“And where was this Frau Maven while you were wandering about a crowded station in the middle of the night?”
“She was asleep,” Julia said. “You see, I wanted to purchase a cake for my father.” She motioned toward the bed of the wagon, where M. Paquet had placed the parcel beneath the canvas with her handbag. “That is why I left my train.” She turned back and looked down at the ruined silk of her fanciest shoes, the discouragement of her failure feeling heavy like the wet coat. “And now I am here, in this . . . place.”
“It isn’t the worst place,” Monsieur Paquet said in a low voice. His tone suggested she may have offended him.
Julia winced at her own bluntness and hurried to soften it. “Oh, I’m sure you appreciate it. It’s your home, after all. But you see, I am meant to be in a city surrounded by music and theater and art and—”
“And you don’t believe any of that exists here.”
His tone hadn’t changed.
“I . . . well, I assumed . . .” She decided a change of subject was in order. “Where is here, anyway? The sign at the station said Rivulet, but I didn’t see a town. Is it in the other direction?”
M. Paquet shook his head. “Riv is very small. Just a few families. It is more of a hamlet, really.”
“That is why the train doesn’t stop daily,” she said.
“Oui. We are simple people here, tending our farms. Most of us do not travel at all and the rest rarely.” He pushed back the brim of his hat, glancing upward, and Julia noticed the downpour had lessened to a drizzle.
“I travel quite a bit.” Julia kept talking to avoid another awkward silence. “With my father. He serves as the Great Britain Commissioner for Fine Arts.”
M. Paquet turned toward her quickly, looking as if he would say something but then thought better of it. He faced back toward the road. “Ah, that explains your accent. You are English.”
“Half English.” And I’m not the one with an accent. “My mother was Parisian.”
“You live in Paris?”
“I live in Vienna now. I instruct at a young lady’s finishing school. I return on holidays and during the summer to stay with my grand-mère, and my father meets me. But this year, instead of traveling to view the work of a new artist he’s discovered or oversee the purchase of a masterpiece for a museum, he is responsible for organizing the collection of artwork that will be displayed at the World’s Fair. From what he tells me, the British artists have quite a prospect of earning medals. And France has a marvelous showing as well, but of course, that is to be expected.”
M. Paquet had gone very silent, and she realized that she was speaking of a subject that could not possibly interest him. Of course a simple countryman was not concerned with the world of international fine art.
“But I am rambling, and I don’t suppose such a thing is interesting to you,” she said.
Instead of answering, he glanced at her, then pointed ahead.
Julia squinted through the rain, and a house came into view. A low peach-and-gray stone wall ran along the road beneath a large almond tree covered in pink blossoms. The house was two stories, built of the same stone, and sitting at the end of a path that began at a break in the wall.
M. Paquet drew the wagon to a halt. “Tante Gabrielle’s house.” He helped Julia from the wagon and fetched her cake and handbag from the rear of the wagon before leading her up the garden path.
The house was charming, in a primitive sort of way. The shutters next to the windows were painted a bright sky blue, and ivy grew over the outer walls. Mismatched flowerpots filled with a variety of blossoms sat on windowsills and along the ground beneath them.
Another house sat nearby on the same side of the road, and through the sprinkling rain, Julia could see at least one other farther along.
When they drew near, the door flung open, and a slender woman wearing a homespun dress and apron stepped out, spreading her arms wide. “Luc, you’ve returned!” Black and gray curls escaped the scarf tied around her hair, flying around her face. She drew him into an embrace, kissing both his cheeks. “How I’ve missed you, mon cher.” She pulled back, holding him at arm’s length. “And you are soaked through. Come inside.”
If Julia had considered M. Paquet’s accent to be strong, that was nothing to his aunt’s. The sounds managed to be both guttural and nasal, and it seemed as though a random vowel might be thrown into the sentence at any time. She found it nearly impossible to understand without extreme concentration.
“Gabi, I’ve brought a guest.” M. Paquet stepped to the side, allowing his aunt to see past him. “This is Mademoiselle Julia Weston. Mademoiselle Weston, meet my aunt, Gabrielle Martin.”
“Un plaisir,” Julia said.
When her gaze landed on Julia, Gabrielle Martin’s eyes went wide. “Oh, ma chérie, you must be frozen through. Come inside right away.” She took Julia’s arm and pulled her through the doorway, tutting as she helped Julia remove the wet coat. “This dress is not suitable for such weather.” She shook her head. “You look like a dog who fell into the pond. Stay here. I will bring towels.” She rushed up a flight of stairs.
“Je suis désolé,” Monsieur Paquet grimaced. “My aunt speaks without thinking. You do not look like a wet dog, mademoiselle.”
“I certainly feel like one,” Julia said. She turned around to view the entryway, noticing a small parlor on the other side of the stairs.
The woodwork was dark, the walls whitewashed plaster, and the floor stone. A pile of boots and shoes was heaped under a bench next to the door. A row of hooks held coats and hats. On the wall across from the front door, books, a few dirty dishes, and more flowerpots cluttered the sidebar table. Above it, in a simple frame . . .
“Oh my,” Julia said. She moved closer to study the painting.
The scene was rendered in the impressionist style, a new movement popularized by such masters as Gaugin and Monet. It depicted a country house—the very one in which she stood, based on its almond tree, blue shutters, and flowerpots. Light played over the stones of the house and wall, adding movement and depth. In the shadows beneath the tree she could make out two figures sitting, perhaps enjoying a picnic, and beyond, orchards and lavender fields stretched toward mountains shrouded in mist. The painting was reminiscent of a dream or a memory, perfectly capturing the essence of impressionism. And although it was clearly created by someone with an exceptional grasp of composition, Julia was certain the artist was not one she’d seen before. There was something incredibly distinct about the style. It gave a sense of longing that touched a very personal place inside her soul.
“Who is the artist?” She didn’t take her eyes from the painting as she spoke. “This is exceptional.”
“It is no one you’ve heard of,” Luc said.
Julia turned toward him. “This should be displayed at l’Exposition Universelle. Is the artist local? I must meet him. Or her.”
Monsieur Paquet didn’t answer. He looked up to where his aunt was bringing down an armful of towels and hurried up the steps to assist her.
A moment later, a towel was wrapped around Julia’s shoulders, another around her wet hair, and she sat in a soft chair before the kitchen hearth, a black-and-white cat weaving around her legs.
Monsieur Paquet had a towel around his shoulders as well, and a tabby cat on his lap. He sat at a kitchen table that was covered with dishes, laundry, and even more flowerpots and looked through the window above the washbasin.
“Thank you, Madame Martin,” Julia said, accepting a mug of tea.
“Oh, none of this ‘madame’ business.” She swatted her hand in the air as if to hit the word out of the room. “I am Gabi to my friends.” She pushed aside a pile of linens and set a mug on the table in front of her nephew. “And to my enemies, I suppose,” she added thoughtfully. “Now, Juliette, tell me how you found yourself in Riv, dressed in an evening go
wn in the pouring rain.”
The French version of her name reminded Julia of her grandmother.
Gabi took a seat on the other side of the hearth. “I imagine the tale involves a handsome gentleman and perhaps some romantic intrigue, oui?” She raised and lowered her brows a few times.
Monsieur Paquet snorted.
“I’m afraid not,” Julia said, hiding a smile at the older woman’s insinuation. “I was supposed to go to Paris, but I boarded the wrong train and found myself stranded in Rivulet by accident. Monsieur Paquet was kind enough to help me.”
“Voilà!” Gabi held up a finger. “A handsome gentleman.” She turned her finger to point toward the kitchen table.
“Ah, oui.” Julia’s cheeks went hot, and she kept her gaze from the other side of the kitchen. “He is . . . handsome.”
Julia could feel M. Paquet’s embarrassment, though he made no sound. She didn’t dare look in his direction.
“And you are meant to be in Paris?” Gabi said, continuing as if she hadn’t noticed any discomfort. “Your family must be worried when you did not arrive.”
Julia took a sip of her tea and nodded. “I’d hoped to send a telegram, but apparently that is not possible. Perhaps I could send word by mail. If I post a letter today, when will it arrive in Paris?”
Gabi made the tutting sound again. “The mail isn’t due today. And you never know. It may not come tomorrow either, if Jacques Dubois is distracted in Madeline Auclair’s Taverne.” She leaned close and waggled her brows again. “Or by Mademoiselle Auclair herself.”
At this rate, the heat in Julia’s cheeks would never have a chance to dissipate. And the frustration of being unable to contact her family remained. “Does nothing in Provence run on a schedule?” she asked.
“A visit to the privy precisely one hour after my morning coffee,” Gabi said, laughing. “That you can set your clock by.” She glanced toward the window. “The mistral winds are regular as well, blowing like the devil himself wanted to freeze Provence in the spring.” Her eyes twinkled. “And then, nine months later, you can always count on a busy schedule for the midwife.”
Shocked at the lady’s indelicacy, Julia drew in a quick breath, touching her fingers to her lips.
“Gabi,” Monsieur Paquet interjected. He looked as if he were holding back a smile. “I do not think Mademoiselle Weston expected an answer to her question.”
Gabi winked at Julia, then laughed. “Those are the questions I prefer to answer most of all.”
Chapter Five
Julia sat back in the chair, savoring the warmth of her tea. Gabi was definitely an original; she was a person apparently unconcerned with topics appropriate for a first meeting. But somehow her candor set Julia at ease and made her feel welcome in the most unwelcoming of circumstances.
Luc finished his tea and lifted the tabby cat as he stood, then set the animal back to curl up on his chair before he left to care for the horse.
Gabi stood, taking the empty tea mug from Julia and setting it on the mantel with her own next to a cracked vase, a framed photograph of a baby, and an apparently forgotten piece of bread. “Come along, Juliette. You will be wanting to change into dry clothes and take a warm bath, oui?”
“Merci.” Julia stood as well. She handed the wet towels to her hostess, who hung them over the kitchen chairs, and stepping carefully over the black-and-white cat, she followed Gabi up the stairs. As she passed the painting in the front corridor, she paused, but since Gabi had already started up the stairs, Julia made a note to ask again about the artist once she was settled. Her father would be very pleased that she’d discovered an unknown talent. Maybe the unintended detour to Provence would not be a complete waste.
Gabi paused on the landing at the top of the stairs. “I typically put guests in the Sunflower Room. It has the best view of the mountains.” She tapped a door but did not open it. “But Luc is in that room now, so you will have to make do with the other.” She turned and opened the door directly across the corridor. “Voilá. The Lavender Room.”
Julia followed her inside and smiled. Gabi certainly knew how to adhere to a theme. The walls were painted a lovely pale lavender shade. A bed with a wrought-iron frame and light-purple bedding stood on one side of the room, a washstand and a wardrobe painted in the same color on the other. A portrait of a lavender field in full bloom hung over the washstand. Julia studied it for a moment. It was beautiful, but she could tell immediately the artist was not the same as the one who’d painted the scene in the front hall.
Gabi pulled the sheer curtains to the side and pushed up the window sash. The sweet, subtle scent of almond blossoms filled the room.
Julia stepped to the window to admire the tree, thinking she had rarely had such a lovely view during her travels. “It’s perfect,” she said.
Gabi smiled. “This was my daughter’s room.” She picked up a book from the floor and a shawl that hung over the back of the desk chair. “Her favorite color was . . .” She spread her arms, indicating the room around them.
“Lavender,” Julia finished, unsure of what to say. Had Gabi lost her daughter? “How old was she?” She asked the question softly, her voice filled with the compassion she considered appropriate.
“Oh dear. I made it sound like Suzette died, didn’t I?” Gabi said, laughing. “She is alive and well and living in Lyon with her husband. Both of my children have moved away. They all do.” She glanced toward the window. “But not Luc. He is determined to carry on the family legacy.”
“The olive orchard?” Julia asked.
“Oui.” Gabi nodded, looking more somber than she had since Julia arrived. “He feels a responsibility to his late father—my brother.” She sighed and gave an affectionate smile. “Loyalty and stubbornness with a dash of sentimentality. That is the character of le garçon.”
“Gabi, this is so very kind of you, and I fully intend to reimburse you for your hospitality.” A breeze blew through the window, reminding Julia that she was still wearing wet clothing. She shivered.
“That is not necessary at all, ma chérie.” Gabi opened the purple wardrobe, revealing a mirror on the inside of the door and hangers full of clothing. She tossed the book and shawl inside. “And it is not the Provençal way. I will not accept money for taking in a guest. It is a privilege.”
“Then, I will find a way to repay you. I can do chores to earn my keep.”
“I will not turn away help. Heaven knows I could use it.” Gabi looked Julia up and down for a moment, then pulled out a few articles of clothing. “Here. These should fit nicely. And I’m sure there are boots or shoes in your size downstairs by the front door.” She laid the clothes on the bed. “But I’m afraid my underclothing would not fit you. Not without some padding.” She chuckled at her joke.
“I can manage with my own . . . unmentionables,” Julia stuttered, embarrassment making her words tumble over one another.
“The washroom is there, next to your room.” Gabi pointed at the wall. “And across from it is my own bedchamber. I call it the Peony Room.” She closed the wardrobe and moved to the doorway. “Lunch will be ready when you are. Please, make yourself at home.”
“Merci.”
***
Julia examined her reflection in the purple wardrobe mirror. She wore a full, heavy skirt in a rust color with a collarless white-linen blouse. A blue garment that appeared to be a cross between a gentleman’s waistcoat and a corset was pulled tight over the blouse, and an apron tied around her waist completed the ensemble. She put on her wristwatch and hung the other timepiece around her neck.
Instead of wrapping her hair in the scarf Gabi had left, Julia left it loose to dry, glad to have a chance to comb it. The feathered headpiece was a soggy, crushed mess, and by the time she’d unpinned it, it was so ruined that she’d tossed it into the wastebasket and brushed the leaves and dried blossoms from the windowsill
into the receptacle for good measure. Gabi was a warm and generous hostess, but a fastidious housekeeper she was not.
The tabby cat brushed at her legs, and Julia crouched down to pet it. The animal had been in the Lavender Room when Julia had returned from her bath and had curled up on the bed to nap while she’d dressed.
The washroom was surprisingly well equipped with a basin tub, warm water from the faucet, and even an adjoining water closet. Julia hadn’t expected such conveniences in the rural location and was immensely grateful not to have had to heat and haul her water or use an outdoor privy as her grand-mére often reminded her was the way when she was young.
Feeling satisfied at being clean and dry, Julia picked up the cat and left the bedchamber. The door to the Sunflower Room was still closed, and Julia could not help her curiosity at what the room must look like. Was it entirely yellow, as she imagined, with sunny walls and daffodil-colored furniture?
But considering M. Paquet’s room brought to mind the man himself, and Julia did not think it proper to think of him in such a personal space. The idea of his bedchamber so near to hers was unsettling. She tried to tell herself it was no different than sleeping in neighboring compartments on a train, but being inside a home was different and somehow more intimate. What if the two should meet in the corridor in their nightclothes on the way to the water closet? The burning in her face she’d felt so often since entering Gabi’s house came back in full force, and she took a moment to compose herself before going downstairs.
“Oh, you found Fredric.” Gabi was cutting a loaf of warm bread into thick slices. “That one—he is always making friends.” She pointed at the cat with the knife. “You look much better, Juliette, now that you are no longer wet and shivering.”
The sight and smell of the food made Julia’s stomach rumble. She set down the cat and took the seat Gabi indicated.
“I hope you like soupe au pistou.” Gabi ladled soup into two bowls, then rummaged around in one drawer and another before she produced two spoons and joined Julia.
Wrong Train to Paris Page 4