Tides of Honour (15 page)

“Of course, madame.”

Audrey and her hostess regarded each other in silence, and Audrey fought the impulse to run. Under the weight of the woman's stare she felt completely out of place. She stood before a woman draped in jewels, surrounded by lush furniture and elaborate trimmings, witnessing a manifestation of wealth she'd never imagined.

Madame Antoine's flat little eyes examined her, blinking up from under her thin-plucked brows. “Do sit. You're making me uncomfortable.”

Four chairs and one central table took up most of the room. “I'm so sorry. Anywhere in particular?” The woman shook her head and the stack of curls pulled to the top of her head bobbed. Audrey took the chair farthest from her, then sat straight and prayed the master of the house would be a little less intimidating. She doubted it, though.

“So you paint.”

The woman's rhetorical question was unexpected. “Um, yes, madame. I do my best.”

“And where are you from?”

“England. I lived a while in France, then I came across and have been living in East Jeddore.”

Madame Antoine's face was blank. “Where?”

“East Jeddore? On the Eastern Shore.”

The older woman stared at her a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she shrugged. “One of those little fishing villages, I expect. And you have painted for whom in the past?”

Audrey was so nervous, she decided to overlook the slight. “Well, mostly I paint for my own pleasure, but I have painted for a few families near my husband's home.” She smiled sweetly, hoping to ease the tension. “I was very fortunate to be hired by Madame Eleanor Hartlin.”

“Hartlin?” She sniffed. “I don't know the name. Should I know her?”

Audrey was struck by an odd sense of pity for the woman and her baseless belief in her superiority. To her, Audrey was nothing, as was everyone else not fortunate enough to be in her husband's circle. “I wouldn't think so, madame. She is quite an elderly woman but an impressive one nonetheless. She lives in Hartlin Settlement—”

“There's a settlement of Hartlins?” She rolled her eyes. “No, dear. What I wanted to know was if you'd ever painted for anyone, you know, from here.”

“No,
mon coeur
. Madame Baker has only just moved to Halifax.” Mr. Antoine breezed into the room and offered a hand to Audrey. He never even glanced at his wife. Audrey stood, but he waved her back down. “Oh no, please. It is an inhospitable day out of doors, and you must make yourself comfortable now. Madame Baker, I am
absolument
charmed to see you again.”

Lily appeared with tea, and the little maid stood patiently by while everyone poured a cup. Audrey concentrated on keeping the delicate china safe. She brought her lips to the rim but pulled away from the heat.

“This is lovely,” she said through the steam. “Thank you.”

Pierre Antoine beamed at her. “Thank you for coming to see us. Especially in this weather.” He sipped his tea without seeming to notice its dangerous temperature. “Now,” he continued, “I hope you don't mind my getting right to business.”

“Of course not, sir.”

“As I mentioned before, my dear wife and I are interested in having our family's portrait done by a professional, and I have been told you have quite a gift.”

“That's very kind, sir.”

“Not at all, not at all.” His eyes went to the bag at her feet. “Are those the samples of your work I requested?”

“They are. I hope this is what you were imagining. I'm afraid I don't have a large collection. Most of what I've painted recently covers my mother-in-law's walls,” she said, smiling shyly as she reached for the bag. She'd brought a few paintings she'd done of Danny and one of his mother, then she pulled out some pencil sketches of both landscapes and people.

“Ah. Your husband,” he said, holding the pictures in front of him. He moved to show his wife, but she only flicked an eyebrow and looked uninterested. Pierre Antoine didn't appear to notice her reaction. His eyes were fixed on Danny's likeness. “Quite a handsome man. And your portrait reflects his character as well.”

That was an odd comment, she thought. “You've heard something of my husband, sir?”

Pierre Antoine's eyes twinkled. “But of course. You know, a man such as myself has spies everywhere.” He winked, but Audrey wasn't sure how to take his statement. How could he know Danny's character? He chuckled. “Not to worry,
ma chère
. I do not speak of espionage. All I know is that he is a hard worker who was injured in the war. And now, well, now I know he has a talented and most beautiful wife.”

His wife sighed with ennui and glanced over one shoulder, away from them both.

Audrey blushed but didn't look away. “Thank you, sir.”

He watched her eyes for what felt like a moment too long, and she shifted uncomfortably. He nodded. “
Bien
. I have decided. You will paint our family's portrait. Can you start today?”

TWENTY
-
THREE

Pierre Antoine was called away
from their portrait sitting more than once since he was needed for some sort of business, but he always returned with a smile and encouraged Audrey to continue. It took her weeks to complete the portrait, and though she was exhausted by it, she enjoyed the process so much she almost wished it could have gone on longer. Antoine sang her praises with the melodic enthusiasm of a Frenchman, and when she suggested it was time for her to move on, he contracted her to do individual portraits as well, offering more money than she ever could have expected.

“This way,” he explained, “when I am dead, they will not all have to fight over this one painting,
n'est-ce pas
?”

Other than when she sat for the portraits, Madame Antoine made herself scarce. When Audrey asked, he waved his hand, dismissing the question. “She is unwell” or “She needs quiet for her delicate condition” were his common replies, and eventually Audrey stopped asking. She preferred it this way anyway. Pierre Antoine had become a good friend, talking with her about people he knew, asking about her own story. They were on a first-name basis. He said she was a breath of fresh air, that her conversation
helped him forget the day-to-day troubles of business. She had come to trust him, even opened up one time and mentioned that Danny was having difficulties adjusting to city life, which was taking its toll on her as well. When he looked concerned, she quickly assured him Danny was well enough and healthy, always able to work hard, because she knew Pierre was the real boss of the docks. One word from him and Danny could lose his job. That would destroy everything.

After her portrait of the family had been hung on a prominent wall of their living room, he invited her to sit in one of the large armchairs and quietly admire it with him. She knew every brushstroke, every shade of colour from memory, but she tried to see it from his perspective, wanting to understand what he saw.

“I very much admire your talent and skills, Audrey. You are so young, and yet your artwork seems somehow wiser than is possible for your years. It is a . . .” He shook his head. “
Je ne sais quoi.
I do not understand the craft, but I do appreciate art when it is done well.” He sat back and crossed his legs, smiling with fascination at her. “You must have made your teachers proud.”

She had to laugh. She'd become entirely comfortable around him by this point, even looked forward to the times when he came and sat behind her, watching her paint. “Oh, no. I had no teachers.”

“But this is amazing!” He shook his head and stared again at the painting. “You are
superbe, ma chère
!
Incroyable
.
”

Her cheeks bloomed. She couldn't deny that his compliments and his obvious interest in her work made her feel good. He was rich, he was handsome, and he was probably about ten years her senior. When she left his house every day and went back to Richmond, she faced quiet evenings with a man who reacted entirely the opposite way around her. Danny was always tired, always morose. Lately he smelled more of alcohol than he did of his own
scent, and she couldn't remember the last time he'd complimented her. When had they last made love?

Pierre leaned forward and gently rubbed his handkerchief across her cheek, then showed her the evidence: a smear of cadmium lemon paint left behind. She blushed. “I must be a mess,” she said, pressing her hands to her cheeks.

He chuckled fondly and tucked the handkerchief back in his pocket, then set his hand on the arm of her chair. “A party. I shall throw a dinner party this coming Saturday night, which is . . .” He frowned, thinking. “
Ah, oui.
The second of December. It will be in honour of you,
ma chère,
and everyone will come to see
ma petite artiste
. They will see what you have created, and they will all hire you to paint for them. This is a wonderful idea, yes?”

She stared at him, struck dumb. It was something she'd never imagined, and the idea was terrifying in the most exhilarating way.

“You are teasing,” she scolded.

“I am not! Twenty, maybe twenty-five people will come and they will all fall in love with you.” His eyes softened, and his hand slid from the chair's arm. It settled on top of her hand, warm and confident. “How could they not?”

He waited expectantly, eyes shining. The gentle pressure of his hand on hers set her heart racing, stirring up a confusing mixture of giddiness and guilt. A party for her? When she thought back on her life, she couldn't remember anyone ever doing something like this, something so completely on her behalf. Oh, Danny was full of compliments for her—or at least he had been until recently—­and she knew he loved her. Danny had always praised her artwork, made frames, encouraged her. He'd viewed painting as something she did for fun—which also happened to bring in an unexpected income when they needed it.

What he didn't understand was that painting wasn't simply
for fun. When Audrey disappeared into the art, something within her was freed. All her life, when she'd needed to express herself, she'd run to her paints. What Pierre was suggesting with this party was saying so much more in her eyes. For Pierre to even think of organizing something so grand, he must somehow understand how vital the act of painting was to her. He was honouring her, opening a window and encouraging her to grow wings, letting her fly beyond what she'd known before.

Of course, not only had Pierre given her a level of respect she hadn't anticipated, with this party he would basically guarantee her future in painting by inviting his friends to meet her. What an amazing friend she'd found in Pierre.

He was grinning to himself, doing calculations. “Oh yes,” he said. “I know exactly who would appreciate such a fine evening. It will be all the talk!”

Her whole body tingled with pleasure at the thought. People coming in their fancy clothes, wearing expensive jewellery, seeing her as some kind of special artist? She hadn't even known it had been a dream of hers until this moment, when it was being offered to her on a silver platter. She opened her mouth to agree, then stopped herself, suddenly mortified.

She had absolutely nothing to wear to an event such as he was planning. Even her wedding dress had been worn down to a sad grey, and she had no baubles with which to dress it up. And what of Danny? What would he wear?

She glanced down at Antoine's hand and he withdrew it, but his enthusiasm remained.

“Well, my dear? What do you think?”

“Oh, Pierre. You are a wonderful person to offer this, and I am overwhelmed by your generosity. It's just . . .” She took a deep breath and panicked, trying not to fuss with her skirt, but
it tangled between her fingers. She mustn't cry. She
mustn't
. “I'm afraid I cannot, sir.”

He sat back abruptly, shocked. “Why ever not?” he demanded.

He must see it, but for whatever reason he was choosing to overlook the obvious. How could she admit it out loud, that she simply didn't belong in that kind of company? That she longed for it, wanted so badly to meet these exciting people, touch their silks and satins, maybe even make a friend. To know that she'd come from so little and was so close . . .

Her eyes dropped to the floor. “I . . . I have nothing to wear, Pierre. Nothing suitable.”

He shrugged, obviously nonplussed. “It will be on Saturday. Today is Monday. You have time enough.”

She had thought her cheeks were on fire before, but it was all suddenly so much worse. “No, sir, I cannot. You see—”

“Ah!” he said, eyes widening. He jumped to his feet and moved toward his desk, pulling open a drawer and writing on a small card in one swift movement. “But how ignorant of me!
Je m'excuse!
Please, allow me. This soiree is my idea to begin with, and I would not have the guest of honour uncomfortable because of my oversight.”

He tucked the card into an envelope bearing his name and told her to bring it to a particular dressmaker in the city. Audrey was to choose whatever she desired, and the dressmaker would bring the bill to Antoine. She objected, embarrassed at the very idea, yet ecstatic at the same time. Fortunately, he insisted with his customary charm then called a cab to bring her home. He also wrote down her address, promising to send another cab to her house to pick both her and Danny up on the night of the party.

She could hardly think on the cab ride home. The whole
idea was ridiculous, she told herself, and yet it was happening, wasn't it? He would be sending out invitations in the morning, he had said.

It was dark when she got home. December had come quickly, pulling down temperatures, forcing lamps to light earlier every evening. Audrey didn't like being alone in the dark, and Danny no longer came to get her if she was late. He assumed she'd be fine, since she was under the care of the great Pierre Antoine.

Their sad little house was unlit on the outside, and only a dim hint of gold flickered from within a front window. Audrey stood outside the door and stared at it, holding Antoine's card in her gloved fingers. She felt weak at the thought of telling Danny about the invitation and about the dressmaker. He already hated how much charity she accepted from the family. Just the week before she'd brought home a coat for Danny. It had been too worn for Antoine, but it would have fit Danny. Winter was coming, and he'd need something, but he'd had too much to drink by the time she'd gotten home. When he'd caught sight of the beautiful black coat, he'd promptly thrown it out on the street. She'd gone out to retrieve it in the morning, but it had already been claimed by a more practical soul.

The air had teeth tonight, and she clenched her own together, knowing she couldn't stand out there all night, dreading the encounter. The door swung open when she turned the knob, and she stepped inside, keeping her coat on. It was too cold inside—as she'd known it would be—to go without.

“Danny?”

He didn't answer, and she hoped he was asleep. She hated the times when he was passed out with his arms like a pillow on the kitchen table. It had only happened twice, but she'd hated it. Once he'd left a cigarette burning between his fingers while he slept.

She stepped into the kitchen, but he wasn't there. At least no one else was either.

“Danny?”

“In here.” His voice was oddly quiet. It came from the bedroom.

“You're ready to sleep already? It's early yet.”

“I have nothing else to do.” He was sitting up in bed, wearing a tired undershirt untucked over a loose pair of dark grey pants. The smoke from his cigarette rose straight up in a thin line, then drew squiggly circles up high. He looked tired. “I was just waiting for you.”

Something in his voice made her feel so sad. She heard no antagonism, no defensive edge. It was like the way he'd spoken to her once upon a time, when she'd felt important to him. How long had it been since he'd made her feel special? Why did it feel as if they'd been married twenty years now instead of only a few months?

“Sorry I'm late.” His mellow mood made the question of Pierre even more difficult to bring up. She didn't want to break the spell settled over the room, but she couldn't hide from the conversation, and who knew when they might speak civilly again? “Mr. Antoine wanted to speak with me about my painting.”

It hadn't really been about her painting, but she could say it was. At least that way it wouldn't start out as a confrontation. Regardless, she braced for his response.

“Is he happy with it?”

She was taken by surprise at his gentle reaction. So often just the mention of Antoine roused snarls from him. Encouraged, she settled in on the bed, brushing up against his arm with her own, hoping for more.

“Oh yes. He's very happy. He hung it right in the living
room.” She held out her hands in front of her, demonstrating how it would hang right at eye level. “And he . . . he's planning to throw a dinner party to show it to all his society friends.”

“Ooh la la,” he said with a wry grin. “They'll all be talking about you now. Wonder what they'll say.”

This was the tricky part. “Actually, Danny, he's invited you and me as well.”

He looked at her, searching for the punchline, she supposed. When he didn't see anything change in her reaction, he barked out a laugh. “Oh, that sounds just right. You and me with the high and mighty. Come on, honey. Why would he invite us to something like that?”

She knew he was right, that they couldn't possibly fit in, but he didn't have to be so negative about it. “He wants to help my career. He says I have a lot of talent and I deserve recognition. If they all see it, and if they all meet me, he thinks they all might just hire me to do their portraits.”

He set the cigarette between his lips and inhaled, let the smoke out slow. “I don't see why I'd have to be there.”

“Because you're my husband is why!”

His shrug was small, noncommittal. “I'm not going.”

“What? Why not?”

She hated the smile he gave her, that cold, arrogant sneer he reserved for a special kind of insult. Based on his expression, she knew his response before it came, and she already knew what her own answer would be. “Because I'm not.”

“Well, I am.”

“No, you aren't.”

“It's a party in my honour, Danny. You should be proud of me, happy for me.”

He adjusted his body on the bed so he was facing her, and his eyes softened. “Oh, you know I'm proud of you. Always have
been. But you gotta know those people will look down on you. You know what they're like. You'll just be the entertainment for the night.
Look at the poor little fisherman's wife. You know he only has one leg, don't you?
”

She looked away, close to tears.