“That I met a charming young Swiss gentleman.” She felt something tremble in her throat, and she forced a prim tone. “Who comforts me in my sorrow. We should turn back. I’m poor company today.”
“I like your shining eyes, but you are beautiful, too, when you’re sad.”
The sun was starting to set. Their elbows jostled as they headed to the boarding house, silently walking through Bedford Square. Near the statue of the duke stood a pale girl wearing a torn dress that fell in loose folds from her waist. Holding a basket of violets in one hand and a tin cup in the other, she cried, “A bunch for a ha’penny.”
Ernst took a gold coin from his pocket. “We’ll take them all.”
He scooped the violets from her basket and filled May’s arms. She buried her face among the loose leaves and purple blossoms. Tears blurred her vision, so the edges of the flowers blended.
“I wish it could be a whole garden.” He opened his arms and pulled her to him. The violets crushed slightly, which brought out their fragrance.
Stepping back, she said, “I don’t have enough vases. Where will I put them all?”
“Enjoy them just tonight,” he said.
At the boarding house, she left him at the landing, which smelled of beef and cabbages cooking for supper. Alone in her room, she dropped the violets on her bed. Breathing hard, maybe from hurrying up the stairs, she unlatched her paint box, poured water from her pitcher into a cup, and mixed colors on her palette. Without stepping back to consider perspective, she swept her biggest paintbrush so the bristles splayed on the thick paper. Her hold was confident but loose as a stem in a breeze. She was lavish with water, so the colors blurred. No certain lines separated grief and love, life as it is and hope, all the reasons not to love and all the reasons why she should.
She tossed a few broken branches on the hearth, held a burning stick under the lamp’s glass globe, then went back to painting the coverlet she changed from blue to lemon yellow on her paper, so the blooms would stand out. Her wrist remained loose, but she was choosing every stroke, catching colors that would never glow just as they did now. She made more bold strokes even as the growing darkness made it hard to see the differences between green and purple, the unfurling or withering of blooms, with an imperfect beauty all their own.
At last she put down her brush. How long had she been painting? She breathed deep and fast, as if she’d finished a long race, but her arms and legs ached with an urge to move. And she was hungry. She headed downstairs. Ernst was at the bottom landing, pacing the way he had when guarding her door after her mother died. He said, “May, I’m sorry. I should never have dared to speak, but …”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for. Nothing was said.” She held up her hand, then swallowed to soothe the sting at the back of her throat, a blistering as if she’d tried to reach impossibly high notes of a song. “I was painting.”
“Good.”
“It may be the best work I’ve ever done.”
“Can I see?”
“Now?”
“Please.”
She went upstairs and brought down the watercolor of a river of violets on a sun-colored spread. “It might not look finished, but I like the sense of possibility that’s left.”
“It’s beautiful.” His green eyes were wide open. She believed that he saw not only the red and purple violets, but also all her grief and hunger. He might even understand that she didn’t paint only for sales or acclaim, but that she wanted people to see what she saw. This painting, more than any she’d done before, seemed full of revelation. Whatever happened now, she had this painting, with its shimmer like that of a river that never stopped moving.
“Do you know if anything’s left from supper?” she asked.
“It’s late. The cook went home hours ago. Maybe the woman who sells potatoes on the square is out. Can I get you one or two?”
“I’ll go.”
“Please, let me come with you.”
She got a shawl, then they walked to the dark square. An old woman wrapped in a blanket perched on a stool, hunched over a barrow of glowing coals. She might have been sleeping. She didn’t raise her head until May and Ernst stood close enough to feel the heat, then asked, “How many?”
“One for me.”
“Two, please.” Ernst told the woman, who uncurled her chapped hands to grasp a fork she used to poke and lift large potatoes from the glowing coals. “Should I break the skins?”
“Leave them, please, so they’ll keep warm,” Ernst said.
The woman scooped salt from a tin into brown paper. She sliced a bit of butter and a slab of Cheshire cheese off a block, handed everything to Ernst, then wrapped herself deeper in her blanket.
May and Ernst stopped in a shop for a bottle of wine, then brought their meal to the common room. It was late enough so that everyone had gone upstairs. May put a log on the fire. She unbuttoned her shoes, slipped them off, and sat on the rug while Ernst poured the wine. He handed her his pocketknife, but May broke the wedge of crumbly cheese in two. Food and wine warmed her mouth. She ate with appetite, then turned to Ernst and ran her fingertips, slightly slick from the butter, along the sides of his beautiful face. He kissed her softly, so she felt the curves of his lips and hers. She tasted the salty corner of his mouth, heard his heart pound, smelled the grassy scent of his linen shirt and burning firewood.
May leaned back. “We mustn’t. We should go back to our rooms.”
“How can we sleep?”
“Is it too late to walk to the river?”
“It’s not too late.” He stood, then reached for her hand, which pulsed as if with small fireworks. They headed through the gaslit streets to the Thames. Barges and boats tugged on lines that held them to wharves. London Bridge loomed, dark and Gothic, guarded by sentinels holding lanterns. People in tattered clothes huddled in its shadows, trying to keep out of the wind.
“I don’t ever want to leave you.” Ernst folded her hand in his and faced her. His eyelashes hid his eyes for a moment. Then they lifted, and his gaze fixed steadily on hers. “Will you marry me?”
May nodded, slightly, not because the answer yes didn’t fill her body, but because it filled it so much she couldn’t speak. Her breath caught in her throat, then rushed through her chest. Their embrace made it catch again, then move still faster. She stepped away.
“But you should know. I’ve never told you. I’m thirty …” She was about to add the “seven,” but seeing his chin drop, she swerved from truth and said, “… or almost.”
“Impossible! You look …” He nodded too many times, even as he said, “It doesn’t matter.”
“You can change your mind.”
“No.”
“We’ve only known each other for a few months.”
“So it would be wrong to lose even one of the days ahead. We’ll find a ring. If we wait, I could afford a diamond.”
“I don’t want a jewel. Paint could catch in the setting. And I can’t stop painting now. I’ve worked hard to get this far.”
“I would never want you to stop doing what you love.”
“It’s hard for a woman to paint if she’s managing a household.”
“We’ll find a housekeeper, one who cooks. And one day, someone to mind our children.”
“Children. I don’t even know if that’s possible for me.”
“Anything is possible. Haven’t you told me that? We must have at least four. At least two of them girls. As beautiful as you.”
“You think everything should turn out perfectly. Just as easily as that?”
“Why not?”
She touched the soft skin below his eyes, the lovely dent near the top of his nose. Her mouth opened over his. His arms circled her trembling body. They kissed, then let go. He lifted her, leaning backward, then gently set her down and shouted, “We’re getting married!”
“Shhh,” she said, though neither the bridge guards nor vagrants turned to look. “When? Where?”
“Anywhere!”
“You spoke of taking a job in Russia.”
“France is closer. We could cross the Channel to visit each other.”
“To visit? We were talking about marriage.”
“I could work for a year before our wedding, and save money.”
“Let’s marry first. Then I can come with you. And not lose a day.”
“Darling, a year isn’t so long.”
“A year is forever.” May looked out to the river, where the browns and green-golds were restoring themselves, as if by a painter who’d scraped everything off her canvas then began again with a certain hand.
“Do you forget I have sisters? I know how long it can take to plan for bouquets, a cake, and champagne. It may take a year to have a gown made fit for a princess. And I’ll need to earn money for our home.”
“I don’t care about a fancy wedding. And I could live with you anywhere.”
“Don’t you want time to go see your sisters first? Or give them time to come be with you?”
May thought of how she’d crossed the sea safely a few times, but there was always a chance a ship might strike icebergs or sail into storms. She was only a little afraid of all the younger women Ernst might meet in a year. She was lucky, but she was old enough to know how swiftly luck could turn.
“My sisters would understand I had my great chance and took it.”
“Then I suppose my family might come to England, or would you rather see my home in Switzerland? We could marry in our church.”
“I’ve waited long enough.” May wondered what his mother would think of a woman who might not be much younger than she was. And how would she tell Louisa that she wasn’t coming back? If they married in a few weeks, there would hardly be time for her letter and a reply to cross the Atlantic. She wouldn’t have to hear what Louisa thought about a wedding so soon after Mother’s death, or know if she could forgive her. She said, “Let’s get married right away. Then we could travel together to your new job. If we go soon, the chestnut trees will be in bloom.”
They ducked under the bridge’s long shadows.
“The business owner hoped I would not delay. Do you really think you could be ready to go by April?”
She ran two fingertips down his neck and said, “Even sooner.”
20
THE GOLD RİNG
May propped up her looking glass, pinned back the front of her hair, then curled the back locks. She put on the silk gown she’d worn to opening day at the Salon, after stitching topaz bands of piping above the hem and around the cuffs she’d shortened to show her wrists. She went downstairs to say goodbye to some gathered friends. Then she and Jane climbed into a carriage that took them to the Registry. Ernst was waiting with Mr. Ramsey in a ledger-lined office. An official asked a few questions and seemed satisfied with short answers. There were no lacy veils, admiring crowds, fiddles, dancing, or sisters by her side, but what mattered were the plain gold band Ernst slipped on her finger and his simple words: “I do. I will.”
They took a train to the harbor, where May mailed a brief letter home about the wedding, promising to send her sisters her new address the minute she was settled in France. She expected they’d be surprised, maybe even shocked, though wasn’t a kind and handsome young man what she’d always wanted? May and Ernst boarded a ferry with yellow rails and a green roof. Seagulls opened their wings as if they carried the sky above the English Channel. Ernst wrapped his hand around her wrist as they stood on the deck, their sides rocking together. He whispered, “May,” over and over, which seemed what she’d wanted for so long. For someone to say her name with all his breath. Then he said, “A gift from the blue sea you love.” He handed her a box with pearl earrings that were rounded, smooth, and caught light, like the buds of water lilies.
“I wish it could be more, and it will. A necklace one day,” he said.
“Darling, I have everything.”
In Le Havre, they left their trunks and portmanteaus in the customs house, took one valise, and wandered past piers, fishing cottages, taverns, and casinos, looking for signs that said: Chambre à louer. When they found a promising suite, May introduced herself to the innkeeper as Madame Nieriker, feeling giddy as a girl playing house. Her heart pounded even more once she and Ernst were alone in a room. She looked at the view of the water, then shut the curtains. He gently unwound the band on her hat, ducked under the brim, and kissed her softly. Her head felt light as he took off her hat and set it on a bureau. Their lips pressed open each other’s mouths, urgently but without haste. Her knees gave. She placed his hands on her hips.
He bent to kiss each of her hands. “Let’s put away our things and make everything nice.”
She smiled. She hadn’t expected him to be shy. “Aren’t we staying just for the night?”
“I like it here, don’t you? Let’s stay a few days before going on to Paris.” He put his starched and ironed shirts in the oak wardrobe. As he lit candles, he sang a Bellini aria so softly that his voice was more vibration than sound.
May pulled down the crimson coverlet on the canopied bed. “I’ve always loved red.”
“And blue. And yellow and brown and green.”
He slid his lips over the back of her neck and unfastened the long row of buttons. Her dress rustled as it fell to the floor. She slipped her fingers through his thick, wavy hair. “I want to take off your clothes.”
He blushed as she unhooked his cuff links and kissed the downy tops of his wrists. She pushed the buttons through the slits in his shirt, then pulled it off. She wanted to kiss his long neck and collarbones, but she made herself stand back and look as carefully as if she were going to draw him. The hair on his chest was lighter than his hard, chestnut-colored nipples. Ernst pulled down his trousers and drawers. He touched himself with a look of both pride and embarrassment. He was so young, his skin smooth over the firm muscles in his chest and thighs. She moved close enough for him to reach under her petticoats and slide his hand upward. She pulled him onto the bed, where he lifted her chemise, unhooked her corset, and peeled down her silk stockings.
“May I touch you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Here?”
She nodded.
“Here?”
“Yes.” She loved his manners, his skin warming hers. Candlelight cast shadows on the ceiling. Her breath plunged deeper than she’d known it could go. Something inside her throbbed. She cried, then laughed. Who would have thought that pain, when touched, could pass into pleasure?
The next morning, the innkeeper smiled when they came down late for breakfast, and again when, leaving their milky coffee in glass bowls, they returned to their room. They spent most of the next few days on or under the crimson bedspread, sleeping curled around each other, waking to find their hands on each other’s bodies. One afternoon, after much unlinking, unbuttoning, and uncovering, May dipped her fingers in rose-scented oil and drew a map over her body, marking places where she wanted to be touched. The warmth of his hands lifted the fragrance from her neck, wrists, the sides of her torso, and between her thighs.
Neither wanted to leave the room, but they needed to look for a home before Ernst’s work began. They took a train to Paris and found a room in Montmartre to let. In the morning, they began looking for an apartment in the neighborhood where cats slept on cracked stone steps, horses pulled yellow wagons loaded with cartons of eggs and baskets of cheese, and boys milked goats before customers’ doors. In a park, men played dominoes under plane trees. All the apartments they considered seemed not quite right, but this didn’t touch their happiness that evening, as they ate dinner at the Moulin de la Galette, then danced under the globed lamps strung between acacia trees.
The next morning, they viewed a few more apartments, which were discouraging enough for May to suggest reviving their eyes with some art. They headed down the hills and walked by the Seine, where boats with four-sided sails cast shadows shaped like fins. They crossed a bridge and entered the J
ardin de Tuileries. Tulips, hyacinths, and irises grew in crescent, circular, and fleur-de-lis patterns. Bonnes pushed prams or watched over children who crouched by the edge of a circular pool, prodding toy sailboats with sticks.
In the Louvre, May headed straight to the Venus de Milo, which made Ernst gasp. As they made their way past other art, she noticed he looked more at people than at statues and paintings, the way Louisa had at museums. She heard someone call her name and turned to see two women whom she’d met in Monsieur Krug’s studio. After excited greetings, she introduced Ernst to Fanny and Caroline. Their words were gracious, but she could see the surprise on their faces. May’s friends in London were used to Ernst, and the French weren’t quick to raise eyebrows, but these Americans reminded May of how much younger he was than she was.
Caroline, who wore a gown embroidered with peacock feathers, asked May if she had a painting in the Salon.
“It will open soon, won’t it? I didn’t submit anything this spring.” May thought of the past months in which her mother had died, she’d fallen in love, and she learned to paint with a looser hand and brighter colors. She’d had every reason not to send something to the jury; still, she was sorry that she’d missed a chance. “And what about you?”
“No luck yet.”
“I’ll leave you to get reacquainted,” Ernst excused himself and sat on a bench, watching a little girl who kept trying to break away from her mother’s hand to dance.
May asked her old classmates if they’d seen Miss Cassatt.
“I heard she didn’t submit work to the Salon this year,” Caroline replied. “The Impressionists demand that no one may show with them and at the Salon as well. She agreed, only to have this year’s Impressionist show canceled. No galleries were willing to rent them space, not when they can make more money from all the tourists coming to the World’s Fair. People who might want a real painting as a souvenir, not scratches and scrawls that are insults to the old masters.”
“Have you been to the exposition, May? You can walk through the head of the Statue of the Liberty, which will be sent to New York soon,” Fanny said.
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