Julia recognized the place immediately. “From your painting,” she said in a whisper. Speaking louder would break the magic of this place.
Luc nodded. He spread the quilt over a flat place beneath the willow.
She sat beside him, pulling her legs to the side and arranging her skirts. “It is . . . this place is breathtaking,” she said, keeping her voice soft.
“Oui,” Luc said. “Ma mère, she loved it here. She said this is what convinced her to leave Aix and move with my father to Riv. She fell in love with this place as well as with him.”
Julia watched the ducklings swimming behind their mother. The air here was fragrant, the sounds were dampened by the trees, and the way the light played over everything was simply bewitching. “I can see why.”
Luc turned a page in his sketchbook and began to draw. “Once they married, Father was much too busy caring for the farm to come here often. It saddened her.”
“She brought you,” Julia said.
He glanced at her, then back at his drawing. “I think that bothered my father. He would rather I spent more time working the land and less daydreaming in my notebook.”
“And now you do the work as a sort of penance,” she said. “You are punishing yourself.”
“I suppose that is partly true.” Luc glanced at her again. “But the trees do need tending, whether I enjoy doing it or not.”
Julia took a breath. “Luc, I know I’ve said it before, but your paintings, they are . . . you are . . . you both deserve to be recognized among the great artists. I know it. I promise it. You must display your paintings, and l’Exposition Universelle is the perfect place for it.”
“Non, Juliette.”
“But I don’t understand why. This is your dream, Luc, the thing you worked for, that you still work for . . . and yet . . .”
“And yet, I am a farmer.”
“But you could be—”
“I could fail once again,” Luc said, his voice sharp. “Lose the farm altogether.” He clenched his jaw. “A man learns from his mistakes, Juliette. He does not repeat them.” He snapped the book shut and tossed it down onto the blanket.
She opened her mouth to argue, but seeing Luc’s expression, she stopped. He would not be convinced by words. And she did not want to ruin their last day together by arguing. The idea she’d had earlier came back into her thoughts. Luc didn’t believe in himself. Perhaps he just needed someone who did.
“I apologize,” she said. “I won’t bring it up again.”
Luc let out a breath, offering a smile. He looked beneath the towel on the picnic basket. “Gabi packed some bread. Shall we feed the ducks?”
They stepped along the smooth stones of the old bridge until they reached the highest point in the very center. Luc handed her a chunk of bread, and Julia broke off a bit, dropping it into the pond.
One of the ducklings snapped it up. The others gathered, and Julia dropped more bread, making certain to place a larger piece directly in front of the mother duck. One duckling seemed to move faster than the others, and he wove in between his siblings, snatching the bits of bread before the others could get to it. Julia waited until the faster duckling was on one side of the group and dropped a handful of crumbs to the ducklings on the other side. When the fast duckling swam over to that side, she repeated the strategy, making certain they all got some of the bread.
She laughed as one of the ducklings dove down after a sinking crumb, its backside pointing up out of the water, tail wiggling back and forth.
When she looked up at Luc, he was watching her.
Julia blushed. “What is it?”
His eyes were thoughtful. “It is you, Juliette.” He took her hand, lifting it and brushing a kiss over her knuckles. His other hand went around her waist, drawing her against him. He held her gaze for just a moment, and then his lips were on hers.
Julia was fully prepared this time. She closed her eyes and let the sensation wash over her. Luc’s kiss now was different from the one this morning in the loft. He held her gently, his lips moving softly, as if asking permission. Permission she willingly gave.
She slid her hand up his arm, letting her fingers rest on his neck, and kissed him back. Luc’s arms were strong around her, his whiskers scratchy against her cheek, and his kiss deepened. She held him tighter, not wanting the moment to end, not wanting to face the reality that in the morning she would leave Provence, leave him. The thought brought with it an ache that made her gasp.
Luc pulled back, his brows drawn together in concern. “Juliette?”
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. She held on to him tightly, pressing her face into the hollow beneath his shoulder. And though she tried to hold it back, a sob slipped out.
Luc held her tightly. He rubbed a hand up and down her back.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice shaking. “I didn’t mean . . .” She pulled back, wiping away her tears. “I am sad to leave Rivulet. Not sad that you kissed me.”
Luc raised his brows.
Julia turned back to watch the ducklings, setting her hands on the railing to look over the side, but the ducks were no longer beneath the bridge. “I just wanted you to know—in case you were wondering,” she added. Her cheeks burned.
“That is indeed a relief.” Luc stood beside her. He laid his hand on hers and gave it a gentle squeeze.
After their quiet picnic, they walked back toward Gabi’s slowly, as if hoping their dawdling footsteps would delay the inevitable farewell. The evening was growing dark, but it was still light enough for them to see their way.
When they neared Gabi’s garden, Luc stopped. He glanced toward the nursery. “I need to bring the pots inside.”
“I should like to see Honey and her babies tonight,” Julia said, glad that he would be occupied while she went to speak with Mathieu. In order for her plan to work, she needed his help.
Luc kissed her cheek. He set the quilt and basket beside the garden wall. “I will see you at dinner, then.”
***
Gabi made a delicious meal for Julia’s last dinner in Provence: baked ham with herbs and scalloped potatoes accompanied by thick chewy bread and, of course, chèvre. Though Gabi tried to keep up their spirits with gossip and funny stories, the mood was somber.
Julia picked at her food, dropping the occasional bite to the cats.
Luc hardly spoke a word.
When the dishes were cleaned, Julia excused herself, explaining that she needed to rise early the following morning to catch her train.
“I’ll drive you to the station at six?” Luc asked.
“No need,” Julia said, trying to keep her voice light. “Mathieu has agreed to take me. He has to be at the station anyway.” She couldn’t look Luc in the eye, knowing his feelings would be hurt. But riding in Mathieu’s wagon was essential to her plan.
She went up to the Lavender Room, sitting on the bed and trying to imprint everything about it into her mind. She couldn’t remember what other room had felt so much like her own. Certainly not the sleeping quarters in the boarding school that she shared with three other teachers, nor the bedroom in her grand-mère’s house, where she was a guest for only a few weeks at a time. But here . . . She smiled, remembering the incident with the scorpion. Here, she felt at home.
The ache returned, but she did not allow herself to weep, not when there was work to do. She watched through the window, seeing the moon rise higher. She would be glad for the light, but it would also expose her should anyone look out the window. She would need to be completely sure that everyone was asleep, and then . . . then she would make certain Luc didn’t give up on his dream. And pray for his forgiveness.
Chapter Seventeen
One week later
At last it was Julia’s turn to ride the Grande Roue. Her father had promised her every day since she’d arrived
from Paris, and since he, naturally, would not hear of her riding the grand wheel alone, today was the first time he had the opportunity to join her.
Colonel Weston paid the two francs for a first-class car, and he and his daughter climbed inside. An attendant made certain the safety gate was secure, and a moment later, they were lifted into the air.
“One hundred and ten meters,” her father told her. “That is how high we are traveling.” The ascent took nearly half an hour as the cars beneath were emptied and filled, but Julia didn’t mind at all. The sight of the World’s Fair from this vantage point was awe-inspiring. She could see the Globe Céleste, where she and her father had viewed a presentation on the constellations the night before. Beyond was the aquarium and, farther on, the Grand Palais and the Petit Palais, both filled with fine art. Between the buildings and displays, moving walkways took visitors to the various exhibits. Above it all, the Eiffel Tower stood proudly, painted magnificently yellow for the occasion.
The Rue des Nations featured pavilions sponsored by various countries, and each had apparently tried to outdo the others. Julia’s favorites had been the reproductions of the Chinese Imperial Palace and the enormous Turkish pavilion designed in the Ottoman style with Islamic architecture and beautiful Mosque minarets. She had eaten cuisine from a different land every evening for supper.
When they reached the highest point, she leaned forward. “The view is magnificent, isn’t it?”
Her father’s hand, unsurprisingly, clamped her shoulder to keep her from falling. “It is, my dear. Well worth the hour-long wait.”
She smiled, glad to be with him once again and to have the chance to speak English. Julia had missed her father enormously. He had more gray in his side whiskers than she’d remembered, and the wrinkles that fanned out beside his eyes seemed deeper. Putting together the British artist exhibit had been time-consuming, and it had taken its toll. She sat back, knowing it would set him at ease.
“What shall we do after this?” she asked. “Or must you return soon to the Grand Palais?”
He glanced at his pocket watch, clicking it shut and tucking it back inside his waistcoat. “I’ve time to visit another exhibit, if you’d like. You’ve still not seen the magnification of the moon through the world’s largest telescope. Fascinating, that. Or we could just enjoy a nice iced lemonade and watch the crowds.”
“I would be happy to do either of those things,” Julia said. “There is still so much to see. And, of course, we must watch the moving pictures again. If not today, then . . .” Her voice trailed off as a person below caught her attention: a man in a bouclé coat and a wide-brimmed farmer’s hat. She leaned forward again and felt her father’s hand clamp her shoulder. Could it be him?
“Luc!” she yelled.
“My dear, really.” Her father shook his head as he glanced at the other people in the car. “Most unbecoming of a young lady to holler like that. What would your grandmother say?”
Julia pointed downward. “But, Father. It is him. Luc Paquet.” She was sure of it. “Luc!” she yelled his name again, waving her handkerchief over her head.
This time, he turned, looking up. Even from this height, she could see the moment he recognized her. He lifted his hand.
He is here. Julia gripped the bar of the safety gate as her heart pounded uncontrollably. He had come after her.
Her father held on to his hat, peering down over the Grande Roue car. “Luc Paquet, the artist from Provence?”
“Yes.” Julia was breathless with anticipation. “The same.” The Grande Roue moved impossibly slowly in its descent, and by the time her car reached the bottom and the attendant opened the gate, she practically jumped out of her seat.
She opened her parasol, and once her father had climbed out of the car, she took his arm, pulling him forward.
Luc waited at the exit. He stood stiffly and watched her with an unreadable expression.
Julia couldn’t erase her smile. As she drew nearer, the familiar fluttering started in her chest. “Luc, I am so happy to see you.” She was pleased at her choice of clothing this morning. She wore a white gown with lace embellishments that flattered her figure splendidly, and on her hat were colorful silk flowers and ribbons. She motioned between the two men. “Please allow me to introduce my father, Colonel James Weston. And Father, this is Luc Paquet.”
“Bonjour, Colonel Paquet.” Luc inclined his head. His expression did not change.
Her father tipped his hat. “Glad to meet you at last, sir. I must thank you for the care you gave my daughter.” He spoke French slowly, with a heavy accent. “Always finding trouble, this one.” Colonel Weston chuckled, patting Julia’s hand where it rested on his arm. “The wrong train. How does one manage that?”
“I—” Luc began, glancing at Julia as if wondering if he was meant to give an answer.
“But that’s all in the past,” her father continued. “My daughter is safe, thanks to you, monsieur—and she found quite a prize in Provence. An unknown artist of your talents was an extraordinary discovery. The entire art community is talking about it.”
Luc looked at Julia. His expression wasn’t pleased.
“Have you seen your painting in the Grand Palais, Luc?” she asked.
“I have not. Not yet.”
Julia felt another thrill. He had come to find her before even seeing the artwork.
“I believe you’ll be very pleased, Monsieur Paquet,” Colonel Weston said. “Julia found a splendid frame, and my French colleague has placed it beautifully among the other impressionists from your country, though I believe yours has drawn the most attention.”
Luc cleared his throat, apparently uncomfortable with the conversation. “Sir, with your permission, I hoped to speak with Miss Weston alone for a moment.”
“Of course.” Colonel Weston smiled. He patted Julia’s hand again and then gently took it from his arm, squeezing her fingers affectionately. “I should return to the Grand Palais anyway. Why don’t I meet you there. I would be pleased to introduce you around, show you some of the highlights. Shall we say in two hours? It will give Julia a chance to show you some of the exhibits.”
“Merci, monsieur,” Luc said, inclining his head again.
Colonel Weston tipped his hat and strode away.
Julia took Luc’s arm, and they started toward the river. People passed, wearing costumes from every imaginable nation. Music sounded from different quarters, some songs familiar, others exotic. The trees overhead were in blossom, the air was warm, and she felt utterly happy. She directed him toward the Pont Alexandre III, the bridge that would take them to the Rive Droit and the Grand Palais.
Julia spoke first. “I can’t believe you found me, Luc. There are so many people here.”
As if to prove her point, the crowd pushed them to the side of the road as an Egyptian caravan walked past. Julia stared at the camels with their flat feet and rounded humps and apologized as she bumped into a woman wearing an extremely fancy peach-colored hat.
Luc led her out of the crowd. “I went from the train station to your grand-mère’s house on Rue des Barres. She directed me to the Grande Roue.” His voice sounded distracted. Hardly surprising with such surroundings. A group of Chinese women strolled past wearing silken gowns and teetering on miniature feet.
“Well, it was very fortunate you came just when you did; otherwise—”
Luc stopped. He took Julia by the arm and led her to the rail overlooking the Seine and turned, placing her back against the rail and facing her directly. “Juliette, how could you do this?” His voice was low and sharp, and there was no mistaking the anger in his eyes.
She blinked, holding tightly to her parasol handle. “How could I . . . ?”
“You took my painting after I specifically told you I did not want it displayed.” He pressed his fingers to his forehead. “What on earth made you think you could
do something so . . . despicable?” Luc clenched his jaw. His lips pressed together, and he breathed through his nose in heavy puffs.
Julia was shocked. She’d thought Luc would be initially upset but, after he’d gotten used to the idea, he would secretly be pleased. She was certain this was what he wanted—even if he didn’t yet realize it.
“You must see it, hanging with the others,” she said, forcing a cheerful tone. Once he calmed, he would see—surely he would. She just had to convince him. “It has been very well received. My father has had many inquiries about you and about your work. He’s beside himself because I made him promise to respect your privacy, but . . .”
Her voice trailed off when she saw he was shaking his head. His frown had only grown deeper, his face redder, his jaw tighter.
“Juliette, you betrayed my trust.” His voice had lowered, and in it she could hear hurt along with the anger. “You—how could you?” He clenched his fists.
“Luc.” Julia touched his arm, but he pulled away. She winced but pressed on. “I know it was a rather drastic measure, but I—”
“You crept into my studio in the middle of the night and stole something precious to me—a secret I entrusted you with. I can only assume you had Mathieu’s help to hide it and bring it to the train station. And now it is hanging . . .” He motioned with a wave in the direction of the Grand Palais. “I would not have ever believed you capable of such a deception.”
“Luc—”
“And for what?” He spoke over her, his voice growing louder. “To prove to your father that you could do something right after all?”
His words hurt. “Of course not.” Her voice shook, and she swallowed hard. “I did it for you.”
Luc crossed his arms. He shook his head, and his eyes were tight. “You cannot fix everything, Julia. You do not always know what is best. You cannot just know someone for five days and think it is your duty to steer their life on the course you deem to be right.”
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