Louisa Rawlings

by Forever Wild

  Nat. She saw his dear face before her. He had been gentle, sensitive, denying his passion in deference to her feelings. She had let her foolish fears destroy their love. And now it was too late.

  You made your bed. Now lie in it. “Oh, Nat,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

  Chapter Nine

  Marcy shivered under the coverlet and reached sleepily for Drew to warm her. Drat! He was gone already. She yawned and blinked, pulling the covers more tightly about her. She’d really slept longer than she’d intended, but it was so cold and the bed so cozy. She laughed softly. It had become a game between them. Concerned with the cost of wood, they had begun the winter by letting the stove die out each night before they went to bed; now, with winter half over, it was a game, the toss of a die deciding who would warm the bed each night. She laughed again. Drew had lost last night—she wondered if the loser was obligated to keep the bed warm until the other got up in the morning. She’d discuss it with him tonight. But only if he lost the toss!

  She frowned suddenly. And only if he wasn’t worried about money. They were still getting on, of course, but it was a little tight. Drew had finally managed to persuade Père Martin to hang two of his canvases, but the dealer had made no promises. He’d been buying from the Realists for a few years now, for forty or fifty francs a painting, and they hadn’t sold well. Drew was a newcomer, a foreigner on the scene.

  Of course, Père Martin had said, if Drew could get a painting accepted by the official Salon, it would be a different story. If an artist attracted the public’s attention and favor by exhibiting in the yearly Salon each spring, he could command higher prices. But Monsieur Bradford would have a difficult time getting accepted by the jury, malheureusement. He had not found his style; his paintings were too formal, too self-conscious; his palette alternated between the somber tones of the Renaissance and the bright colors of the new Realists. And with the worldwide banking panic last fall, the market had gone down. At the last minute, Père Martin had taken—on speculation—a few pen and ink drawings of Marcy.

  Marcy sat up and stared unhappily at Drew’s worktable. He must have gotten up again last night to paint. There was a painting of a tree that seemed to have been smeared deliberately, a broken crayon, several torn sketches. And an empty wine bottle.

  She wanted to cry. She was failing him. There were too many nights like that—where all her love was not enough to bring him comfort. She wondered how soon it would be before he remembered that he hadn’t wanted to marry.

  Well, at least she could be of practical help. She jumped out of bed and dressed quickly in the cold room, then wrapped her pink corset and best gray silk petticoat in a piece of muslin, which she tucked in her market basket. It was too cold to have breakfast in the studio; she’d get a small brioche and some coffee at the snug café around the corner. That way, she wouldn’t waste precious coal lighting a fire.

  It had snowed last night. She made her way down the slippery pavement, struck—as always—by the ugliness of a city after a snowfall. In the mountains it would be shiny clean, the snowbanks dazzling to the eye, the dark evergreens capped with white puffs. Here, the carriages had already churned up the roads, leaving snuff-colored ruts dotted with refuse thrown from an occasional window. Along the sides of the road, the soot from thousands of chimneys had turned even the untrampled stretches of snow to a dull gray. Ugly, she thought again, wrapping her shawl more tightly about her thin cloak.

  Just as she was crossing the street at the rue de Londres, a fiacre came bearing down on her; the coachman, his bright red scarf flapping in the crisp air, shouted her out of the way. She leaped back to the sidewalk, slipped on a patch of ice, and landed on her back, managing to hang on to her shawl and basket as she fell. She took a moment to catch her breath, then struggled to her feet, waving off the concerned passersby who had gathered around. She smiled weakly and went on her way. That danged coachman! she thought, rubbing the small of her back. She’d ache for a week.

  She turned into the rue St. Lazare. Number Ten. She nodded to Mr. Stewart’s housekeeper—busy sweeping the snow from the walk—and mounted the steps to his hôtel particulier, his private house. It must be nice, she thought, to be a successful enough painter to afford a house like this. Stewart greeted her at the door.

  “Good morning, m’dear. You’re late.”

  “Sorry. I took a tumble on the ice and had to walk slowly.”

  Stewart grimaced in concern. He looked more like a rabbit than ever. “Oh, but it’s not serious, I trust.”

  “No. I’ll get into my things right away.” She followed him into his well-appointed studio. It was always a pleasure to pose for him, and never more so than on such a chilly day. The large stove near the model’s platform radiated warmth. He rang for some tea, “just to take the chill off, don’t you know,” while she stepped behind a large screen and climbed out of her green gown, pulled off her plain petticoat. Over her lace chemise she hooked on her pink silk corset, tying it as tightly as she could, then followed it with her good gray petticoat. She threw her shawl about her shoulders for a temporary cover and crossed the room to the platform.

  While he fussed with the shades of the skylight, adjusting them for the proper light, she took off her shawl and drank her tea, sitting on the pale green sofa. She was always amused by what came next, as he checked her pose against the painting. He really did look like a plump little rabbit, scurrying back and forth from his large canvas to where she sat; fluffing out a bow on her petticoat; moving the position of an arm; patting a wayward curl on her head. “Lift your right shoulder a bit.” “No. That’s too high.” “Pull down your chemise. You showed a little more bosom yesterday.” At last, declaring himself satisfied, he picked up his palette and brushes and began to paint. He frowned, his eyes on her waist. “How long have I been working on this picture?”

  “About a month, I think.”

  “Damme, if you don’t seem to have put on a bit of heft, m’dear.”

  She smiled. “Perhaps I have.” And likely to put on more, my English rabbit, she thought. If what she suspected was so. She was glad now she’d decided to take this job as Stewart’s model. If there was a baby on the way, they’d need the extra money. She hadn’t told Drew, of course. About the baby or the job. He’d only make a fuss. She’d tell him about her condition after she’d been to see a doctor. As for the posing, since she and Mr. Stewart had agreed that her current state of déshabillé (he liked fancy French words) was as undressed as she intended to get, what was the harm?

  “How is your husband’s painting coming along, m’dear?”

  “Well enough. He’s working hard.”

  Stewart squinted at her, his thumb held out at arm’s length. “He’d do better to stay away from that mad crowd of painters. They’re dotty. I’ve heard them talk. Light and shadow. The ‘virgin impression of nature.’ A lot of claptrap!”

  “Drew doesn’t think so.”

  Stewart snorted. “He should have been here when they started showing their paintings ten years ago. At the Salon des Refusès. Because the Academy was wise enough to reject their new ideas. That critic Wolff at Le Figaro has made his reputation just by mocking their works. Incomplete perspectives. Visible brushstrokes, ye gods! Those strange angles they claim to have borrowed from Japanese prints. And the colors! Like children’s artwork.”

  “I like them,” she said defensively, half rising to her feet.

  He shook his head. “Well, they’re too modern for my taste. Settle back in your chair. And tilt your chin up. I want the color of your eyes to show.”

  The session today seemed interminable. Her back had begun to ache from the fall on the ice. When Stewart’s cook brought lunch, she picked at her food, her appetite strangely gone.

  At last Stewart put down his palette and brushes and took off his painting smock. “We’ll stop a little early today, m’dear. You seem tired.” He crossed to the platform, reached into his pocket, and pulled out two franc notes, press
ing them into her hand.

  She looked up, startled. “That’s twice what you usually pay me.”

  He smiled, showing his big front teeth. “I thought maybe you’d stay a trifle longer, m’dear.” Abruptly he plunged his hand down the front of her chemise.

  She gasped and scrambled away from him. “You dirty old man. You’re old enough to be my father. My grandfather!”

  “Now, now, Marcy…a friendly chat. I’m a lonely man.” He lunged for her. He was surprisingly agile for his age and bulk.

  Tarnation! How was she going to get out of here? She had to get her clothes. But they were on the other side of the room from the door. And by the time she reached them, he could have the door locked and the key in his pocket! She had a sudden wild thought. Evading his hands, she headed for the large canvas in the middle of the room. She snatched up a brush, poised it in front of the picture. “Do you want to lose a month’s work?”

  He stopped dead in his tracks. “You wouldn’t!”

  “Danged if I would! The very idea!”

  His gray side whiskers seemed to droop mournfully against his cheeks. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just thought you’d let me touch you for a bit.”

  She waved the franc notes angrily. “For money?”

  “Why not? All the women do. How do I know you’re Bradford’s wife and not just his mistress? I don’t want to do anything. Just touch your breasts. And paint them, perhaps.”

  He was getting a stubborn look around his mouth. She made a move for the door. “I’m leaving.”

  He blocked the way. “No.”

  She inched her way back to the painting, picked up the brush again. “Bring me my things from behind the screen. And put them on the floor near me. Do it, dang you, or I’ll ruin this painting! And when you’re done, go and sit on the sofa.” She began to undress down to her chemise and drawers, watching him carefully to see he didn’t move from the sofa. She knew she could destroy the painting before he reached her, but still…

  “You’re being very unfair,” he sulked. “I could tell everyone you’ve been coming here to sell yourself to me.”

  What a nasty little man. She dressed in her plain petticoat and green gown, wrapped up her other clothes in the basket, put on her cloak and shawl. She held up the money. “One franc is for my modeling fee.” Her lips curled in disgust. “The other is for looking. And touching!” Deliberately she dipped the brush into a dab of black paint on his palette and, with two quick strokes, painted a mustache on her likeness. “Au revoir. M’dear!” she said, and swept from the room.

  She giggled all the way down the street. But after a while it didn’t seem so funny. She’d been counting on the money the modeling would bring in. And he was the only artist she knew who was rich enough to pay.

  At the Place de Clichy, she picked up some bread and cheese and herring for supper. And her daily flower from Jacques. A lovely blue hyacinth today. She stared at a packet of narcissus bulbs. She’d love to get another potted plant. Something she could grow herself. But her poor geranium plant had long since died in the cold studio.

  She shivered. She really didn’t want to go home to that chilly room yet. Not while her back was still aching so. Drew would be at the Café Guerbois. All the painters gathered there. After their classes. After their lonely hours in a studio. And the Café Guerbois was warm. She turned off the Place, hearing the sounds of music and laughter long before she reached the café.

  It must be crowded today. Drew had been telling her about the new association they’d formed—Monet, Renoir, Sisley, Degas, and the rest. Tired of the rejections from the official Salon, they had decided to stage an exhibition of their works. Manet, having finally achieved a big success at the last Salon, had declined to join them. It had cost Drew sixty francs to join the association, and he had only a few completed paintings, but he was determined to show in April with the others.

  Renoir was laughing when she came in, leaning across the marble table to slap Drew jovially on the back. He looked up and waved, his liquid brown eyes appraising her. An artist’s eyes in an artist’s face, with its sharp nose and sensuous lips. He was thirty-three and still struggling, but at least he didn’t suffer as Monet did with a wife and child to support. “Ah! La belle Marcy!” he cried. It always sounded different when they said her name in French.

  She smiled and nodded back, endeavoring to catch a word or two of the greetings from the men around the table. Drew made room for her on the red leather banquette beside him, but as twilight came on and the wine and absinthe flowed, she found herself bored with conversation she could scarcely understand, with the painter’s realm that was barred to her even if she’d known the language. And the ache in her back was now a low, throbbing pain. “Let’s go home, Drew,” she said at last.

  He turned to her with a frown. “My God, Marcy. We’ve got to decide how we’re to hang the paintings!”

  “I’m getting a cup of coffee,” she said, pushing past him on the banquette. Already deep in conversation with Degas, he scarcely heard her. She stood up and went to the bar to order coffee.

  “With a beautiful face like that, one should not be sad. N’est-ce pas?”

  Marcy turned. One of the young artists. Degas’s protégé. “Oh, Leopold. I’m just tired. Fatiguée.”

  “And a little…how do you say…triste? Sad.”

  “I don’t understand what they’re talking about.”

  He shook his head, his eyes searching her face. “It isn’t the words that puzzle you. It is the passion, n’est-ce pas?”

  She gulped back her tears. She was tired, and her body ached, and he had touched the sorest part of her heart. “It’s just that I can’t reach him. We don’t laugh much anymore. If it is a passion, as you say, it doesn’t make him happy.”

  “I am fortunate. I know my limits. I am…ah! comme on dit…ordinary. Mediocre. I do not suffer as the others do.”

  “Is Drew a good painter? I think so. I try to tell him so. But…”

  “It is what one thinks of himself that matters.”

  “What can I do?” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “Rien. Nothing.”

  She returned to the table and stood above Drew, her hand on his shoulder. He turned his head, smiled that funny smile of his, kissed her fingers. “Claude wants you to sit for him. He says you’re very beautiful.” He said something to Monet in French. Renoir laughed and offered a comment. Marcy caught the words l’Anglais and Stewart.

  Drew rose to his feet, his eyes like blue ice. “Are you, Marcy? Are you sitting for Stewart?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But you did,” he said accusingly. “And didn’t tell me.”

  “I said I might.”

  “Though I asked you not to.”

  She stuck out an angry chin. “And I told you I’d make up my own mind!”

  “My dear, stubborn Marcy,” he said. His voice was as cold as his eyes. “And he paid you?”

  “Of course.”

  He smiled bitterly. “Do you have so little faith in me?”

  “No, Drew. I…”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out eight francs. “Here,” he said, slapping the coins into her hand. “Père Martin sold the drawings. I’d almost forgotten you were the girl who wanted to marry a rich man.”

  His words were like a knife to her heart. “Dang you, Drew Bradford,” she whispered. “I’m going home.”

  He caught up with her halfway down the street. “Marcy, I’m sorry.” He swung her into his arms, kissed her until she was breathless.

  She snuggled against him. All was right with the world. She giggled. “Oh, Drew. You’ll never guess why I’ve stopped posing for Stewart.” All the way back to the studio she told him the story, skipping only the part where Stewart had actually touched her bosom.

  Drew laughed uproariously. “A mustache! You imp! You didn’t really spoil his painting!” They had reached home. While Marcy lit the lamp, Drew started a fire in the stove. �
�All the same,” he said, pulling her into his arms, “I don’t want you to pose again for money. In or out of your clothes!”

  She reached up, brushed the wayward black curl from his forehead. “What if we need the money?” Should she tell him about the baby?

  “We’ll manage.”

  “What about your parents?”

  He released her and turned away. “I don’t think my mother intends to lift a finger, no matter what happens.”

  “And your father?”

  “My father has made conditions I can’t possibly accept.”

  “But Drew…” She stopped and gasped, her eyes wide with shock. The ache in her back had become a terrible, wrenching pain. She felt as though her insides had given way in a great rush that was suddenly becoming a bloody pool upon the floor. “Oh, no. Oh, no,” she moaned. She reeled and would have fallen but for Drew’s strong arms.

  She heard the anguish in his voice, just before darkness closed over her. “Marcy,” he said. “What in the name of God am I doing to you?”

  The open barouche made its way slowly up Broadway, passing City Hall Park. Willough shivered in the chill winter air and tucked the fur lap robe more snugly around her. Fumbling in her handbag, she pulled out a handkerchief and held it to her nose. The smells of the city were nauseating her again: the horse manure from the drays and carts and carriages; the filthy, squealing pigs that roamed the street and rooted around the trees in the park; the stink of burning coal from shops and factories. She found herself thinking of Nat—he would have wondered what this part of the city looked like before “civilization” took away its beauty and charm.

  On the corner of Reade Street she saw a tattered beggar clutching the remnants of a uniform around him. A forgotten casualty of the War between the States. We use up everything in this country, she thought. Men, and land, and resources. Without a backward glance. All in the name of Mammon. She pulled a coin from her purse and turned to the footman behind her. He nodded, took the coin, and leaped off the back of the coach to press the money into the old soldier’s hand. The footman ran alongside the moving coach for a moment; when they stopped to let a horsecar pass, he swung himself up to his perch again.