Prelude to Heaven (14 page)

She made a face at him. “It's past lambing season.”

He shot her an amused glance in return, tucked a pencil behind his ear, and picked up his sketchbook.

Tess glanced around, noting the crumbling stones of a Roman ruin at the edge of the meadow. “What are you going to sketch? The ruins?”

He shifted a bit to the left and glanced at the sun. “
Non
,” he answered, returning his attention to her. “I am composing a preliminary sketch for a painting. I intend to paint you.”

“Me?” Dismayed, she frowned at him. “Oh, no! You can't!”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Why not?”

“I don't want you to paint me.” She made a self-conscious gesture to her abdomen. “I'm too fat for a painting.”

He abruptly dropped the sketchbook and came toward her. Bending down, he grasped her chin and lifted it. “You're not fat,” he told her, scowling. “You're pregnant.”

“Well, yes,” she said, laughing a little, “that is rather what I meant.” Bewildered by the fierceness of his expression, she felt impelled to point it out. “You’re looking terribly belligerent all of a sudden.”

His hand slid away. “You're not fat,” he repeated and settled himself on the ground a few feet away, his sketch book on his lap.

“I know, but I feel fat and terribly awkward. You'd feel that way, too,” she added wryly, “if you waddled like a duck.”

Glancing over at her, his frown vanished. A reluctant smile tipped the corner of his mouth. “I suppose I would.”

He pulled his pencil from behind his ear, but he didn’t start drawing. Instead, he simply looked at her.

After a few moments, Tess began to find the scrutiny disconcerting. She wriggled in her chair.

“Are you uncomfortable?” he asked.

“No, it’s just that...well, you’re staring at me.”

His smile widened. “Is there a way to draw a woman without staring at her?” he asked, shifting the sketch book to the crook of his arm and ducking as she threw a tuft of grass at him.

But he didn’t tease her any further. Instead, he began to draw, and Tess settled back in her chair, trying not to seem as uncomfortable with this as she felt. To distract herself, she studied their surroundings, and she could see why he’d chosen this particular location.

The meadow was a riot of color—blue cornflowers, red poppies, white meadowsweet, and rippling golden grass. Behind her, the three remaining columns of the temple rose like spires toward the blue sky above. The forest of chestnut, cork, and pine that surrounded the meadow as if hiding it from the world like a special secret.

“It's very pretty here,” she commented.

“This is the Meadow of the Fairies. It’s always been considered a magical place.” He paused and gestured to the ruins behind her with his pencil. “Even the Romans thought so. People say that sometimes the fairies come here and sit on the petals of the flowers.”

She laughed. “The fairies?”

“Don't laugh. They say if you see the fairies in the flowers, you have found happiness and good fortune. But if you laugh at them and don't believe in them, they will bring you sorrow.”

“Have you ever seen the fairies?”

“Yes,” he said softly and looked away. “I saw them once.”

He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he resumed sketching.

Tess watched him for a moment. “Why do you want to paint me?”

He didn't look up. “Why shouldn't I paint you?”

That was no answer. “I suppose there is no reason why you shouldn't. I simply wondered why you would want to.”

“I don't do many portraits now. I don't often have a subject.” He paused, then added without looking at her, “But a woman
très jolie
is too tempting an opportunity to pass by.”

“Pretty? You think I'm pretty?”

He continued to sketch. “Very pretty. Now stop fishing for compliments, mademoiselle, and sit still,
s'il vous plait
.”

She gave a sigh of mock aggravation, but inside, she felt the warm glow of summer sunshine. He thought she was pretty. Tess smiled, hugging that thought to herself.

After a few more minutes, she bent to take a peek in the basket. “May we eat while you work?” she asked.

He shook his head. “
Non
,” he said without pausing in his task. “Wait. I am nearly finished with this.”

“Already?” she asked in surprise.

“This is only a preliminary sketch. I will probably need to do several of these before I begin the portrait.” He sketched for several more minutes, then laid one last stroke to the paper, gave a satisfied nod, and closed the book, tossing aside his pencil.

“May I see it?” she asked.

Alexandre opened the book again to the proper place and handed it to her. She studied the page thoughtfully. It was only a sketch of her face. He hadn't drawn the entire scene. It was rough, but her likeness was very clear.

“May I look through the rest of this?” When he nodded, she flipped to the first page and began looking at his other sketches as he uncorked the wine and unpacked their picnic. Most of the sketches were landscapes of the surrounding countryside, each with something unusual as the focal point. There was one of a rocky hillside where a lone olive tree grew, its twisted branches rising toward the sky in the shape of a praying woman. Another of a peninsula jutting out into the sea, its abandoned, crumbling lighthouse standing like the profile of an old sailor. A rocky wall between two fields where the shadows on the stones formed the delicate shape of a girl's face. She would never have seen in these ordinary things the shapes and forms Alexandre did. “You truly have a gift,” she said as she set aside the sketch book.

“
Merci
.” He leaned forward, holding out a plate laden with chicken, cheese, bread, and fruit. After she had taken it, he prepared another for himself, then he uncorked a bottle of wine. Watching him as he poured some of the wine into a glass, she was struck by a sudden thought.

“Why aren't there any sketches of the winery?” she asked.

His hand stilled. Slowly, with great care, he set the bottle aside. “The winery is closed, mademoiselle,” he told her. “There is nothing to sketch there.” He paused. “Not anymore.”

He said nothing more, and their picnic was finished in silence.

Tess's ankle was completely healed by the following day, but during the days that followed, she found her role as housekeeper impossible to maintain. Alexandre simply would not let her. If she washed clothes, he insisted upon taking over the vigorous scrubbing and relegated her to the easier task of hanging the clothes on the line. If she dusted the bookshelves, he was there to dust the top ones so she would not have to climb the ladder. If she wanted to muck out Betsy's stall, she would reach the stable only to find that Alexandre had already done it for her. When he felt inclined to go off on one of his solitary walks, he never left without telling her where he was going and how long he would be gone, and he was never gone for long.

He did several more sketches of her, each more complete than the last. “I don't think you shall ever do the actual painting,” she would declare as they walked back to the house after another session.

“I want it to be exactly right,” was all he ever replied. Though she still didn’t know quite why he wanted to paint her, she was relieved by his insistence upon remaining close by, and glad of his help with the household tasks, for as the days passed, she found herself able to do less and less. She tired more easily, her back ached continually, and she seemed to always be dropping things. She also became more absentminded, frequently walking into a room and forgetting why she was there. One evening in mid-August she found herself in the library, contemplating just such a predicament.

“Now why did I come in here?” she muttered, looking around the room with vexation, trying to recall her reason for being there. She was just about to give up and leave the room, when the low murmur of voices speaking in French floated up to her through the open window.

“What if he sees us?”

“We run, Pierre, as fast as we can.”

The voices of these unexpected visitors had Tess walking over to the window. She leaned out and found two boys about ten years of age crouching directly below, hidden from any view but hers by the shrubbery surrounding them and the shadows of twilight. She watched as one of the boys lifted his head above the bush and took a furtive look around the courtyard.

“I don't see him.”

“Maybe we should go back, Jean-Paul. We've made it to the house. Won't that be enough?”

“The dare was to go inside,” the boy called Jean-Paul pointed out. “We've got to get in somehow.”

Tess listened to the flow of their words in puzzlement, wondering if she had perhaps misunderstood the words of their Provençal dialect. What was the significance of a dare like this one? Surely, anyone who wanted to see Alexandre could just come to the door.

“I don't like this,” the boy called Pierre mumbled. “What if it's true what they say about him?”

Jean-Paul muttered something in reply Tess didn’t quite hear and took another look around. “I don't think he's here. C'mon.”

He started to move, but Pierre grabbed his shirt. “What if he catches us?”

“He won't.”

“Jean-Paul, I’m scared. If Papa finds out, he’ll give us the willow switch, I know it.”

“Don’t be such a baby.” Jean-Paul moved out from behind the shrubbery and Tess walked to the opposite window, watching as the two boys below move furtively toward the door to the kitchen. A dare? Why would they be frightened of coming to see Alexandre? And why should their papa beat them for it?

She leaned further out the window as Jean-Paul started to open the kitchen door, but a sudden cry from Pierre stopped him. Both boys whirled around to stare across the courtyard, and Tess looked up, all three of them watching as Alexandre entered the courtyard.

“There he is!”

“Run, Pierre! Run!”

With several whoops of terror, the boys ran toward the far end of the courtyard, scrambling over the stones of the tumble-down wall and racing away across the meadow as fast as their legs could carry them.

Still confused, Tess returned her gaze to Alexandre, who was staring after the two boys. His face was devoid of expression, and yet somehow, in the very blankness of it was pain that tore at her own heart.

Within her, the baby suddenly kicked, but Tess was too preoccupied with the scene below to savor the moment as she usually did. She pressed a hand to her mouth, watching in dismay as Alexandre sank onto a stone bench and slowly lowered his head into his hands.

The move galvanized her into action, and she went down to the courtyard. She didn't know why the two boys afraid of him, but at this moment, she didn't care. All she cared about was that their fear had brought a terrible expression to his face, and though she had no idea what she could say or what she could do, she had to do something.

She felt the baby kick again, thumping against her ribs as she walked toward Alexandre. He heard her footsteps on the loose stones and gravel, and he looked up as she approached. He sat up with a stiff, abrupt movement and turned his face away, pretending vast interest in a nearby lavender bush.

She halted beside where he sat and reached down to take up his hand. Without speaking, placed it at the top of her abdomen, right where the baby was kicking.

“Isn't it wonderful,” she said, spreading her hand over his and looking down at his lowered head.

The baby landed a powerful jab at her ribs and Tess drew in a sharp breath, but she was smiling when Alexandre lifted his head to look up at her, because the sadness was gone from his features and surprised awe had taken its place. They remained there for a long time, motionless as the shadows of night darkened the courtyard and the stars came out.

***

That night Tess found it difficult to sleep. Once those few intimate moments in the courtyard were over and both of them had retired for the night, Tess couldn’t help envisioning the incident with the two boys, and she couldn't stop wondering why they seemed terrified of Alexandre. She had the sick feeling whatever the reason, it was the same one that impelled him to isolate himself from the outside world.

Tess rolled onto her opposite side, punched her pillow, and closed her eyes, and her wayward thoughts moved on to another mystery.
Who was the woman in the portrait
?

After what seemed an eternity of these useless contemplations, Tess gave up trying to sleep and rose from the bed, but her mind did not stop asking questions.
Who wore this
? she wondered as she slipped a wrapper over her night dress.

A pregnant woman, to be sure, and probably Alexandre’s wife. Tess fingered the generous folds of delicate material thoughtfully. If that were true, what had happened to her? What had happened to their child?

She walked to the open window and stared out at the fat yellow moon that seemed to float in a black velvet sky, rubbing her hand over her abdomen. There were more important things to think about right now than Alexandre's past, she acknowledged with a sigh. What she ought to be thinking about was her own future and that of her own child.