‘Maybe he was just shy,’ Blanche suggested.
‘He wasn’t before…’ she began then paused. ‘What have I done wrong, madame?’
‘I can’t imagine you have done anything wrong, Lilli.’
‘I wasn’t forward or anything like that.’
‘I’m sure you weren’t.’
They worked in silence for a while then Lilli paused.
‘He has changed towards me, madame,’ she said. ‘When I think of how he behaved on the evening of the dance, so kind, so attentive, now he seems distant. Why?’
She grabbed hold of a pile of pillowcases and began to stuff them angrily back into the basket.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Blanche admitted. ‘Let me think about it and then we’ll talk again.’
1889
The weeks went by without seeing John Leslie. She stayed at Le Pressoir, hardly venturing beyond the garden. She painted, obsessively filling canvas after canvas, the only activity, which seemed in any way to anchor her. After a while, even that failed and she felt she was lost and adrift, shuffling through days that seemed to belong to someone else she didn’t know or understand.
Early one morning in December, she went to find Monet in the garden. It was a beautiful day, a sprinkling of snow covered the ground and foliage and shone in the sunlight. All seemed still and sleepy.
It was difficult to believe that in a few months masses of daffodils and blue pansies would herald the spring again, Monet remarked. In coat and muffler, he stood with his feet planted square on the main path, looking perfectly happy in his own domain. He smiled at her.
‘What brings you out here so early?’
‘I want to ask you something,’ she replied. ‘It is very important.’
His expression changed and without a word he signalled they should return to the house. He led the way to his studio and closed the door. ‘So?’
‘I’ve tried to do as you asked me,’ she replied. ‘All these weeks I have tried.’
‘And done very well. You are painting again, you have joined in family life.’
‘But at a price,’ she interrupted. ‘You cannot imagine how I have felt inside and now…’
He was lighting a cigarette. ‘And now?’
‘Will you grant me a favour? Please. Will you talk to me about John Leslie? I want to try to make you realise what he means to me, what we mean to each other.’
Monet inhaled then blew out a smoke ring. ‘I am sorry, Blanche, I will not discuss this any further. The subject is closed.’
The black painted stove glowed cheerfully in the dining room of Hotel Baudy; Blanche sat at one of the tables waiting for John Leslie. She had slept fitfully, dreaming, waking and dreaming again. In the morning she had dressed and, without breakfasting, hurried from the house. Madame Baudy had seemed surprised by this early visitor but, seeming to read Blanche’s resolve, had invited her to be seated while she went to find him. The wood in the stove crackled and sent up a blue flame but she felt deathly cold. She tucked her hands under her cloak and waited, staring at but not really seeing the piano, the checked cloths, the cups and saucers and plates laid for the morning meal.
After what seemed an age, John Leslie came into the room. ‘Blanche, I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I was still in bed.’
She gave him a small smile.
‘You’re cold. Shall I order some coffee?’
She shook her head.
He came to sit next to her. ‘Oh darling, it’s so wonderful to see you, after all this time. I’ve been thinking and thinking of you, wondering how you’ve got on. And now you’ve come back to me.’
She stared at him and this handsome, dark haired man seemed to have nothing to do with her, at all. As always, he read her thoughts and held out his hand and she felt herself drawn to him though now it was with a sense of a knife going through her.
‘It will have to end,’ she said softly. ‘I asked Monet to discuss you and me. I tried to persuade him to listen and understand, but he wouldn’t. His mind is set against losing me. If I left and came with you, it would bring so much unhappiness and I don’t have that courage, John Leslie. I can’t do it.’
For a moment they stayed as they were, holding hands while the fire burned and gleamed on the nearest crockery. From a distance, voices could be heard in the kitchen.
Then John Leslie spoke. ‘You never gave it a chance.’
She looked up to him then. ‘There never really was a chance.’
It felt so right to be here, his hand in hers, his dear face so close; the idea of being without him seemed impossible. Tears ran down her face.
‘Blanche, Blanche, oh my love.’
She felt she was being torn apart and went into his arms, laying her face against his shoulder, smelling the familiar scent of him. Just for a moment she thought that somehow there might still be hope, but then that passed.
‘I have to go home,’ she said.
‘If that’s what you want, I won’t try to stop you.’
He was bitter and had a right to be. He turned away from her and there was nothing else to say or do but to leave. The tone of those last words rang in her mind as she hurried along the road, back to Le Pressoir, away from him.
That evening she stopped Monet on his way to the dining room. ‘I saw John Leslie today. I told him I was going to stay here.’
She had thought he might thank her, even congratulate her good sense. But her tragic expression must have struck him and he had the grace merely to nod. She moved past him towards the stairs and the sanctuary of her room.
Later she went into the garden to gather some flowers then walked up the road to the church. She stood and gazed at the cold marble, once again there were fresh posies laid there, people were still thinking of Maman. Blanche felt a pang of longing to speak to her, ask her advice. Her eyes filled with tears and she sank onto the marble surround still clutching her flowers. ‘Tell me what to do, Maman,’ she murmured. ‘I feel anxious, as if I am losing control. Everything was going well in the household; we seemed to be turning a corner but now… I wanted so much to help Lilli find happiness but even there I feel I’ve failed.’
She went to sit in the church to pray to Saint Radegonde, but the air was oppressive and the dream of drowning had sapped her. After a while, she seemed to fall into a trance-like state. When she finally came to herself, she realised some time had gone by. Suddenly, she remembered Judith would be visiting Le Pressoir that day and she hadn’t been there. What in heaven’s name was the matter with her? For some reason she disliked the idea of the American girl alone in the house with her stepfather.
Panicking, Blanche rushed out of the church and hurried back along the street. She had almost reached the house when she saw something that brought her up short. Standing outside La Musardiere were Michel and Judith. They were talking and laughing, seemingly oblivious of their surroundings. She stepped back behind a convenient bush to watch them. There was something about their ease with each other, which suggested this wasn’t the first time they had been together. What was more unsettling was that they seemed not to be Judith, a wealthy young lady, speaking to Michel, the gardener, but just two young people revelling in each other’s company. Then Judith said something about having to go and Michel laid a hand on her arm to detain her. She laughed and shook her head. Finally, they parted, each going in an opposite direction. Feeling mystified by the scene, Blanche hurried toward the house.
– TWENTY-NINE –
JUDITH
J
udith had always got what she wanted. As far back as she could remember it had been so. In her nursery with its pretty rose sprigged wall paper, the cast iron bed dressed in flounces and ribbons, its silk sheets and plump pillows, there were always her favourite things for tea: white bread and peanut butter, honey cake and almond fingers. If ever she grew tired of these, Nanny would ring the bell and something else would be brought up. On her sixth birthday, sh
e asked for a rocking horse and a magnificent piebald charger was delivered to the house in Madison Square. As she grew older, her list widened: frocks, outings, vacations, everything was granted to her. When Charlie came on the scene, he was added to the number of people intent on satisfying her desires. And of course, the European trip and this stay in Giverny had come about because her father could not refuse her. Now, she had hooked Michel.
Judith seated once again on the hotel terrace, gazed down at the tennis players with an unfamiliar sense of languor. For once, she was content to be alone, to think over the events of the past two weeks. She felt she had changed and discovered a part of herself she never knew she possessed. It was hard to define, an urge to excite Michel, to push him further. She basked in the way he looked at her, quite blatantly now, his eyes running over her body, taking in her clothes, her hair, amazed when she smoked a cigarette on the terrace.
‘Is that what women do in America?’ he asked.
‘The ones I know.’
‘My mother would be shocked if she saw you.’
Judith had rocked her head from side to side in a mocking gesture. ‘My, my, aren’t I a naughty girl?’
He sighed ‘It must be wonderful over there.’
‘We sure have more freedom,’ she admitted. ‘If you’re a good boy maybe I’ll take you there some day.’
She dared not imagine what her parents would think if ever she did such a thing.
‘And if I am not a good boy?’
She met his eyes, the pupils looked very large.
‘And just what are you suggesting?’
‘Vilaine.’
The thought of how her behaviour would infuriate Robert egged her on to blow smoke rings into the air, watching Michel through half closed eyes, to lean back in her chair with arms behind her head, exposing the shape of her body beneath the clinging silk; things she would never have dreamt of doing with Charlie. Michel followed her every movement with wondering eyes, wanted to see her every day though she sometimes pretended she had other things to do, recalling an overheard remark of her mother’s: ‘you have to keep these men on their toes.’
He seemed obsessed with her, wanting to keep her all for himself. ‘What do you do when I’m not with you?’
‘Oh this and that.’
‘With the man, Robert?’
Judith waggled her finger at him. ‘I told you, Michel, Robert is old.’
‘Maybe he thinks not too old.’
‘I don’t mind what he thinks,’ she reached over and patted his knee. ‘I like young men, especially you.’
The night in the garden two days ago had altered everything. Her mind went to that early evening when she had gazed at herself in the mirror, satisfied by what she saw. She had spent a long time over her hair and make up, then gone to the cupboard to pick the green silk frock, low necked and clinging, the one she liked herself best in. The champagne had been ordered, there was nothing more to do but sit and wait for Michel to arrive, growing more on edge with every moment.
Her mind had turned to Dorothy and, although the woman had disappointed her, she mused on some of her advice about flirting with a man. She realised that she had never flirted with Charlie, never had to make any effort because he seemed to think there was nothing more interesting in the world than Judith. Their conversation was mainly about herself, it occurred to her; they never talked about his golfing, his friends or his work, they were just things he did when he wasn’t with her. When she thought of him now, he seemed a shadowy, two-dimensional figure and, try as she might to recall him, all she could summon up was the smell of his hair and his very clean fingernails. Dorothy had said one should flatter a man, show interest in all he did and that is what she planned to do with Michel.
He needed little encouragement. They had had their cocktails then walked through the hotel out into the garden. The night was perfectly still and shadowy. An intermittent moon sailed in and out of the wispy clouds.
‘Michel, you haven’t told me very much about yourself,’ she began.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’ She tucked her hand under his arm and pulled him towards the upper terraces. She liked it here, hidden from the hotel, just the two of them, the feel of his sturdy body close to hers.
‘Well, my mother is from Brittany and my father was born on the farm here in Normandy. Do you know, they have never even been to Paris? They are so dull, Judith, you have no idea, with eyes as blinkered as our old workhorse. They certainly do not like me working here at Le Pressoir.’ He sighed. ‘I get it every day: what’s wrong with you, boy? The earth is for growing things to eat, not flowers. What use are flowers?’
Judith laughed. ‘How boring they sound.’
‘Very, very boring. What they would really like is for me to find a nice local girl, get married and inherit the farm.’
The honeysuckle was releasing its fragrance into the air, mingling with the roses, ethereal among their foliage. Judith leaned closer against him.
‘Is that what you would like?’
‘Certainly not. For one thing I am too young, for another I have escaped farming: all that mud and cows. I never want to go back.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Judith. ‘no-one can force you to marry, can they?’
They descended the little flight of steps and arrived at the seat set in the rose bower. Here Judith sat and patted the space beside her.
‘The thing is…’ he began, ‘the thing is there is someone who wants to marry me. Her name is Lilli and she works in the house. Oh she’s pretty enough and nice enough,’ he laughed. ‘And mad about me.’
‘How about you?’
‘I enjoy her company, she is more intelligent than most of the girls around here. My mother says I would find it difficult to make a better match and I know she would accept if I asked her.’
Judith was becoming tired of this topic. She sighed. ‘She sure sounds like a paragon of virtue.’
Michel turned to her; his eyes glittered in the dark. ‘Are you jealous?’
She laughed. ‘Why should I be?’
‘There is no need. I don’t want to marry a local girl and settle down in Giverny. I want to travel, see other places. The world is large.’
‘It sure is.’ She could smell the soap he used and that other scent about him that excited her.
Michel had not finished. Now that he had started, he seemed unable to stop as if all these thoughts had been tamped down in him and were now welling up. ‘Then there is Le Pressoir and everyone saying what a good gardener I am. They tell me I have a lifetime job before me. no-one seems to understand me.’
Judith leaned over and touched his arm. ‘I do, Michel, I understand all this very well. Father and Mother have my life all planned out.’ She laughed. ‘But I have other ideas they would not approve of.’
He laughed. ‘Coquine!’
‘What me? Naughty! Whatever gave you that idea?’
They both laughed.
Michel said: ‘you see, that is what I like about you: you are so full of life, not looking at me with those solemn eyes like my mother. Not telling me to be realistic like everyone else does. I am young, I want to enjoy myself, have some fun.’
‘Oh dear, poor boy! Don’t be sad.’
Judith jumped up and, humming the Maple Leaf Rag under her breath, began to dance the Turkey Trot.
Michel laughed and applauded. ‘Bravo! Oh you look so funny, just like a bird!’
This was going well, Judith thought. She came over and took him by the hand. ‘Now come on, let’s open the champagne.’
As she had asked, it had been chilled and left on the table under the wisteria. Carrying the bottle and glasses, they wandered back to their hidden seat. Judith raised her glass to him, ‘To enjoyment.’ They drank, it was very good champagne. Michel poured again.
‘Oh this is such fun!’ Judith exclaimed, and then realised Michel
had put down his glass and was gazing at her.
He murmured her name, then he took her glass and set both of them on the ground. He put his hands on her shoulders and continued to gaze at her. ‘You are wonderful,’ he said. He pulled her against him and started to kiss her. These were very different kisses from any she had had before, hard, savage kissing, which forced her lips open as Michel thrust his tongue into her mouth. He seemed so excited, his breath quickening as his hands slipped into her dress and found her breasts. She thought she should tell him to stop, maybe she had gone a little too far but as his fingers circled her nipples she gasped and pulled him closer and kissed him wildly. ‘Oh, Michel!’
‘Lie down,’ he whispered, ‘lie down.’
‘My dress!’ she protested.
Swiftly he slipped off his jacket and laid it on the ground. ‘Lie.’
As if she had entered a dream she did as she was told. He knelt beside her, kissing her but now he was sliding his hand up her skirt, moving between her thighs to where her stocking tops ended in suspenders. He stroked the soft flesh there and she felt a thrill go through her.
‘It pleases you?’ he murmured. ‘It pleases you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
He paused and she realised he was pulling down her knickers. Again there was a part of her that knew she should protest but she lay still and let him do it. As Michel slid his fingers inside her and began gently to rub, she felt herself opening up to him, opening and opening, wanting him to continue to rub harder.
‘How wet you are,’ he grunted with satisfaction and she realised something was welling up inside her, spilling onto his hand. ‘And again.’
She cried out this time.
‘Shh!’ he said. ‘Shh, someone will hear.’
She laughed. ‘I couldn’t help it.’
‘Coquine,’ he said. ‘Vilaine. You like it, don’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ she laughed. ‘Yes. It’s wonderful.’
‘Then I will stop.’
‘No!’ She sat up and clung to him. ‘Don’t stop, please.’
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