Girl in the Afternoon (18 page)

She went to the door and held it open, giving Aimée a measured look, a look of warning, as her
petite
-
fille
walked obediently out of the room.

Both were unaware that it would be years before Aimée entered her studio again.

 

Chapter 20

There were no more Thursday-night soirées. People heard there was a falling out between the Savarays and the Manets, but there were often disagreements between families. That was no reason to shut up one's house. So it was concluded that the real reason must lie with the boy, Jacques, who had so curiously disappeared. Colette was notoriously flirtatious. It wouldn't have surprised anyone if the child had not been Auguste's. And this was the conclusion most people drew in the end.

Aspersions were cast on the morality of the family. Social engagements circled around the Savarays, only they were not at the center anymore, and they declined more invitations than they accepted.

*   *   *

Auguste
stuck to his threat. He had the servants clear out Aimée's studio, her paints, easels, palettes, knives, and brushes. He sold her paintings to a dealer, a skinny man with a craggy face who paid one thousand francs for all of them. It wasn't until the man's oily fingers hooked around the gilt frame of a rather exceptional landscape that Auguste felt a pinch of remorse. He would be the one responsible for all this wasted talent, but he was not going back on his word. He stood by as the dealer piled the paintings into a cart and rolled them away.

*   *   *

Aimée
did not watch her work disappear down the street, or go into her empty studio. She did not miss the paintings themselves, only the ability to cocoon herself in the act of painting, to hold her emotions at bay by pretending Henri was beside her, Jacques playing happily in his bedroom, Leonie waiting to take her hand and kiss her cheek, Édouard nothing more than a family friend, her stomach a flat, seedless thing.

Boredom brought a restlessness Aimée had never known before. She became terrified of her own body. At night, she would lie on her back and dig her fingers under her hip bones where her stomach was no longer squishy and flat, but firm and gently sloped. She felt like she was growing sideways, her waist thickening in the wrong places. Hoping to bide a little time with her corset, she pulled the strings tighter than usual, imagining she was flattening the baby.

It took Madame Savaray until the end of November to come up with a plan. It was going to take a good deal of lying, but Madame Savaray was not beyond it. There were times a woman had to lie. She would take it up with God later.

Early one afternoon, she went into Aimée's room where the girl sat at her desk staring at a gathering mass of clouds. “Get your coat,” Madame Savaray said. “We're going out.”

Without question Aimée followed her
grand-mère
out of the room.

Clouds dark as coal billowed overhead, and a flash of lightning lit up the buildings on the rue de Calais as they stepped out of the carriage. A single drop of water hit the pavement at Aimée's feet, and then a torrent of cold, biting rain hurled from the sky. They hurried for cover, their heads down, water pelting the tops of their hats.

As they mounted the stairs to Henri's apartment—Madame Savaray leaning heavily on the banister—Aimée felt a rising anticipation at the thought of seeing Henri again. She was a jitter of nerves by the time he opened the door.

Madame Savaray was too breathless to respond to Henri's “Good afternoon,” and so she nodded and walked into the apartment, leaving him with Aimée.

Instead of shifting his eyes to the floor, Henri greeted her directly. His secret was out. There was nothing left to hide. It was a brief exchange, unremarkable from the outside, but both felt unanticipated relief.

Taking Aimée's coat, Henri made way for Leonie, who put her strong arms around Aimée's shoulders and kissed her damp cheek as if nothing had ever gone wrong between them.

“What wretched weather to be out in,” she said, brushing the water from their coats with a slap of her hand.

Madame Savaray sat in the chair Henri pulled out for her, feeling uncomfortably large as she shifted her buttocks on the narrow seat.

Tense and a little queasy, Aimée went to the sofa and sat down, looking around for signs of Jacques. Everything looked different. The single bed had been replaced with a double. The stove was black and polished and glowing red, the pile of ashes cleared away. Blue flowered crockery lined the cupboard shelf, and the art supplies, which had taken over before, were nowhere in sight.
Girl in the Afternoon
still hung on the wall, along with the large nude of Leonie, and a dozen more studies of her from all different angles: a hand, a bust, a shoulder blade, the curved arch of a foot. Henri had picked her apart with precision. Aimée imagined that at night, with his hands, he put her back together.

She noticed a small bed in the corner neatly made with a stuffed rabbit propped on the pillow. Next to the rabbit sat a rusted toy monkey that had once been Aimée's. In each hand he held a stiff wire. As a child she'd spent hours twisting the crank on his back, watching him lurch into motion, climb the wires, flip over the top, and make his jerky, mechanical way back down. Aimée wished she could take the monkey in her lap, twist the crank on its back, and watch it climb the wires one last time.

At the stove, Leonie poured coffee. Henri sat across from Madame Savaray, but kept his chair at an angle so he didn't have to face her head-on.

Everything felt strange, with the thunder cracking outside and the lightning streaking through the room. No one spoke. There was nothing save the occasional boom of thunder to quell the silence. Leonie set the coffee on the table with a plate of cheese and bread, prepared beforehand, and sat next to Aimée. She wanted Aimée to see that she didn't hold any grudges. Henri had told her the truth about growing up in the Savaray house, the truth about Jacques, and not for one minute did she hold him accountable. As far as Leonie was concerned, it was all Colette's fault. That vile woman had slipped into his bed in the middle of the night, in the dark, and what was Henri supposed to do? Leonie might have grown up poor, but she'd been raised decent and proper. To have a maman such as Colette, well, that was worth all the pity in the world.

Madame Savaray shifted in her chair. Her knee ached, the bottom of her dress was wet, the storm irked her, and no one, it seemed, wanted to discuss why they were here. It was clear that it would all be on her. “They have agreed to take the child,” she said, looking directly at Aimée, who wasn't sure whether she should feel grateful, or outraged.

Another flash of lightning turned the sky into a sheet of white, and the room, for that split second, was brilliant.

Aimée felt the sofa shift under her as Leonie edged closer. Solid, practical Leonie—none of this would unsettle her. Aimée glanced at Henri, who kept his hands wrapped around his mug and his eyes turned away from everyone. It was humiliating to think that he knew of her condition. Looking at his profile, the curve of his narrow lips and the rise of his small nose, she felt the same pull, the same attraction and longing she'd always felt, but knowing what he had done with her maman changed it to something disturbing, repugnant.

She realized then that her image of family, of her place in society and the rules she'd been told to follow, were all lies. Lines were blurred, roles confused, rules broken and neatly covered up. Even her stalwart
grand-mère
—who Aimée imagined hadn't told a lie in her life—was sitting here, orchestrating a ruse that would go on for a lifetime.

Madame Savaray picked up her coffee, the warmth of the cup only a slight comfort. It was no wonder no one was saying anything. How could one speak of relief and sorrow in the same breath, of a child who was to come and go, and never be mentioned. She set her coffee down and reached for a piece of cheese, hoping food might take the jittery edge off her stomach.

“Where's Jacques?” Aimée asked, this sudden turn of conversation startling everyone.

“A friend took him for the afternoon,” Leonie said. “We thought if he saw you and Madame Savaray it would upset him. He's only just stopped asking for his maman.”

It was outrageous to Aimée to think these children would grow up as siblings, her child and her maman's, and from the tight pull of her
grand-mère
's mouth, Aimée knew she felt the same way. Outrageous, and yet, somehow, the perfect solution.

Leonie took Aimée's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Aimée looked at her. Nothing was said, but something very important passed between them—something of a deep and intimate understanding, a moment of profound gratitude and acceptance. They would never speak of it, but it was this moment that would allow for all that was to pass between them. And years later, when Leonie was much older, when memories consumed her, this was the moment she would come back to, the moment that would help her understand, no matter how painful, that she had done the right thing.

“How will we manage it?” Aimée asked.

“You can live with us,” Leonie said. “Until the baby is born. Not here, of course. It's much too small.”

“What will we tell my parents?”

Reaching for another piece of cheese, Madame Savaray said, “I have a friend in England—Lady Arrington. Widowed, without children. I wrote and asked if you might stay with her. She said she'd be grateful for the company. I told her you would be traveling in the late spring. It's only a matter of convincing your papa to send you abroad.”

“But I won't be going abroad.”

“You will, after the baby is born. So it's not entirely a lie.”

Henri hadn't said a word. He looked wholly absorbed in his cup of coffee.

“We want to move anyway,” Leonie said. “My
grand-tante
passed away, and she's left me a little money.”

Madame Fiavre had been the only family Leonie had, and Aimée felt a stab of sympathy.

Leonie looked at Henri, trying to catch his eye, continuing when he gave no sign of disapproval. “Your papa's sent money too,” she said. “He writes that he'll send it every month, for Jacques.”

“I don't want his money,” Henri said, hating for Aimée to think that he was taking it willingly.

“Then you're a fool.” Madame Savaray slapped her hand on the table. She wished Henri would sit up straight and stop looking so desultory. “You don't have the means to provide the boy with a home he deserves. He might not be Auguste's child, but neither were you. It's selfish to be prideful. Leonie's a prudent woman, with a good head on her shoulders. You listen to her. She knows what's best for the boy. I expect you'll be marrying her now, what with these children involved. Make a proper woman of her.”

Henri gave a slight smile, which Madame Savaray took as passive and noncommittal. “Well?” she said sharply.

He nodded. “One thing at a time.”

Madame Savaray grimaced. “Another month and Aimée's condition will be all too obvious. The three of you can't possibly stay in this infinitesimal room. It would be highly improper, not to mention there's the risk of Colette making an unexpected visit. The sooner you get away the better.”

“I know of a cottage in Thoméry that's for let,” Henri said. “I plan to go out tomorrow and have a look.”

“Good.” Madame Savaray stood up and looked out the window. “The storm's easing up. We ought to be going.”

Henri went to retrieve their coats. First he helped Madame Savaray on with hers, then he held Aimée's as she slid her arms through the sleeves. From behind, he reached up and adjusted the heavy fabric over her shoulders. Before she could move away, he drew his hands down her arms and gave an unmistakable squeeze.

Long after she and her
grand-mère
stepped back out into the cold, wet afternoon, Aimée felt the pressure of Henri's hands on her arms. Whether his quiet acknowledgment was pity, or some silent apology, Aimée accepted it, wanting to forgive him in a way she could never forgive her maman.

 

Chapter 21

When they returned home that night, Madame Savaray went to Auguste. Deeply concerned, she told him that Aimée needed discipline before she was to be married off. Marriage had never kept any woman in line, she said, raising her eyebrows, “But I don't need to tell
you
that. What Aimée needs,” she insisted, “is to be sent away. I propose sending her to Lady Arrington. You know how the English are.” Another raised eyebrow. “Far more disciplined in matters of the flesh than we.” Madame Savaray stood over Auguste in her black, high-necked dress, hoping it made her look authoritative, unrelenting. She needed this plan to work.

Auguste folded his arms across his chest. “You're just trying to get her out of marriage.”

“Yes,” Madame Savaray said, “I am. I don't think it's the answer. What we can agree on is that she must be removed from temptation. Your solution is marriage. Mine is England. At least mine isn't permanent.”

Auguste walked to his desk, drawing his chair out and making a great show of seating himself in front of his work. “I'll think it over,” he said.

Madame Savaray pinched her lips together. This would not work without his consent. “Auguste,” she started in again, but he shot his hand in the air.

“I said I would think it over.” He picked up his pen. “If you are quite through, I have work to do.”

Madame Savaray watched her son scribble something on a piece of paper, set it aside, and pick up another. He used to be reasonable and kind. All she saw now was an irate, bitter man. She supposed anyone could get beaten down, eventually, which was how he looked, beaten down. His eyes were puffy, his skin sallow, his broad shoulders slumped and defenseless where they had once looked so formidable. Affection was what he needed, Madame Savaray thought, but there was no room for that in their relationship. There never had been.