Prelude to Heaven (15 page)

She wanted to stay here. She wanted to continue keeping house for Alexandre, and she wanted raise her baby here. Not because she had nowhere else to go, and not because she was trying to hide, but because Alexandre was here, and he would be wonderful with the baby. A bit overprotective perhaps, especially if the child were a girl, but—

She stopped, suddenly realizing that what she was doing was building fairy-tale castles, and she reminded herself that Alexandre had said nothing about her staying here permanently. Why would he want to take on the responsibility of another man's child? He had seemed content with his solitude, so why would he allow Tess and her baby to stay?

Suddenly the summer breeze floating in from the sea seemed cold, and she stepped away from the window. She had to talk with him about the baby, find out exactly what her position would be after the child was born. And she had to begin preparing for the actual birth as well. Arrangements had to be made.

She would need a midwife. Tess bit her lip worriedly at that thought, for hadn't really thought about it before. If she arranged for a midwife, the woman would know about her, and in that case, she could be found.

That would only matter if the authorities were looking for her, and she didn’t know that they were. She took several deep breaths, forcing down her sudden panic. It had been five months since she'd fled England. If the Crown was searching for her with any diligence, wouldn't they have found her by now? Perhaps she was safe.

And it didn’t matter anyway. She had to have a midwife. And there were other things she needed as well. She had waited far too long already to begin preparing.

Tess went downstairs, moving carefully in the dark. In the kitchen, she lit a candle from the banked coals in the stove, then went in search of notepaper, quill, and ink, and she sat down at the table and made a list of everything she needed to have for the baby. For some reason, pregnancy was making her so absent-minded, and if she didn’t write these things down, she’d forget, and she couldn’t run the risk of not having the necessary items when the time came.

Once she had finished, she lifted the paper, blowing on it to dry the ink, and scanned the list, and as she did so, she realized what she needed most was not written down. She needed Alexandre. She needed his support and his help. He would have to make the arrangements, for she dared not go to the village herself. He’d want to know why she didn’t simply visit the midwife herself, and she’d have to think up a plausible reason for that. And there was the money to consider. She had a mere five francs, probably not be enough to buy the midwife’s services and ensure her discretion, so Alexandre would have to provide the remaining coin required. She’d insist upon having it taken out of her future wages, of course, but she also knew there might not be any future wages. Alexandre might not let her stay.

Tess tried to reassure herself that everything was going to be all right, but it was still a long time before she tucked away her list, blew out the candle and went to bed—even longer before she finally drifted off into a troubled sleep.

***

“I am going to the village today,” Alexandre told her the next morning after the chores were done. “Is there anything you need?”

It was a perfunctory question, for she never asked him to bring her anything, but to his surprise, her answer this time was different.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I need several things. And while we are on the subject—” She broke off, setting her milk pail on the kitchen table and pulling out one of the chairs from beneath the table. “Could we sit down? I would like to talk with you about something. It’s important.”

Alexandre knew she'd seen what had happened the evening before, for he’d seen her at the library window. Did she intend to ask him why they had run away in fear as he'd approached? And what on earth would he tell her if she did ask?

He sat down opposite her and she pulled a folded sheet of notepaper from her skirt pocket. “These are the things I need for the baby,” she said and set the folded sheet on the table. “If you could obtain them for me when you go to the village today, I would appreciate it. And—” She paused to take a deep breath. “I shall need you to arrange for a midwife.”

“Now?” He felt a hint of panic. “Tess, you’re not having the baby now?”

“No, no. I think it’s a month or two away, at least, but it could be sooner, so I need you to talk to the midwife now, let her know I will be needing her when the time comes.”

Him? Go to old Françoise and arrange for her to come to his home and deliver a baby? She wouldn't come, not after Anne-Marie. She’d spit in his face. “Why can’t you go to her?” he asked, desperate. “Why can’t you make these arrangements yourself?”

“I just can’t.” She looked at him with those wide green eyes, and there was a plea in their depths. “Walking tires me so easily nowadays. And besides, I need to be as discreet as possible. I am a stranger here, and walking through your village in my condition would cause talk. People would learn I have no man with me, they would realize I am not married—” Her cheeks grew pink. “I know the midwife will want to consult with me beforehand, but she is no doubt accustomed to exercising discretion in such matters. So if you could ask her to come here, that would be best. I realize the midwife might think the child is yours—” She stopped again, her cheeks growing pinker.

And that was exactly why Françoise would never agree to assist, but he could hardly tell Tess that. He could hardly say that the last time Françoise had been here, his baby had died, his wife had died, and he and the midwife both knew the blame for their deaths lay with him.

No, he couldn’t say any of that, so he said nothing and wondered what the hell he was going to do.

Tess pushed the sheet of notepaper across to him. “If you could purchase these things in the village today, I would appreciate it.”

He took the paper and scanned the list of items in her small, neat handwriting. Cotton wool, bolt of plain muslin, bolt of cambric, bolt of flannel, yarn, strong twine, buttons...

“Buttons?” he choked out, feeling the need to say something, anything.

“I have to make some clothes and things for the baby,” she explained. “I had a bit of money left when I arrived here, but I doubt it’s enough. Of course, if you were to allow me to stay on as your housekeeper, you could take the sum out of my wages.”

“It doesn't matter,” he cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand. “Tess, the money doesn't matter at all.”

“There is a suite of room upstairs by the servants’ quarters that appears to be a nursery. But it's so far away from my room that it will not be suitable for the baby. I thought I would use the little dressing room off of my own for the baby. May I make that into a nursery?”

Alexandre closed his eyes, listening to her soft voice as she spoke of nurseries and babies, as she asked his permission to make a home for her baby. Did she even have to ask? Of course, she could stay. She and the baby, too, as long as she wanted. But the look he saw on her face when he opened his eyes reminded him again that she took nothing for granted.

“I think,” he said, shoving back his chair and shoving the list in his pocket, “the little room off of your chamber will make a fine nursery.”

He was gone before she could even thank him.

***

The road to the village was long and winding and led past the vineyards. Alexandre never used it. Instead, he took the more direct path along the beach. As he walked toward Saint-Raphael, just the thought of having to approach Françoise brought a sick feeling to his guts.

He hadn't seen the old woman since Anne-Marie's death, but he knew what she thought of him. What they all thought. How could he stop at her cottage and explain Tess to her, ask for her help after what he had done? How could he look at her and see the accusation in her eyes? And even if he could face her, even if he could tell her about Tess, she wouldn't come.

He passed the path from the sea up to Françoise’s cottage and went on. There had to be some other way.

By the time he reached the village, Alexandre knew there was only one thing to do. He purchased quill, ink, wax, and paper, and then he wrote a letter, sealed it, and posted it.

Afterward, he went to the draper's and bought everything on Tess's list, an action that earned him several curious stares. But no one asked any questions. No one ever asked him any questions.

“I'm not certain this is a good idea,” Tess informed Alexandre as he set up his easel in the meadow. She shifted in her chair, uncomfortable, for she’d never liked having her portrait done, and having it done now, well into her pregnancy, was even worse. “Wouldn't you rather paint a portrait of Augustus?”

He glanced at her hopeful face, then over at the kitten curled in the grass at his feet. “An excellent suggestion,” he agreed, bending to pick up the animal. He walked over to her and placed the kitten across her knees. “Augustus should be in the portrait as well.”

“I was hoping you would paint him
instead
of me,” she grumbled as he walked back to his easel.

He paused by his easel. “When I painted in Florence, women would wait months to sit for me, I’ll have you know. Never before has a woman told me she did not want to be painted by Dumond.” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “Tess, you have wounded me.”

The sound of her name made her smile. For so long he had referred to her only as mademoiselle, but the day she'd taken that tumble, he had called her Tess for the first time. He had called her Tess ever since, and she liked hearing it on his lips.

He had done the final sketch the day before, on the canvas now perched on his easel. He had blocked out the basic shape of her and the surrounding scenery. Now, he took his pencil and added a few more touches to the sketch, and though she couldn’t see precisely what he was doing, she assumed he was sketching Augustus into the portrait.

He then mixed paint colors on his palette. At last, he turned to her, brush in his left hand, palette in the crook of his right arm, and laid the first stroke across the canvas.

It wasn’t long before Tess began to lose her self-consciousness, fascinated by watching him work. His brows were furrowed in concentration, and though half the time he was looking right at her, he nonetheless seemed to have vanished into his own world. When the ribbon slipped from his hair and was carried away by the summer breeze, but he didn't bother to retrieve it, and when his long hair blew across his face, he merely shook his head back to keep it out of his eyes. He only spoke when she stirred restlessly in her chair and all he said was, “Try not to move.”

He seemed oblivious to everything except the painting, and it seemed hours before he finally stopped working and tilted his head back to glance at the sun. Then he set down the brush, much to Tess’s relief. “We’re finished, I think.”

She gladly stood up, removing the kitten from her lap and bending back and forth at the waist to try and ease the stiffness she felt from sitting so long. “I can’t believe you finished the painting so quickly.”

“The painting isn’t finished,” he corrected as he wrapped the brush in a rag and dropped it into an open leather case nearby. “But we’ve made a good beginning today. It will take several days, I think, before it is complete.”

She approached the canvas. “May I see it?”

“No. I never allow the subject to see a portrait until it is done. A lesson I learned long ago.” He dropped the last of his painting supplies in the case, closed it, and handed it to her. “If the subjects see the unfinished work, they are always disappointed, sometimes even critical. So I always make the person wait until the portrait is finished.”

Curious, she leaned around him, trying to see, but he blocked her view. “Tess ...” His voice trailed off with the warning. Then he said, “Take my paint case and Augustus and go back to the house. I will follow.”

She made a face and started back to the château, knowing he chose to walk behind her so that she would have no opportunity to catch a glimpse of the canvas he carried on his easel.

When they reached the house, he left her in the kitchen and took the portrait up to his studio, telling her when he returned, “It won't do you any good to try taking a peek at it when I’m not here. I have locked the door to the studio.”

She made no reply, but her exasperated glare made him chuckle as he walked away.

***

Over the next several days, Alexandre continued to paint her portrait in the meadow and then he confined himself to his studio for an additional two days, putting the final touches to the painting, finishing it nearly a week after he had begun.

He dropped the brush into a jar of linseed oil with the same relief he always felt when a painting was finished and turned away from the easel. He didn't pause to examine the canvas, but then, he never did.

As always, finishing the work had left him tired and drained, and in the midst of summer, the studio was beastly hot, even with the windows open to catch the sea breeze. What he needed, he decided, was a swim.