Chapter Three #3
‘It is rather lonely in my parents’ house, too, despite—or maybe because of—all the noise,’ he said, his tone light but something darker, sharper, lurking underneath. ‘I wish I could have my own little painting room, as you do.’
‘Do you like to paint, too?’
‘Not at all. I can barely draw a creditable square. But the silence must be heavenly. Perhaps I should take up writing poetry, so I could claim a quiet little library somewhere. I wonder if feelings could be caught in words as you do in colours. I should like that.’
‘You would no doubt be a famous poet. You are much more handsome than Byron.’ And there was that something, that something deeper and darker just beneath. Something she wished she could unearth from beneath his cool distance.
He slanted her an amused glance from under the brim of his hat. ‘Really? I fear my versifying at present is quite as terrible as my drawing, so looks would be all I had to begin with.’
Sandrine waved this away. ‘Words can be taught, felt. You look like a poet, that is the important thing to begin with. Throw in a bit of tormented rakishness, a few lines about beauty like the moon and stars, some tragic endings, and all will go well, I think. I am a painter, not a writer.’
He laughed, and those shadows slid away.
She loved that lightness she felt in him then, that easy fun.
She hadn’t realised how much she longed for such moments in her quiet life.
But it was quickly gone, as he seemed to withdraw into himself again.
She had to find a way to draw him forward once more.
‘You are an expert on poetry, mademoiselle? Most ladies seem to be, painters or not.’
Sandrine shrugged, and opened her parasol to twirl it around. ‘I read a lot of poetry, it’s true. I certainly don’t like all of it.’
‘Perhaps we should establish a salon, like in the old days in France. One for talented painters and terrible poets,’ he mused as they turned a corner and headed towards the park. ‘Serve good wine and very little food. We would be very popular.’
He joked, but Sandrine thought it sounded perfect.
A circle of friends who loved art, lots of conversation and laughter.
A future that was all hers, just as she—and Alain—wanted to build it.
Surely he cared about her! Surely he understood.
Everything looked terribly bright around her.
‘And we shall serve ices from Gunter’s; that will be the only food. ’
‘Ices it is! So, where shall we go today? The gates of the park are just ahead.’
Sandrine studied the carriages and pedestrians making their way towards those gates, a crowd in the bright day. She wanted to keep him to herself for just a while. ‘Maybe we could go to the Cavendish Gallery? It’s not far.’
‘A gallery?’
‘They are displaying a beautiful Fra Angelico painting, and have a great many new landscapes I would like to see. I can never persuade my mother to let me visit there enough; she finds it dull.’
‘I don’t think looking at paintings in your company could ever be dull.’ He turned the carriage as easily as she would walk in a different direction. ‘How often would you visit such museums and galleries, if you could do whatever you liked?’
‘Oh, every day, I fear! The curators would get very tired of me indeed. And I would find all the teachers I could, take lessons that offer a bit more in-depth tuition than my old drawing master could give. Though…’ She hesitated, wondering if she was talking too much, as she seemed to do with him.
He was easy company, despite the way his beauty made her fidget and blush. A good listener.
‘Though what?’ he asked, his tone full of curiosity.
‘Well, sometimes when I look at great art, truly great art, I feel terribly overwhelmed. Sad. Adrift.’ She couldn’t explain it, really, not even to herself, that intense longing that would sometimes come over her.
‘How so? I can definitely agree that such feelings could leave us confused.’
‘Yes. Have you ever longed for something so very much, craved it deep in your bones, hungered for it?’
He blinked, and suddenly seemed very distant. His gaze turned inward, to something hidden, unseen. ‘Yes. I have.’
Sandrine wondered what it was, what made him sad.
If only she could soothe it. ‘That is what I’ve often felt about art, true art.
And when I see something of such beauty, such transcendence, I fear I could never reach such heights myself.
Never touch such sublime, aching perfection. Never say what I really want to say.’
The silence stretched between them for a long moment, and she wondered if she’d babbled too much.
Said too much. He gave her such a feeling that she’d done something wrong, when all she wanted was to impress him.
‘I am sure you will attain all of that. I may not be an expert on art, but I know what I saw in your work, mademoiselle. I know what it made me feel. You must use your gift, bring it to others.’
She feared she might start crying at those simple words, that affirmation she’d never heard from anyone before. She had moved him with her work. It had meant something to someone, even if only for a moment. She turned away, blinking hard.
Luckily, they soon arrived at the gallery, a sombre, pale stone edifice whose blank windows gave no clue to the riches that lay beyond, and she had an excuse to fuss with her parasol, to dash away those tears.
Someone came to take the carriage, and Alain helped her to the walkway.
She squeezed his hand, grateful beyond anything she could say, excited she could share this place with him.
She dashed up the narrow marble steps to the doors, stepping inside to take a deep breath of the deliciously cool air, scented with the faint whiff of oil paint, of old paper, of hushed and awed silence.
It was like stepping into a sanctuary, and he was there beside her. She was not alone.
‘I wish I could look at everything all at once,’ she said, spinning around to all the galleries that stretched from the foyer.
‘What about—this one?’ Alain said. He started towards the doorway to the left, and Sandrine scurried after him. She found herself in a treasure box, a room of crimson walls lined with the vivid colours, the dramatic lines and palpable emotions of seascapes, ancient battles, gods and goddesses.
‘One day, Mademoiselle Jaubert, your work will be right here,’ he said, his tone full of confidence, full of her hopes.
‘If I work hard enough, perhaps. But there is the Fra Angelico over there! Come, let me show it to you.’ She led him to her favorite scene, a Madonna on a gold-leafed throne, a lily in one hand, her bright head bent tenderly towards the child on her lap, who also held a flower up to her.
‘The splendour of the colours are incredible, of course, and the way the light slants and curves to touch her face. But I have always yearned for that sweetness in her eyes as she looks at her child…’
‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘So tender. You have a fine sensibility, Mademoiselle Jaubert.’
‘Alain! Imagine seeing you here. You’re the last person I would expect,’ a man called out merrily.
Sandrine turned to see a tall gentleman, with sandy brown hair and kind, dark eyes, hurrying towards them. Alain stiffened at her side.
‘I did not think you were much of a connoisseur of art,’ he said, clapping Alain on the shoulder. He examined Sandrine with an admiring glint in his eyes she wished she could see in Alain’s. ‘But I dare say you are hiding here to keep this beautiful flower to yourself. Most unfair of you.’
‘Louis, this is Mademoiselle Jaubert. And this flattering coxcomb is, I fear, an old schoolfriend of mine, Monsieur Louis Brissac.’
Monsieur Brissac bowed low over Sandrine’s hand, making her laugh. ‘A fellow citizen of France! No wonder you have such elegance, as only a French lady could.’
‘I fear I barely remember France at all,’ Sandrine said, delighted to meet someone who knew Alain. ‘And I would have thought neither of you gentlemen could be old enough to have attended a French school.’
‘Alas, no, but our schoolmaster was from Brittany. A bit of home on our new shores, where I, of course, excelled at languages and mathematics, and Alain excelled at paress, lazinesse.’
She laughed even more, picturing the two of them as youngsters dashing through the school corridors, creating havoc. ‘Oh, I should like to know so much more, monsieur.’
‘You do sadly misrepresent me to the young lady, Louis,’ Alain chided. Did he actually sound—embarrassed? And was that a blush on his cheeks? Sandrine was even more intrigued.
‘But if she hears that everyone at school thought you a paragon, as well as the perfection of your cursed face, she would never look at me, I fear.’ Louis sighed.
‘But coincidentally I am here with Monsieur Aurac, our very schoolmaster! He has returned to live in Hampstead, and has tried to turn me from poetry to instill a love of art as well.’
Alain went very still. ‘Monsieur Aurac?’
Louis nodded, and shot Alain a long look. ‘Yes, and his granddaughter, of course, who has come to keep house for him. I am sure you do remember the lovely Danielle?’
‘Well, I should very much like to meet them,’ Sandrine said. How wonderful it would be to know more of his past, of what had come to make him the intriguing man he was now! She was overcome with curiosity.
‘Yes, you must,’ Louis said. He took her arm and led her away towards the gallery door, chatting of old pranks they had once pulled at school. Sandrine glanced back to see Alain frozen in place, watching them go, and she wanted to run back to him, to ask what was suddenly amiss.
‘Surely I should escort you home soon, mademoiselle,’ he called.
‘What fustian, Alain!’ Louis said with a laugh. ‘Monsieur Aurac will be so happy to see you again. You were his favourite pupil.’