She stared at him with languid wonder in her gaze. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now tell me you will meet me at noon.”
“How could I refuse?”
That warmed him. This woman was no coward. “You won’t regret it.”
She looked away.
He caught her chin. “Now tell me you will return to me here again tonight.” Every night. For all our lives.
“I’ve no way. Everyone would know.” She fell into his arms, clutching him tightly. “I have obligations. A reputation to uphold. Ada to supervise.”
“Think on it.” He ran his open palm over the smooth wealth of her hair, down her back. The lovely lady who must let down her golden hair and leave the security of her castle for the life she should have. “I will see you at noon.”
When she climbed up into his brougham, she did not look back at him. Did not wave goodbye.
“Noon,” he repeated as if he were drilling it into her mind. Noon. Come.
Chapter 10
The Place du Tertre bustled with people in the heat of the August sun. The main plaza of the Montmartre suburb of Paris sat amid a mélange of stately limestone buildings and a few tumbledown wooden houses. Cheap housing attracted the artists plus dancers, the singers and the laborers of the suburb. Andre’s house and atelier was one of the few substantial edifices in the growing arrondissement.
Marianne had stepped down from her public hackney near the huge construction site of the church of Sacre Coeur. Workers heaved heavy stones, directing pulleys to deposit the huge blocks to the walls. They sweat profusely in the heat. A few stopped to watch her, a woman alone and frankly, more fashionably dressed than many others up here on the Butte.
Her walk to the square cleared her mind of her concerns about coming here alone. She should be home directing her maid for packing for the family’s trip to Cherbourg. The lure of Andre and her curiosity about his method of revealing his opinion of her work drew her on, though. To be honest, she welcomed the escape. To be with him in the light of day and to make a choice for herself that was solely for her own enjoyment filled her with a new and welcome confidence.
A few café owners had wheeled out their awnings to shield their patrons from the baking heat. In the square, men with their easels and toolboxes of paints and brushes sat beneath the few trees. Many had brought their umbrellas and lashed them to their easels. Squinting in the sun, they worked and measured their visions against their products. Two women sat among them, painting as well.
Music spilled out in to the plaza, pianos and violins rippled in counterpoint to guitars and concertinas. The artists seemed not to notice. They did not sing or dance. No one tapped his feet or snapped his fingers. Each was intent on his work. Some slathered a background onto a canvas in broad brush strokes. Others refined more finished works with their own techniques, some of delicate dots, or heavy daubs of impasto.
Marianne strolled along, caught by an artist’s landscape of the plaza, done in peaches and greens, the illusions of the bustle around her gay and palpable. She walked on, to pause at last before a portrait of a little girl. The child was two or three years old, with intent blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks, the world she surveyed simple and jolly.
“Does Madame wish to buy this?” A painfully thin man with the avid look of an ascetic stood before her.
“I do like it. Oui, Monsieur. But I cannot carry it now. Perhaps if you are here in an hour, I could return?”
“I would remain here for you, Madame.”
“Merci beaucoup.”
“Do you not wish to know the price?”
“Oui. Certainly.”
“Ten francs.”
“Oh, Monsieur. Ten is much too little. Your work is worth more than that.”
“That is precisely what I have told Monsieur de Salle for many years.” Andre bid his friend hello. He took her arm with one hand. In the other, he held her portfolio. She’d forgotten it this morning and was relieved he’d brought it for her.
“You are so right, Monsieur le duc. Quote me another price,” she begged de Salle.
“Twenty.”
Andre arched his brows at her. In the brilliant sunlight, his long waves glistening. Today, he was casual, loose shirt and linen trousers, sans hat. She was so proud of who and what he was. In any light, in any room, in any landscape, to her he was irresistible.
She opened her reticule and her tiny leather purse. She took out three bills and placed them in de Salle’s hand. “I will return for the painting later.”
“She will indeed, De Salle. She lunches with me in the Purple Cow.” Andre motioned across the square.
“But Madame,” de Salle said and frowned at the money in his hand. “This is too much.”
“I believe a work of art has its value for the artist, but another for the admirer, Monsieur. I like your little girl. Please keep those francs.”
He bowed. “As you wish, Madame.”
Andre led her away, a grin gracing his lips. “Madame Roland, you have made that man very happy.”
“I make myself happy.” She walked with him into an intimate cafe that smelled of garlic, fish and beer. “When does one meet this Purple Cow?”
“He arrives after you’ve had a few pints of Flemish beer.” He caught the eye of the garçon and the man appeared at their side. “Two beers, Paul, s’il vous plait. And to eat, what will you have, Madame?”
Rustic meals were simple affairs she’d rarely enjoyed since arriving in Europe. Stripping off her gloves, she noted most in the dark restaurant ate mussels from a steaming pot. “The same as those patrons there.”
Their waiter hurried away, his shouts to the cook at the rear of the bar, ear-piercing orders that had Marianne flinching. “Is he angry?”
“No. He’s nearly deaf. Once an artillery officer in the French Legion. He thinks he speaks in a normal tone.”
“How does he get the orders if he can’t hear?”
“He reads lips.”
“Inventive. Thank you for returning my drawings.” She put out her hand.
But he shook his head. “At the end of lunch.”
“You’ll give them back?”
“I have a plan for them.”
Anxiety crept into her good morning. “What is it?”
“You’ll see. Ah!” He leaned back so that Paul could place their beers before them. “Merci.”
“What plan?”
Another man appeared at their table. Dressed in a gentleman’s afternoon walking suit, he appeared quite businesslike.
“Madame Roland.” Andre got to his feet. “May I present a friend of mine, Monsieur Edouard Montand.”
“Enchante, Madame. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Andre pulled out the chair next to him. “I’m delighted you’ve joined us.”
“My curiosity was announced by your note to me. Of course, I would come.”
Monsieur Montand was a white-haired gentleman of middling height, ample girth, with a substantial winged mustache, pointed goattee and the sharp eyes of a man about town. Why had Andre invited him here?
“Do you live close by, Monsieur?” she asked him.
“No, Madame. I live above my gallery in the Rue de Provence.”
Not far from Rue Haussmann. A very respectable part of town. “A gallery?”
“Monsieur has a very profitable business, Madame,” Andre told her, then hailed the waiter to attend them.
“What sort of gallery do you own, Monsieur?”
Paul appeared at once and their guest ordered a German beer. “The Flemish is too weak for my taste,” he explained. “I buy many paintings and sell them for a commission. Do I detect that Madame is an American?”
“I am.” She tried to smile at him, but nerves were crawling up her spine. She could tell precisely why Andre had invited Montand here—and she worried at the result.
“I have many American patrons. English, too. But Americans are more liberal in their approach to ar
t. They have a willingness to look beyond the classical to see la vie douce.”
“The sweet life,” she translated the term she’d read in the newspapers. “We’ve lived through war to prosper.”
“Much as we have in France, Madame.”
“Would I know any of the artists whose work you buy for your clients?”
“I wonder. Monet? Manet? Sisley?”
“Those ‘impressionists’, yes. I’ve heard of them. I’ve seen a few of their works.”
“And?”
“I like them.” She didn’t hold back her grin. “They improvise. They are inspirational.”
The agent tipped his head. “How so?”
“I draw.”
“Well, then you appreciate the new, the avant garde.”
“She does,” Andre said with nonchalance. “She, too, is an artist.”
She held her breath. If this man appraised her pieces and found them wanting, she would recoil from the blow. “I have not shown my work to anyone. I do it for myself.”
“She has,” Andre said to Montand, “but she needs an opinion that is not mine.”
Montand was quick to glance from one to the other. He smiled, the glow in his eyes giving her to understand he knew the two of them were connected by more than appreciation of art.
“I have a sample of her sketches here with me, Montand.” Andre glanced at her briefly.
“You think them worthy of a look?”
“I do.”
Montand reached inside his coat and extracted a tiny leather glasses case. “Shall I assess them, Madame?”
She must employ new boldness. “Please.”
Flipping open his case, Montand extracted a folding pair of spectacles and perched them on his nose. He grasped the portfolio, removed the sketchbook and turned the pages. Silent, he examined one than another. Occasionally, he returned to a previous sketch. Once he compared an older rendering of Andre to another she’d finished last week.
Marianne drank her beer. Gripped her fingers tightly together. Looked away, bit her lip and took another sip of beer. Her spine tingled. Her eyes watered.
Paul came with Monsieur Montand’s beer. The agent did not drink, but continued his perusal of her works.
At last, he closed the book, rearranged those pages that escaped the confines and handed the book over to her.
“Tell me, Madame, how long have you been drawing?”
“Since I was very young, three, four years old. It was a pastime for an only child.”
“What did you sketch then?”
“People. Men and women. My parents. Our servants. Our field hands. Our dog. The barn cats. Occasionally, flowers.”
“No landscapes?”
She shrugged. “They do not interest me as much as human beings.”
“I wish to see more of every subject.”
That shocked her. “I have few of those with me here at home. I came to Europe with my family last autumn and I did not pack my older works.” Or most of them. The inclusion of those of Frederick was a gross mistake.
“You are abroad with your family?”
She shifted in her chair. To reveal that she was one of the Hanniford family might mean this man could repeat the fact in society. She’d be talked about. Her work discussed. “I am.”
“I detect a need for discretion,” he said.
Marianne heard the clipped efficiency of a businessman. So like her uncle’s. “You do, Monsieur.”
“I am not in the habit of discussing my clients’ private lives with those who purchase their works.”
“Monsieur?” She was not his client.
“Madame Roland, let me be plain. I want to see more from you. In what other mediums do you work?”
“Ink, occasionally chalk. Watercolors, now and again.”
“Do you have any I might view?”
“I do.”
“And those of Monsieur le duc? Have you more?”
“Oui, Monsieur.” She sat taller as invisible chains fell from her shoulders. “Dozens.”
“Newer? Older?”
“This collection is the latest set.”
Montand leaned forward and extracted her most recent portrait of Andre. “The last one here?”
She cocked her head. “What about it?”
“I want it.”
“Monsieur?”
“If you will allow me, I would sell it.”
“Of Monsieur le duc?” She did not understand.
“Remy becomes a rage. You must know this, friends as you are.”
She nodded.
Andre wrestled with a grin.
“Allow me to frame this. Sell it for you. Please bring me others, too. You could go to another agent. But I’d be happy to oblige you with the exposure.”
“I—I hardly know what to say except I am honored.”
“Permit me to be honored, Madame. And you, Remy?”
“Oui, Montand?”
“Nurture her.”
“Ah. Montand, if she will only permit me.”
Marianne listened but heard little.
Her entree came. She ate. Drank.
Andre and Montand spoke to each other. To her. They spoke of Andre’s latest commission for the City. Andre demurred and said the marble in his atelier was unformed in his mind. He had been, he said with a glance at her, preoccupied lately. Montand discreetly said nothing. She chatted with them about mundane, simple things. About her assessment of Andre’s works. The Samson. His Delilah. The laughing baby he’d carved.
All the while inside her, she noted the brewing of a storm. Winds of change ruffling her hair, showers draining away clouds of her own making.
Then Montand rose, kissed her hand, and hoped she would bring the portrait to him the next day.
“I will,” she promised. She’d do it before she left with the family for Cherbourg.
“Excellent.” Montand bid them both good day.
“Another beer?” Andre asked her as she watched the dealer walk away.
“No. Merci. How am I to thank you?”
“Oh, well.” He scanned the interior of the dark little cafe. “I need none.”
She grinned. “And if I insist?”
He wore a dashing smile. “I leave that for you to decide.”
Yes. Of course he would. She leaned closer to him. “I am not used to such largesse.”
“I know. But you should have it, learn its values.”
“You could have told me this morning that you thought my work…good. Suitable.” She lifted her shoulders and opened her arms. “Salable.”
“If I had told you, would you honor my words as much as Montand’s?”
“I do not think you capable of lying to me.”
“I thank god for that, ma cherie. But I could not risk your reaction.”
That took her aback. “You assumed I would take your approbation as my due because we sleep together?”
“I questioned if you would use it as a means to remain as you are.”
“What?”
He glanced away and pursed his lips. Then he examined her minutely, as if he chose his words carefully. “Working and living in the shadows of your own talents. Your own goals.”
Speech deserted her. His understanding of her roiled her. Even shamed her. But it stirred the storm inside her. She shot to her feet. “I must go.”
He pushed back his chair, scraping the wooden legs against the rough-hewn floor as he stood. “Why?”
“I need to pack. We leave day after tomorrow. It’s—it’s Cherbourg for the month.”
He took her hand. “Come to me instead. Live with me, Marianne. Here.”
Oh, how she wanted that. The freedom, the raw pleasure of his company. But to become his mistress, anyone’s mistress, was the very thing she’d promised herself she’d never do. Never tie herself to any man. Only physical pleasure was what she wished. Only lust. Never love.
“Forget Cherbourg, Marianne. Discover all we can be together. All you can be for y
ourself.”
“I could dare to be so bold, but—” She would break every wall of her haven. Destroy every barrier between her and the unknown.
“Decide, ma cherie. What life will you live, Marianne? The life you think you want? Safe, secure from the chaos of the world. Or the life you choose for yourself? Rich in ambition, vibrant in reward?”
Madame le Comtesse bustled about the luggage as the Hannifords’ footmen tugged it from the boot of their carriage. “I count only eleven. There were twelve, I am most certain.”
Marianne walked around to Ada, eyeing her own standing trunk and the smaller valise that contained her clothes for the four weeks at the seaside. She had gowns, tea dresses, walking outfits for strolling along the promenade. A navy bathing dress. All intended for Cherbourg. Without Andre.
People eager to meet their trains bustled around them, headed for the station that took thousands each day from Paris to far corners of France and Europe.
“Should we send the carriage back for the other?” Madame Chaumont asked Marianne. The woman did not address Uncle Killian with such trivial issues. She knew better than to pester him so. “The maids should have checked the numbers.”
“They did. I was there in the foyer.” Marianne said, not caring about clothes or trains or trunks. She put a hand to her aching heart.
“We should have brought my maid and yours along,” Ada complained. “How do we know the servants we hire at the hotel will be worth their salt?”
“They are highly recommended,” Chaumont said, justifying her own recommendation to leave the personal maids in Paris for the month.
“I should have counted them myself,” Marianne said. She’d had no mind for such minutia, fretting about how Andre was taking her rejection of his invitation.
“Monsieur Hanniford?” Chaumont addressed Pierce with a flutter of her lashes. “What is your assessment?”
“I have one piece. Ada how many did you have your maid pack?” And on down the list, Pierce took a tally of what ought to be here.
Marianne heard only the voice of Monsieur Montand yesterday in his gallery. She replayed it in her head like a melody that obsessed her.
Over and over, she heard him. “Madame Roland, I am grateful to you. From this portrait of Remy, you will see a profitable beginning.”
Daring Widow: Those Notorious Americans, Book 2 Page 18