’t want to marry this man, you’ll have to find a way out of it.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘That you’ll have to work out for yourself.’

  Back in Giverny they parted. He was lunching with Harry and did not suggest she join them. Judith was grateful to step into the cool vestibule where the girl behind the desk handed her her key and also a letter. It bore an American stamp. She carried it up to her room and set it on the night table. She washed her hands and face and powdered her nose. From the corner of her eye she could see the letter lying there but picked up a book and tried to read it. The envelope was addressed in her mother’s hand, which should have pleased her, but the only feeling she had was one of annoyance that it had intruded into her life here. Finally, she laid down the book and read the letter. Mother wrote of plans for the wedding going ahead, one or two society magazines wanted to feature it. Charlie’s mother was being an absolute brick, organising all the catering details that she found so tiresome. She hoped Judith was enjoying this unplanned time away but she would have to pull her weight on her return.

  Judith laid down the letter and gazed out of the window down to where Madame Baudy was feeding the hens. She tried to picture Charlie but he swam indistinct in her mind, instead she saw Robert standing outside the Hotel des Fleurs, pointing to the carved head. He had seemed so at home, happy in his skin. Judith tore the letter into small pieces and threw them in the wastebasket. She dabbed on some L’Heure Bleue and went to join the others on the terrace.

  – NINE –

  BLANCHE

  I

  f there had been more time, she might have taken the trap into Vernon and bought a new frock. But there was the trouble over Annette who had handed in her notice after Papa shouted at her yet again about touching his paints. Blanche had an inkling that if indeed anyone had disturbed their order it was more probably Lilli with her jackdaw curiosity. Fortunately, she had managed to persuade Annette to retract, with the offer of three extra half days to be taken over the next year. Annette was too valuable, too versatile to lose even if she did clump around the house in that boot of hers. And anyway, a new frock would be an unnecessary extravagance. When would she ever wear it again?

  Blanche lifted her chosen hat from its box, quite a jaunty little boater, and placed it on her head at a slant, tilted towards her right eyebrow. It was decorated with tulle bows made to look like butterflies. She stepped back from the mirror to examine her overall appearance. It was said women were dispensing with their corsets, opting for a more fluid line; well she would certainly never be able to do that, especially now with the menopause nudging. She hated the pink satin thing and sometimes threw it across the room, when in the evening, she was finally released from the lacing to relax in a shift. On the positive side, her hair remained as thick as ever with hardly a streak of grey, as dark as any of those soulful demoiselles of Dante Rossetti’s fevered imagination, she thought. Doomed love was all very well but you had to expire early or it simply became mawkish.

  1888

  As Blanche had guessed, Robinson had managed to bypass Monet’s suspicion of the Americans and alert his curiosity about John Leslie.

  On the day of the visit he was all smiles and enquiry. ‘Mr Breck, delighted to make your acquaintance. How do you find Giverny? I understand you paint. What are your subjects?’

  He gave a tour of the garden, pointing out the various combinations: shasta daisies, sweet rocket peppered with orange wall flowers; the purple tulip negrita rising up from a bed of white violas; and, of course, his favourite, iris: variegated, the purple and yellow making a bold contrast. As usual, Robinson was taking photographs. Blanche watched John Leslie, his sharp eye darting about as he absorbed everything. He was the only one of the party who appeared not to be simply enjoying the sunny afternoon, the air filled with fragrance; there was something else on his mind. As soon as he had the opportunity he began to ask questions. What brush strokes did Monet use? Which colours?

  ‘The point is to know how to use the colours,’ Monet replied. ‘The choice of which is, when all is said and done, a matter of habit.’

  ‘Okay, and how does one become an impressionist?’

  ‘I didn’t become an impressionist, Mr Breck. As long as I can remember I always have been one is the answer to your question.’

  Blanche could see that this was irritating Monet. She wished John Leslie wouldn’t persist but he did.

  ‘Is it true, sir, that all of your paintings are done in situ?’

  ‘Whether my cathedral views, my views of London and other canvasses are painted from life or not is nobody’s business and of no importance whatsoever.’

  And with that, it seemed, John Leslie must be satisfied. Monet turned away and addressed Robinson. ‘That’s enough, my friend. You have strolled about far too much. Let us go back to the house.’

  Although the slender man, whose head always seemed slightly too large for his body, protested he was fine, it was obvious he had begun to wheeze.

  While the others turned back towards the house where Maman would be waiting to serve tea on the balcony, John Leslie nudged Blanche and indicated they should slip away into the garden. There was something lawless about him, she realised, an obstinacy, which reminded her of Monet. She had glimpsed it as John Leslie confronted him and continued to ask questions. She felt as she might feel, standing at the edge of a high cliff, looking down onto a sea running between rocks, a mixture of awe and fascination. She knew what she ought to do, join the tea party, yet instead she found herself hurrying away down one of the side paths with this man.

  After a moment he paused and glanced back towards the house. ‘They won’t see us now.’ Taking her hand he urged her on until they reached the seat under the paulownia tree.

  She was aware of how what she was doing was laden with complexities. Only a short space away the family was taking tea and soon they would be wondering where she was. Someone might be sent to look for her. But there was another part of her that yearned to be alone with John Leslie, to have his full attention. They sat for a while, his arm about her, her head resting on his shoulder. The only sound was that of bees in the bright lilies, fumbling their stamens.

  Then John Leslie spoke. ‘You know, I love it here: this garden, Giverny, I love the Normandy countryside, the food…’

  He turned to look at her. He leaned closer and she saw the shape of his face, his mouth. She felt a pulse beat in her throat. He lifted his hand to cup her chin, looking into her eyes as though to read her thoughts. He leant further forward and his mouth touched her forehead and her closed eyes; he kissed her mouth and her lips curved upwards under his. He drew her closer so that her body curved backward as he kissed her; they embraced each other, acknowledging their desire
at last, in silence. She forgot the family waiting for her beyond this place under the paulownia tree. There was no-one but John Leslie. Her mouth opened under his and the roughness of his kiss surprised her. He lifted his mouth from hers and looked into her eyes again. He said her name and the kiss was gentle now, gradually they moved apart but their hands came together again. Beyond him she saw scarlet climbing roses, the flare of orange lilies as she became aware once more of her surroundings. They were here together for such a brief moment. What would come after? Her joy was now mixed with pain and uncertainty. He was watching her face and she knew he was reading her thoughts.

  ‘I know, we haven’t done this in the correct way, have we? Getting acquainted with your family, the chaperone. We’ve bypassed all that.’

  Blanche frowned. ‘Maybe this is how you do it in America?’

  ‘Not at all. I don’t understand it any more than you do, how we have moved on so quickly from that first meeting. All I know is it has happened and we can’t guess how your family is going to react.’ He raised her chin so that she had to look at him.

  She realised he too was nervous and susceptible.

  He said: ‘you do know that I love you?’

  In the following silence, Blanche felt a flutter of happiness.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you, that’s all. And I want you to think about it.’

  ‘That’s all I shall think about!’

  ‘Blanche, when shall we meet again, like this, I mean?’

  ‘We will, somehow, but it will have to be in secret. Please don’t mention it to your family either, or it is sure to get out. This place is a devil for gossip and then it would reach Monet and heaven knows how he would react.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Don’t worry, Blanche, please.’

  They went into each other’s arms again and she leant her head against his shoulder, happiness driving out all other feelings. With his mouth against her hair, he murmured they should rejoin the others.

  ‘Let’s go separately,’ she said. ‘And appear from different parts of the garden.’ She moved first, feeling if she didn’t she never would, walking up the path towards the balcony.

  There was a cry of ‘Oh here she is! We thought you’d got lost.’

  Blanche sat down and her mother handed her a cup of tea. ‘Where is Mr Breck?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ lied Blanche. ‘The last I saw of him he was talking to the gardener.’

  Blanche gave herself a mental shake, enough of this melancholy.

  When had she last worn this two piece? It must have been at least ten years ago, the short bolero effect jacket might be a little passé but the colour made up for it. She had always liked herself in pink. The reflection in the mirror smiled; she would do.

  From the floor below, there came a burst of laughter, Blanche snatched up her handbag and hurried down the stairs. As she opened the door of Papa’s room, Lilli struggled to get up from the laundry basket where she was sprawled like a starfish while Annette hid her giggles.

  ‘We was just changing m’sieur’s linen, madame,’ Lilli straightened her pinafore and looked down at her feet.

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘A little cat dashed in with a mouse and tripped me up.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Beg pardon, madame,’ this from Annette.

  She was forever apologising, Blanche thought absently, as if for her disability though God knew who had taught her to behave like that. These local people were so superstitious, they believed the cause of a clubfoot was because the mother stood on a cross in the churchyard before the child was born, so evil came in. No wonder Papa had never had much to do with them but stuck to his Parisian friends. She was too concerned with his absence to be inclined to scold. Instead she peeped into his dressing room, which was also empty and was told he had not been seen since breakfast.

  She swallowed hard, feeling tears well up. Was he going to sabotage her one outing? How could he when he knew it meant so much to her? She turned away from the young women’s curious gaze and rushed down the second flight of stairs, out into the garden. Where was he? She hurried along the central path, dimly aware of the parades of brilliant colour, the palettes of scarlet, pink and purple, calling his name. Her hair was coming down, after all that careful pinning, she held on to her hat and dared not look up to the house where she felt sure Lilli and Annette were watching her spectacle from the bedroom window.

  The problem, which had engrossed Papa, wiping out all notion of preparing himself for the picnic, was rose rust. Blanche found him with Breuil and Michel in a solemn group by one of the arches. They were discussing the efficacy of baking soda.

  ‘My father swears by sulphur,’ Michel was saying.

  ‘Listen to the young man,’ she heard her stepfather comment. ‘He’s a farmer’s son. He should know what he’s talking about.’

  ‘There are several new products on the market,’ Breuil ventured.

  ‘Nothing like the old remedies.’

  ‘Then maybe mixed with a little oil to adhere the mixture to the leaves? And, of course, we will get rid of the infected ones. Michel, you can make a start on that right away.’

  ‘Papa?’

  He glanced across at her with that veiled stare which, these days, she found difficult to interpret. Was it disinterest or merely that she appeared to him in a blur?

  ‘It is time we left. The driver is waiting.’

  He grunted. ‘We are trying to resolve this rose rust, Blanche.’

  ‘Very well, but the rose rust will be with us tomorrow, the picnic will not.’

  ‘And if they die, that will be the tragedy.’

  The two gardeners murmured their assent. The fate of these roses was paramount.

  Blanche stepped forward. ‘Excuse me,’ she said loudly, ‘but there are people waiting for you, Papa, artists, men of letters. Some of them have come especially from Paris to meet you. On this occasion you cannot,’ she waved her arms about, oblivious of her precarious hat, ‘simply cannot put these plants first.’

  He sighed and exchanged glances with the men, he stared at the diseased roses, even reached up and tore off a leaf. He shrugged. ‘Ah well, you win for now, Blanche.’

  ‘Excellent, then shall we go?’

  ‘A moment.’ He turned back to Michel. ‘You will go to Vernon and buy a quantity of whatever M. Breuil demands. This afternoon you will start to apply it. By the time I return, I want to see work in progress.’

  She was all anxiety, seizing his arm and hurrying him away. On the terrace he halted and gazed at a nearby standard rose.

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘Papa, please, I beg you.’

  He followed her inside.

  For his picnic location, Robert had chosen a particular bend in the Eure river with its splendid view of willows and poplars. Beyond, there stretched cornfields studded with poppies. Huge white tablecloths were spread on the ground surrounded by piles of cushions, with chairs for the less agile. Blanche caught her breath at Mr Harrison’s talent in recreating The Picnic, as an homage to Papa’s painting, completed in the year she was born.

  ‘Mr Harrison, you have created a true tableau vivant,’ she exclaimed as she handed him her gift. ‘Bon Anniversaire.’

  ‘You are intelligent also in choosing the perfect day for it,’ added Monet.

  ‘Maitre, thank you but that was the Lord’s doing not mine. Now let me fetch you some champagne.’

  They had been almost the last to arrive, delayed further by the automobile developing a flat tyre. Blanche gazed round, aware she searched for familiar faces among the guests: Manet, Degas, Renoir… none was here. How could she expect them to be? The years had passed and with them Manet while age crippled the other two. Someone waved, for a moment she didn’t recognise him then realised it was Richard. The last time she had seen him, he was terribly young, a precocious painter. He’d grown a moustache, which made him seem older, but perhaps i
t was also assumed responsibility for his wife Harriet and the solemn faced child he introduced.

  ‘Maitre!’ He made a little bow, ‘it is an honour to see you again.’

  ‘I don’t think I know you,’ her stepfather replied, his hand still firmly grasped by the young man.

  ‘Of course you do, Papa, it’s Mr Miller, you remember, Richard Emil Miller. You always admired his paintings of lovely, young women… Miller,’ she enunciated the syllables.

  ‘Ah yes, yes now I do. They were always in their dressing gowns and kimonos, doing very little of any practical value; they sewed, or gazed into mirrors or merely meditated. You had this way of suggesting they were enjoying a wonderful secret life without male company, as they probably were.’

  Harriet laughed. ‘You bet they were.’

  ‘And children,’ the little girl put in. ‘Daddy paints children, too. He’s just done one of me and Mummy, looking at some goldfish.’

  ‘Voila, so you are famous, ma petite.’

  You always had a way with children, Blanche thought ruefully. You certainly had with me from that first moment I saw you, the great artist with your long hair. And now, as much as you sometimes annoy me and in spite of what you have done to me in the past, I still love you.

  She turned to Robert who was standing respectfully by, listening to this conversation.

  ‘And you, Mr Harrison, how is your painting going?’

  ‘Okay, I suppose. It’s always difficult to judge your own work, madame.’

  He was behaving so formally towards her and yet she was certain he must remember her, recall a summer’s afternoon when Sargent had painted Papa at his easel, and Robert lurked among the trees to watch, turning to smile as she and John Leslie walked into the woods. It stuck in her mind because it had been that day the remark was made. Sargent had said he needed black paint.

  ‘I never use it,’ Papa said.

  And Sargent: ‘I don’t understand how you do without it.’