He entered Colette’s room, with its sour smell of sickness and curtains pulled shut against the bright morning. But when he looked at his wife, he saw that she was sitting up, her back pressed against the carved headboard and her hair brushed neatly over the shoulders of her white dressing gown. Her face was no longer blotchy, but smooth and even toned, her eyes bright and clear.
“My dear.” She smiled as she untangled a weak hand from the crumpled bedclothes and reached out to him.
A thin rod of sunlight escaped through a crack in the curtain. It looked like a gold scepter lying across the wooden floorboards. Auguste stepped across and took her hand, her fingers thin and delicate under his grip.
“I saw Jacques,” she said, her voice light and natural, the pitch of hysteria she’d carried for weeks swept away. “I saw our boy. He is beautiful. He spoke to me. He was very polite.” She smiled, as proud as any maman could be.
Auguste sank to his knees at the edge of the bed. She had said our boy. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t true. It left him feeling that he could finally forgive her.
“Yes,” he said. “I saw him too.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “I’m glad you had the strength to see him.” And she pulled Auguste’s hand to her lips and kissed it.
Chapter 32
By the time Aimée stepped off the train, the sun had already sunk behind the shadows of the buildings. A heavy fog crept over the city, and when the carriage stopped at the front door on the rue l’Ampère, the street was completely dark. Not a glimmer of light came from a single window as she made her way to the carriage entrance around back. She’d sent no notice of her arrival, so she hoped a kitchen maid might still be up, or Marie, whose bedroom overlooked the courtyard.
The last letter from her grand-mère had been at the post office for over a month before she received it, along with an earlier letter postmarked in May, and another from June. Apparently, Lady Arrington had not thought it necessary to have the post forwarded to Brighton, where they had spent the summer.
Her grand-mère had written of Colette’s illness, but no letter followed, which meant her health had most likely improved and there was no need for Aimée’s sudden return. Yet when she’d read her grand-mère’s letters she had felt a tremendous longing for home. It wasn’t her family she longed for, or the house, or the familiar streets of Paris; it was simply a desire to step back into a life she recognized.
Aimée moved along the dark courtyard, with a hand out in front of her, bumping into the arm of a shadowy figure.
“Gracious!” she cried, and a girl stepped forward.
“I beg your pardon,” she mumbled.
“It was entirely my fault,” Aimée said. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, mademoiselle.”
“Are you employed here?”
“Yes,” the girl answered.
“If you’d be so kind as to let me in, it’s Mademoiselle Savaray.”
The girl peered at Aimée for a moment. “Right away, mademoiselle.”
They went in the back door, and the girl took a candle from the table, leading Aimée down the hall and up the ground floor stairs to the parlor.
“Should I wake someone for you?” the girl asked, lowering her candle to the wick of a lamp.
“No, thank you,” Aimée said. “I would be grateful in the morning if you would send someone to fetch my trunks at the station.”
The girl curtsied. “Yes, mademoiselle.”
“That will be all.”
The girl backed out of the room, quick footsteps echoing behind her. Realizing she hadn’t asked after her maman, Aimée stepped after her, but the girl was gone.
The stairs loomed on Aimée’s right, and she reached up and smoothed her hand along the banister, remembering how Jacques used to hold on when he jumped from step to step. He went so fast she was sure one day he’d go crashing down. But he never did. He had always been so quick and sure of himself.
Aimée walked back into the parlor, wondering how big Jacques was now. She sat on the sofa, rubbing her forehead with one hand, trying to wipe out any thoughts of Jeanne before they crept in. She would not picture Jeanne. How could she? She didn’t even know the color of her daughter’s hair, or if it was curly or straight. She didn’t know if she was a wispy, delicate child, or plump and round. No, Aimée would not think of her. It would be no use. And whatever happened, she vowed not to go out to Thoméry to have a look.
The familiarity of this house was what she had missed, and Aimée tried to absorb everything around her. Things taken for granted, like the musty smell of the rug and the faded, blue tint of the fabric on the arm of the sofa. It was strange to have everything exactly where she’d left it; the sofa enduring the passage of time with nothing lost other than a slight fade of color.
Aimée closed her eyes and rested her head on the cushion, smoothing her hand over the firm velvet seat. She realized all of her memories were now separated into the time before Jeanne, and the time after. Home was the time before, and she found this surprisingly comforting.
The house was deathly silent as Madame Savaray made her way slowly down the stairs and into the parlor. She hadn’t been able to sleep, so she’d come down to retrieve a book she’d left on the console.
Aimée’s figure—her dark dress flared to the ground, her tilted head, her pale throat exposed and skeletal—frightened Madame Savaray. For the split second before Aimée’s hand moved, Madame Savaray thought she was having a vision of her petite-fille’s death.
“Aimée,” she whispered. The flame of her candle quivered, small flickers of light leaping over her spare, lined face.
Aimée’s eyes flew open. “Grand-mère,” she said, standing quickly.
They stared at each other. Aimée felt as if decades had passed. Her grand-mère was almost unrecognizable. Solid gray patches of hair brushed upward from her temples and ran into the thick braid down her back. Her robust chest was caved in and shapeless, her cheeks sunken, her robe tied tight around her withered middle. In her right hand she gripped a walking stick, leaning into it exactly as Aimée remembered her papa doing when he’d wounded his foot in the war—tentative, reluctant, as if the need for support were a failure, a weakness they hated to admit.
Tears flooded Madame Savaray’s eyes, and she blinked them away. Setting her candle on the console, she hobbled over to Aimée and grasped her hand.
“You look miserable,” she said, patting her petite-fille’s hand over and over. “Simply miserable. Was it a tremendous mistake sending you away? I’ve worried every day over that.”
A lump swelled in Aimée’s throat. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her. “Of course not. Why would you waste a moment’s worry? I wrote you that everything was all right.”
“I never believed a word of it.”
Hearing those simple, honest words, Aimée felt her bitter resolve slip away, leaving her as weak as a child. “You’re right.” She laughed, a harsh, shaky sound. “It was miserable.”
Madame Savaray lowered herself onto the sofa, holding her walking stick out in front of her and smoothing the ivory tip as if working a ball of clay. Aimée sat next to her. Her grand-mère even smelled old, sour, and musty, her breath pungent.
Looking straight ahead, Madame Savaray said, “My dear, there is no delicate way to put this. I must tell you straight out that your maman has died.”
The room felt suddenly very warm. Wrapping a hand around her wrist, Aimée rubbed the hard outer bone of her forearm and looked toward the door, half expecting her maman to walk through and prove her grand-mère wrong. Her maman was too spirited to die, indestructible, a force beyond the power of nature.
“Why did you not write to me?”
“I couldn’t tell you in a letter.” Madame Savaray dug a handkerchief out of her pocket. “I didn’t believe she was dying. I thought she’d brought it on just to see Jacques.”
There was a stab in Aimée’s ribs. “She saw Jacques?”
“Yes.”
“Papa agreed?”
“He would have agreed to anything in the end. Colette behaved herself with the boy, asked pointed questions, his likes and dislikes, that sort of thing. Jacques was very polite. It was only when she reached her hand to him that the poor boy faltered.” Madame Savaray looked into a dark corner of the room, remembering Jacques’s pale face. “He seemed frightened, at first, then something shifted, a sudden recognition, and he stepped up and took Colette’s hand. He held on to it until she fell asleep. The next day your maman seemed fully recovered. Even your papa was convinced she’d brought it on herself. But a few days later the fever returned. She died quite quickly. Influenza, the doctor said.”
Aimée walked toward the door. It felt as if the fog outside had crept in and was smothering her. “I can’t do this,” she said suddenly, and buried her face in her hands.
Hoisting herself from the sofa, Madame Savaray abandoned her walking stick and braced herself against the pain to go to Aimée.
Aimée flinched as her grand-mère placed a shaky hand on the bare skin just below her neck, the sensation tender and painful.
“It’s not easy, coming home,” Madame Savaray said. “Things are different, and yet too much the same. You will settle, in time. Your coming home means everything to your papa. You’re all he has left.”
“I’m the last one he wants.” Aimée straightened, and Madame Savaray’s hand slipped from her neck.
“Nonsense. He fully restocked your studio,” Madame Savaray said as if this made up for everything.
“Why did he not write to me?”
“Your papa doesn’t apologize. And he’s never wrong.”
Just then a searing flash of pain bore through Madame Savaray’s knee, and it buckled under her. Pathetic, she thought as she crumpled to the floor. Useless.
Aimée dropped down beside her. “Grand-mere! Are you all right? Should I call someone?”
Madame Savaray was sprawled like a child, her legs straight out, her exposed calves thick and shapeless like hunks of white marble above her stockings that were bunched down around her swollen ankles. She looked into Aimée’s stricken face and burst out laughing so hard tears came to her eyes. Startled, Aimée let out her own distorted laugh, and sank down next to her grand-mère. They both gave way to the absurdity.
“How preposterous,” Madame Savaray said, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Help me up before I am utterly humiliated.”
Madame Savaray held her arms out as her petite-fille stood up and lifted her to her feet. She felt feeble and old, but happy.
“Come,” she said, the laughter already a thing of the past. “It’s time we were in our beds. You’ll be a surprise for your papa in the morning.”
Aimée slipped her arm inside her grand-mère’s, and together they walked from the room, grateful, each of them, for the support.
Chapter 33
The next morning Aimée stood in her papa’s bedroom. The curtains were pulled back and the windows wide open. The fog had burned off, and the air was warm and clear. A steady rumble came from the street.
Her papa sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed, his black cravat stiff under his neck, his olive-green morning coat buttoned, his shoes shined and buckled. It was encouraging that he had not shut himself up, mourning in the dark as Aimée imagined. She had been afraid he’d be as aged as her grand-mère, but he looked as she remembered, thinner, but still broad shouldered with a full head of dark hair, his confident chin jutting from a wide, cleanly shaven jawbone.
He stood slowly, looking at her without surprise. “When did you get in?” he asked.
“Last night.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t awake to greet you.”
“It’s no matter. I wasn’t expected.”
“You could have woken me.”
“There was no need,” she said.
Auguste nodded, plunging his hands into his trouser pockets. Of course there wasn’t. Looking away he said, “I’m afraid I missed breakfast. The new housemaid was good enough to send up my coffee.” He pointed to the tray. “She’s even brought two cups. She must have forgotten I’m only one now. Won’t you take some with me? I could send for chocolate, if you like, or tea?” He gave Aimée a bemused smile. He’d never noticed what she drank before, or bothered to ask. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you prefer.”
“Coffee will do,” Aimée said. “Thank you.”
She walked to the nearest chair and sat down. Her papa poured the coffee with an unsteady hand. The cup clanked against the saucer, and a bit of coffee splashed over the side as he handed it to her.
Aimée held the cup in her lap, the rich, earthy scent mingling with the smell of stale cigar smoke. It was her maman’s favorite tea set—bone china edged in gold—brought out only for dinner parties. Aimée wondered if her maman had ordered the best set to be used every day, or if the new housemaid simply didn’t know any better.
Her papa sat across from her without taking a cup for himself. Things were drastically different; they both felt this right away. Perhaps this meant they could start anew, an encouraging thought, if not a little frightening.
Aimée took a small sip. Her papa had not asked if she wanted cream or sugar, and the coffee was strong and bitter. In the past, her maman had somehow been tied to all of Aimée’s interactions with her papa. Without her, Aimée had no idea where to begin.
Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Auguste cleared his throat, but said nothing.
For a week after Colette’s death he hadn’t gotten out of bed. He’d stared at the bedroom walls until the repeating pattern of dogs and deer had blurred into his dreams. He longed for sleep, for the temporary peace it allowed before he woke in the middle of the night, startled, with a sense of dread he couldn’t quite place until Colette’s absence hit fast and hard, the pain fresh and gut-wrenching every time.
It was on one of those nights when Auguste’s mistakes became very clear to him.
The next day he was able to get out of bed, the stillness in the house profound, but the stillness in himself even more acute, as if a great storm had blown over, one that had trampled his heart, but left a glimmer on its surface.
Watching Aimée, sitting straight-backed in her chair, carefully sipping her coffee, he felt the weight of his mistakes in her, and this made him terribly sad.
“How did you fare with Lady Arrington?” he asked.
“Wretchedly.”
Auguste smiled, his daughter’s forward nature still catching him by surprise. “I see.”
“No use professing otherwise. Grand-mère would tell you soon enough. She has a way of getting the absolute truth out of me.”
“Out of everyone, although she’d never admit it. She fancies herself someone who stays out of other people’s affairs.”
Aimée laughed. “Yes, yes, she does.”
“Ah.” Auguste slapped his hand on his knee and stood. “I have something for you.” He went to the writing table under the window, dug around in the top drawer, and brought back a slim weekly journal.
He handed it to Aimée.
“What is it?” She read the title, L’Impressionniste.
“It’s those artists you used to speak of, les Indépendantes; they call themselves L’Impressionniste now. Your maman and I went to one of their exhibits a few years back.”
“Did you?” Aimée peered at the small print. “I read about it in London’s Art Monthly Review. What did you think of it? Was it absolutely as appalling and fantastic as the Salon des Refusés in ’74?”
“It frightened me. All these revolutionaries, men seeking change. The last time men felt the need to rise up and change the way things had been done for hundreds of years there was war and bloodshed. And, in the end, very little change.”
Aimée looked into her papa’s open face. Never had she heard him admit fear.
“I had no intention of going to the exhibit,” he went on. “Why would I want to see paintings of
laundry women or soot-covered trains? It was entirely your maman’s idea. I thought she’d suddenly taken a fancy to these artists, but when I asked her she said, ‘Not in the slightest. They’re laughable.’”
Aimée could hear her maman’s amused impatience, as if waiting for the rest of the world to catch up to what she’d already figured out.
“Your maman’s exact words were, ‘I was hoping to find something of Aimée in them.’”
A heavy presence came over Aimée, and her throat felt pinched and dry.
Auguste tapped the journal with his finger, his cuticle a perfect half moon at the bottom of his neatly trimmed nail.
“I’ve underlined a few bits.” He craned his neck, running his finger along the thin, black line of his pen. “It says here, ‘Where can we find more grandeur, more truth, and more poetry than in these beautiful landscapes?’ The journalist even has the gall to compare the paintings to the prose of Victor Hugo. Here, ‘The same epic dignity, the same force, simply in its solemnity.’” Auguste raised his fist in the air and thumped back to his chair. “Now, Victor Hugo is a man to revere. I don’t claim to understand L’Impressionnistes any better than the first time I was exposed to them, but that journalist makes a good argument in support of them.”
Whether her papa understood, or not, didn’t matter. That he and her maman had tried to understand at all made Aimée feel recognized in a way she’d craved her whole life.
“Would you be so kind as to read it aloud?” Auguste crossed his hands in his lap and settled back. “I’d like to hear it again.”
It took Aimée a minute to find her voice, but her papa was in no hurry. She was conscious of his eyes on her as she read, of the quiet nod of his head, but mostly of the way he listened, earnestly, and with purpose.
Chapter 34
Despite the waves of heat that rose off the tracks, Henri waited until the train was out of sight, until the last piercing whistle could no longer be heard. Only then did he grab his suitcase and head down the dusty road toward the cottage.
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