I sit in stunned silence and worry the pleat on my skirt into place. Then he reaches out, and traces a finger along my cheek. “I was thirty-two years old. I thought I might as well save
her from a horrible fate. Because I had never been in love . . . until now.”
My breath comes in shudders. His hand trails from my cheek, down my neck, my shoulder, my arm, grazing the side of my breast. The caressing sweep, finally resting on my thigh.
“I love you, Berthe. I have since the first day I saw you at the Louvre. Sometimes I fear I might go crazy for wanting you.”
I look at his hand on my leg, at the broad fingers and short clean nails and think this is something, because most painters have rough dirty hands.
His are clean.
My throat is too tight. A fullness blossoms in my belly, leaving me breathless until tears come to my eyes.
Like me, has never loved until now.
I place my hand on his hand. He spreads his fingers so mine fall alongside his. He closes his hand snug against mine and pulls my fingers into his palm, taking possession.
If a person asked me why I loved him I would have asked why is the sky blue? Or why does honey taste sweet? My feelings for him are as organic as the willow tree above us, running more steadfast and deeper yet than its roots below us.
Now I am certain he feels the same for me.
He leans in and kisses me, full and gentle. His tongue parts my lips and thrusts deep inside my mouth in a tender urgency that compels me to melt into him. He tastes of passion and peppermint, just as I remembered.
He eases me back onto the grass, and I know my life is about to change, irreparably.
I have never had a man’s hands upon my body, until his. I have certainly never known a lover—as we lay fully clothed with the sun setting over the western harbor, darkness sets in and cloaks us with the indigo night.
His hard body moves atop mine, and I feel I will burst from sheer need if he does not take me.
When it comes to it, he hesitates, pulling back, looking deep into my eyes.
“Are you sure, Berthe?”
My breath catches at the sound of my name passing his lips. “I do not want you to do anything you do not—”
I pressed a finger to those lips. “
Shhhh,
I want nothing more.”
I pull him to me and he answers with a groan that escapes his kiss. Then he shifts to the side and lifts the skirt of my red dress and my petticoats, exposing my bare legs. Somewhere along the way my shoes have fallen off, but I do not recall when or where. I forget them instantly and lay in glorious half nakedness watching him undo his trousers to free himself.
He strokes my abdomen down to my inner thighs, knead-ing my womanhood until the bleakness that has tethered me for as long as I could remember releases and my spirit rises up inside me like a giant balloon and bursts.
I cry out.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispers before his mouth comes down on mine and he enters me.
I love in you a something That only I have discovered— The you—which is beyond the You of the world that is admired by others
—Guy de Maupassant
full
moon hangs high as Édouard walks me back to Edma’s house. Lying with him under the weeping willow
tree, watching twilight give way to a curtain of night as the moon climbs high, time seemed as irrelevant as the number of stars dotting the beautiful indigo sky.
I could have been perfectly content to stay under that tree, naked in his arms, forever—talking, laughing, loving, again and again. Alas, he finally pulls me to my feet, helps me into my dress, and we walk down the hill, warm in the cocoon of our newly expressed love.
My canvas and paint box are still on the porch. I move the painting out of our way to give us room.
“Please come in,” I say. “Edma will let you stay the night.” He shakes his head. “I should not want to prevail upon
your sister.” He takes my hands. “And I would not be content to sleep alone in a cold bed with you so nearby. I shall stay at the inn and take the train back to Paris tomorrow.”
Knowing I could not go to the inn with him, a hundred horrid questions f lood into my mind. Why must he leave? Will I see him tomorrow before he goes? If not, when will I see him again?
What’s next, Édouard?
Panic, cold and sharp, stabs my insides, and I wonder how he can stand there so calmly when inwardly I am coming undone.
“It looks like you sitting there.” He nods toward my canvas of the harbor. “Every time I see that painting, I shall remember this day.”
“Oh, that sounds like good-bye.” I hate myself for uttering the words. They sound so depressed, so needy.
“No, Berthe, it is just the beginning.” He pulls me to him and kisses me. I want him as fervently as I did the first time he had taken me. “You had best go inside. Your sister is probably worried about where you got off to with me.”
As he walks away, he stops at the bottom of the steps and turns back to blow a kiss.
What now, Édouard?
As I watch him disappear into the salty Lorient night, I know I will risk everything to be with him. I am tempted to go after him, to share his bed, make love to him as the sun rises and blesses our union.
But I do not.
Instead, I stand for a moment in the cool darkness, my heart breaking into a thousand tiny pieces hinged together by the glue of a promise—that this is just the beginning.
The house is dark when I let myself inside. No sign of Edma. She must be asleep and I am disappointed because I want to
talk to her. I want to share with her every marvelous detail— the reason Édouard had married Suzanne; that we have loved; that we are in love.
I am different now. Fully a woman and it was every bit as wonderful as I could have imagined. The only thing I need is for Edma to encourage me that the future holds bright possibilities—that Édouard will divorce Suzanne and marry me.
I listened at the top of the steps and hear only the quiet of the house—the occasional satisfied creak and groan of the old home settling in for the night. If she is with child, she needs her rest. I decide not to awaken her and take the painting and my paint box straight up to my room to retire for a restless night, dreaming of marriage and babies.
Yes, perhaps I will give Édouard a child. I lay my hand on my belly, tender with the memory of his fullness. My body aches, but it’s a good ache, and I wish Édouard were here to hold me right now.
I drift off to sleep thinking that if Édouard has planted his seed inside me tonight, my life would be complete. . . .
When dawn f inally rouses the daylight, I dress quickly, fueled by the hope that Édouard will pay a breakfast call before he departs, and I go downstairs eager to tell Edma everything.
But she glares at me when I enter the drawing room. “Where did you go last night?” she hisses.
I blink at her tone.
“If you are speaking of yesterday evening, I was with Édouard. You know that.”
“And you know very well that is what concerns me. I was worried sick about you—you . . . you were gone for hours. It was dark. I was so worried something had happened to you.”
Something did happen to me and it was wonderful and the
only thing I wanted more than sharing it with my sister was for Édouard to be here with me when I did.
“Oh, Edma, don’t be ridiculous. Nothing bad happened. I was with him and—”
“Exactly. What are the townspeople to think? My sister ca-vorting about with a married man doing God knows what.”
“I beg your pardon. The townspeople do not know me and have no idea of Édouard’s marital status. Since when does that matter to you? I seem to recall a conversation—a day when we strolled along the quay—in which you encouraged me to pursue him despite all scorn and impropriety. Were you not sincere?”
She looks as if I have slapped her. Her mouth opens, then closes without an utterance. A feeling akin to dislike f lickers through me.
“Answer me, Edma, why did you encourage me to seek my pleasure if you were not sincere?”
Her face crumples into a mask of astonishment. “Is that what you did out there? Seek your pleasure?”
“I did.” I spat the words and let them reverberate in the cold space between us.
Edma closes her eyes, and I think for a moment she might faint. But when she opens her eyes, I see the unmistakable glare of disgust.
“How could you, Berthe? This may not be Paris, but I still must live here.”
“Why the change of heart, Edma? Why did you encourage me to confess my feelings for him if you were only to sneer at me in disgust?” My voice has risen to a scream, but I cannot help it. This is not my sister sitting here. The woman might resemble her, that’s where the likeness stops. My sister is warm and accepting and understanding. This imposter with her wedding ring and foul attitude is someone I do not wish to know.
“Were you taunting me—because you thought I would not have the guts to f ind the same happiness you have with Adolphe? Do you not want me to know that happiness?”
Movement in the doorway catches my eye. Dominique cowers, looking in askance.
“Do not worry, Dominique,” Edma says. “Everything is fine.”
I wait for the maid to leave. “No everything is not fine. I shall leave this morning on the train.”
“Berthe—” Her words bounce off my back as I bound out of the room.
If I hurry I can catch the eleven o’clock train to Paris. Édouard will be so surprised to see me.
I cannot manage the trunks. So I stuff as many of my things as possible into my valise, grab my canvas, and set off on foot for the station.
Edma tries to stop me, but I kiss her and say, “It is best this way. I do not want to upset you in your delicate condition. I shall send for my belongings at a later date.”
With that, she lets me go. Relations are still strained, and I hate to leave her this way, but I do not want to be subjected to her judgment. I guess I should have predicted this to happen. Edma is the good girl, the one who always does what’s right, who always encourages me to go where she did not dare. And I always did because I was . . . Well, I was
not
the good girl.
On the short walk to the depot, I shove aside my sadness of fighting with Edma and focus on all the things I wanted to say to Édouard. That I love him. What we shared yesterday was the most beautiful thing that has ever happened to me. That I never want us to be apart again.
My stomach is all af lutter with the thought of his kiss when I arrive at the station, fully expecting to see him waiting on the platform as if he expected me.
But he is not there.
He is probably finishing his breakfast and will appear shortly. I purchase my ticket and sit on the bench—waiting.
The ticket master is talking to someone who never appears on the platform. It is not Édouard’s voice. I discern that right away. A handbill lifts on the wind and blows down the tracks until it lodges in a clump of greenery.
The sun rises higher in the clear blue sky. Until in the distance, the faint rumble of the train announces the eleventh hour.
Still no Édouard.
As the train screeches and snorts to a stop, I slip inside the depot, and approach the ticket counter.
“Excuse me, Monsieur. Is this the only train to Paris today?”
“It is the only one left today, Mademoiselle. The other left at six o’clock this morning.”
My blood runs cold.
“Did a gentleman board the train early this morning?”
“Oui, Mademoiselle.”
I hear the conductor call, “All aboard.”
“Merci, Monsieur.”
He nods. Heavy with sadness, I turn and board the train for Paris alone.
It is terrible to desire and not possess and terrible to possess and not desire.
—W. B. Yeats
h ave
been back in Paris two days and have not heard from Édouard. One minute I am convinced he is not aware of my return. The next minute I am sure he regrets what happened
between us and avoids me.
If he’s attempted to contact me in Lorient, and receives no answer, he might harbor the same doubts about my feelings. I have no idea what Edma will tell him, if anything, for I have not even heard from my sister since I left. I have no idea if she remains furious with me or, for that matter, what she plans to tell Maman of my visit.
Upon returning, I simply informed my mother I left because I was not able to accomplish enough work in Lorient to warrant an extended stay and there had not been enough time to write her of my departure. It is not a lie. Beyond painting the Lorient harbor, my inspiration dwells in Paris. Except possibly also in a certain weeping willow tree in Lorient, which I intend to paint someday. For now, I prefer preserving its memory in my mind rather than committing it to canvas.
Maman accepts that rationale. Her mood has lightened considerably since before I left for Lorient. I imagine her smug over revealing Édouard’s rapt attention toward Eva Gonzalés. But neither of us acknowledge this is the source of her improved disposition. I simply concentrate on how Édouard has relieved himself of the young, beautiful pest. I prohibit myself from dwelling on the possibility that somehow Eva has managed to worm her way back into Édouard’s life and that is what detains him now.
I hang the harbor painting in my studio, where I can readily view it and recall Édouard’s words—
Every time I look at it, I shall remember this day.
Usually, it helps to look at the painting. Other times it serves as a reminder of how difficult matters have become since that day. The lone f igure sitting on the cold stone wall, waiting . . . the longer I sit in this house, a prisoner of my solitude, the more difficult the situation becomes.
As I pace the confines of my studio, walking between my easel and the sad stand where Edma used to paint, I realize the source of my angst does not solely stem from missing Édouard. I am sad over the way Edma and I parted.
If I am to fully recover my sanity, I must make amends with her. I do not mind being the first to reach out.