Three Weeks in Paris (13 page)

However, she could not dwell on the past at this moment. Nicholas Sedgwick, her great-nephew through her second husband, Hugo Sedgwick, had forced her to look to the future. To June the second, to be precise, and the fancy party he had planned for her.

In fact, her birthday was actually on June the third, and she had reminded him of that over lunch. Naturally

Nicky had known. He should never be underestimated. But, as he had carefully explained to her, he was not able to book the restaurant for the actual night of her birthday, June the third being a Sunday.

Seating herself at the desk near the fireplace, glad to have the warmth of the blazing logs nearby, Anya looked again at the invitation, thinking that it was tastefully done. But then, Nicholas was known for his great taste. She turned her attention to the guest list he had prepared, focusing on the names.

His choices had been correct, and in some instances rather clever, since he had thought of certain old friends she rarely saw these days—but would like to visit with again, she decided suddenly.

There were about ninety people on his original list, although Nicky had mailed only seventy-five invitations so far.

He played it safe, she thought shrewdly, and studied the names once more. She approved of the family and friends he had already invited, along with some of her former pupils from different years. Always the best and the brightest.

In particular, she was pleased to see he had included four brilliant girls from the class of 1994. Jessica Pierce, Kay Lenox, Maria Franconi, and Alexandra Gordon. Most especially Alexandra. Her favorite pupil during the 1990s, perhaps even her most favorite pupil of them all over the many long years she had owned the school. My special girl, she thought.

Anya sat back in the chair, thinking of Alexandra with love and affection, and focusing on her involvement with that poor, bedeviled Tom Conners. All Nicky’s fault, since he had introduced them. Well, if she were honest, that wasn’t exactly the way it was. Tom had come to the studio
to see a client, if she remembered things correctly. So she could not blame the meddling hands of her nephew. Not this time.

And was it ever anybody’s fault when lives went awry?

Surely it was fate, destiny, stepping in … she considered her own life and the role fate had played in it. She was absolutely certain it was her destiny to end up where she was today, having lived the life she had lived. And so she did not worry about what might have been. She never had.

ALTHOUGH SHE ENJOYED THE MILDER CLIMATE OF PROVENCE
in the winter months, and frequently went there, Anya was, nevertheless, glad to be back in Paris. And back in the house that meant so much to her, filled as it was with her life’s history.

This room in particular told the whole story. Encapsulated within its walls were mementos gathered over the years. Some she had bought, others were gifts, yet more were inherited; certain things she had even created herself.

The decoration of her sitting room depicted a woman of discernment, taste, and talent, a woman with an exotic background who had ventured forth courageously when young.

She had followed her heart and her dreams, given free rein to her creativity, believing in her destiny as a woman and an artist. She had lived her life to the fullest, had never regretted anything she had done, only the things she had not found time to do or to accomplish.

After studying the guest list for her birthday party and making notes, adding a few names, she had put it to one
side. But she had continued to work at her desk, going over papers that had accumulated during the couple of weeks she had been in Provence. Finally growing a little weary, she put down her pen, sat up straighter in the chair, and glanced around.

Anya smiled, thinking that at this moment the room had a lovely golden haze to it, even though it was gray outside and dusk was rapidly approaching. But then, it had a sunny feeling at all times, as she had fully intended.

Although she had started her professional life as an artist, Anya was talented in many areas, and she had a great flair for interior design. Years ago, wanting to introduce a mood of summer sunshine into this large, high-ceilinged sitting room, she had covered the walls with a yellow-on-yellow striped fabric. This had long since faded from a sharp daffodil to a very pale primrose, but it was nonetheless mellow and warm.

In vivid contrast to these now muted yellow walls were great swathes of scarlet taffeta, which Anya had selected for the full-length draperies at the two windows. They hung on rings from wooden poles, falling straight, but then halfway down they softly billowed out like the skirts of ball gowns.

Anya loved these curtains, the stunning effect they created, and when the bright color faded she simply replaced them with new ones made of identical fabric. She was forever fussing with them, puffing them up with her hands, and sometimes even stuffing tissue paper behind them for the desired bell shape.

These draperies were her pride, gave her immense pleasure. Even though Nicky tended to tease her about them, he secretly admired her nerve, knowing that only Anya Sedgwick would have dared to use them, secure in the knowledge that they were a knockout. She had wanted to surprise, and she had succeeded admirably.

Naturally, Anya paid no attention to his teasing, confident in her own taste and choice of colors. In fact, this whole room was a play on scarlet and yellow, with white accents showing up in the paintwork. Also cooling the strong colors was a pale apple-green silk used on several French
bergères
, these elegant chairs scattered around the room. Anya believed the muted tones balanced a room essentially commanding because of its vibrant colors.

In front of the fireplace there was a large overstuffed Chesterfield sofa covered in scarlet velvet; the same fabric was used for two huge, chunky armchairs, typical Anya Sedgwick touches. She always opted for comfort as well as style. Even the rectangular coffee table was of her own invention. Originally an old wrought-iron garden gate that she had found at a local flea market, she had hired a metalworker to weld on short iron legs, and then she had topped it with a thick slab of glass. She was very proud of her unique coffee table, and glanced at it now, nodding her head in approval.

The fire blazing in the hearth added to the sense of warmth and intimacy on this wintry afternoon, and Anya considered herself blessed to have such a wonderful haven for herself; she had been back from Provence for only two days, and she had felt the cold immediately after she had arrived. She still felt cold at times, even though the house was warm.

Old bones, she mumbled as she pushed herself to her feet. Old bones … getting
older
. She moved around the desk and went toward the fireplace but then paused for a second to admire some of her things.

It was as if she had momentarily forgotten, during her absence in the south, how beautiful her possessions were and wanted to reacquaint herself with them, touch them, remember who had given them to her, remember what they meant to her.

That’s not in the right spot, she thought as her sharp eyes settled on a silver samovar. This had been put on a circular table skirted in a red-and-yellow toile de Jouy standing between the two windows.

Leaning forward, she pushed the samovar into the center of the table, where it was meant to be, then stood back, gazing at it lovingly; it was very special to her.

This samovar had been resolutely carried out of Russia by her mother when they had left for good, a woman who had been determined that certain precious family objects would not be left behind.

Anya had no recollection of this event, but her mother had told it countless times to her, and to her siblings, and so it had become part of her family history.

As she walked past a console table, she stopped to admire her mother’s collection of icons, some of them quite ancient, and all of them very valuable. These had also been in their luggage when they had fled the Bolsheviks, deemed so bloodthirsty by her father.

At the other end of the console, family photographs from Russia were displayed. These were in gold Fabergé frames encrusted with green malachite and blue lapis stones, and had been deeply treasured by her parents. How they had missed their families, whom they had left behind in Russia; they had missed Mother Russia too, despite the country’s ills, the turmoil and bloodshed of the revolution.

And these photographs of handsome men, finely dressed, and beautiful women in fashionable gowns and splendid jewels were poignant reminders of the murdered Romanov monarchy, a lost aristocracy, a vanished world of money, power, and privilege, a decimated society that had once been theirs.

Anya turned away from those evocative family photographs that had been her parents’ legacy to her along with so many other things they had brought out of Russia.

Briefly, her eyes scanned the bookshelves along a wall at the far end of the room. All were filled with a diverse and eclectic mix of books, some of which she had written, while others had been penned by her friends. Soon, she hoped, another of her works would be on a shelf over there, her book on the Art Deco period, which she was finishing at that moment. It would go to the publisher in a month.

It was an automatic reaction, the way her eyes then swung to a striking painting, one that exuded dominant force and hung on the wall adjoining the bookshelves. It was a landscape, all sharp angles and planes, a modern painting awash with deep greens, rich yellows, and dark reds, these colors balanced by earthy browns and coppery, autumnal hues. It was a most powerful painting, and it was by her father, Valentin Kossikovsky, the great Russian artist. It held her eyes, as it always had and always would. She was full of admiration for the extraordinary talent that had been his.

Finally she looked away, moved on.

There were a couple of her own paintings hanging here. One in particular stood out. She had painted it over sixty years ago, and it was the full-length life-size portrait of a young woman.

Hanging above the fireplace, it was the focus of interest at this end of the room; everyone was drawn toward it, instantly captivated when they caught sight of it.

Anya now approached the fireplace, stood staring up at the canvas, and as usual her eyes were critical. Yet she could never fault this painting, even though it was one of her own works, which she generally had a tendency to overly criticize.

The painting was of her sister Ekaterina, Katti for short, painted when she was just twenty years old. What a beauty she had been.

And there was her own name, Anya Kossikovskaya, and the date, 1941, in the left-hand corner, at the bottom of the painting.

She herself had been twenty-five when she had asked Katti to sit for the portrait, and reluctantly her sister had agreed. For a great beauty she was singularly without vanity, and modest in her opinion of herself.

When the painting was finally finished, her father had been amazed, and momentarily rendered speechless. And when he had found his voice at last, he had marveled at Anya’s work, and he had called the painting a treasure. Immediately, he had asked the renowned London art gallery that represented him and handled his own work to show it, and they had obliged him. They had even gone as far as to give Anya an exhibit of her other paintings; this had immediately sold out, much to her surprise and delight.

Many people had tried to buy the painting of her sister, which she had called
Portrait of Ekaterina
, because it was so arresting. But she had wanted to keep it for herself. For a short while, at least.

In the end, even after the show was over, she had still not been able to let it go. The painting was special to her, meaningful and extremely personal. It was important in a way she found hard to explain, except to say that it had become part of her.

And over the long years, many other people had tried to buy it, but her answer was always the same:
Not for sale
.

Anya focused appraising eyes on the painting, studying it, endeavoring to be objective, wanting to analyze its extraordinary appeal to so many different people.

Here was her darling Katti, blond, beautiful, with high, slanting cheekbones, a broad forehead, wide-set eyes, and an impossibly slender, aristocratic nose. Her sister appeared literally to shimmer in the clear light that she had
somehow managed to capture on canvas. The painting virtually glowed with incandescent light, usually a hallmark of her work.

Katti’s eyes were a lovely blue, like bits of sky, and they reflected the color of the blue taffeta gown she was wearing.

Even now Anya felt, as she had always felt, that if she reached out to the painting, her fingers would touch silk not canvas, so real did the fabric appear to be with its folds and shadows and silvery sheen. She could almost hear it rustle.

Once more, it struck her how English her sister’s appearance was; actually, the entire painting had a sense of Englishness to it.

And why would it not? she asked herself. She had painted the portrait on a sunny afternoon at the height of summer in the garden of a manor house in Kent. The background had a hint of Gainsborough about it, even if she did say so herself. Not that she was comparing herself to the master, that great eighteenth-century portraitist, but rather to the way he had painted English landscapes of the time. Somehow he had been able to marry the landscape to the human subjects in his portraits, which was rare. It was this technique she had attempted to emulate, and nothing else. No one had ever been able to compete with that extraordinary artist Thomas Gainsborough except perhaps for Sir Joshua Reynolds, another great master of portraiture in eighteenth-century England.

Were people drawn to this painting because of the girl portrayed in it? she wondered. Or was it for its Englishness? Or perhaps the shimmering pastoral landscape depicted behind the girl? Or the mood of the bygone age it seemed to capture? She had no idea; she had never known what it signified to other people, what powerful emotional response it evoked in them. But it did, that was certain.