The Seven Sisters

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Yes. But please, Margarida, that is for no other ears but Laurent’s and yours,’ she added hastily, terrified that word might get back via the Brazilian grapevine.

  ‘I understand what you meant. But of course, I couldn’t help wondering whether your reluctance to marry your fiancé has increased over the past few weeks?’

  Bel stretched out her finger and absent-mindedly surveyed the engagement ring upon it as she thought about Margarida’s question. ‘When I left Rio, I felt grateful to Gustavo for allowing me come to Europe with the da Silva Costas before I married him. I never expected that he’d let me go and I felt he’d given me a gift. But now that the gift is nearly spent, and I must return home in less than three weeks, the truth is . . . that I find myself feeling differently about him. Yes, Paris has changed my perspective on many things,’ she sighed.

  ‘I understand that you love the freedom that Paris offers you,’ replied Margarida. ‘As do I.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bel said fervently, a catch in her voice. ‘And the worst thing is, now that I’ve tasted a different way of life, it’s made thoughts of the future even more difficult. Part of me wishes I’d never come here and experienced what I could have had and now never can.’

  ‘And so, I come to the second part of my question,’ Margarida continued softly. ‘I’ve been observing you and Laurent together as he’s sculpted you. I will be honest and say that at first I thought his flattery and innuendo were no more than he’d give to any pretty woman he chose as his model. But in the past few days, I’ve noticed the way he gazes at you sometimes, the tender way he touches the stone as he works, as if he is dreaming that it’s really you he’s caressing. Forgive me, Izabela,’ Margarida said, shaking her head. ‘I’m usually pragmatic when it comes to the subject of love. I understand well what men are, especially here in Paris, but I feel I must warn you. I fear he may, in his undoubted passion for you, and the fact that your time together is running out, forget that you are spoken for.’

  ‘A fact that I would of course immediately remind him of,’ replied Bel, giving Margarida the only appropriate reply.

  ‘Would you? I wonder,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘For as I see the way Laurent feels about you, I also see the way you are with him. In fact, I knew it from the minute he walked over to our table at La Closerie des Lilas on our very first lunch together in Montparnasse. And I will be honest, it worried me from the start. I thought back then that perhaps he was playing a game with you, sensing your naivety. There are many unscrupulous men amongst the creative fraternity in Paris. They see love as an amusement, the woman’s heart no more than a toy to be played with. And when they have seduced their prey with their golden tongues, and she is ripe for the plucking, they take what they desire. And then of course, having achieved their aim, the game no longer holds any novelty and they move on, looking for a fresh challenge.’

  Bel watched Margarida’s features tighten with pain as she delivered her speech, and noticed her eyes were moist.

  ‘Yes, Izabela.’ Margarida shot her a glance. ‘What you’re thinking is right. When I was in Italy, I fell in love with just the kind of man I’ve described. And of course, having come straight from the protective cloak of Rio, I was as innocent as you. And yes, he seduced me. In all senses of the word. But when I left for Paris, I heard from him no longer.’

  Bel computed in silent shock exactly what Margarida was telling her.

  ‘There. I have shared my biggest secret with you,’ Margarida breathed. ‘And I do it simply because I hope something positive can emerge from the terrible blackness and despair I suffered afterwards. I’m a little older than you, and sadly, after what happened to me, wiser. And I can’t help seeing in you what I was then: a young woman in love for the first time.’

  Bel was fit to burst with her feelings for Laurent. Up to now, she’d only been able to pen them in heartfelt outpourings to Loen. She decided to trust Margarida, given the secret she herself had shared.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I love him. I love him with all my heart. And I can’t even bear to think how I will live the rest of my life without him.’

  She burst into tears, the relief of sharing her true feelings face to face with Margarida cutting through her reserve.

  ‘Bel, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to distress you. Listen’ – Margarida glanced out of the window – ‘we’re near to your apartment now and you can’t arrive home like this. Let’s go and sit somewhere quiet. We’re so late anyway, a few more minutes won’t make any difference.’

  Margarida spoke to the driver and gave him directions. A few seconds later, the car pulled up on the Avenue de Marigny beside a small park surrounded by iron railings.

  They climbed out of the Delage and Margarida led her to a bench and sat her down. Bel watched the setting sun dip gracefully beyond the plane trees that bordered the park and graced every boulevard she’d seen in Paris.

  ‘Please, you must forgive me for speaking so bluntly,’ Margarida apologised. ‘The affairs of your heart are none of my business, I know. But seeing both of you so filled with passion for each other made me feel I must say something.’

  ‘But surely my circumstances are different to yours in Italy?’ Bel insisted. ‘You yourself said in the car that you thought Laurent had feelings for me. That maybe he loved me.’

  ‘At the time, I was sure that Marcello loved me. Or at least, I wanted to believe that he did. But whatever Laurent says to you, Izabela, however he persuades you, please remember that although you think there may be a future together, there is not. Laurent can offer you nothing: no home, no security, and believe me, the last thing he wishes for is to ever be tied down with a wife and a brood of children. The problem with creatives is that they are simply in love with the idea of being in love. But it can never lead anywhere, no matter what heights your joint passions reach. Do you understand me?’

  Bel stared blankly at a nursemaid with her two young charges, the only other residents of the gardens. ‘Yes. But I will also be honest and say that even though my ears hear you and my brain understands your warning, my heart is not so easy to convince.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ Margarida conceded. ‘But please, Bel, at the very least, think about what I’ve said. I would hate for you to ruin the rest of your life by allowing your heart to rule your head for a few short minutes. Given that your fiancé allowed you to come here, if he discovered your secret, it would be a betrayal that he could never forgive.’

  ‘I know.’ Bel bit her lip guiltily. ‘Thank you, Margarida. I’m grateful for your advice. But now, we really must go, or Maria Georgiana will never allow me out of her sight again.’

  Sweetly, Margarida came up to the da Silva Costas’ apartment with Bel and explained to a stony-faced Maria Georgiana how Landowski himself had kept both of them behind while his assistant cast their hands in a mould.

  ‘Well, as you can imagine, my mind was full of all sorts of terrible occurrences that might have befallen you. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  ‘I will, I promise,’ Bel agreed, then left the drawing room to show Margarida to the door. The two women hugged affectionately.

  ‘Goodnight, Izabela, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  In bed, rather than contemplating Margarida’s descriptions of the dreadful fate she might suffer if she succumbed to Laurent’s infinite charms, all Bel could feel was exhilaration.

  She thinks Laurent loves me . . . He loves me . . .

  And that night she drifted off to sleep easily, a beatific smile on her slumbering face.

  24

  ‘I’ve spoken to the professor,’ said Laurent when Bel and Margarida arrived at the atelier the next morning, ‘And I simply explained that I could not complete the sculpture within one day. We agreed that from now on you can come here in the early evenings, when we have finished working on the Christ. I can speak to Senhor da Silva Costa and explain the circumstances if it helps.’

  Bel, having arrived at the atelier in a state of
agonised tension, was so relieved by his words that she nodded eagerly.

  ‘But, Monsieur Brouilly,’ interjected Margarida with a concerned frown. ‘I will not be able to accompany Mademoiselle Izabela here at that hour of the day. I must return home every night at six for dinner with my mother.’.

  ‘Surely, mademoiselle, there is nothing inappropriate about the situation?’ said Laurent. ‘The professor himself will be present, and his wife and children are a stone’s throw away in the house.’

  In that moment, as she threw a pleading glance at Margarida, Bel saw the surrender in her friend’s eyes. ‘No, of course not,’ she said abruptly. ‘Excuse me, but I must go and change.’

  ‘So, now we set to work,’ said Laurent, smiling at Bel in triumph.

  That evening, Heitor announced at dinner that Laurent Brouilly had called him at his office and had explained the circumstances that required Bel’s presence at the atelier in the evenings.

  ‘Given that it is the urgency of my project that has forced yours to be sidelined, I feel I must agree,’ Heitor concluded. ‘Izabela, my driver will take you to the atelier for five o’clock each day and return you home here for nine.’

  ‘But surely there must be a bus that can take me? I don’t want to put you to any trouble, Senhor da Silva Costa,’ Bel suggested.

  ‘Bus?’ Maria Georgiana looked horrified. ‘I hardly think that your parents would wish for you to be using public transport alone in Paris in the evening. You must of course be driven there and back.’

  ‘Thank you. I will pay for any expenses incurred,’ said Bel quietly, disguising the true extent of her relief and joy.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Izabela,’ continued Heitor, ‘it rather suits me to have you in Landowski’s atelier. You can be the spy in the camp, and report back to me on the progress of the new four-metre model of my Cristo,’ he smiled.

  ‘Perhaps one evening I could accompany you to the atelier and watch as you are sculpted?’ asked Maria Elisa as they climbed into bed later that evening.

  ‘I will ask Monsieur Brouilly if he would mind,’ said Bel. ‘Are you still enjoying the hospital?’ she asked, changing the subject and hoping Maria Elisa would forget about her request.

  ‘Very much,’ Maria Elisa replied. ‘And a few days ago, I spoke to my parents about making nursing my career in the future. Mãe wasn’t happy, as you can imagine, but Pai was very supportive and told Mãe off for being so old-fashioned.’ Maria Elisa smiled. ‘It isn’t her fault,’ she equivocated hastily, always ready to forgive. ‘She was brought up in a different era. So now I’m eager to return to Rio and embark on my chosen course. Sadly, Pai thinks it will be another year before he’ll have finished his work here. You’re so lucky to be returning home in two weeks, Bel. Sleep well.’

  ‘And you,’ Bel responded.

  She lay in bed thinking about what Maria Elisa had just said. If only we could change places, she thought sleepily, knowing that she would sell her soul to be in her friend’s position and spend another year in Paris.

  Two days later, Bel found herself sitting in the atelier as dusk fell. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the vast emerging structure of the four-metre Cristo, dominating the studio. Margarida had already departed for the day, and as Bel had arrived, Landowski had been leaving to take supper with his wife and children next door. Without the usual human hum of the studio, Bel listened to the silence.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Laurent asked her suddenly.

  Bel saw his hands were working on her upper torso, currently engaged in shaping the outline of her breasts beneath the high-necked muslin blouse she was wearing.

  ‘Just how different it is here at night,’ she answered.

  ‘Yes, it certainly has a serenity as the sun sets. I often work here alone in the evenings as I enjoy the peace. Landowski must attend to his family, and besides, he says he cannot sculpt after the light fades.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Izabela, even if you were no longer sitting in front of me, I would be able to sculpt you perfectly. Having gazed at you for so long, the exact details of your form are engrained on my memory.’

  ‘So, perhaps you do not need me here after all?’

  ‘No, perhaps you’re right.’ He smiled lazily at her. ‘But it’s the perfect excuse to have your company. Don’t you agree?’

  It was the first time Laurent had made a direct comment that confirmed he desired her presence for more than artistic reasons.

  She lowered her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she answered.

  Laurent said no more, and worked on silently for the next hour. Then he stretched and suggested it was time for a break.

  As he went to the kitchen, Bel stood up and walked around the atelier to ease her stiff back. She glanced at her unfinished sculpture and admired its simple lines.

  ‘Would you recognise yourself?’ Laurent asked as he brought through a jug of wine and a bowl of olives and she followed him to the trestle table.

  ‘Not really,’ she replied honestly, studying the sculpture as he poured the wine into two glasses. ‘Perhaps when you have finished my face I might. I look so young at present, almost like a little girl from the way you have had me pose.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Laurent. ‘I have had in my mind the image of a closed rosebud, just before it begins to open and blossom into a perfect flower. The moment between childhood and womanhood; on the threshold of the latter and contemplating the delights it might hold.’

  ‘I’m not a child,’ Bel retorted, feeling patronised by Laurent’s explanation.

  ‘But neither are you a woman yet,’ he said, eyeing her as he drank his wine.

  Bel did not know how to reply. She took another sip of wine from her glass as her heart rate increased.

  ‘So, back to work,’ he said briskly, ‘before the light fades completely.’

  Two hours later, Bel rose to take her leave. Laurent followed her to the atelier door. ‘Safe return home, Izabela. And you must forgive me if you felt what I said earlier was inappropriate. You’ve hardly spoken to me since.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Hush.’ Laurent put a gentle finger to her lips. ‘I understand. I know your circumstances, but I can’t help wishing that things were different. Goodnight, my sweet Bel.’

  As she was driven home, Bel knew that in his own way, Laurent had been telling her that if she was free, he would want to be with her. But that he also understood her situation and, as a gentleman, would never cross the line.

  ‘Even though he wishes to . . .’ she murmured to herself in rapture.

  Over the course of the next few evenings at the atelier, there was no further innuendo from Laurent. If he spoke, it was to do with the sculpture, or idle gossip about Montparnasse and its inhabitants. Ironically, the more neutral his conversation, the higher the emotional and physical tension rose within Bel. It was she who began to make the odd comment to him, noticing a new shirt he was wearing and how it suited him, or praising his talent as a sculptor.

  With each passing day, Bel’s frustration escalated to greater heights. Given that Laurent had ceased to flirt with her completely, she had nowhere to go. And besides, she asked herself over and over again, where did she want to go?

  But no matter how often she posed this question to herself, and her head told her that the sooner she was on the boat back to Brazil the better, it made no difference. As she sat for hours in his presence, the fact he was so near yet so far was a delicious torture to her soul.

  One evening, as she said a chaste goodnight to Laurent and paused in the garden to compose herself before climbing into the waiting car and making the journey home, she noticed a bundle of rags lying under the cypress hedge. She was sure that it had not been there when she’d taken a walk outside during an earlier break. Moving tentatively forwards, she put a foot out towards it and poked it with the toe of her shoe. The bundle of rags moved and Bel jumped back in fright.

  Warily maintaining her distance, she watched a
s a small, filthy human foot emerged from the edge of the rags, and then, from the other end of the bundle, a head of dirt-matted hair. As the figure began to reveal itself, Bel saw it was a young boy of perhaps seven or eight years of age. A pair of eyes, which Bel saw were dazed with exhaustion, opened for a few seconds. Then they closed again and she realised the child had fallen back to sleep.

  ‘Meu Deus,’ she whispered to herself, moved to tears by the sight of him. Debating what to do, she walked tentatively towards the boy and quietly knelt down next to him, not wishing to startle him. Her fingers reached out towards him, but this time, her touch woke the boy and he sat up in alarm, immediately on full alert.

  ‘Please, have no fear, I will not hurt you. Tu parles français?’

  The boy, his grimy face a picture of terror, put his emaciated arms up protectively in front of himself and backed away from her under the hedge.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she tried again, this time in English. Again, he merely stared at her in fear, like a trapped animal, as she noticed the deep gash on his shin, caked with dried blood. As the boy cowered in front of her, his huge frightened eyes bringing further tears to her own, she slowly reached out a hand and placed it gently on his cheek. She smiled at him, knowing she mustn’t frighten him, but instead try to gain his trust. As her fingers gently cupped the side of his face, she felt the boy relax.

  ‘What has happened to you?’ she murmured, studying his eyes. ‘Whatever you have seen, you are too young to know such pain.’

  Suddenly the boy’s head fell heavily against her palm, but jerked upwards in alarm a few seconds later. Eventually, when he realised that her comforting caress had not been withdrawn, he returned to sleep.

  Leaving her hand where it was so as not to disturb him, Bel managed to crawl nearer to him, whispering endearments in the three different languages she knew, and placing her other arm around him. Finally, she pulled him gently from the bushes towards her. He was whimpering now, but no longer seemed frightened of her, only jumping in pain when she moved his right leg with the terrible gash so that she could cradle his bony body upon her knee.