Dangerous to Know (8 page)

“Monsieur Vasseur! What a surprise! How we have missed you!”

Sebastian did not miss a beat. All elegance, he bowed, took Madame Breton's hand, and kissed it. “A delight to meet you. But I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else.”

“Impossible!”
Madame Breton said. “I could never forget those eyes.”

“I should like to think you'd never have reason to,” Sebastian said. “I can only wish, however, that I were the gentleman you have in mind.”

“Ce n'est pas possible,”
she said.

“
Maman,
you're confused,” Madeline said. “This is Monsieur Capet. He's the one who brought us the painting.”

“Painting?”

“Of the cathedral in Rouen.” George took his mother-in-law's arm.

“
Oui,
I remember seeing it,” she said, her voice strong and full of authority. “He captured the light perfectly. But then, Monet always does, doesn't he?”

“My mother used to paint,” Madeline said. “She was an amazing talent. Exhibited with Berthe Morisot once and became quite close to her.” Morisot was probably the most famous woman to paint in the Impressionist style, and Cécile was convinced her work had an influence on Manet's.

“I would love to see your canvases,” Sebastian said.

“You've no time for anything right now but using your dubious powers of persuasion to convince Monet not to set the police on you,” Colin said.

“Have you any idea how far Giverny is from here?” Sebastian said. “Surely you don't mean to leave now.”

“We won't leave now,” Colin said. “You shall be my guest this evening. We're long overdue for an extensive chat.”

All this time I'd paid only half attention to the conversation. What I wanted to know was why Madame Breton called Sebastian “Monsieur Vasseur”. So while Colin dragged our increasingly unruly thief into line, I pulled her aside.

“Do you recall where you met Monsieur Vasseur?” I asked, my voice hardly above a whisper.

“I've known him forever.” She looked in Sebastian's direction. “Did you not hear me greet him? We're old friends.”

Her eyes had taken on a cloudy look, surrounded by deep lines. I could see coherence slipping from her. “Of course,” I said, not wanting to cause her further confusion or distress.

“You're a beautiful girl, Marie,” she said, scrutinizing me. “But you shouldn't dress above your station. I know you can't possibly have afforded a dress like that on your wages, which can only mean you've an inappropriate gentleman friend. I can't keep you in the household given that kind of behavior. Especially with the child around.”

“I—” How was I to respond to this?

“There's no use arguing. My mind is made up.”

So I didn't argue, and left the Markhams' château utterly unsatisfied, though not disappointed my career as household staff hadn't amounted to anything.

 

The plan for our journey to Giverny materialized at a rapid pace. Cécile wired Monet, who replied at once inviting the four of us, even,
“le voleur audacieux,”
to stay with him overnight. But before we could set off, we would have to soldier through an evening that was likely to be interminable. I had not expected Colin would allow Sebastian the run of his mother's house, but didn't anticipate him wanting to lock our unwelcome visitor in a bedroom.

“He's not here to socialize,” Colin said, smoothing his lapels as we prepared to go down for dinner.

“I realize that, of course,” I said. “But there's no need to be uncivilized.”

“My dear girl, how is it uncivilized to want to restrain a man who is a known thief?”

I sighed. “You know how good he's been to Edward.”

“This isn't about Edward.”

“Well I think it's a terrible mistake to lock him up.” I snapped a wide gold bracelet around my wrist. “He's capable of picking any lock and getting in or out of any secured space. All you're doing is putting him in a situation that he will try to use to embarrass you. Don't you think he'd love to escape during your watch?”

“A valid point,” he said, kissing me. “You've a brilliant mind, you know. But he's not going to escape. You should have more faith in me than you do in him.”

“Have you any doubt that I do?”

“No, but I do like to be reminded now and again.” With that, he pulled me to my feet, wrapped his arms around me, and kissed my lips. “Why do I feel like
you're
reminding
me
of something more than the other way around?” I asked, delicious shivers running through me.

“There are several things of which I'd like to remind you, but I don't have adequate time for even one of them before dinner. You know how I value thoroughness.”

“I've always admired your dedication to it,” I said. “But now you've made me forget what I was supposed to remind you.”

“Excellent. I've addled you. Not a simple thing to accomplish.”

“You're the only one capable of doing it.”

“Mmmmm…” He buried his head in my neck and started kissing it. The sensation was almost too much to bear. I was on the verge of begging him to send our apologies to his mother and tell her I'd come over ill and was unable to go down for dinner when a loud knock sounded through the room.

Muttering something under his breath, Colin opened the door. Giggling, I'd retreated into the dressing room to tame the stray curls that had escaped from my pompadour. My cheeks glowed so bright I feared no one at the table could mistake what had made them flushed. The beauty of being married was that no one would object.

No one save my mother-in-law, who was now standing in my bedroom, having a hushed conversation with my husband.

“You can't expect me to send a tray to his room,” I heard her say.

“I certainly can.”

“Surely he could dine with us and then you can keep him under watch overnight. Although I must say I don't like the idea of having a prisoner in the house.”

“Would you prefer I take him to Gaudet and have him thrown in a cell? He's more likely to escape from him than me. And I know, Mother, that you do not want his escape on your hands.” His voice was full of teasing.

“You can convince me to do anything, can't you?” she asked.

I walked into the room. “He's the most persuasive man alive,” I said, regretting the words the instant they were out of my mouth.

“I've known that far longer than you, Lady Emily,” she said, stiffening and not looking at me.

“Longer, yes,” Colin said. “But no one comes close to knowing me so well as
my wife
does.” I much appreciated his emphasis on the words.

She was nonplussed. “Am I allowed at least to send him a
nice
tray or do you have him on rations of bread and water?” Her voice changed entirely when she spoke to Colin.

“Feed him as well as you like. Give him cause to rave about your generosity. Serve him everything you're giving to us. In fact, the better fed he is, the more compliant I may find him after dinner. And you know, Mother, that I wouldn't have you embarrassed. This is your home. Treat him however you wish so long as you don't let him out of his room.”

Satisfied, she patted his hand and left us to ourselves.

“She despises me,” I said.

“It doesn't matter. I adore you.”

I would have appreciated a grain of denial, but far preferred the attentions he bestowed upon me instead. We were exceedingly late to dinner.

 

Colin had spent no fewer than five hours with Sebastian before coming to bed the previous evening, and was surprisingly tight-lipped about the nature of their conversation. They met again in the morning, leaving me to breakfast with my mother-in-law, who was no happier to see me than she'd been the day before. Cécile, perfectly willing to rise early when she had a good reason, managed to converse with both of us, holding two separate conversations at once as we munched on what may have been the most perfect croissants I'd ever tasted.

We boarded the first train to the town of Vernon, which would put us nearly at Giverny. Monet and his longtime mistress, Alice Hoschedé, had bought the house some two years ago, after having spent nearly ten happy years there as renters. Their relationship had started oddly—Alice and her husband, together with her children, had lived with Monet and his first wife, Camille, and the couple's two sons. Ernest Hoschedé spent more time in Paris than with his family, and after Camille's death from tuberculosis, Monet and Alice soon fell in love. They lived together, with all the children, Monsieur Hoschedé more or less keeping his distance. Last year, however, he died, freeing Alice to do as she wished.

In all the time he'd lived in Giverny, whether as tenant or owner, Monet had dedicated himself to improving the gardens, where he spent countless hours painting canvases of exquisite beauty. Cécile had visited him there many times, but I did not know him so well as I did Renoir. She had introduced me to both of them, along with Alfred Sisley and a host of others, when I'd first met her in Paris, nearly two years after the death of my first husband. This new circle of friends, unlike anyone I'd known before, opened my eyes to a world of art and culture and a decidedly bohemian lifestyle, igniting my imagination and intellect.

I already adored the Paris studios in which I'd seen them work and I could not wait to be welcomed into a house about which I had heard so much. We made the short drive from the station through Vernon, crossing the Seine near the ruins of a twelfth-century bridge on which a half-timbered mill jutted into the river between two of the ancient piers. Moments later, we were approaching the village of Giverny, utterly charming, a jumble of stone and half-timbered houses against a backdrop of rolling hills. Cécile tugged on my sleeve and motioned to the back of a long, pink house, its green shutters peeking through a veritable wall of ivy.

“That is Monet's,” she said.

He was waiting, leaning against the gate, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, his long white beard brushing against his chest. Alice, next to him, stepped into the narrow road and waved as our carriage approached. From here, there seemed nothing extraordinary about their home. We rushed through introductions and Colin nodded at Sebastian, who presented both himself and the painting, which Monet took from him at once.

“How did you get this?” he asked.

“Trade secret, I'm afraid,” Sebastian said. “But I can assure you it wasn't simple, so you may rest easy. It's unlikely anyone with less artistic fervor than I would even attempt such a thing.”

“This is meant to endear him to me?” Monet said, looking at me. “To persuade me to forgive him and not set the police on him?”

“Mr. Capet has more charm than sense, it would seem,” I said, scowling in Sebastian's general direction.

“Forgive me, good sir. I'm a great admirer of your work,” Sebastian said. “I object strenuously to the reaction you've had from certain critics and can assure you that all I wanted was to ensure the painting was in the collection of someone who would appreciate it.”

Monet raised an eyebrow. “Is this your best strategy? To remind me of negative reviews and suggest that only a common criminal could find a person to like my work?”

“Mon dieu, non!”
Sebastian's eyes went wide with horror. “I'm far from a common criminal, my good man. Let me assure you I have the finest taste. I offer Madame du Lac as a character reference.”

“Cécile?” Monet's lip twitched and he tugged at his beard.

“His taste is excellent,” Cécile said. “And though his methods are questionable, I do think he should be given credit for ingenuity and an admirable boldness.”

“We will finish this discussion inside,” Monet said. We followed a pavement perpendicular to the house and stepped into a garden magnificent beyond anything my imagination could have conjured. Perfect paths ran from the front of the building, dividing flower beds bursting with daisies, phlox, larkspurs, delphiniums, and asters. Benches placed at intervals were painted the same cheery green as both the house's shutters and the metal trellises straddling the paths. Above all of this, the sky, a crisp and clear blue, set off the bright colors on the ground.

With difficulty, I forced myself away from this vision of floral perfection and followed Monet and Alice up green, wooden steps into the house. We passed through a small corridor that opened into a modest-sized salon decorated entirely in shades of blue. The longcase clock standing in a corner and a cupboard holding gardening books on its upper shelves matched the walls perfectly, as did the upholstery on a charming settee. None of the artist's work hung in the room. Instead, he displayed exotic Japanese prints done, he explained, by well-known artists Hiroshige, Utamaro, and Hokusai. Their variety was spectacular: elegant women at their toilettes, scenes from nature—I particularly liked the crashing waves of the seascapes—animals, rain falling on a bridge, chrysanthemums and bees, peonies and butterflies.

Once we were all seated, Monet scowled at Sebastian. “I cannot have works disappearing from my studio. Your behavior is outrageous, regardless of whatever noble spin you may try to put on your motive.”

Had I never before met Sebastian, I would have been taken in by the perfectly poignant look of remorse on his face. His eyes, half-closed and heavy-lidded, drooped. His lips pressed together. He wrung his hands. “Any amends I attempt to make would not be enough. Not even a decent beginning.”

“You're right on that count,” Colin said.

With a beautifully elegant and dramatic flair, Sebastian whisked a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his brow. “Motive may be irrelevant, but I assure you, Monsieur Monet, my heart, my soul, want nothing more than to see your work in the hands of those who appreciate it.”