Louisa Rawlings (42 page)

“Oh my. Well, let me see. This is Friday…”

He frowned. The accident had been on Tuesday. The eleventh. “Today’s the fourteenth?”

“Oh, no. The twenty-first.”

“God!” He struggled to sit up. “Sweet Jesus…how could I have lost so many days?”

“Mr. Stanton! Do try to be calm. You were in a great deal of pain. Your leg was quite shattered. Dr. Mortimer thought it advisable to keep you heavily sedated. You had lost so much blood. You would never have had the strength to endure such suffering…”

“You don’t understand! I’ve got to get a message to Crown Point! There’s someone who depends on me…” He had begun to shake.

“Of course. I’ll have a telegram sent at once.”

“To Mr. Ed Harold.” He dictated the telegram, fighting the terrible weariness that was creeping over him. He had to stay awake until the reply came in. He had to. He had to…

He opened his eyes. It was night. Grace Mortimer was sitting in a little gold chair beside his bed, a small Bible on her lap. She smiled at him, her eyes warm with concern. “Do you wish a cup of tea, Mr. Stanton?”

Her expression told him everything. “I think I’d prefer a glass of whiskey. He’s dead, isn’t he?”

She bit her lip. “I’m so sorry, and so is everyone else. They all assumed…when you didn’t send any money on Sunday…”

“That I’d gone to see him myself.”

She nodded. “Mr. Harold said…it looked like he’d run out of fuel. He’d burned most of the furniture. When they found him, he was on the floor near his stove. He’d been trying to burn his invalid chair.”

“Oh my God…” He covered his face with his hands.

“If you’d like, I’ll get that whiskey now.”

“No. Just leave me alone for a while.” He stared up at the ceiling, where the kerosene lamp made a pool of light. He had no memory of when the tears started. It seemed somehow that they’d always been there, just behind his eyes, in his heart. He wept for Gramps, and Jed, and Pete. And all the wasted lives. He couldn’t even turn his broken body to bury his face in the pillow. He lay on his back, the tears sliding down his temples, and mourned the loss of his family.

After a while, the tears were replaced by anger. And a cold hatred. All the evils of civilization—the cruelty that set one man to destroying another, and all to despoiling God’s earth; the carelessness of the powerful; the greed and snobbery—had become focused on one person. One person who had come to represent all that he’d learned to hate.

“I’ll pay you back, Willough,” he whispered. “By God, I’ll get my due.”

Chapter Ten

“Please, Madame. Take it.” Old Jacques smiled at Marcy and held out a large pink peony. His French was sharp with a provincial accent.

She shook her head, answering him in the simple French words she had learned. “No, I thank you. One cannot afford what one cannot afford.”

“But every day, for nearly nine months, you buy a flower from me. And so I say to myself, if she does not buy a flower today, it is because she has not the money. Jacques, I say, today you
give
her the flower. Please, Madame. Take it.”

Relenting, Marcy took the flower from him, thanked him, moved on down the boulevard. She sniffed the fragrant peony.
Pivoine
, Jacques had called it. She must remember that. At least if she could ever afford to buy one again.

She glanced up at the soft twilight sky. The first star. When she looked up at the heavens, she could almost forget the city swirling around her. She blinked back her tears, aching with longing for home.

She sighed. She had one more errand. Drew had given her enough extra money to buy a little firewood. But it was a warm evening, a lovely June night. They didn’t need firewood for heat. And she could heat supper over the spirit lamp. But Drew needed paints. If Monsieur Tanguy, the color-grinder, was still in his shop on the rue Clauzel, she’d pick up the blue and the yellow that Drew lacked. Firewood could wait. If need be, she’d buy some tomorrow on credit. She already owed the
boulanger
and the greengrocer; one more debt didn’t matter until Drew sold his next drawing.

She sighed again. If only he were able to sell a painting. Not for the money, but for his confidence. He’d been despondent since the association of artists—the Café Guerbois habitués—had opened their group exhibit in April on the boulevard des Capucines. For a whole month they had endured the derision of the critics and the public. And when the exhibit had closed and they had tallied up their expenses against their receipts for entrance fees, catalog sales, and the commission on the few paintings that had sold, there was not even enough left to pay back each artist the sixty francs in dues he had advanced. One by one, the artists—Pissarro, Renoir, and the rest—had packed up and left Paris, relying on the hospitality of wealthy friends in the provinces to see them through the dry spell.

And still the criticism continued. Sarcastic articles appeared in
Le Figaro
and
Charivari
, mockingly alluding to the group of painters as “Impressionists,” because of Monet’s painting of Le Havre, which he had, at the last moment, titled
Impression, Sunrise
.

Drew’s two works that he had exhibited—dancers at the opera, and a scene of the rue de la Condamine, painted from their window—had been dismissed by the critic Albert Wolff with a few terse words: “Constipated little pictures, with sudden bursts of bizarre color. It would appear our American friend gained nothing by crossing the Atlantic.”

She bought Drew’s paints, and a bit of alcohol for the spirit lamp, then hurried down the street for home. She hoped the landlady wasn’t around. They were three weeks behind in the rent now, and it was getting very hard to make up excuses. Drew had already sold his watch.

The studio was dark. Drew wasn’t home yet. She tried to ignore the finger of uneasiness that scratched at her insides. They’d quarreled this morning. About money, of course. She’d had an offer from one of the instructors at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. They were willing to pay her three francs a day to model in the classroom. In the nude. Drew had been livid with rage.

“You’re my wife, Marcy! I won’t hear of it!”

“But it’s a good job. And there’s not much else I can do. My French isn’t good enough to work in a shop.”

“All those men staring at you…”

“Oh, bosh! How can you be jealous? They won’t be looking at
me
! Just at my body! Like a flower you paint, a tree in the Tuileries, a china cup. That’s all I’d be to them.”

He had looked at her sharply, his blue eyes filled with mistrust. “Perhaps you’re aiming to catch the notice of some young man whose father is rich enough to pay his tuition.”

She had been near tears. “Dang you, Drew Bradford! Why won’t you let me
help
you?”

“If you’re so eager to make money—and don’t care how the hell you get it—you can go back to modeling for that lecher Stewart. Or join the Montmartre ladies in their evening strolls!”

She’d felt the blood drain from her face. “At least it would be nice to be wanted by a man. For any reason.”

He had bowed to her, a twisted smile on his lips. “Touché.” Snatching up his hat and sketch pad, he’d stormed out of the studio, slamming the door behind him.

Now it was getting late. And he wasn’t home yet. She ate a cold supper, washed the dishes, mended a pair of stockings. Paced the floor. What was happening to them? He didn’t make love to her these days. Not since her miscarriage. In bed he stayed as far away from her as possible, but when he slept, he pulled her close. It was the only time she felt needed anymore.

She heard the chime of a clock on a distant church. Midnight. She picked up the flower Jacques had given her, brushing its soft petals against her cheek. She was useless to Drew. It wasn’t the lack of money that bothered her; it was the thought that she was failing him. All the love she had in her wasn’t enough to balance out his disappointment in his work.

They shouldn’t have married. She’d trapped him into it; he hadn’t wanted it. But she’d been so sure it was right. Because they loved each other.

Still holding the flower, she sank down onto the bed. He hadn’t told her that he loved her in a very long time. Perhaps he no longer did. Perhaps he never had. She’d managed to ruin his life. To estrange him from his family. She was a burden to him in this city.

This city. How could she ever have thought she wanted to live in a city? There was no joy, no life. And no safety either. She’d had nothing but grief. And now this city was taking her love from her, turning him into a stranger with haunted eyes.

She slept, the peony still clutched in her hand, and dreamed of sunny meadows and Drew laughing.

Drew did not laugh as he stumbled across the dawn-lit cobblestones; his head ached. He passed the lamplighter extinguishing the gaslights on the rue de la Condamine. Oh, God, he thought. He hadn’t meant to drink so much, hadn’t meant to stay out all night. But every time he remembered the awful things he’d said to Marcy, he felt such a pang of guilt he hadn’t the courage to face her.

He knew she was upset because they didn’t make love anymore. But how could he? He thought of all the weeks she’d lain in bed after her miscarriage—bright and cheerful, hiding the grief that any woman would feel after such a loss. He groaned. And
he
had done it to her. It was inevitable, with the life they led. That cold and drafty studio, not enough food or warm clothes. And the constant worry about where the next meal would be coming from. His sweet Marcy. Once so tanned and robust. Now thin and pale, almost fragile. How could he make love to her now? How could he risk her carrying—and losing—another child? He loved her too much for that.

He stopped at a shop near the studio and gazed into the window. There was a straw bonnet there, bright with pink ribbons and silken flowers and a butterfly perched on its crown. He’d pretended not to notice when Marcy had admired it the other day; he couldn’t bear to see the longing in her eyes.

He stared at his reflection in the glass. He thought, You’re a failure, Drewry Bradford. To begin with, a failure as an artist. Oh, it wasn’t because of the criticism from that ass Wolff, who wouldn’t know good painting if he ran into it. He wouldn’t have given a damn about Wolff’s comments if that sort of thing didn’t influence the buying public. Wolff destroyed only his commercial success; the critic who destroyed his soul was…himself. Something was wrong. He hadn’t liked the work he’d turned out in New York. But painting like the Impressionists didn’t seem to be the answer either. He wasn’t Renoir or Degas. They were good, no matter what the world thought of them. Vibrant, real, pulsing with life. His backstage paintings, his scenes of boulevards, seemed like weak, spiritless imitations.

He sighed heavily. And he was a failure as a husband. He was dragging Marcy down with him, robbing her of her joy, poisoning her with his own despair.

With a heavy heart he climbed the stairs to the studio. Behind the folding screen Marcy lay across their bed, sleeping. Still in her gown. She must have waited up for him half the night. He leaned over her. To wake her. To hold her in his arms, cover her sweet face with kisses, beg her forgiveness for his cruel words.

And then he saw the flower, the pathetic blossom that rested in her hand, even while she slept. It was wilted and forlorn, like her bright hopes that had faded and died. When he’d met her, she’d been young and innocent, bubbling with life, with her Cinderella dreams of finding a rich man.

Instead she’d found a struggling artist who couldn’t afford to care for her as she deserved. No. As she needed and longed to be cared for. He laughed bitterly. He hadn’t even been able to buy her more than a lace handkerchief when she’d turned nineteen in April.

Dammit! Somehow that pitiful flower was the last straw. He couldn’t continue to bring her grief. It was enough! He made up his mind—a decision that seemed inevitable. If Brian wanted a son and partner, by God, he’d have one! He’d forget his ambitions, his stupid dreams of being an artist, and learn to be a businessman. But Marcy would have a house that was warm, and enough food to eat, and pretty things to bring the sparkle back to her eyes.

He thought quickly. The telegraph office would be opening soon. He’d get a cable off to his father right away. He didn’t have enough money to pay for it, of course, but he could pawn his box of paints. He wouldn’t be needing them anyway. Quietly, so as not to disturb Marcy, he gathered the paints together in their box, tossed in his brushes, his crayons. Everything.

There was no need to tell Marcy what he’d decided; it would only make her reproach herself. If she insisted on an explanation, he would simply tell her that his father had summoned him. He’d have Brian authorize his Paris banker to advance the money to pay for their passage home and to clear up their debts. He’d pack his paintings and his drawings and take them home, to be displayed someday as a souvenir of his folly.

But never again did he want to see a sad flower in Marcy’s dear hand.

He had been out and come back again when Marcy finally stirred and opened her eyes. Something had wakened her. A noise beyond the dividing screen. She sat up and stretched. Tarnation! She must have slept the whole night away in her gown. She stood up, smoothed her creased skirt, and moved quickly around the screen. She’d have to hurry to make Drew his breakfast before his class this morning at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. There was a little coffee left, and the loaf of bread she’d bought for last night’s supper, if it wasn’t too stale.