“They are beautiful.” My voice is a squeak. “Please do not send them away. We . . . we could use them in the studio, arrange them into a beautiful still life.”
My mother looks right through me. Just as she had as we boarded the carriage last night. Even if she had struck me it would not have hurt as much as seeing her blind rage.
My knees give way and I fall back into the cushions.
Oh, she says she does not blame me. Last night she pro-claimed the fiasco Stevens’s fault, belittled his disregard for proper decorum.
“Right in front of Madame Manet,” she had said in the carriage. The black of night cloaking her disgust, but I knew the look. She wore it like a decorated soldier who had been wounded in battle.
As I counted the
clip-clip-clop
of the horse’s hooves muffled by the squeak and rattle of the carriage, she ranted, “Right in front of Suzanne, as if she were not the wife. As if she would not care that her husband might be ‘languishing in misery’ over another woman.
Unnnnnnthinkable.
” Maman had drawn out the word, her voice an octave higher than its usual pitch.
I stared out the window for the duration of the trip, relieved I could not fully see her face. Or perhaps I was glad she could not see mine.
“It is a good thing your father was not with us tonight to witness such a slight against his own f lesh and blood.”
A small
oomph
punctuated her words as she threw herself against the seat back. Finally, it seemed the rant had f lushed her bile. The rhythmic sway of the carriage, carrying us home through rain dwindling to a soft patter, lulled her into heavy stillness.
I know she blames me, even if she does not realize it herself.
I am twenty-seven years old and long past marriageable
age. Even worse, I am a painter, a sympathizer of the disgrace-ful cretins who passed my portrait back and forth like a bawdy joke, an illicit amusement.
Pornography between married men.
If word of last night’s incident gets out, my chances of finding a husband will narrow even further. The only reason it gives me pause is the potential repercussions Edma might suffer because of my antics.
She is changing, starting to come around with interest in Adolphe Pontillon. A navy man. A sensible man with whom she can make a life and have so many
bébés
to fill her world they will edge out everything except proper life.
As for me, sometimes I feel as if there is another Berthe who lives deep inside me. She is not the dutiful daughter or the quiet artist who dallies in paint for amusement, willing to forgo it for matrimony. This Berthe secretly hopes word that Stevens’s prank has spread like syphilis through the brothels. With this Berthe, the very thought of forcing herself into a charade of convention makes her feel like a caged animal. She would rather die than be sentenced to such a dull life.
I am afraid of this Berthe because I try to be good. I try to do what is expected of me, but more often than I care to admit, she lurks in the shadows of my heart threatening to consume me and the upright life I try so hard to live.
“I am sure the courier will not wait all day, Amélie,” Maman snaps
.
“Tell him to take these back to the person who sent them,
s’il vous plaît
!”
The maid hesitates, slanting a glance at Edma.
What have I missed?
Maman frowns and claps her hands. “
Tout de suite
, Amélie. Now!”
With a
swoosh
of skirts, the maid hurries out of the room.
“But Maman
,
” I protest.
My mother gets to her feet and brushes past me without a glance. She is not gone half a minute when Edma grabs my hand and pulls me up and off the divan.
“Come. Fast.”
In the foyer, we nearly run into an ashen-looking Amélie, standing with the f lowers clutched to her breast, her back pressed against the wall as if she expects Maman instead of us. Her gaze darts around, then she thrust the note and f lowers at me. Amélie tries to back out of the room, but Edma grabs her wrist.
“No, Amélie, stay.” My sister’s voice is barely a whisper, but it pins Amélie to the spot where she stands. “Ask the courier to wait while we write a reply.”
My heart thuds. “Reply? What shall we say?”
Edma throws her hands into the air. “We cannot send him back empty-handed. We must say something.”
Amélie disappears through the front door to detain the messenger. Edma grabs the note from my hand and opens it, and we huddle together to read it.
Dear Madam et Mesdemoiselles, I am mortified by last evening’s
unfortunate turn of events. I wish to call on you this afternoon to convey my most sincere apology. Yours respectfully, Édouard Manet.
Yes, regret.
A humble request for forgiveness.
I bury my face in the sweet-scented blossoms and inhale deeply until I feel my sister tugging at me again.
“Come now. We must work fast.”
We pause at the entrance to the drawing room for a cautious glance about the place. To our good fortune, there is no sign of Maman
.
Edma tosses the card on the desk and sets about foraging in
the drawer for a pen.
I lay down the f lowers and pick up the crème-colored linen card. I trace the top fold with my nail, teasing my way down the side until almost as if by its own will my finger slips inside the note and rests between Édouard’s words. I do not open the card. Still, I can see the ghost of his script through the paper and somehow that is enough. I run the tip of my f inger on the underside, along his writing, caressing each word. Instinctively, my f inger pushes against the upper fold. At that moment everything crystallizes. If I push the tiniest bit, I will be inside.
Or I could simply lay down the note and walk away. “Here, give that to me.” Edma snatches the paper from my
hand. The crisp edge slices my finger, leaving a clean, white gash.
I gasp and press the stinging f lesh to my lips. The moisture only intensifies the discomfort.
Oblivious, Edma lay Édouard’s note facedown on the desk. She dips the pen into the inkpot and glances up at me expectantly. “What shall we say?”
I bite down on the wound instead of answering her. The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth.
I shrug and wipe my wet finger on my blue skirt.
She frowns. “Here,
you
write.” Edma thrusts the pen at me. “This is for your benefit not mine. It should come from you.”
The reality behind her words startles me, as if someone has lit a candle in a pitch-black champagne cave.
I take the pen in hand. A drop of ink splatters onto the desk, narrowly missing the paper. My sore finger throbs against the pressure of my grasp.
Edma fidgets and worries the lace collar of her yellow dress. “If we invite him today, Maman will be furious. It will not be fair to subject him to her mood.” She glances toward the door. “Another day. Tomorrow?”
“Amélie?” Maman’s voice sounds in the hall just outside the drawing room. Edma and I jerk upright.
The f lowers.
I yank open the desk drawer and sweep the blossoms inside, nearly clipping my sister’s fingers as she drops Édouard’s card among the contraband.
The scent of hyacinth lingers and the drawer still seems to vibrate its slam as Maman ambles into the room. We must look a guilty sight standing shoulder to shoulder behind the desk for no apparent reason.
Maman scowls. “What are you doing?”
At the same time Edma says, “Nothing,” and I started to explain, “We are studying the angle of the room to use for a charcoal drawing.”
Unaccustomed to lying, I drop my gaze from hers. Two stray purple petals lay atop the desk. They must have fallen as I swept the f lowers out of sight. Bending forward, I cover the errant blossoms with my hand. I also hit the wet ink spot.
Maman watches us for a moment, then shakes her head as if she has resigned herself to being unable to account for the
strange ways of the younger generation. “Where is Amélie? That girl is treading a thin line today.”
Amélie.
Non.
My heart thuds. Maman will have a fit if she finds her with the courier so long after she told her to send him on his way and with no note or f lowers. Given Maman’s mood, Amélie’s thin line would likely disappear altogether.
“Amélie!” Maman heads toward the foyer.
I squeeze my eyes shut and send a silent prayer that Amélie will think fast enough to formulate a plausible excuse for her loitering. I grab Edma’s arm, and we brace ourselves for Ma-man’s explosion.
But there is none. Only the sound of her calling for the girl in an increasingly shrill and more distressed tone.
“Amélie!”
“Oui, Madame?”
Amélie’s voice sounds from the kitchen, the opposite direction of the foyer.
Smart girl—she had gone out the front door and reentered through the back.
The ingenious girl had pulled it off, I would thank her later. I just hope she has told the courier to wait for the note.
I dare not look at Edma until Maman is out of the room and well on her way to the kitchen. I notice I’ve transferred the ink stain from my hand to Edma’s sleeve. But there is no time to worry about it.
Edma jerks open the drawer. I grab Édouard’s note—and the pen.
Please come Tuesday at four o’clock.
“Tuesday?” Edma protests. “
Non,
that’s four days away. Tomorrow.”
“Too soon. Maman will never receive him.”
We hear our mother’s voice in the hall again. Then Amé-lie’s voice, louder than usual. “
Pardon, Madame,
just one more question regarding luncheon,
s’il vous plaît?
”
Maman’s footsteps retreat.
My heart is in my throat, but I manage to choke out, “Edma, hide the f lowers and distract her until I get back.”
I hurry down the hall, taking care to tread lightly so the sound of my slippers do not give me away. Icy currents course through my veins. I hold my breath and pray Maman will not see me as I enter the foyer. Once safe in the entryway, I ease open the front door, then pull it to a soundless close behind me.
As I step from the foyer into the windy brightness of the day, it takes my eyes a moment to adjust. I hurry down the stone steps, across the walk and out the gate, where I nearly collide with a little boy who runs in front of me chasing his little dog down the street.
As I right myself, my hand instinctively tries to secure my hat. But there is none. Nor gloves, I realize, as a handsome couple strides by arm in arm. I feel naked standing on the city street in my housedress, my head bare, the gusty wind tousling my hair out of its chignon.
They are not neighbors,
merci Dieu
. In fact, I have never seen them in my life. But my, how right they look strolling together in the gentle warmth of the morning sunshine oblivious to my near mishap with the boy, unaware of all but each other.
Just as they pass, I glimpsed a nuance in the woman’s expression, a mixture of aloof pleasure and worldly knowing, a subtle power in the tilt of her chin.
I follow their movement as they continue down the rue Franklin until they are silhouetted by the sun. The light burns my eyes.
The sun’s glow ref lects off windows and metal rooftops be-lying the storm that savaged us last night. It strikes me that fate is no more than a storm that blows through, upsetting everything in its path, until a random change of course propels it in
a new direction, leaving us to pick up the pieces of our broken lives.
Movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention to the manservant from last night’s soirée. Slouched against the stone wall, he looks much younger than he appeared last night; a boy who has barely passed through the threshold of manhood. He straightens when he sees me and tips a quick nod.
I hold out the note. “Please deliver this to Monsieur Édouard Manet.
Merci.
”
He reaches out to take it from me. The light captures the
ink stain that sullied my palm. My gaze f lickers to the note and my writing, scrawled as dark and bold as a dirty secret exposed to the world.
In a dreamlike slow motion, he takes possession of the letter. I glimpse a f licker of amusement in his eyes, and it seems I can almost read his thoughts: f lowers from a married man to a woman who is not his wife; notes with sweet sentiments f lying back and forth. All fodder for folly.
I am probably not the first.
Instinct screams for me to repossess the note, but by that time he has already thanked me and turned away.
I should go after him or at least holler, “Tell him no. The answer is no.”
But Maman appears at the gate.
“Berthe, what are you doing out here?” Her initial surprise settles into an angry line across her forehead.
Panic, like pinpricks, courses through me as I look from her to the courier who is growing smaller as he makes his way down the rue Franklin.
“You’re f lushed,” Maman says.
She reaches for my cheek, but I draw back. Her eyes f lash. “What is the matter with you? What in heaven’s name are
you doing out here all alone? No hat. No wrap. Really, Berthe.”
Edma peers at me over Maman’s shoulder. I glance from her wide, guilty eyes to my mother’s, narrow and accusing.
“I needed . . . .” Wide and guilty. “I thought . . . .”
Narrow and accusing. “I needed . . . air.”
“Why did you not go out into the garden instead of coming out here like this?”
Under the pressure of her scrutiny and too shaken to speak, I simply shrug and glance down the street. I have lost sight of the messenger. As I stand in front of my mother I try not to gulp air in greedy, unladylike breaths.
“Come inside at once.” Maman steps aside to afford me room to pass. As she follows Edma and me up the walk to the house, she mutters the entire way. “Since last evening both of you have behaved strangely. All the more justification for avoiding that
man
. Yes indeed. Controversy breeds controversy. That is what I have always believed— Edma!”