“Mariette! You are early!” he told her in French.
Then he saw Lucilla and his eyes grew wide with surprise.
“Jean-Luc – this is Lady Lucilla, the Englishwoman I have been working for.” Mariette said. “She has come to stay with us.”
Jean-Luc’s grey eyes grew even wider. “You are most welcome here,” he told Lucilla in English. “But, Mariette, will she be comfortable here?”
Mariette turned to Lucilla. “My brother, Jean-Luc, is an artist. We have very little money and we will have even less now I have lost my job, but we will do our best to make you feel at home.”
“Mariette! Your job!” Jean-Luc cried, looking very distressed and she quickly explained why she had brought Lucilla to the Studio.
Jean-Luc held out his hands to Lucilla. “I am glad that Mariette has brought you here,” he said. “You cannot marry a man you do not love. Stay with us for as long as you need.”
*
Next morning, Lucilla woke and, for a moment, she did not know where she was.
The couch she was lying on was hard and, in spite of the blankets she was wrapped in and her heavy velvet coat on top of them, she felt quite cold.
Light was pouring in from the high wide windows above her and, as she sat up and looked round the big room and saw many brushes, pots of paint and canvases that were scattered about everywhere, she realised that she was in an artist’s Studio.
And then she remembered that she was staying with Mariette and her brother. She pulled herself up from the couch and wrapped her coat around her shoulders.
From somewhere outside, she could faintly hear a bird singing and then she found a little door by the sink at the very back of the Studio and let herself out into a small courtyard garden.
High up above her head, in the branches of a tall apple tree, a robin was singing its little heart out, just as the robin sang outside her bedroom window at Aunt Maud’s.
“Are you all alone, like me?” she whispered to him, remembering the birds in Violet’s aviary at Appleton Hall, each and every one with its loving partner sitting beside it.
The robin cocked its head to one side and sang even more loudly, peering at her with its bright black eyes and Lucilla found herself smiling.
All around the courtyard garden were tubs, buckets and big old tin cans and inside them bulbs and plants were coming up.
Lucilla thought of Appleton Hall and Violet, who might even at this very moment be walking out to admire the daffodils.
Quickly she then blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall, as she heard the door opening. It was Jean-Luc.
“You are looking very sad, Mademoiselle Lucilla,” he said.
He had Mariette’s round face with a shock of long fair hair and bright grey eyes that seemed to look right into Lucilla’s heart.
“Please – come inside!” he suggested. “The stove is lit and soon there will be coffee. Mariette has gone out for croissants.”
She nodded and followed him back into the Studio, which was beginning to warm up from the heat of a small stove.
“Did you sleep well?” Jean-Luc asked her, as he poured out the coffee.
“Yes, thank you very much, but I am afraid that I am putting you and your sister to so much inconvenience.”
Jean-Luc shrugged. “Not at all. We have our own little rooms at the side of the Studio, which is where the coachman and his family lived in the old days. You are welcome to sleep on the couch at night. And even in the day, as I cannot afford to hire a model anymore!”
“Oh, I am so sorry! It’s my fault that Mariette has lost her job!”
“Non! She has told me everything. It was not your fault. Don’t blame yourself. But, if you will excuse me, mademoiselle – perhaps you would care to sit for me, when you are feeling a little better? You have such fine eyes and such lovely hair – ”
Lucilla almost spilled hot coffee onto her dress as he said this and Jean-Luc noticed her shocked expression and laughed.
“Oh, please, don’t think I would ask you to pose for me without any clothes! That is not something I would expect of a lady like yourself.”
Lucilla was just trying to think what she should say when there was a creak and the door of the Studio opened, as Mariette came in with a bag full of croissants.
“Oh, Jean-Luc – you didn’t ask her!” she cried, as she saw Lucilla’s face.
Jean-Luc was a little shamefaced, as he replied, “I did, but I have explained that everything would be – quite proper.”
Mariette scolded him, as she shook the croissants out of the bag and onto a plate. “Jean-Luc! She’s an English lady! You cannot ask her to do this!”
Lucilla looked around the Studio. In the bright morning light, she could see that the chairs and table were old and worn and the little stove was battered and rusty.
‘I felt as if I had nothing after Mama and Papa died and I went to live with Aunt Maud,’ she thought, ‘but these two have so much less than I had then. And yet they are taking care of me. I must do everything I can to return their kindness.’
“I don’t mind,” she offered. “If it will help your brother, then I am quite happy to be a model for him.”
Mariette’s face lit up. “It will help, mademoiselle, very much. We have so little money and our only hope to earn some is if Jean-Luc can sell a painting.”
Jean-Luc had a broad smile on his face now.
“Thank you, thank you, Lucilla!” he said. “I think our luck has turned, Mariette! You may have lost your job, but everything happens for a good reason – perhaps now I will paint the one picture that will make our fortunes!”
*
The Ambassador leaned forward from the leather chair where he was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel de la Reine and clapped the Marquis of Castlebury on the knee.
“Congratulations, young man!” he said. “That was a magnificent speech you gave the other night. A great boost to Anglo-French relations! The Prime Minister will be delighted if all the business contracts that are being discussed at the moment materialise. And I think we can count on a big increase in the number of visitors to our country this year.”
The Marquis smiled, but he scarcely heard anything the Ambassador was saying.
Since Lucilla had disappeared – run off with her American fiancé – he seemed to be unable to concentrate on any subject for very long.
It was as if a dagger was digging into his heart, so that every time he moved he felt the pain of it.
How could it be, that, not once, but twice, he had loved a woman who had deserted him for someone who had more money?
And Lucilla had seemed so open, so affectionate.
She had returned his embrace that night on the river so warmly when he had held her close. It was impossible that she could have not cared for him and yet she was gone.
“And where’s that lovely young sister of yours – Letitia?” the Ambassador was now asking.
The Marquis shivered. Ethel had agreed with him to say not a word about Lucilla pretending to be his younger sister, but he had had to promise her that he and she would be friends again and he did not want that at all.
He would be very glad never to see Ethel again, he thought, but there was not much chance of that. She would not let him go, despite jilting him for Mortimer.
“I am sorry, sir,” he said, rising to his feet, “but I must now cut short our meeting. My old Nanny has been travelling with us and she has been quite unwell. I must go and attend to her.”
“Of course, of course.” The Ambassador stood as well and shook his hand.
“How charming to have such concern for your staff. And many congratulations again, Dermot, for everything you have achieved.”
The Marquis ran up the wide staircase to Nanny’s room. Inside the blinds were drawn and the old lady lay very still in the big hotel bed.
“Nanny!” he asked. “How are you feeling? Do you need anything?”
The French doctor had told him that
it was just influenza and that if Nanny rested and took plenty to drink, she should soon recover.
But the Marquis could not help but feel worried, as he listened to the harsh sound of Nanny’s breathing.
She was stirring now and turning her head to look at him.
“Where is Lucilla?” she asked, her voice sounding dry and broken.
“She is – fine, Nanny. She is quite all right, you must not worry about her.”
He remembered how upset Nanny had been, when he had told her that Lucilla had run away with Harkness Jackson. She had told him that Lucilla would never do such a thing and the Marquis had found it incredibly painful to tell her how the clerk at reception had seen Lucilla getting into Harkness’s motor car.
It was as if the news had made the old lady ill, for only a couple of hours later she had taken to her bed with a fever and a bad headache.
He did not dare to tell her now that Lucilla had just disappeared off the face of the earth and even Harkness and Ethel had no idea where she was.
“She could be anywhere, Dermot. A girl like that. No principles at all. Perhaps she’s met someone even richer that Harkness and gone off with him!” Ethel had sneered and then asked him if he would accompany her to the Opéra to see the latest performance.
At least on that occasion, he had the excuse that Nanny was ill and he should not leave her. “Where is she, Dermot?” Nanny was now asking, “I should so much like to see her.”
“She’s coming to see you,” the Marquis told her, biting his lip. “So don’t worry, Nanny, she will be here soon!”
Much to his relief, the old lady seemed to believe him, for she turned on her side and fell back to sleep again.
He could not tell her the truth, while she was so still so ill. He would have to wait until she had recovered her strength before he would be able to explain that Lucilla had gone forever.
*
“You love your garden, don’t you?” Lucilla said to Jean-Luc some days later, as they stood outside, sipping coffee in the spring sunshine, which seemed to be growing a little warmer and brighter every day.
“I do!” Jean-Luc replied. “I do so like to see all the things I have planted growing and changing. All I have to do is put them in the soil and then voilà – they create their own work of art with colours more beautiful than any on my palette.”
Lucilla pushed away the thought that the daffodils at Appleton Hall were probably out by now and stretching away through the Park in a glorious cloud of yellow that she would never see.
“Shall we go back inside?” she suggested.
They were taking a morning break, Lucilla from posing and Jean-Luc from making his endless pencil and charcoal sketches of her face and hair, which he said were helping him to prepare for the large portrait he would soon paint of her.
“Yes, we shall!” Jean-Luc enthused. “I have had an inspiration, Lucilla. I want to paint you as La Primavera – the Spirit of Springtime with you garlanded with all the flowers from the garden – ”
“It seems a shame to pick them all,” Lucilla sighed, looking at the fresh young buds that were just beginning to come out in the tubs and troughs.
Jean-Luc laughed. “We don’t need to do that. They can stay here in the earth where they belong and my painter’s imagination will do the rest.”
They went back into the Studio and Jean-Luc asked Lucilla to go behind the screen and put on the striped satin dress she had worn on the day that Harkness Jackson had tried to abduct her.
When she emerged from behind the screen, Jean-Luc was now frowning, his grey eyes intense, as if he was gazing, not at Lucilla, but at some other image that only he could see.
“I think – maybe not the stripes – but perhaps the pink colour, as a background, would be good,” he breathed.
Lucilla lay down on the couch as he was setting up his easel, muttering to himself all the while.
Then he picked up his brush and began to paint.
“I think this will be the best picture I have ever done,” he suddenly trumpeted after a long while. And he put down his brush and smiled at Lucilla, his grey eyes shining with joy.
CHAPTER TEN
“You cannot sit here all day brooding,” Ethel said, flinging open the glass doors that led out onto the balcony of the Marquis’s hotel bedroom. “It’s springtime in Paris!”
The Marquis gazed out at the blue sky, where white fluffy clouds were flying past, urged on by a warm breeze.
Ethel was frowning impatiently and he noticed how the powder she had dusted her face with was settling in the little creases around her eyes.
He could not help but think of Lucilla, of her lovely face with its fresh smooth complexion that never needed paint or powder to give it colour and life.
Then he pushed her out of his mind. Wherever she was, she was certainly not thinking about him and he must forget her.
“I don’t like to leave Nanny Groves,” he said. “She is still so frail.”
Ethel clicked her tongue dismissively. “She has people to see to her, doesn’t she? Come with me, for Goodness sake! I don’t want to turn up at the Exhibition all on my own and Mortimer is tied up with his businesses all day.”
Reluctantly the Marquis agreed to go with her.
Perhaps it might cheer him up to see the work of some of the best Parisian artists. It was not far to the Gallery where the Exhibition was held and the Marquis thought he might enjoy the short walk along the sunny boulevard, if Ethel had not insisted on holding onto his arm all the way.
She seemed to relish being seen like this, almost as if she was still engaged to him and not to Mortimer.
And he hated that. Not because he still felt hurt that she had jilted him, but because he could not help remembering how wonderful it had felt the few times that Lucilla had slipped her arm through his, when they walked together.
“Oh, this is marvellous!” Ethel exclaimed, as they walked through the door of the Gallery.
The Marquis looked round at the paintings on the walls, most of which were striking with oddly shaped and unusually coloured people and animals. He knew that they were the very latest style, but he could not say that he liked them very much.
It was morning, so there were not very many people in the Gallery – and most of them were clustering round a large picture that hung all by itself on the furthest wall.
The Marquis strolled down to see what they were admiring, expecting another bright purple cow or crimson horse. But everyone was looking at a simple portrait of a young girl with vivid blue eyes and a mane of bright brown hair.
She was wearing a long flowing dress of a soft blue colour that seemed almost to be part of the beautiful garden she was sitting in, as it was covered with flowers.
Crocuses, hyacinths and endless delicate daffodils were sprinkled over her skirt and in her open hands lay a bouquet of white tulips, their petals ragged and pointed like the feathers of some exotic bird.
“La Primavera!” an elderly lady standing beside him piped up, peering at the picture through her monocle.
“Extraordinary! Who is the artist? I have not heard of him – ”
The Marquis was feeling a little faint and he took a gulp of air to clear his head, as he had not taken a breath since he had first seen the girl’s face.
Her shining eyes seemed to be looking straight at him and she seemed almost to be teasing him with her look of unbounded joy. ‘I am free!’ she seemed to be saying. ‘I have found a world where I can be myself and I am so happy.’
“Well I never did!” Ethel’s cold voice sounded in his ear. “If it isn’t the spitting image of that little hussy Lucilla Welton!”
The Marquis started and stepped away from her, his skin prickling with revulsion as she tried to slide her hand through his arm once more.
“You know – I think it is actually her!” Ethel said, peering at the portrait. “And that absolutely confirms what I have always said about her, Dermot. She’s no better than she should be! An art
ist’s model, indeed.”
It was painful to hear this. The Marquis did not like to think of Lucilla posing for some unknown man. But he could not stop looking at her face and could not help a strange feeling of exultation that filled his heart, when he did so.
“Excuse me!” Shaking Ethel’s hand from his arm, the Marquis beckoned to the stout Gallery owner, who was standing a few feet away. “I should like to purchase this painting!”
There was a murmur from the crowd admiring the portrait and they looked at the Marquis with interest.
“Dermot!” Ethel hissed. “You can’t afford it!”
The Marquis ignored her. He would find the money somehow. And, although he would never see Lucilla face-to-face again, at the very least he would be able to hold onto her memory and feel again a little of her liveliness and her joy whenever he looked at the painting.
*
Lucilla was all alone as Mariette had gone to the market. She was sitting with her back against the old apple tree in the garden, feeling the blissful warm rays of the sun on her face, when she heard the front door of the Studio creaking open.
It was Jean-Luc. He came running into the garden, waving a piece of paper at Lucilla.
“C’est incroyable!” he shouted out. “Our picture is sold! The first one from the whole Exhibition!”
“What? Oh, that is wonderful!” Lucilla exclaimed, pulling herself at once away from the peaceful doze she had been indulging in. Jean-Luc had been very worried that no one would appreciate his work, as it was so different from the current trend in painting. His initial inspiration and excitement had turned to doubt and he had become apprehensive, although he had struggled on to finish the portrait.
Lucilla did not know very much about art, but she had always felt that he would be successful and the long hours she had spent sitting for him had passed happily for her.
Jean-Luc was a sensitive and kind person and while she was sitting for him, she had found it natural to tell him of her childhood and what she loved most in the English countryside and the beautiful old house where she grew up.
It was easy to be herself with him and, although she did not feel the excitement and the sense of being truly alive she had experienced with the Marquis, she knew that she had found a true friend in the young artist.
Joined by Love Page 12