Élise had spent an exceptional amount of time on her pictures. Julia thought she would love to get such dedication from the young ladies at Frau Pichler’s finishing school. Most of them rushed through a drawing assignment, just wanting to be finished. But not this girl.
Julia turned another page, recognizing a rendition of Élise’s house. It was, of course, drawn in the simplistic manner of a child’s skill. But she recognized an attempt at shading on one side of the chimney. The vineyard and the mountains beyond were colored in progressively lighter tones, showing a basic attempt to portray depth. Advanced for a child of her age.
Another page contained a portrait Julia guessed to be Sylvie. The proportions and spacing of the features were advanced as well.
Julia pointed out some of the places where she could see Élise had made an extra effort. “These are very good, Élise. My father works with famous artists all over the world. I have learned to recognize talent, and I can see you work extremely hard on your drawings. If you continue to do so, you will make a very fine artist.”
Élise nodded thoughtfully. “And maybe votre père will work with me.”
Julia smiled. “I hope that happens.” It was a pity she and Luc wouldn’t remain long enough for him to draw with Élise.
The young girl flipped to a page farther back in the notebook. “This is Adeline’s cat.” She turned the book toward Julia, showing a partially completed drawing. “Adeline is my cousin. But we have not been to her house for a long time. So I cannot finish the picture.”
Julia nodded. “I see.” She glanced toward the window and saw the rain had at last stopped completely. “Perhaps you might like to draw a baby goat.”
Élise’s face lit up. “I would like that very much!”
Once they obtained Sylvie’s permission—with a promise to avoid mud puddles—Julia took the girl’s hand, and the pair walked out to the animal pen, drawing supplies in tow.
Élise laughed when she saw the little goats. She stood beside the pen with her drawing pad and pencil box while Julia dragged over two wrought-iron chairs from an outdoor café set.
The chairs were damp, so Julia hurried back inside for a towel, and a few moments later, Élise sat with her pad on her lap, and Julia sat beside her, holding the pencils. “The mother is Honey,” she said. “But the little ones don’t have names yet.”
“You might call the one with the black forehead and white face Guignol,” Élise said.
“Like the puppet?”
“Oui.” Élise spoke slowly, concentrating on her drawing. “I saw a Guignol show in Cavaillon. With Adeline.” She looked up at the goats for a moment, then back at her paper. “The other one could be Spot. Because she has spots.”
“Guignol and Spot.” Julia thought the logic was sound.
“I am drawing Guignol,” Élise said. “Because the black pencil is longer.”
Julia watched the goats and the girl. She inhaled the smell of fresh rain and grape vines and flowers and imagined what it must be like to be Sylvie Deschamps. There were no houses closeby that Julia could see. Sylvie probably did not often have visitors. Was she lonely? Or did she find joy in caring for her home and family? Julia knew financial matters were always a concern for farmers. The blight had ruined thousands of vineyards, sending their owners to the cities for work. Did those who remained worry that such a disaster could happen again?
She looked beyond the pen, beyond the garden, to the vineyard, planted with young vines. Provence did not seem barren and desolate, as she’d thought when she’d ridden from the Rivulet train station. The people were happy. And in the air was a feeling of . . . hope. That’s what made a man plant new vines from America or an old lady make the sweetest cheese or a girl draw pictures of a cat. Hope for the good things that life would bring if they poured their heart into the things they loved.
She considered Luc and the paintings hidden away in the storage building. Julia’s heart grew heavy. She believed Luc cared about the orchard. But art was his passion. She’d seen it in his paintings. And Luc lacked that hope. If only she could find a way to give it to him.
Chapter Thirteen
The sound of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels on the gravely road meant the return of the men. Julia resisted the impulse to jump up from her chair and run toward the road when she saw Luc. She waved instead.
Luc lifted a hand in return.
The man sitting beside him must be Monsieur Pierre Deschamps. Another horse followed the wagon, led with a rope. Julia assumed the men had used both animals to extricate the wagon.
“That is my papá,” Élise said as the men climbed down from the wagon and led the horses toward the barn. Julia wasn’t certain why Luc didn’t leave his own horse hitched to the wagon, but perhaps he thought it needed a rest and maybe something to eat before they undertook the remainder of the journey.
“Your papá was very nice to help unstick the wagon,” she said.
Élise nodded. “Papá helps me too.”
Julia smiled at the girl. “That’s what papás do, isn’t it?” She stood. “Shall we return to the house? I think I will be leaving soon.”
Élise’s brow furrowed as she looked at her notebook. She sighed. “I didn’t finish drawing Guignol.” She handed the pencil to Julia to return to the box.
Julia carried the chairs back to their place in the garden and took the girl’s hand to walk back to the house. They met the men coming from the barn, and Luc introduced her to Pierre Deschamps.
The man was shorter and wider than Luc, with a boyish face. He gave Julia a bright smile. “Ah, madame. So nice to meet you at last. Luc has told me such complimentary things about you.”
Julia blushed. She glanced at Luc, then looked away quickly, feeling silly for the giddy reaction to Pierre’s words. Naturally, Luc had attempted to maintain the charade of their marriage. And if Pierre was anything like his wife, he’d asked questions that had required personal answers, which Luc would have fabricated, of course.
Élise released Julia’s hand and took her papá’s. “I’ve been drawing goats with Julia,” she said.
“C’est merveilleux, chérie!” Pierre said. “More of your beautiful pictures to admire. Come, you must show me.”
Luc’s clothing was covered in mud, and splatters were on his face and hat. He looked weary. “Oh dear,” Julia said, grimacing as she looked him over.
“Eh, oui,” Pierre said. “Extracting the wagon was no easy feat. But do not worry, madame. Sylvie will have him clean and warm in no time.” He started toward the door with Élise. “I believe I smell vin chaud.”
Julia checked the time on both of her clocks. The hour was nearly four. She looked toward the wagon and then the barn. “We should probably be on our way.” Her clothes would be mostly dry by now. She could change while Luc loaded the animals and hitched the horse to the wagon.
“Oh, madame,” Pierre said, opening the door to the house. “It is much too late to leave now. You would not reach Riv until well after dark.”
Julia looked at Luc.
He scratched his jaw, his brow furrowed in an uncomfortable expression. “Pierre has invited us to remain here tonight.” Luc spoke in a voice that sounded . . . apprehensive.
“We couldn’t possibly impose,” Julia said, although staying with the Deschamps sounded a far superior option than riding for six more hours tonight. Her backside would appreciate the respite from the hard wagon bench. She wasn’t certain what was bothering Luc, but when she tried to catch his gaze, he became busy scraping mud from his boots with a stick.
“I insist,” Pierre said. “And Sylvie will insist as well.”
“And I insist too,” Élise said.
Sylvie came to the door as the others entered. She was holding the baby on her hip. She motioned Julia and Luc inside. “Oh yes, of course you must stay. Monsieur, leave your boots by the door
. I will bring dry clothes and towels.”
Julia entered and thanked Sylvie for her hospitality. She was delighted for the chance to spend more time with the woman and her family.
Luc removed his boots. He didn’t look up when Julia tried again to catch his eye, and she wondered if he thought it was rude to accept the invitation. Or perhaps he worried about Gabi being left alone.
Pierre removed his boots and went directly to the vin chaud on the stove. Apparently, Sylvie had lit the stove to reheat the warm drink. He inhaled deeply, then stirred it and ladled a portion into mugs for himself and Luc.
Sylvie handed Luc a towel. “The barn loft isn’t fancy, but it’s warm and dry,” she said, motioning him toward the washroom.
Luc took the towel, rubbing it over his wet hair. He started toward the washroom without glancing toward Julia.
“And private,” Pierre said.
Luc’s neck went red.
Julia drew in a sharp breath as she realized with a jolt exactly what was troubling him. She hadn’t even considered that the Deschamps would assume that, as a married couple, she and Luc would naturally sleep together.
Her stomach went heavy, her heartbeat grew unbearably loud, and a plunge into the Arctic Sea wouldn’t have been able to cool the blush that spread like wildfire over her skin. Julia was beyond embarrassed. And also ashamed. This is what comes of telling untruths, she scolded herself. But the thing that affected her the very deepest was Luc’s reaction. His utter mortification at the implication that the two of them wished to be alone together was the most humiliating thing of all.
Julia’s mind buzzed, and when she glanced up, she saw the Deschamps were all watching her. It took a moment of recollection before she realized Sylvie had spoken to her.
“Are you well?” Sylvie asked again. “Please do not feel uneasy about being our guest. It is no imposition at all.”
“I am perfectly well.” Julia blinked herself from her anxious thoughts and forced a smile, flustered by what would be perceived as a rude reaction to her hosts’ invitation. “I am delighted to remain here.” She smiled wider. “And now, Élise, you will have the chance to finish your drawing.” She glanced at the washroom door. “And if you ask him, Luc might draw a picture as well. He is an artist like you.”
Élise looked toward the washroom and grinned, joining her father on the sofa and showing him her latest work of art.
“How may I help you, Sylvie? Should I set the table for supper?” Julia knew from experience that keeping her hands busy would push away her anxious thoughts. She glanced at the washroom door but forced her gaze and her mind back to her task. She would not allow herself to dwell on the situation any longer.
Sylvie set her to work chopping carrots while she held the baby on her hip and gathered the ingredients for the beef estouffade.
Luc stepped out of the washroom wearing loose trousers that ended well above his ankles, but Julia gave him only a quick glance, feeling the burn in her stomach when she did and not wanting her blush to return.
Sylvie set the baby on her husband’s lap. She took Luc’s wet clothes and hung them with Julia’s, then returned and began to slice the meat.
Pierre handed Luc a warm mug of vin chaud, and at Élise’s request, Luc sat on the sofa with the others and examined the girl’s drawings.
Julia started chopping tomatoes, and over the simmering sound of the cooking meat, she listened to the conversation on the other side of the room.
Luc complimented the drawings as he turned the pages of the notebook, commenting here and there on specific details—some that Julia had noted and others she hadn’t. When he reached the picture of Adeline’s cat, he listened to Élise’s explanation of why she’d been unable to finish.
“You are an observational artist, mademoiselle,” Luc said. “Do you know what that means?”
Élise shook her head.
“You look at something, and then you draw it. Most artists begin this way, having their subject in front of them as they work. And I can see you’ve practiced it. But the next step is to draw something from memory.”
“I don’t think I can do it,” Élise said. Her voice sounded discouraged. “I don’t remember well enough.”
Julia glanced across the room. Pierre had moved the baby to sit between his legs on the floor and was helping him stack blocks. Or, from the look of it, Pierre was stacking blocks in front of the baby, and Adrien was trying to fit them into his mouth.
Élise sat with her notebook on her lap, and Luc held her pencil box.
“Drawing from memory is difficult,” Luc said. “And it requires practice. First of all, you must look at things differently. All the things around you. Look at them closely, as if you were going to draw them, even if you aren’t. Memorize details that you might forget. You won’t be able to do it all at once. But with practice, you will become better at looking. And then better at remembering.”
He took a pencil from the case. “May I demonstrate in your picture notebook?”
She nodded.
Luc found a blank page, and Julia could hear the sound of his pencil scratching on the paper. “My neighbor has a small dog named Hugo. I know the basic shapes of a dog from other dogs I’ve drawn. Head, legs, ears, body. So that is how I begin.” His pencil moved over the page. “But now, I must look into my memory, and I realize this body is too short for Hugo.” He used the rubber eraser, then kept drawing. “So I make it longer until it is how I remember. And I think of how Hugo’s ears are floppy and the ends are rounded . . .”
A sizzling sound caught Julia’s attention.
Sylvie had put the meat into a pan on the stove.
Reminded of her task, Julia resumed slicing the tomatoes. Watching Luc with Élise was unexpectedly tender. He would make a fine teacher, she thought. Or a father. That thought made her blush again, but this time, the feeling was accompanied by a tinge of sadness. Julia would not be part of Luc’s life much longer.
She took the bowl of mushrooms and started slicing them as well.
“Now, when I look at the picture, I think, What is missing? This does not quite look like Hugo,” Luc said. “Is Hugo’s nose more pointed? His tail longer? And sometimes I don’t remember. And often my picture does not look exactly like the subject in my mind. But that is where the practice comes in.”
“You must practice looking,” Élise said thoughtfully. “And remembering.”
Luc nodded. He turned back to the picture of the goat. “Now, if you’d like, you can practice with this goat.”
“Guignol,” Élise said.
Luc’s brow rose, and his lips twitched at hearing the name. “Leave your notebook inside and let us go observe Guignol. Study him thoughtfully, look at details, then come back inside and draw what you remember. Perhaps, Pierre, you will join us?”
“Eh, oui.” Élise’s father nodded. He stood and lifted the baby high into the air and then lowered him, smiling at Adrien’s laugh. “I imagine le garçon, he would enjoy the goats as well.” His daughter took his hand, and they followed Luc outside.
“I never love my Pierre as much as when I see him with the little ones,” Sylvie said when the men and children had left. “You must feel the same, non?”
“Oui,” Julia said before she realized what she was agreeing to. She pulled her gaze away from the window overlooking the rear garden and smiled, but the sad feeling returned and, with it, an ache.
Julia set the table while Sylvie made the estouffade sauce and baked the bread. Luckily, Sylvie chatted about cooking and children and the trip they would take to the winery in Cavaillon when the grapes were ripe instead of asking more intimate questions.
By the time dinner was finished, Luc and Élise had gone out to see the goats three times. Each time, they returned and Élise set to work. She furrowed her brows, her face serious as she added to the picture. The pair woul
d discuss the details she was uncertain about, then go back to look. Pierre and Adrien would accompany them, but Julia noticed after the second time, it was Luc’s hand Élise held as they walked down the path to the paddock.
“Come, it is time to eat,” Sylvie announced, holding up a hand to stop her daughter’s protest before it began. “Élise, you may show us your picture once dinner is finished.”
The six sat at the table. Sylvie tied Adrien into a high-backed chair with a dishtowel to keep him from falling over and sat beside him, cutting soft carrots into small pieces with her fork and putting them on the table where he could grasp them. Everything else was kept well out of the baby’s reach.
Pierre sat at the head of the small table, motioning for Luc and Julia to take the chairs on either side of him. Julia sat beside Adrien, and Élise sat across from the baby, next to Luc.
Pierre offered a prayer, and they tucked in to the meal.
The food was delicious and simple, made better by the happy surroundings and loving family.
Pierre described in detail the wagon-removal procedure, and Luc smiled at the appropriate times during the story, adding a detail here and there. But Julia could see he was still bothered. His gaze met hers a few times, but he continued to look uncomfortable.
Élise talked at length about her pictures and the goats, and as the conversation surrounded Julia, her thoughts could not be pulled from the loft in the barn and, more specifically, Luc’s unease at the situation.
“You seem tired,” Sylvie said once the meal was finished and she and Julia were cleaning the dishes. The men and children had returned to the blocks and artist’s notebook.
“All the travel, I suppose,” Julia said, hoping her hostess didn’t think her rude. She needed to shake her gloom and be polite company.
“Eh, oui.” Sylvie nodded. “And you have another day of it ahead. You will want to go to sleep early.”
Julia couldn’t bring herself to answer.
Élise revealed her goat drawing once the women joined them in the sitting area. Her parents clapped and praised the artist, making the young girl’s face glow with pride. Julia complimented her as well, pointing out specific details she could tell Élise had given particular care to.
Wrong Train to Paris Page 12