The Things We Don’t Say

by Ella Carey

  He leaned down, and with the gentlest of caresses, he circled his arm around her waist, pulled her toward him, and kissed her, a feather-light touch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  France, 1923

  Lydia hovered on the veranda at Mas d’Aurore, her damp floral-print dress clinging to her shins. The cloche hat that she’d worn to the beach hung in her hand by her side, and the sound of Calum’s laughter rang from the cool interior of the house.

  Emma was painting three poppies—two red and the third one perfectly separate and white. She only worked on it when Patrick was out because she knew only too well that he’d know exactly what had inspired her to paint them like this.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you.” Lydia tilted her head to one side. “And that is a capital painting—but it makes me sad, I’m sorry to say.”

  Emma did not look up.

  “Forgive me,” Lydia said.

  “That’s perfectly all right, Lydia.”

  “I’m wondering if you are in a mind to return to Summerfield.”

  Emma blew out a breath. “Well, now that you mention it, yes, I am thinking that I would like to go home. My studio . . .” She clasped her skirt with her hands.

  “At the top of the house, where no one can disturb you, Mrs. Emma—”

  “A woman needs a place where she will not be disturbed by the constant demands on her time if she is to be able to work, Lydia. That is an inescapable fact. I don’t know if it will ever change for us, but one day, I hope it will.”

  Lydia nodded and moved away.

  But then Emma felt a sudden rush of sympathy and cursed herself for her own tactlessness at the same time. Lydia would not only never enjoy the luxury of having another person to do her own chores, but she was stuck carrying out all Emma’s household duties as well. How that cycle was supposed to resolve itself was anybody’s guess.

  When Emma saw Patrick walking up the driveway toward the house, she picked up her poppy painting and took it inside, straight into the privacy of her bedroom, collecting another piece and bringing that out.

  “Em!” Patrick appeared on the veranda, tucking his shirt into his cream trousers. A grand smile spread across his handsome face. Emma regarded him, her heart doing its usual flip-flop as he padded across to her.

  He leaned forward and inspected her hastily brought out work. “That empty chair looks a little lonely,” he murmured.

  Emma smiled sadly. It was as if her life was playing out in a series of exquisite polarities, her love for him, the hopelessness of that. And the baby that was growing inside her that was in itself a source of odd comfort, laced with confusion and uncertainty.

  “How about a party?”

  A sudden breeze whispered through the vines.

  “Jerome wants to throw one for his new friends down here, before we go to Paris.”

  Emma forced a tight smile. “Of course,” she said, reaching her hand up to take his a moment. “A party is always such a good idea.”

  Jerome’s farewell party was a soiree for more than one hundred guests. He invited every American and English expat he’d met in Paris, along with everyone else he’d encountered while in France, and it appeared that he’d become acquainted with half of Cassis.

  Jerome seemed to have charmed everyone except Emma. Even the usually unflappable Lydia seemed to have fallen under his spell. While they prepared for the party that day, he name-dropped shamelessly—aristocrats, eminent businesspeople, along with writers, artists, and intellectuals. He wafted around in loose white shirts with broad sleeves flapping around his tanned wrists, and he’d grown his hair out over the past few weeks so that it curled around his shoulders. His presence was commanding, and anyone could see that Patrick was besotted. Emma smiled and smiled and wished Jerome would disappear in a puff of smoke.

  While she sat at her dressing table, ostensibly preparing for the night’s revels, a letter from Oscar lay open in front of her. She had it close because it gave her solace, perhaps because the thought of her easy relationship with Oscar and her love for Calum gave her a little more perspective on the turn her life had taken since Jerome had arrived to stay.

  Dearest Em,

  I worry that you are miserable, that you are not happy, and that your present domicile puts you under great strain. Why not, I think, return home? Go to Summerfield, where you will be in your own surroundings and where at least you will have some control over your days. I hate knowing that you are unhappy, and I see the strain that this latest amour of P’s puts onto your heart.

  I’m sorry that France did not work out the way you’d hoped. I understand that P was bored in London, and I, too, thought that France might inspire him to settle a little more. How trying for you.

  No, I think returning to England with Calum and Lydia would be best. If P wishes to carry on this dalliance—and a dalliance I do believe it is—why not let him miss you for a while? We both know he can’t function for long without you. Why not stretch things at your end and wait for him to bounce right back? He always does.

  I am in a mind to travel to Summerfield for a time once you are there too. I will bring Calum his requisite treats . . . As for the other situation, which I am honestly delighted about, I have written to my parents, to ask them for their support for him . . . or for her. I have a feeling this will be a daughter to match our son, but once we have my family’s blessings, we can move forward and work things out.

  Thinking of you, dear Em,

  My love,

  Oscar

  Emma held a hand over her nonexistent bump. It would not be long before things were obvious. If Oscar was going to tell his family, then she had no excuses to keep the truth from Patrick. But she would not have Patrick thinking that this pregnancy was some desperate last resort on her part, and she knew only too well that the baby would have to be seen as Oscar’s if it were not to be ridiculed, no matter how strident Emma’s views were about freedom in life.

  Three hours later, the party was in full swing. Patrick wore a turban. As usual, people flocked around him. Emma smiled to herself at the charming way he was entertaining a London aristocrat with bohemian leanings who had come down from Paris, where she’d been on a shopping trip at the time she’d encountered the mercurial Jerome. On her head she wore a spray of ostrich feathers that was studded with jewels. She’d held out her hand to Emma, who had taken it graciously, while the woman informed Emma that she would be ordering more of her and Patrick’s divine creations for her London house. Her friends were quite wild for their fabrics and designs.

  Patrick insisted on taking only half the payment the woman wanted to give them to design bespoke curtain fabrics for her Parisian salon. No wonder he was always penniless, as was Jerome, but at least the American could wire his wealthy family back home for funds when he wanted them, living on transfers. As far as Emma could see, Jerome earned nothing himself.

  “Darling.” Patrick appeared behind her, wrapping his arms around her.

  Emma leaned back into his body, the natural contours of their shapes fitting together as if they were made for each other. Or so it seemed to Emma.

  “I’ve decided this is my last weekend in France too,” she said. “I’m going home, Patrick.” She maintained warmth in her voice.

  “You know how much I hate not having you around,” he murmured. “I’ll miss you.”

  Emma closed her eyes. He’d had lovers before, but she’d always gotten on with them. But it was impossible to consider doing so with Jerome. He’d gotten under Emma’s skin right from the start—she found him belligerent toward her when they were alone and dismissive of her whenever they were gathered together at mealtimes. As much as he could, Jerome put in every effort to pull Patrick out of Emma’s orbit. Whenever he came near her, Emma felt herself gritting her teeth. And all she could hope, in the end, was that he was not going to be a permanent fixture in Patrick’s life, while asking herself if she had any right to make such a wish for Patrick herself.

  CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

  London, 1980

  Sometimes, it is only the most old-fashioned remedies that do the trick. Laura was in need of a cup of tea. Her grandmother and an English tearoom seemed the perfect plan. She took Emma to a tearoom on Marchmont Street, around the corner from Gordon Square. Emma eyed Laura as she poured the tea into two cups, balancing the strainer on the delicate rims in turn. Emma reached out and placed her ancient hand on Laura’s.

  “Dear,” she said, “I’m going to make this easier for you.”

  “Don’t,” Laura whispered. “I can’t bear it. I don’t want you to do anything. None of this is your fault.”

  “Ivan called me. From the bank.”

  Laura reached for her cup of tea.

  “Of course, my paintings are not worth anything like the price that Patrick’s fetch, but I will sell them all, and I can find somewhere cheaper to live. Summerfield has to go—”

  “No, Gran.”

  Emma leaned forward, her eyes holding that resolve that she was famous for displaying. “It’s time, Laura. It’s simply what needs to be done.”

  “Gran—”

  “I’ve had my turn. It’s your turn and your life that matters now. Soon I won’t be around to even know whether Patrick painted me or not. It won’t matter, but your future will.”

  “Yes, but Gran—”

  “I can’t see that Patrick would have lied to me. He was always a bit of a clown, but I’m certain he was an honest one. However, I’d prefer to fix this quietly and let you continue your studies. The more fuss we make about Ewan’s pronouncements, the longer this whole process is going to take.”

  “No—”

  “I took on the loan. I’m very happy to step aside. You know that material possessions mean nothing to me. But an education? That is a different matter. If I stop paying rent in Gordon Square and on Summerfield and sell everything I own, then I should be able to meet your loan requirements. I won’t have it any other way.”

  Emma reached out a hand. “It’s going to be impossible for me to prove that Patrick painted me in France. And I don’t think you’ll ever find out either. It’s too late. That story is over. The past is gone. Memories are unreliable, and in any case, they depend entirely upon the person who is doing the reminiscing, and, my dear, the only person we have to do that is me. We simply need to bear up, face the consequences, and move on.”

  “Gran!”

  But her grandmother simply reached forward to the plate in front of them, chose a cream-center shortbread, and took a bite of her biscuit.

  Laura had no idea how Emma could stomach food.

  France, 1923

  Emma stood by the suitcases in the front hall of Mas d’Aurore. She’d spent a few moments lining up all the luggage with perfect precision. As if that would take care of things. Put the whole mess of a situation and her feelings toward Jerome straight. She slipped on her gloves and focused on the colors outside the window. She ran through a list in her head . . . emerald-green for the vines, dusky paler version for the grapes flecked with brown spots. There. Now which exact tubes of paint would she use? She switched her attention to the hall. Shadows seemed to linger here now that they were leaving. The house had lost its sheen.

  Jerome and Patrick’s chatter punctuated the otherwise quiet morning. If Emma were not so annoyed by Jerome, she’d be almost grateful for his endless talk right now. He and Patrick were planning to stay in Paris for some time, and after that, they’d continue “on the up and up” in London, as Jerome put it. Emma forced herself not to think that Jerome was riding on the back of Patrick’s artistic contacts in the French capital because Jerome’s contacts were more of the social kind. Jerome seemed thrilled about the prospect of being introduced to Picasso.

  When Patrick shot concerned, knowing glances her way, Emma simply busied herself with putting on her gloves. Everything should roll forward as she’d planned. When the car she’d organized to convey them to the train station in Marseilles pulled up in the driveway at exactly the minute it was due, Emma whisked into the fresh air and called for Lydia and Calum to come straight out from the house. But Patrick was close behind her.

  “I hate your being alone at Summerfield,” he said, reaching out and drawing a loose strand of hair back under her hat. “You won’t be terribly lonely out there?”

  “Of course not. I’ll have Calum. I’m looking forward to getting back home.” Emma didn’t meet his eyes as she picked up her own valise. She called to Calum and Lydia yet again. She wanted them here. Wanted to put things in motion.

  “Ready to mooch off?” Jerome asked, coming up behind Patrick and leaning his chin on Patrick’s shoulder. “Paris is going to be the bee’s knees.”

  “Have you any particular plans?” Emma asked.

  “Oh, mind your potatoes, Emma. I’d only be feeding you a line if I told you we were anything but spontaneous. None of your killjoy planning for us, Mrs. Temple.”

  “All right, old chap,” Patrick said, reaching to take Emma’s suitcase from where it sat next to her. But she almost tugged it away from him.

  “I might not come to London, though, Jerome. After Paris, perhaps I’ll go down to Summerfield and see Em,” Patrick said.

  For goodness’ sake, Patrick, don’t come and see me unless you want to, Emma fought the urge to shout. Dear God, the deepest humiliation would have to be the sense that someone wanted to see one only because they felt obliged!

  “Oh, once we get you on the giggle water in Paris, you’ll forget all about the damned countryside and old Em. Paris is gasping with my fellow countrymen on the fry. It’s spiffing, and us Ethels are right on the edge of it. Paris is the cat’s meow!”

  Emma lifted her skirt and climbed into the car.

  Three weeks later, she sat in her studio at Summerfield. She’d forced herself into a state of neutrality. Not happy, not miserable, but undoubtedly better being home than in France.

  Ambrose brought his ballerina friend down to visit, but the young woman’s antics and complete lack of understanding of art irritated Emma, and she’d gotten herself in a lather because in some ways, the girl reminded her of Jerome. Emma had been glad when they left, but she admonished herself for being unkind. If Ambrose liked a ballerina, just as Lawrence liked Coco, then she would respect them both for that.

  But she found herself asking the unaskable—whether the idea of living by principles was a wonderful thing in theory, but in practice, was it impossible to do? Never in her life had she struggled so much with adhering to her beliefs on the one hand, while dealing with her feelings on the other. Jerome, Coco, that dancer—she wanted her intimate circle around her, not these distracting people who seemed only to upset the mood that they’d all fought so hard to create.

  But she would never, ever breathe a word, because that went against her beliefs.

  Now she held a letter in her hand from dear, brilliant Ambrose. He was marrying the ballerina and thinking of taking on the house nearest to Summerfield as a country residence. They’d be neighbors. Emma frowned at the thought that he’d picked up on her annoyance when they were visiting and felt he had to give up his room at Summerfield.

  Unfortunately, because she sat at the center of the group, when the needle was sharp, it was Emma whose heart was pierced.

  She’d busy herself with decorative projects, that was one means of escape. She threw herself into them—focusing on Oscar’s bedroom for a full two weeks, painting the fireplace surrounds with a geometric pattern, before pouring yet more of her energy into working on the upstairs library, which was next door to his bedroom. That looked more like a traditional gentleman’s room than any other part of the house and would do nicely for her husband now. She’d lined the space with her father’s books, put down warm Turkish rugs given by Ambrose, and installed two comfortable chairs. She’d even procured a wooden reading stand for Oscar, allowing his books to be propped up while he read. She’d scoured that at a local market on a Sunday when things seemed particularly bl
eak.

  But there was only so much she could do to distract herself from her thoughts before they returned like an invading army. Oscar’s visit, like Ambrose’s, had been a welcome distraction. But he’d brought Mrs. Townsend with him. So Emma had painted her and was going to send that portrait to Lawrence for his next London exhibition.

  Once Oscar had informed his family of her pregnancy and they had agreed to give Emma some financial support, she’d broken the news to her friends. If they had probing questions, they kept them to themselves. And that suited Emma to a T.

  But still, she had not written to Patrick . . .

  When the crackle of bicycle tires on the gravel drive sounded through the open windows, Emma drew her shawl around herself and pulled aside the soft sheer curtain in her attic studio, startling slightly at the feel of her hard, pregnant belly against the wooden windowsill.

  The bicycle stopped in front of the house. A boy with a gray cap perched on his head climbed off it. He took the cap off when Lydia answered the door. Instinctively, Lydia looked up at Emma in the window as if expecting to see Emma hovering there. Goodness, could the girl read her like a transparent book? Emma moved away from the window to stand at the top of the stairs.

  A few moments later, Lydia appeared. “Mrs. Emma, it’s the painting. Patrick’s painting. Of you. The one he did in France.” Lydia twisted her hands about until her apron was in a knot. “It’s arrived.”

  “Oh?” she asked—feeling as if her voice were floating about in the ether. She couldn’t tell whether the interior dancing that she felt was her own insides moving or the baby fluttering about.

  “The painting’s at the local post office. Would you like me to go down and pick it up in the car?”

  The slow murmurs inside Emma became sharp pangs. She was an unwanted ghost in Patrick’s life. He hadn’t brought it himself . . .

  “Please arrange for it to be sent here,” Emma said.

  She went to her studio.

  The following day the painting sat unopened in the dining room near the French doors. It seemed to her a summation of her relationship with Patrick, and she wanted to open it when he was about. It was both an expression, she felt, of the greatest intimacy that they shared and, right now, a cruel reminder of the way Jerome made him so happy that he only sent her the portrait rather than delivering it himself.