Her head snapped to the side, eyes wide. “But I went to his studio. If it wasn’t his, then whose was it?”
“I couldn’t say. Do you remember the address?” William asked.
“No, but I remember the location. Whoever the studio belongs to, the artist probably knows Monsieur Watin. At least I can purchase paints and canvases.” She squeezed Polly’s hand again. “What do you want to do, sweetie?”
“Get away from here. I’m afraid they’ll take our carriage.”
“Don’t be silly,” Patsy said. “William won’t let anything happen to us. Mademoiselle Orsini didn’t have anyone protecting her. We do. We should at least try to purchase art supplies before we return.”
Polly nodded, seemingly at a loss for words, but she kept her hand tightly wrapped in Sophia’s. For a dark instant, Sophia was back in the middle of the mob, being flung onto the mattress. She gulped down her distress and exhaled calmly, trying to make sure her voice would reveal nothing about her true state of mind.
“Take a right at the Hôtel de Ville, then a left at the next block,” she said.
William relayed the directions to the coachman and the snap of the coachman’s whip urged the horses forward, but the carriage barely crawled along the edge of the square.
When the mob realized the coachman wasn’t going to yield the right of way to pedestrians, they finally moved aside, shaking their fists and shouting obscenities. Polly snatched her hand out of Sophia’s grasp and covered her ears.
Why had Sophia insisted on a shopping expedition when she knew what was likely to happen? It was one thing to go out by herself, but why include the girls? “I’m sorry I suggested we go shopping.”
Polly sniffed, “I wanted to. I just—”
“Didn’t know how bad it would be.” Sophia gave her a tight smile. “As soon as we get farther away, it won’t seem as scary.”
A block from the square the crowd thinned, and a breeze off the river eased the misery of the stifling heat. Although the streets were now passable, tension hung over Paris like a giant cloth baldachin, holding in the smoke, violence, and anger, letting it churn and gain momentum. Every day would be worse than the day before.
When the carriage passed the Hôtel de Ville, Sophia refused to glance out the window. But she didn’t need to look to remember what happened. In her mind, her hand began to sketch the outlines of the scene. Then, as if in time-lapsed photography, the sketch added details until the governor lay butchered in the gutter in a pool of bright red blood.
The carriage bumped when it turned right, and the motion forced her forward. She automatically braced with her feet. Her knees absorbed the impact, and she gasped. “Jesus Christ!”
William drew a startled breath. “Mademoiselle Orsini, what’s wrong?”
Four wide eyes stared at Sophia. Make it six. William gawked at her too. She couldn’t speak, the pain radiating up and down her leg was too intense. Finally, she said, haltingly, “I…p-put pressure”—she sucked air between her teeth—“on my knee. Hurts.”
If she’d been at home, she would have plunged her leg into an ice bath.
The pain was a throbbing heat coming at her in breaking waves. Several seconds ticked by. She focused on her other knee—the one that didn’t hurt—and the three faces staring at her. Slowly her pain pulled back like the outgoing tide, taking a thin layer with it. Her knee didn’t hurt less, but their worry hurt her more.
She made a frail attempt at a smile. “It’s better now.”
All three released audible sighs, but sharp concern lingered in their eyes.
“It must have been so horrible after all you went through yesterday to hurt your knee too,” Polly said. “Is it better now?” The empathetic child turned her attention to Sophia instead of what was happening around her. The concern in her voice was enough to break Sophia’s heart. The loss Polly had experienced in her short life—her mother’s death, her sister’s death, separation from an aunt she adored, and her father and older sister’s long absences—would have turned most children into sulky, bad-tempered kids, but not Polly.
The pain switched from a screeching throb to a manageable one. “It was, sweetie. But the people weren’t intentionally mean. They just got caught up in the moment. They’ve lived with tyranny for generations.” Sophia cocked her head toward the window. “Listen to what they’re shouting. Do you hear it?”
“Liberté,” Polly said. “All people should be free. It’s what Papa wrote in the Declaration of Independence—Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
“Except for the Negroes,” Patsy said. “Papa should have included them.”
“I agree,” Sophia said. “So rather than wait for the law to change in America, we must continue to treat all people, regardless of color, with the dignity they deserve.”
“What do you think will happen in Paris? Will the people return to their farms?” Polly asked. “Or will they stay and gather at the square every day?”
“After they get assurances, things will change, they’ll go home. Then General Lafayette will lead his country through a long, bloody rebellion, just as he helped America through its war.” Sophia glanced out the window to get her bearings. The shops looked vaguely familiar. “We’re close,” she said to William. The carriage continued down the cobblestone street. “There,” she pointed. “That’s it.” She lifted her leg in anticipation of another jerky stop.
“Stop here,” William shouted to the coachman. “I’ll go inside and find out whose studio this is.” He opened the door and alighted.
“I’ll go with you, William.” Patsy climbed out without waiting for him to answer.
Polly moved to the opposite side of the carriage to sit next to Sophia. “I’ll wait here with the mademoiselle.”
Sophia squeezed Polly’s hand and forced herself to relax. By nature, she was not an anxious person, and she found being jittery both annoying and unproductive. But the startling events yesterday—arriving at the wrong time, discovering she was stuck there, and the injury to her knee—had thrown her off her game. Recovery would take longer than twenty-four hours.
The sun streamed through the carriage window like a spotlight shining on their interlaced fingers. Polly’s small hands were smooth and silky, with a tiny scratch on one finger, and Sophia’s were tanned with slightly swollen joints. For the last few years, she’d suffered through bouts of repetitive strain injury, and while Tai Chi helped with stretching and blood flow, she’d needed to modify her posture and how she held paintbrushes. Sitting in one position for several hours yesterday afternoon had irritated her right hand, and using crutches made it worse. Her fingers needed to stretch, but she didn’t want to unclasp their hands.
“Polly,” Sophia said. “I was thinking about what colors work best with your warm olive skin tone. And I think pink, purple, or green. What color ribbons do you have at home?”
Polly glanced up, as if studying the frame of the carriage top. “Red, blue, green, purple, and black. What color should I use?”
“Green or purple, maybe pink,” Sophia said. “What’s your favorite color?”
Before Polly could answer, William and Patsy returned with Monsieur Watin. Sophia’s heart lifted, as if she’d reconnected with a lifelong friend. She’d learned several years ago in a victims’ recovery class that a shared or similar bad experience bonded people who would never have connected otherwise.
The monsieur opened the carriage door, smiling warmly. “Mademoiselle Orsini, thank God you are safe.” He reached for her hand and kissed the backs of her fingers. “Jacques and I were so distraught when we became separated. We searched the streets and even returned here, looking for you.”
Sophia leaned forward. “I’m sorry I caused you distress. When I couldn’t find you, I ran away.”
“Jacques told me this morning that you reached the ambassador’s house.” Watin ran his hand slowly down the smooth wood of her crutches, smiling appreciatively. “I was sorry to hear about your accid
ent. I hope it’s not too serious.”
“More annoying than painful. I’ll recover in a few days.”
“You were fortunate to find Ambassador Jefferson.” He glanced at Polly. “I just met Martha. You must be Maria. I’m Léopold Watin, artist and color merchant.”
“How lovely,” Polly said, sounding exactly like Sophia. “Mademoiselle Orsini is going to paint our portraits.”
“Well, the mademoiselle will need paint and canvases. Come.” He handed the crutches to William. Then, without asking, he lifted Sophia out of the carriage and carried her inside the shop.
“So this is your color shop, too?” she asked, accepting the crutches from William.
“The front is my studio. The back is my workshop. I can provide every necessary item for painting and drawing. I will grind the colors to your specifications. I also have brushes, frames, stretchers, easels. Whatever you need.”
“A one-stop shop. But I’m confused. I thought this was Monsieur David’s studio. His painting of the Lavoisiers is here.”
“D’Angiviller, director of the King’s Buildings, issued an order prohibiting all artists from teaching female students in the Louvre. Jacques occasionally takes on a female student and works with her here. As for the painting, it will remain until it’s safe to display at the Salon.”
Sophia nodded slowly. “Now it makes sense.”
He opened a door, swung it wide, and directed her with his outstretched hand. “Come into the back and we will discuss what you need.”
She hobbled through the doorway into a room about half the size of her studio, feeling instantly at home. She crutched down one side lined with shelves loaded to overflowing with books, paper, charcoal, crayons, still life objects, paint splatter boards, and jars with paintbrushes, solvents and thinners. Two easels were set up in a corner holding blank canvases. The other side of the room was a work area, and the countertop was covered with artist tools and materials.
“What is this, mademoiselle?” Polly asked.
Sophia crutched over to her with Watin hovering at her side. “That’s a chunk of lapis lazuli,” Watin said.
“It’s a semiprecious gem found primarily in the Middle East,” Sophia added. “It’s one of the most expensive sources for ultramarine pigment in the world. The signature hue is slightly greenish blue to violetish blue, medium to dark in tone.”
“Are you going to paint with this color?” Polly asked.
Sophia picked up the chunk, brought it to her nose, and sniffed, getting a faint whiff of the sulfur content of the stone. “I couldn’t paint without it.”
Polly pointed to an object next to a powdered pigment. “And this?”
Sophia set the stone aside and picked up the object. “It’s an animal-skin bladder. Painters store oil paints in them, then seal them with ivory tacks to prevent the paint from drying out.”
“How clever,” Polly said. “What other colors are you going to use?”
Sophia continued crutching her way around the shop, looking at items on the shelves. William leaned against the wall near the door, writing in a pocket-sized notebook. Even though he appeared engrossed in what he was doing, Sophia had a sense he hadn’t missed one word of their conversation.
She answered Polly’s question, saying, “For portraits, I’ll use more flesh tones. Landscapes and your papa’s garden will require a broader range of greens and browns.” Some of the greens, such as Paris green, were highly toxic, and she’d have to wear a mask and keep the room well ventilated. “I won’t be painting any en camaieu.”
“A painting with only one color. Why would a painter do such a thing?” Patsy asked. “I learned to draw flowers and landscapes at the Abbaye Royale de Panthemont and we always used several colors.”
“It’s another form of art,” Sophia said. “A painter might use two or three tints of the same color other than gray to create a monochromatic image. Jean-Baptiste Pillement has several en camaieu paintings. They’re masterful, but it doesn’t work for what I paint.”
Watin sauntered over to his desk, opened a leatherbound book, and dipped a quill pen into an ink pot. “If you intend to paint portraits and landscapes, will your canvases need to be in a variety of sizes?”
Patsy picked up the lapis. “How do you make paint out of a rock?”
“The colors are ground up with fine nut or linseed oil. Within a couple of seconds, you’ll have your paint color.” She turned toward Watin. “I’ll need a palette and an easel. No, make that two easels. I’ll move back and forth between paintings.”
Watin wrote in his journal. “How many canvases?”
“Several pure European linen three-quarters, half-length sizes. Whatever you have, all on stretchers.”
“Linen is more expensive.”
She picked up an H-shaped stretcher made of dark wood. “Cost doesn’t matter. Get me the best you can, along with a complete chest of fifteen to twenty oil colors, fine Swiss crayons, charcoal, chalk, pencils, and drawing paper.”
She glanced around the shop again. “Am I forgetting anything?” In Florence she had a supplier who came to her studio weekly, checked her stock, and resupplied as necessary. “Can I pay you to come by my studio every couple of days? I’ll be painting from first light until the sun goes down and won’t have time to keep up with my inventory. If I need a color and don’t have it, I won’t be a happy painter.”
Watin gave her a blank nod, as if he didn’t understand what she was asking. “You want me to visit your studio to see how much paint you have?”
“Or don’t have, along with brushes, paper, chalk—everything. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“No one has ever asked me to do that, but I will. If,” he added, grinning, “you’ll let me see what you’re painting.”
“Sure. I let anyone who wants to see what I’m doing have a look, but I don’t allow any comments. I don’t want to hear anything that might distort or influence what I’m painting. As I get close to finishing, I’ll ask the sitter what they think, but not before.”
“I won’t say anything.” Watin ran his finger down the list he’d written in the journal. “Two easels—”
“Make it three,” Sophia said.
Watin scratched through an item on his list. “And a palette. What about brushes?”
“Who makes your brushes?” she asked.
“A crafts guild in Nuremberg.”
“Why there?” Polly asked.
Sophia picked up a paintbrush and examined it. “I don’t know, but these are excellent brushes.” She picked up another brush and smoothed the hairs over her palm. “Is this Russian sable?”
“I have less expensive brushes, but most of the ones I sell are sable.”
“Do you have anything other than round and blunt brushes?”
“No, mademoiselle. I haven’t heard of other shapes.”
At home she used bristle brushes almost exclusively, in a variety of shapes: chiseled edge, flat, round, and fan-shaped for blending one wet color into another. Since Watin didn’t have a variety of shapes, she’d trim the brushes to make do. “I’ll take four dozen.”
Watin’s eyebrows shot up. “Four? Dozen?”
“I’ll be working on at least three projects at the same time. When I need a clean brush, I don’t want to wait for one.” She set the brush down and fanned herself. The studio was as stifling as the carriage had been, and sweat trickled down between her breasts. Even the slight breeze coming off the river couldn’t budge the heat from the morning sun, which streamed directly through the south-facing window. “How long will it take to get the order together?”
Watin tapped the tip of his pen against the page. “I’ll prime the canvases this afternoon and deliver your order in the morning.”
“Wonderful. That means I have today to set up a studio and help the girls decide what to wear, since we didn’t get to the market to buy fabric for new dresses.”
“If you think of something else, send word in the morning and I’l
l include it,” he said.
She crutched over to Watin’s desk and eased into a chair on the opposite side. Polly followed, took the crutches from Sophia, and leaned them against the wall. Sophia patted the arm of her chair. “You can sit here.”
Patsy stood on the other side of the room next to William. “Where are you going to store all the painting supplies?”
“Good question. Your father didn’t offer me a work space, and I didn’t think to ask. All I require is a room with good light from the north.”
“You could use the room across from his cabinet. He designed it to be his reading room, but he rarely uses it,” Patsy said.
“I’ll have to see if there’s enough light from the windows.”
“It has a door opening to a private garden. You could open it and have even more light,” Polly suggested.
If the private garden was designed like the one she visited last night, it would be an alluring and intimate setting for a portrait. “It’s up to your father. If I knew how much room I’ll have, I’d order four easels instead of three.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to be that close to Jefferson and have him constantly looking over her shoulder. She pulled out her leather pouch. “This is a big order. I’ll pay a deposit. How much do you want?”
“It’s not necessary, mademoiselle. I can wait until you’re paid.”
“Ambassador Jefferson and I have an agreement. I’m painting in exchange for room and board. Oh, I almost forgot. I need to replace his ruled drawing paper. He probably uses it for architectural drawings, and I used several sheets.”
Watin closed his notebook. “I know several Americans who would open their homes in Paris and Versailles and wouldn’t require you to paint for your room and board. Women are always welcome.”
Watin was truly an old soul concealed beneath classic good looks, brown eyes, and dark, wavy hair. Handsome, charming, and a Frenchman.
“The male-dominated art academies in Paris wouldn’t be as welcoming,” she said.
“A foreign woman wouldn’t be a threat, and besides, you’re passing through and wouldn’t disrupt the established patronage circuits or meddle in the Academy’s business. As engaging as you are, you’ll be seen as a sparkling ornament.”
The Pearl Brooch Page 18