“I think you should not push your luck,” I said.
“Some clarification, if I may,” Sebastian continued. “I swear on whatever power, being, person, etcetera, means the most to you that I shall never again extract one of your works from its proper home.”
“
“Agreed,” Sebastian said. “But I cannot tell you that I shall curtail all my…industry.”
“You will not take any painting done by my fellow Impressionists.”
Sebastian sighed. “Do you not want me to own anything pretty?”
“You might try buying as a manner of acquisition,” I said.
“How pedestrian,” Sebastian said. “Really, Kallista, you disappoint me.”
Alice disappeared and then returned, carrying a tray laden with two bottles of champagne and six flutes. “Finish this negotiation, my darling husband, and let us turn our attention to celebration.” She then opened the bottle and poured glasses for Cécile, herself, and me, leaving the other glasses empty. “You’ll get none until you’re done with this ridiculous haggling,” she said.
I accepted a glass from her. “I wish you years of happiness,” I said. We toasted, then left the men to a discussion of whether or not Manet, whose use of black deviated from the technique of the other Impressionists, should be included in Sebastian’s forbidden group. Making our way through a bright yellow dining room, we stepped into the kitchen whose walls were lined with stunning blue and white Limoges tiles. Copper pans shone, hanging from their racks, and tall windows thrust open over the garden, a sweet, floral fragrance wafting in through them. Alice gave a series of instructions to the servants, then grabbed a platter laden with cheeses—Camembert and Neufchatel amongst others, along with a crusty baguette—and stepped through a door back outside.
“You have found heaven here, I think,” Cécile said, taking a seat at a rough but welcoming table in a pleasantly shaded grove. The day could not have been more beautiful, a handful of puffy clouds dotting the cerulean sky. “Although I do not think I myself could be so far from Paris.”
“Not you, Cécile,” Alice said, breaking off a piece of the bread and cutting into the soft cheese. “But my dear Claude is miserable when he’s not here. I do hope you can stay with us a few days, at least. There’s so much on which we need to catch up.”
“If I can convince Kallista and her dashing husband to remove poor Monsieur Capet without me, I could be persuaded,” she said.
“That could be arranged.” I grinned. “I can’t thank you enough, Alice, for being so generous in your forgiveness of him.”
“It is nothing,” Alice said, waving her hand. “The painting is returned—and purchased—and all can be forgot. But I am interested in this friend of yours. He reminds me very much of a gentleman my husband painted years ago. Monsieur…. Vasseur, I believe was his name.”
“Vasseur?” I asked, springing to attention.
“It’s his eyes,” Alice said, smiling at the serving girl who’d followed us outside with the rest of the champagne and was now refilling our glasses. “I’ve never seen any that color. Is it possible your intrepid acquaintance goes by more than one name? Perhaps to disguise his nefarious activities?”
“Surely Monet would have recognized him?” Cécile asked.
“Not necessarily,” Alice said. “The portrait was done ages ago. Even before we’d come to Giverny. But we can ask him.”
When the men joined us sometime later, I raised the issue at once.
“Him?” Monet was incredulous. “Absolutely not.”
“You’re quite sure?” I asked.
“My dear girl,” Sebastian said. “I do think I’d remember having my portrait painted. Although now you mention it, it’s not a bad idea. What do you say, Monet?”
The artist’s reply was something akin to a growl, and I let the subject go. I had no reason to doubt Monet’s sincerity (or his memory), but Sebastian’s credentials were more than dubious. I wanted to talk to him privately, but was not to have the chance. Before we’d all retired for the night, he’d disappeared, slipping into the darkness, leaving no explanation, only a too-flowery note thanking Monet for the excellent wine and continuing to debate Manet’s inclusion in the Impressionist movement.
9
My mood had lightened considerably by the time we left Giverny. It is difficult to be morose or to wallow when in the company of such friends, and their loving cheer was just the remedy for the ills I’d suffered since Constantinople. Fortified and feeling more like myself than I had in months, I was full of happy hope. Cécile had gone ahead with her plan to stay on a few more days, leaving Colin and me to set off on our own the next morning, aboard an early train.
“I can’t say I feel keenly the loss of Capet,” my husband said, snuggling close to me. “I do adore you on trains. Pity we don’t have more privacy.”
This brought to mind delicious memories of the time we’d spent on the
“I’m thinking somewhere mundane and tedious, a place where intrigue cannot possibly find us.”
“Sounds dreadful,” I said, glowing. “Won’t we be beside ourselves with boredom?”
“I have a number of ways in mind to keep you occupied.”
“Do you?” I asked, scooting even closer to him. “Can we leave now? Please?”
“As soon as I’ve sorted out what Gaudet needs from me.”
After the train arrived at the small station in Yvetot, the market town closest to his mother’s house, we directed our waiting carriage to head for the Markhams’ château so that we might redeliver Monet’s painting to them. George beamed with pleasure when he saw us approach.
“You’ve caught us outside again. Madeline didn’t want to squander weather this lovely,” he said, striding across the lawn with his wife to greet us. “We know it can’t last with those clouds on the horizon. Dare I hope Monet accepted my offer? The parcel you’re carrying fills me with hope.”
“No haggling necessary,” Colin said, handing it to him.
“You’re absolute geniuses,” George said. “Will you come inside and help me hang it?”
“Must we right away, George?” Madeline asked. “It’s too beautiful to be inside.”
“You can stay out if you’d like, darling. I’ve a hankering for a decent cigar. Hargreaves, indulge with me? We can leave the ladies to whatever it is ladies do.”
“I’d be loath to turn down such an attractive offer,” Colin said. “If, Emily, you’ll forgive me for abandoning you?”
“We’re happy to see you go,” Madeline said, her face shining. “Ladies need time for gossip as much as men do, and I can’t stand the smell of tobacco.”
I’d never supported the segregation of the sexes (it seemed, in my experience, the ladies always got the short end of the interesting conversation), and the thought of a decent cigar was more than a little tempting, but I had a feeling George would balk at giving me one. Resigned, I looped my arm through hers and we set off along the gravel path. The lushness of Normandy was a delight. As green as Ireland and rich with flowers in every bright shade: blue and vibrant purple, magenta and gold, orange and white. They grew wild on the sides of roads and paths, tamed only in carefully tended gardens. The formality of the Markhams’ grounds was a stark contrast to Monet’s, but both were stunning.
Thunder rolled far in the distance, but the sky remained bright. “I don’t think we’ll be driven indoors yet,” Madeline said. “Do you mind if we keep walking? I do love it here, but admit to finding myself lonely sometimes. George is all I have, especially now that my mother’s not herself, and his work keeps him busy much of the time.”
“Art?”
“At the moment, that’s what he’s fixated on. Collecting, primarily, at least for the moment. He’s always
