Girl in the Afternoon (22 page)

The mattress sagged as Madame Savaray sat on the edge. “You got that baby out, for one thing,” she said. “Almost lost your life in the effort.”

The burst of energy Aimée had bolted up with was already depleted. It was hard to hold her head up.

“I don't know the whole of it. I've only been here for a few days.” Madame Savaray peeled a strand of moist hair off Aimée's cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “It's a good thing you didn't go to your grave, my dear. Your parents would never have forgiven me.” She gave a quick, tender smile. “I knew you'd pull through. I told Henri, she may look itty-bitty and frail, but she's solid.” She tapped a gentle finger on Aimée's chest. “More strength in there than most. What irks me is that no proper physician was called in. Something ruptured, was the diagnosis from that incompetent midwife.
Something?
How preposterous. And then you were left in the care of Leonie, who, I must say under the circumstances, did a fine job. But she is not, after all, a proper nurse. Did you know she was the only one with you when that baby was born?”

Aimée had a vacant, stupefied look on her face that worried Madame Savaray. She tucked the sheet around her
petite-fille
's legs and pulled the blanket over her lap.

“Where's my baby?” Aimée asked, milk leaking from her nipples, soaking the front of her nightdress. The one thing she remembered clearly was the tingling sensation, the suckling and pulling, the flow of milk through her breasts that were now lumpy, hard and swollen.

“She's gone to the nurse.” Madame Savaray picked up a glass of water. “Here.” Aimée took a sip and handed it back.

“A girl?” Aimée closed her eyes.

“Yes.”

“What's her name?”

“Jeanne.” Madame Savaray set the water down with a thump. “Open your eyes,” she said, and Aimée did. “Now, my dear, you are not to think of that baby.” She cupped Aimée's chin, the pads of her fingers soft and wrinkled as if they'd been soaked in water. “It was a mistake having you nurse her. I doubt, very much, it was what kept you alive, even though Leonie insists upon it.” Madame Savaray stood up and went to the window. She unlatched the shutters and swung them out. “Stuffy as a barn in here.”

Aimée dropped her head back and shut her eyes.

Outside there was a light drizzle, and the smell of spring rain and manure reminded Madame Savaray of her childhood. “Your papa suspects nothing. Your letters were thoroughly convincing. They think I'm at an inn in Valvins for the week. I told them I needed some country air. But they don't care what I do. Auguste's rarely home anymore. Spends most of his time at the factory, or else cavorting about in cafés. Your maman hardly leaves her room.”

Aimée remembered her maman lying in bed for weeks after her babies died. She understood now how distinct her pain was, how unbearable. It was the same pain that filled Aimée's womb, her breasts, ran between her legs, wrapped around her stomach, and burst open in her chest.

“Your maman's dropped all frivolity and fashion.” Madame Savaray flicked a tiny black spider from the sill. “And wouldn't you know, I actually miss the old Colette? Things are pitifully dull. She rarely goes out. Hardly visits anyone. She embroiders all day. You should see the pillow covers piling up. I've tried to get her to stop, even suggested she throw one of her soirées again, and I despised those things. But she won't listen to me. We've always put each other out of countenance, and I'm afraid that hasn't changed.”

What was too entangled to explain was the odd, mutual understanding that had sprung between her and Colette. Without Jacques or Aimée, without the soirées or social engagements, every day was a struggle to stave off the boredom that consumed them both.

Colette had confessed that she now understood Madame Savaray's need to wash the kitchen floors all those years ago during the war. And what Madame Savaray now understood—but still couldn't bring herself to say to Colette—was that Colette's indulgence in fashion, her elaborate soirées, came from the simple desire to be good at something, to be productive and busy. It was no different from Madame Savaray working in her husband's factory. They were just women looking to be needed.

Madame Savaray looked at her
petite-fille,
eyes shut tight against the world. “My dear,” she said, softly, wishing she had done a better job of saving her. “You're going to be all right again, in time.”

Aimée opened her eyes. “I'm terribly weak.”

“That will pass. I've written Lady Arrington that you are unwell. We'll arrange your passage as soon as you're fit.”

Aimée pressed the blanket to her chest. The milk had started a steady flow that trickled down her stomach. She wanted to cry; she felt enormous sobs welling up.

Madame Savaray could see the tears coming, and, as much as she understood, it was not something she cared to witness. It would only make things worse. “I'll send Leonie up with some tea,” she said. “And Jacques is anxious to see you and give you a
pat, pat
.” Madame raised her eyebrows. “Apparently, this is what he calls a kiss? If you ask me, children ought to be taught the proper words for things, not indulged in comical nicknames.”

Tears sprang the moment her
grand-mère
closed the door, with sobs so overwhelming that Aimée felt completely out of control. She clamped her hands over her breasts as if stopping the flow of milk would stem this unbearable loss. She wondered if it was the nursing that had bonded her to the baby, or if they were bonded in a way people are when they survive something together. It didn't matter now. Jeanne would soon forget the smell of Aimée's skin and the feel of her body. She would create new bonds. It was Aimée who would never be able to replace the warmth of that small body nestled against her. Over time, she told herself, she'd learn to tolerate the grief, but she was new to this sort of pain, and didn't yet fully understand the weight of it.

 

LONDON 1878

 

Chapter 26

Henri sat eating a tasteless meat pie, in a dank pub that smelled of yeast and rye and whiskey. He'd already finished two glasses of dark beer. Raising his head to the bartender, he pointed to his empty glass. “Could I trouble you for another?” He could hear the slight French accent he'd acquired.

With his own heavy brogue, the bartender said, “Not from these parts, eh?”

Henri said no, he was not. “Me brother-in-law runs an inn down the street if you're lookin' for one,” the man said, refilling Henri's beer from a large pitcher. “Just ya ask for a Miss Gerty.”

The inn was an airless, two-story brick building, and had the same cool, damp feel as the pub. Miss Gerty, a woman with blotchy skin and gnarled teeth, led him upstairs, gave him a fresh basin of water, set an unlit candle by his bed, and left him to his own.

Henri collapsed on the bed and pulled the thin quilt over his legs. He felt miserable, with nothing to encourage him other than the possibility of seeing Aimée again.

The last time he saw her was at the train station, three years ago. She was standing on the platform wearing a green jacket that flared over her hips. Her hat was at a tilt, and the wind had undone her hair on one side. For a moment he stood close enough to touch her, but the train whistle blew, and she said a sideways good-bye, and stepped onto the railcar. A ripple of fear had swept through Henri, and he'd reached out and caught her arm. He needed something more, a good-bye that he could hold on to. But Aimée turned to him with a look of such despair, a look that said there would be no recovering anything, that he'd dropped her arm and let her go without a word.

Henri closed his eyes against the memory, against the filthy room and the dingy light that came from the window. He had made a promise to come here, had vowed on Aimée's life, that night Jeanne was born. But he'd never wanted to do this. He'd never felt the urge to go back to his roots, dig them up, expose them. A thing died when you dug it up. Might as well leave it buried. The gallant search for truth, well, Henri just couldn't see the point.

He rolled onto his side. Laughter came through the thin floorboards, and the bed reeked of a vile odor. Henri thought of moving to another room, or another inn, but he could barely afford this wretched place, and the next was sure to be just as bad.

What he wanted was to go home, to forget the whole thing. Two weeks ago, on the fifth of May, they had celebrated Jeanne's third birthday. Henri could picture the candied violets Leonie had on the table, and the bouquet of bluebells Jacques had gathered. On the back of Jeanne's chair hung a straw hat with a blue satin ribbon. Jacques had picked out the hat from the draper in town. There was also a porcelain doll with real hair; shiny, dark ringlets just like Jeanne's. This had come in the post with no letter. Leonie set it on the table as she had with the gifts sent for Jeanne's first and second birthdays. She refused to remove it even when Jacques begged her to. He was sure the doll would take all the attention away from the hat. But when Jeanne came tumbling down the stairs, she put the hat on straightaway and wore it all through breakfast.

Picturing his family, Henri shifted onto his back and closed his eyes, trying for sleep, which was impossible with the ruckus below. He hadn't been honest with Leonie. He hadn't even been honest with himself, until now. He would have put this trip off forever, made excuses for years, because he had not really come to fulfill some bargain made long ago in the middle of the night. It was his desire to see Aimée that had driven him here.

Despite the noise downstairs, and the rank smell of the bed, Henri's breath deepened, and his eyes dropped shut again. As he sank into sleep, he felt a sense that something devastating and irretrievable had been set off, and he tried to come back up, but it was too late. He fell heavier and faster, until, finally, he slept.

*   *   *

The
address in Henri's pocket brought him to a large house on Sussex Place. He'd been in England for two weeks, and only yesterday received an official invitation from Lady Arrington.

He felt incredibly nervous following the butler into the drawing room, and when he saw Aimée perched on the edge of her seat, pale and unacceptably thin, he froze in the doorway. It reminded him of the night Jeanne was born. Her eyes were flat, her skin chalky, and her lips white. She looked childlike, and somehow terribly old at the same time.

“I don't bite,” she said, and Henri was relieved to hear a flicker of the old Aimée.

He sat across from her, wheeling the brim of his hat through his fingers and smiling stupidly.

“What brings you to London?” Aimée asked, courteous and cold, her face an eerie, emotionless mask.

“I've come to see my father.”

“I see.”

“Yes, well, it's an awful business. But, I suppose I've put it off long enough.”

Aimée's lips twitched, but she said nothing.

“Are you unwell?” Henri scooted to the edge of his seat, longing to reach a hand out to her.

“I'm perfectly well, thank you.”

“You're much too thin.”

Aimée gave a sharp laugh. “The English don't take nearly as much pleasure in food as we French do.”

“No, they certainly do not. The inn's served pigeon pie every night this week.”

“I'm simply tired to death of meat pie. Lady Arrington's cook uses far too much clove.”

“Why do you stay on?” Henri looked around the room. Clearly there were servants, and yet everything appeared coated in a fine layer of dust. The furnishings, the floral wallpaper and gilt mirrors were elaborate, but unsettling.

He looked at Aimée, whose gaze rested slightly above his head. She had not yet looked him in the eye.

“Last month,” she said, her attention on the far wall, “I sold a painting for four hundred pounds and in the same week sought a commission for two hundred guineas, but then lost it to Sir Millais, who was paid over one thousand for the same project, which always enrages me, the advantage men have. And yet, it is never surprising.” There was no sentiment behind her words, as if the outrage had passed and left behind a dulled complacency.

“If it's any consolation,” Henri said, “I've sold nothing since you left. If it weren't for your papa's money, I don't know how we'd survive. I keep painting, but I'm as unimpressive as ever.” He propped his hat on his knee. “You'll get more commissions. It seems as if you're on your way with your art, and that's what you want, isn't it?”

“Louise Jopling's
The Modern Cinderella
will be showing at the Paris Exposition Universelle this summer.
That
is what I want,” she said, and Henri saw a flicker of life still in her, “to be wildly successful.” She looked, all of a sudden, very much like her maman. “You know,” she stared right at him now, “that first day in the cottage at Thoméry I realized that I belonged nowhere.” She flicked her hand. “I might as well stay on here. It's no worse a place than any other.”

The parlor door swung open, and Lady Arrington stepped briskly into the room. She circled around, stealthy as a cat, and planted herself in front of Henri, looking at him with pale, watery eyes like she'd caught him in some wicked act.

“You're early,” she said. “Was that intentional? Did you wish to find me out?”

Henri stood up, her confrontation taking him by surprise. “My deepest apologies,” he said. “I've never been very good at keeping time.”

Lady Arrington had an unruly cloud of white hair that Henri imagined took a great deal of effort to keep under control.

“In England,” she said, her voice raspy and aged, “we observe the habits of good society, timeliness being one of them.” She lifted her chin, exposing her skinny neck and the boned line of her jaw. She was as elegant as the house, and as cold as the iron gates Henri had passed through to get here. “Are you an Englishman or a Frenchman? Aimée seemed unclear on that point.”