Louisa Rawlings (36 page)

She frowned up at the sky. It was going to rain. She’d never make it back to the studio. If it hadn’t been for that danged Mr. Stewart…silly old goat, with his long, gray side whiskers and his funny English accent, and his big teeth that made him look like a rabbit. But he was a successful painter, Drew said. His paintings were accepted at the Salon every year, and he earned a nice living with his brushes. They’d met him at the gallery of Père Martin, a dealer who had shown some interest in the young painters just coming up. While Drew, who spoke fluent French, had gotten into his regular debate with Pissarro and the others, Marcy had chatted with the portly Englishman, glad of someone to talk to. She was trying to learn French, and Drew was a patient teacher, but sometimes she found the foreignness, the loneliness of the city almost unbearable. If it hadn’t been for Drew, and the occasional artist, like Stewart, who spoke English… She sighed. It was odd. She’d never felt lonely in the Wilderness, even when she’d spent weeks at a time tramping the solitary trails or paddling a canoe over some vast lake.

She felt the first drop of rain on her head. Resting her basket of groceries on a low iron fence, she draped her shawl over her bright hair and clutched it firmly at her neck. Dang Mr. Stewart, she thought again. She’d be home by now, brewing up a cup of hot tea, if he hadn’t seen her at the
charcuterie
buying sausages for supper. He’d chattered away forever. And then to offer her that position! She giggled aloud. She didn’t think he had an evil thought in his head. Still, to pose for him, for pay…and in the nude! She didn’t mind posing for Drew. That was different. But she doubted she’d even want to pose for Mr. Stewart with her clothes on!

She shivered. It was beginning to rain harder now. It was the fourth time this week. A cold drizzle that crept into the bones, chilled the studio, no matter how much coal or wood they threw into the small stove. She gazed down the wide boulevard with its rain-slicked pavement reflecting the flat gray sky. Except for the occasional chestnut tree that still retained a few dull, brown leaves, there was nothing to indicate that it was fall. The seasons were formless, the days were formless in this city. For all its dazzle and bright lights and manicured parks. She gulped, feeling the pain of homesickness. Where was the glorious show of color, the shining days and crisp nights of autumn, the beauty that made a person glad to be alive? It’s in your blood, the Wilderness, Uncle Jack had said. Perhaps he was right.

But she had Drew. And the love and laughter they shared. And that was more important than the Wilderness.

It was raining too hard to stop for a flower now. She turned onto the rue de la Condamine. They had been fortunate to find the studio. Most of the Realist painters had left the Latin Quarter to be here in Montmartre in the Batignolles district. The rents were cheaper, and they were near the Gare Saint-Lazare. It was very convenient on a sunny Sunday to take the train to St. Germain or Argenteuil so Drew could paint in the open air. Drew was hoping that in the spring they could rent a house in one of those charming outlying towns.

She nodded to the concierge and made her way up the three flights of stairs to the studio. It was a single high-ceilinged room with a soaring window that let in the northern light. Just right for painting, Drew had said. The furnishings (added to by the tenants through the years) were sparse: a small, round table that wobbled slightly, three unmatched chairs, one red velvet armchair that had seen better days, and a battered old sofa covered in faded chintz. A small work table—spotted with paint—for Drew. An iron stove for heat and cooking. Several folding screens served as partitions—for the “kitchen,” which consisted of a marble-topped cabinet filled with pots and crockery, and a porcelain basin with a cold-water faucet; for the “bedroom,” a narrow brass bed, an armoire without doors, a three-legged stool for a night table. And a space hidden away for more intimate functions, with its chamber pot and bidet. There were two hanging kerosene lamps, half a dozen candle holders, and—set near Drew’s easel at the window—a cracked but still magnificent candle stand, a discard from the Church of the Madeleine. The walls of the large room were covered with Drew’s work: dozens of watercolor sketches, drawings of Marcy done in black and red
conté
crayon, a few pastels, and three paintings he’d completed since they’d come to Paris. They were scenes of boulevards, of boats and boaters on the Seine, of dancers at the opera. Like Degas was doing.

He’d left his Adirondack Wilderness pictures and sketches at his house in New York City. She would have liked to see them. To make comparisons. She didn’t know much about art, but she knew that what he was doing here in Paris was far different from what he had done before.

Marcy set down her basket, shook the rain from her shawl, and hung it on a hook near the door. She touched a match to the kindling in the stove, put on the kettle for tea, and began to unpack her purchases. The sausages looked nice and fresh, and the sweet brioche was still warm from the baker’s oven. There were a few potatoes left from yesterday—she’d fry them with the sausages and an onion or two. Two oranges, a big bunch of grapes. A bottle of
vin ordinaire
—they were really becoming quite French in their ways!

But no flowers. She was sorry now she hadn’t stopped, rain or no rain. Crossing to the window, she removed a few dead blossoms from the geranium plant in its chipped cachepot, then put it on the table. It would have to do. She fussed about, drinking her tea, setting the table, as the evening shadows lengthened.

She smiled. Drew’s footsteps, pounding exuberantly up the stairs. She threw open the door and stood there grinning, waiting for him. He bounded into the room, picked her up, and swung her around, ending his greeting with a hearty kiss. Putting her down at last, he went to the open door and called out. “
Ici, mon petit
!”

At once a sweet-faced little boy appeared, nearly hidden by a large bouquet of flowers, from whose multicolored depths poked a bottle of champagne tied in a purple ribbon. The boy bowed to Marcy as best he could, handed her the flowers, and began to sing a song, piping out the notes in a clear, squeaky voice, somewhat off-key. Tarnation! thought Marcy. How do they learn to speak French at such an early age? It never ceased to amaze her, though Drew always laughed at her fanciful idea. “But really, Drew,” she’d say. “It must be much harder for them to learn French than it is for our American children to learn English!”

“
Merci
!” She beamed when the lad was through, kissed him on the forehead, and handed him a piece of toffee. “What was he singing?” she asked after Drew had tossed him a coin and seen him out the door.

Drew’s blue eyes twinkled. “It was a very bawdy song, all about how nice it is to sleep with my beautiful woman!”

“Drew Bradford! You devil. You ought to be ashamed! Corrupting that poor child!”

He chuckled. “He comes from a family of fifteen children. Three of his sisters are prostitutes. I don’t think there’s
anything
he doesn’t know!”

She shook her head. “I’ll never get used to the wickedness of this city!”

His mouth twisted in a wry smile. “They’re all the same. But you’re the one who wanted to live in a city.”

“You’re not wet. Has it stopped raining?”

“I left my umbrella downstairs. I’ll fetch it when it dries. It’s a foul night out. That’s why I decided we should stay home. In spite of the occasion.”

“What occasion?"

He frowned. “The flowers and the champagne. And the song. What did you think they were for?”

Her heart was filled with joy and love. “I thought they were just because you loved me.”

“And so I do, Mrs. Bradford. But the gifts are in honor of our anniversary. Two months today.”

She gasped. “Oh, Drew! I forgot!”

“I’ll make you pay for it. Tonight. In bed.” He leered wickedly. “Now find something to put those flowers in. They’re a gift for you today, but
I
want to paint them tomorrow. And while you’re getting supper ready, I’ll pour us some wine.”

“What about the champagne?”

He laughed. “Remembering what happened the
last
time you had champagne, I think I’ll wait until you’ve finished cooking before I open the bottle! Now you have to help me decide the rest of your present. I thought we’d go to the theater on Friday night. Shall it be a
café-concert
at the Folies Bergère? Or the Com
é
die Française to see Sarah Bernhardt?”

“Oh, I don’t know. What do you think?”

“You’d probably prefer the Folies. Let’s save Madame Bernhardt until your French is better.”

“Isn’t it awfully extravagant, Drew? The stateroom on the boat was far finer than I expected.”

His blue eyes clouded. “It was hardly first class. And hardly what I wanted for you. But I suppose we had better cut down.” He handed her a glass of wine, took a sip from his own glass. “I had a letter from my sister Willough this morning. I met the postman on my way to class. Willough’s getting married.” He shook his head. “To Arthur Gray!”

“You know the young man?”

“That’s the thing of it! He’s not young. Arthur must be nearly forty now.”

“Lots of girls marry older men.” She giggled. “You’re
ages
older than I am!”

He pinched her bottom through her skirts. “Imp! A seven-year difference is a far cry from a seventeen-year gap.” He frowned. “But that’s not what I find so curious. For the past ten years or so, Arthur has been…my mother’s friend. We used to call him Uncle Arthur, as a matter of fact. I know there was never anything between them. Oh, perhaps years ago, a few kisses. But nothing more, though Mother liked to pretend a romantic attachment. It made her feel young again. She must be grief-stricken. She said she was losing him. The last time we…spoke. I’m sure she never thought it would be to Willough! Poor Mum.”

Marcy caught the note of pity in his voice. This was the first time he’d spoken with sympathy for his mother. “Why don’t you write to her?”

“No!” He glared at her, then turned away. “No,” he said more gently. “We have nothing to say to each other.”

She had a funny feeling. “Is it because of me?”

“Don’t be foolish. It has nothing to do with you.” He strode to the window and stared out at the rainy night.

She sighed. Of course it did. Whatever had happened between Drew and his mother, she knew with certainty that she was the cause. She folded back the screen to her “kitchen” and pulled out a skillet, which she placed on the top of the small stove. “How was your class?” she asked at last.

He shrugged without turning. “Confusing. Monsieur Julien teaches one thing, and all the artists I know paint another. Père Julien admires Leonardo. We troop to the Louvre and copy Leonardo! Muddy colors and all. But Monet, Renoir…all the Realists… The colors they use are
alive
! Even the old guard, Corot and Boudin, who manage to impress the Salon jury every year and get to show their paintings, have begun to use a lighter palette.” He turned about in disgust. “But Monsieur
Julien
admires Leonardo’s palette.”

“But all the Realists are starving. They can’t sell a single painting. Only yesterday, Camille Monet came by to borrow a bit of sugar. We spoke as best we could, but I’m sure she’s worried. Perhaps Monsieur Julien’s ways are best.”

He snorted. “
Old
ways. I refuse to believe it!”

She hated it when he began to talk like this. She knew how much he suffered. And yet she felt useless. Powerless to help, to reach out to him. “Why don’t you find another teacher? There must be other places to study besides the Acad
é
mie Julien.”

“I don’t think I can afford it. I’d like to take a class in anatomy as well. And Monsieur Julien’s prices are the lowest around. Even then, he’s charging me ten francs a month for rent and model fees. If I can pass all the exams, I might be able to get a free tuition to the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. But I don’t know. There are too many obligatory courses and periodic exams. And the masters teach in rotation. I’d still want to take a few private classes. And that takes money.”

She giggled, remembering. “I could get a job.”

“What?”

“I met that funny Englishman, Mr. Stewart, today. He offered me a job as his model. Oh Drew! You should have seen his face. Blushing like a sunset while he told me that”—here she affected an exaggerated British accent—“he would
rawther
have me pose unclad.”

“Dammit, Marcy! Don’t you dare!”

“Drew, I was only joking. Of
course
I wouldn’t! Even if I decided to model for him, I wouldn’t take my clothes off!” She put her hands on her hips. “But if I decide to do
that
, Mr. Drew Bradford, I’ll do it! And you won’t stop me!”

He laughed. “I always forget that stubborn streak of yours. Maybe if I produce enough pictures of you, all of Paris will be so tired of seeing that face that no one else will want you!” He pulled her away from her pots and kissed her on the mouth, his arms holding her close. “Though I can’t imagine that anyone could ever tire of that face,” he whispered.

While she continued with supper, he pulled out a crayon sketch he had done in the Bois de Boulogne, ruling it lightly with a penciled grid. He produced a canvas he had prepared with an undercoat of burnt sienna, drew a similar (though larger-scaled) grid on the canvas, and proceeded to transfer the smaller drawing, square by square, to the canvas. He worked quickly. Satisfied with the results, he put the canvas on his easel and began to squeeze out some paint onto his palette. “I saw the most astonishing picture today. In Père Martin’s window. Claude Monet painted it. I must have stared for half an hour. All the shadows had
color
in them. He didn’t just use a bit of bitumen to darken in the shaded areas. The shadows were entirely different colors. Extraordinary! I wonder if it can be done without using black or bitumen.”