âIf I had such a house,â Clare said, âIâd have royal aspirations, too.â
âNot if you knew how much it cost to keep it from falling the rest of the way down.â I regretted the words right as I said them. This girl, with her fancy green dress, buttoned boots, proper British country house, she wouldnât understand. With all of the money going towards this ragged chĂąteau, to preserving this precious little bit of paradise, there was nothing left over, even for my tuition. I pushed out a smile, hoping she wouldnât take me seriously. âBut youâre right, it does look like a castle, lost here in the countryside.â
âI half expected a drawbridge to lower when we arrived.â
âI was always sure Iâd find a sleeping princess hidden behind the roses and thorns.â
She glanced up from her sketchbook, a look of amusement in her eyes. âI didnât realize boys read fairy tales.â
âThey do when their fathers found their fame illustrating an edition of Perraultâs Les Contes de Ma MĂšre lâOye.â I made a face.
âPerraultâs fairy tales?â The astringent smell of crushed grass rose as she sat up and brushed at a smear of green on her skirt. âOf course! âC. CrĂ©pet.â Itâs a pale blue book, isnât it?â
I wasnât surprised she knew it. The book had dogged me through my childhood. In boarding school the boys called me âPrince Charming.â âThatâs the book.â
âItâsâŠwhat do they call itâŠart nouveau?â
âDonât say that over the tea table if you want to avoid an argument. Itâs the Glasgow School style, of course. Can we talk about something else?â
She settled herself back on the grass. âI hate fairy tales anyway.â
âThatâs ridiculous. Who hates fairy tales?â
She tugged on a hair ribbon. âYou do. You shouldâve seen the look on your face when I mentioned Iâd read the book.â
I hated that I was that easy to read. She, on the other hand, wasnât. âYouâre baffling.â
From her seat on the grass, she executed a mock curtsey. âThank you.â
âWas that a compliment?â
âWasnât it?â
âBoys are so much easier. Nothing we say to each other is a compliment. We just expect everything to be an insult and we all get along fine.â
And for that, she smiled. It was only a little smile, but unexpected. It filled her whole face with light. I wondered how I could keep it from slipping away again.
âI know where Papa keeps his extra pencils,â I said quickly. âHe wonât notice if we go to borrow a few.â
âPencils?â She sat up straighter.
âContĂ© pencils,â I said. I stood up. âFreshly sharpened.â
She followed without further question, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, walking quickly as though any pause would cause me to reconsider the offer of the pencils. Ripper stayed under the tree, but Bede trotted along with us. I led Clare inside, up the stairs, to the part of the house that always smelled comfortingly like turpentine and linseed oil.
âWeâre going to Monsieur CrĂ©petâs studio?â she asked in a whisper. âIs it allowed?â
âDefinitely not.â There were few things Papa disapproved of. Academic art. Yellow journalism. Spain. Anti-Dreyfusards. And people rummaging around in his studio. âWhy do you think he keeps dueling pistols?â
She stopped stock-still in the hallway.
âOr blades? Heâll offer you a choice.â
âStop teasing me,â she said, but she didnât move from her spot on the hall rug.
âDonât worry. Iâll be your second.â I reached out and tugged on her arm. âDonât you remember? Youâre safe with me.â
She looked down at my hand on her arm until I let go. âAs long as youâre not leading me into trouble.â
âI thought ladies were impressed by feats of daring?â
âWeâre certainly not impressed by assumptions.â
I bowed. âAnd the mademoiselle has won that duel.â
The hallway outside of Papaâs studio was quiet, but I waited a moment with my fingers on the door. I wasnât as offhand as I pretended. Even Bede took one look at the studio door and bounded back downstairs, toenails clicking. Only when I was sure that there was not a sound from within did I push open the door.
The room was almost blinding after the dim, ruby-papered hallway. Windows stretched from ceiling almost to floor and, with no curtains anywhere, light shot enthusiastically into the studio. Papa was too enamored with shadow and changing light to let the south facing windows worry him. Overhead, cords crisscrossed the ceiling, with sockets for electric bulbs. Only the doorway was darkened, with piles of furniture and hatboxes and stacks of filmy fabrics on either side.
âItâs magnificent,â Clare exclaimed, stepping in.
Though Iâd been in the room dozens of times, I understood. Papaâs studio had always filled me with an awe that Iâd never admit. Not when Iâd brushed aside his hopeful suggestions for the Glasgow School of Art or, as much as it pained him to suggest, âeven the AcadĂ©mie des Beaux-Arts, if you must.â I couldnât admit that, like a cathedral, Papaâs studio exuded a peace that I sometimes wished I had.
Clare traced a finger over the arch of the curved mauve sofa Papa used to pose subjects. âIs this where he painted the fairy-tale illustrations?â
âSome.â I went to the cabinet where I knew he kept supplies. âIn the mornings he likes to work outside, by the river. Afternoons heâs in here.â
âThe easel is empty.â She caught up the end of a diaphanous scarf and swirled it over her shoulders. âWhere does he keep his paintings?â
I found new brushes, oil pastels, tubes of pigment, but no pencils. âThe walls of the chĂąteau.â I peered into the dark at the back of the shelf but only saw more tubes and a jumble of empty jars. âOr the walls of other chĂąteaux. He does take commissions at times.â
âBut he also paints for himself?â
âHe does, though not as much as he used to. It makes Maman crazy. She thinks he should only paint what he will sell.â
She paused in front of a mirror and tried on a greenish top hat. âHe paints for artâs sake, not moneyâs sake.â
For some reason seeing her in that top hat made my neck hot, so I pulled over a stool and resumed my search farther into the cabinet.
âDonât you see?â she continued. âSometimes art springs unexpected from a deeper place. Your soul, it has a story to tell, and the drawing, the painting, the sculpting, are only the medium for that story.â
They were heady words for a fifteen-year-old. But her eyes reflected in the mirror were resolute. She understood this passion, this itch, this frenetic creating that seized Papa. I never had, but this young girl, somehow she did.
She turned. âYouâve grown up surrounded by this.â She waved a hand around the studio, at the dust and light and smudges of color. âIâm sure you know. Art can be personal, emotional, spiritual. Glorious and expansive. Restorative, even. Itâs more than shapes on canvas or brushstrokes or curves in clay. ItâsâŠwell, itâs expression.â
âAnd when itâs a commissionâwhen Papa is painting fairy-tale queens or Parisian bankersâwhere is the expression in that?â I leaned against the cabinet door.
âHe paints them as he sees them. It is not a photograph, is it? No. It is a fairy-tale queen or a Parisian banker as viewed by Monsieur Claude CrĂ©pet.â