That was why Robert did find me in the garage, so late that the other two or three people working here and there in the big musty s.p.a.ce had already packed up and left, so late that I was woozy, seeing green instead of blue, putting in some yellow too quickly, sc.r.a.ping it off, telling myself to stop. I had reworked my landscape from the afternoon on a fresh canvas brought from my bed stall, with several differences. I had remembered the daisies in the gra.s.s, which I hadn't gotten to in daylight, and put them in on the surface of the hill, trying to make them float, although they sank instead. And there was another difference, too. When Robert came in and shut the side door behind him, I was already so tired of contemplating these changes that I saw him as a manifestation of my vision at dinner, my wish that he would appear here. I'd actually forgotten about him, although he had somehow filled my thoughts at the same time. I had been unaware, so that now I looked at him through blindness.

He stood in front of me, smiling a little, arms crossed. "You're still up. Working on your future show?"

I stood, staring. He was unreal, ringed with haze in the dangling ceiling lights. I thought in spite of myself that he was like an archangel in one of those medieval triptychs, larger than humanity, his hair longish, curly, his head ringed with gold, his huge wings folded out of the way for convenience while he delivered 389.

some celestial message. His faded, golden clothes, the dark brightness of his hair, the olive of his eyes, would all go with wings, and if Robert had had wings, they would have been immense. I felt outside the bounds of history and convention, at the rocky edge of a world that was too human to be real, or too real to be actually human: I felt only myself, the painting on my easel, which I no longer wanted him to see, and this big man with curly hair standing six feet away.

"Are you an angel?" I said. Immediately it felt false, silly.

But he scratched under his chin, which was growing dark stubble, and laughed. "Hardly. Did I startle you?"

I shook my head. "You looked radiant for a moment, as if you ought to be in cloth of gold."

He had the grace to appear confused, or perhaps he really was. "I'd make a bad angel by anyone's standards."

I forced myself to laugh. "I must be very tired, then."

"May I see?" He stepped toward my easel rather than exactly toward me. It was too late; I couldn't say no. He had already come around behind me, and I tried not to turn to watch his face, but I couldn't help watching, too. He stood looking at my landscape, and then his profile grew serious. He unfolded his arms, and they dropped to his sides. "Why did you put them in?"

He pointed at the two figures walking along my revised sh.o.r.e, the woman in her long skirts and the little girl beside her.

"I don't know," I faltered. "I liked what you'd done."

"Didn't you think they might belong to me?"

I asked myself whether there was something close to dangerous in his tone; his question was a little bizarre, but I felt mainly my own foolishness, and the foolish tears rising but still hidden under my chagrin. Was he going to actually chastise me? I rallied. "Does anything belong to one artist?"

His face was dark but also reflective, interested in my question. I was a little younger then; I did not understand how people can simply appear to be interested in something other than themselves.

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Finally he said, "No, I suppose you're right. I suppose I just feel possessive of the images I've lived with for a long time."

All of a sudden I was back on that campus, so many years before; it was, weirdly, the same conversation, and I was asking him the ident.i.ty of the woman in his canvases, and he was about to say, "If I just knew who she was!"

Instead, I touched his arm--presumptuously, maybe. "Do you know, I think we talked about this once before."

He frowned. "Did we?"

"Yes, on the lawn at Barnett, when I was a student there and you had exhibited that portrait of a woman in front of a mirror."

"And you are wondering if this is the same woman?"

"Yes, I am wondering that."

The light in the big open studio was harsh and bare; my body hummed with the late hour and the proximity of this strange man who had only increased in attractiveness with the elapsed years. I could hardly believe the fact that he had survived the pa.s.sing of time in my own life to return to it. In fact, he was frowning at me. "Why do you want to know?"

I hesitated. There were many things I could have said, but in the rawness of that time and place, the unreality that seemed to have no future and no consequences, I said what was least thought-out, closest to my heart. "I have the feeling," I said slowly, "that if I knew why you were still painting the same thing after so many years, then I would know you. I would know who you are."

My words fell deep into the room, and I heard their starkness and thought I should feel embarra.s.sed but didn't. Robert Oliver was frozen there, fixed on me, as if he had been listening all along and wanted to know my reaction to the point he was going to make. But instead of making a point, he stood there, silent--I even felt defiantly tall next to him, tall enough to reach his chin-- and at last instead of speaking he touched my hair with his fingers. He drew a long strand of it over my shoulder and smoothed it with just his fingertips, not really touching me.

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I remembered with a jolt that this was Muzzy's gesture; I thought of my mother's hands, now so much older, picking up a lock of my hair when I was a teenager, telling me how glossy and straight and smooth it was, and letting it drop tenderly. It was her gentlest gesture, in fact, a silent apology for all the requirements, the molding against which I'd argued until I'd worn us both to resentment. I stood as still as I could, afraid I might begin to tremble visibly, hoping Robert would not touch me further because that could cause me to shake in front of him. He raised both hands and stroked my hair back, arranging it behind my shoulders, as if he wanted it that way for a portrait. I saw that his face was thoughtful, sad, full of wonder. Then he dropped his hands and stood there for a moment longer, as if he wanted to say something. And then he turned and walked away. His back was big and deliberate, his opening and closing of the door slow, polite; there was no farewell.

When he was out of sight, I cleaned my brushes, put my easel in the corner, turned out the glaring bulbs, and left the building. The night smelled dewy, dense. The stars were still thick -- stars that didn't exist in DC, apparently. In the dark, I put my hands to my hair and pulled it forward so that it fell to my breastbone, then lifted it up and kissed it where his hand had been.

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CHAPTER 65 1879.

On a fine spring day, at last, they visit the Salon. She and Olivier and Yves go together, although she and Olivier will return another day alone, her gloved hand tucked under his arm, to see their two paintings, hanging in different rooms. They have been there other years, but this is the first time--of two, as it will turn out--that Beatrice is looking for her own painting among the hundreds that crowd the walls. The ritual of attendance is familiar to her, but today it is all different; in the thronged halls, every person she sees may have seen her painting, glancing at it indifferently, gazing at it sympathetically, or frowning at its inept.i.tude. The crowds are no longer a blur of fashionable clothing but individuals, each capable of pa.s.sing judgment.

This, she thinks, is what it means to be a public painter, to be on display. She is glad, now, not to have used her own name. Ministers of government have probably walked past her painting; perhaps so have Monsieur Manet and her old teacher, Lamelle. She wears her new dress and hat, both pearl gray, the dress edged with a thin line of crimson, the small flat hat tipped forward above her forehead, with long red streamers down the back. Her hair is coiled tightly under it, her waist tightly corseted, the back of her skirt caught up in a series of tight cascades, its hem trailing behind her. She sees the admiration in Olivier's eyes, the younger man gazing out of them. She is thankful that Yves has paused to view a painting, his hat held in two hands behind him.

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It has been a glorious afternoon, but that night the evil dream returns; she is at the barricade. She has arrived too late, and Olivier's wife bleeds in her arms. She will not write to Olivier about it, but Yves has heard her groans. A few nights later he tells her firmly that she must see a doctor--she is nervous, pale. The doctor prescribes tea, a beefsteak every two days, and a gla.s.s of red wine at lunch. When the nightmare recurs a few more times, Yves tells her he has made plans for her to take a holiday on the Norman coast they love.

They are sitting in her small boudoir, where she has been resting all evening with a book; Esme has built up the fire. Yves says he must insist; there is no point in her wearing herself down further with household cares when she is not well. She can see from the concern in his face, the lines under his eyes, that he will not take no for an answer; this is the determination, the will, the love of order that has made him so successful in his career and brought him through hard times in the city again and again. She has forgotten, lately, to search his face for the person she has known and admired for years; his firm gray eyes, his air of neat prosperity, his surprisingly kind mouth, his thick brown beard. She has not noticed in some time what a young face it is; perhaps it is simply that he is in the prime of life, his life and hers--he is six years older than she. She closes her book and asks him, "How can you leave your work?"

Yves brushes the knees of his suit; he has not stopped to change for dinner, and the dust of the city is still on his clothes. Her blue-and-white chairs are a little too small for him. "I will not be able to come," he says regretfully. "I wouldn't mind a bit of a rest myself, but it would be terribly difficult for me to leave now, with the new offices going in. I have asked Olivier to take you."

She steels herself not to speak for a moment, but she is dismayed. Is this what life has in store for her? She considers telling Yves that his uncle's history is the cause of her nervous state, but 394.

she will not betray the trust Olivier has placed in her. Besides, Yves could never understand how one person's love could give another person nightmares. At last she says, "Will that not greatly inconvenience him?"

"Oh, he was hesitant at first, but I pressed him hard, and he knows how grateful I shall be if you can get the color back in your face."

It hovers between them that they might yet conceive a child, and also that Yves is constantly busy or tired and they have not made love in several months. She wonders if he is proposing some kind of fresh start, but wants to make her well first.

"I'm sorry if you're disappointed, my dear, but I simply can't leave at the moment." He folds his hands over his knee; his face is anxious. "It will do you good, and you needn't stay for more than a couple of weeks if you find it dull."

"What about Papa?"

He shakes his head. "He and I will get along fine. The servants can see to us."

Her fate seems to open out in front of her. She sees again the body behind the barricade, Olivier, his hair not yet white, kneeling over it, crushed by grief. She will go halfway to meet them, if this is what life requires. Before this, she has not understood love, despite the best efforts of the businessman sitting opposite her. She composes herself for the worst, smiles at him. If it's to be done, she'll at least be thorough. "Very well, darling. I will go. But I shall leave Esme here to tend to you and Papa."

"Nonsense. We can manage, and you must have her to look after you."

"Olivier can look after me," she says bravely. "Papa depends on Esme nearly as much as he does on me."

"Are you certain, my dear? I don't want you making sacrifices when you're not yourself."

"Of course I'm certain," she says firmly. Now that the journey is inevitable, she feels exuberant, as if she no longer needs to 395.

watch where she sets her feet. "I shall enjoy the independence -- you know how Esme fusses over one--and I shall worry far less, knowing Papa is being well tended."

He nods. She can see that the doctor has told him she must have whatever she wants, must rest; a woman's health can be undermined all too rapidly, and particularly that of a woman in her childbearing years. He will have the doctor examine her again, no doubt, before she leaves, pay the unreasonable fees, allow himself to be rea.s.sured. She feels a wave of affection for this steady, anxious man. He might have blamed her painting, she realizes, or the suspense of her having submitted to the Salon, but he has not said a word about those things. She gets up, pushing her feet back into her slippers, and crosses the room to kiss him on the forehead. If she is ever herself again, he will have the benefit of it. The full benefit.

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Paris May 1879 My dear, I am sorry indeed that Yves will not accompany us to etretat, but I trust you will not mind putting yourself in my respectful care. I have procured the tickets, as you requested, and will come in a hansom for you at seven in the morning on Thursday. Write me ahead to let me know what I can bring you in the way of painting supplies; that, I am certain, will be better medicine than anything else I can do for you.

Olivier Vignot 397.

CHAPTER 66 Mary.

At breakfast the second morning, I braced myself to avoid Robert's eyes if I met them, but to my relief he wasn't there, and even Frank seemed to have found someone else to talk with. I hunched over my coffee and toast, stupefied from painting and a lack of sleep, reluctant for the day to begin. I had twisted my hair up out of the way and put on a faded khaki shirt with paint on the hem, Muzzy's least favorite. The hot coffee helped steady my nerves; after all, it was nonsense for me to think about this man, this unavailable, strange, famous stranger, and I planned not to. The morning was depressingly clear, perfect for a landscape excursion; when nine o'clock came, I was in the van again. Robert drove, and one of the older women consulted a map for him. Frank was nudging me from the neighboring seat, and it was as if the night before had never happened.

This time we painted at the edge of a lake with a run-down cottage on the other side and a lacework of white birches around its sh.o.r.es. Robert cautioned us humorously not to put in any moose. Or women in long dresses, I could have added through my headache. I set my easel as far away from his as I could without allying myself with Frank. I certainly didn't want Robert Oliver to think I was pursuing him, and my one gratification was that he studiously avoided looking at me the entire afternoon and did not even come by to critique my painting, which was a disaster in any case. That meant that last night's conversation was still in his bloodstream, too; otherwise he would be bantering with me, his old student. I couldn't remember what I knew about trees, or 398.

shadows, or anything else; I seemed to be painting a muddy ditch in which I could see only my own shape looming, stirring the water, something familiar but ominous.

We ate lunch in a huddle at two picnic tables (I did not sit at Robert's), and at the end of the day we gathered around Robert's canvas--how did he make water seem actually alive like that? -- and he talked about the shapes of the sh.o.r.eline and the color choice he'd made for the distant blue hills. The challenge of this scene was its monochromatic nature, blue hills, blue lake, blue sky, and the temptation to overdo the white of the birches by contrast. But if we looked hard, Robert said, we would realize that there was incredible variety in those muted shades. Frank stood rubbing a finger behind one ear, listening with an air of respect-but-I-could-tell-you-something-more that made me want to slap him; what made him think he knew more than Robert Oliver?

Dinner was worse; Robert came into the crowded dining hall after I did and seemed to choose a seat as far away from me as possible after letting his eyes slide across my table. Later the bonfire was lit in the dark yard, and people drank beers and talked and laughed with a new level of abandon, as if friendships had solidified already. And what had I solidified? I had hung around with Frank the Perfect, or gone back to my room by myself, or thought about and avoided our genius teacher, when I could have been making friends. I considered seeking out one of the women I liked in our landscape cla.s.s, bringing over a beer, and settling on a garden bench to hear about her life at home, where she'd gone to school and where she'd had a group show, what her husband did--but I felt weary before I'd even started. I scanned the crowd for Robert's curly head and found it; he was towering above a group that contained a couple of my cla.s.smates, although I was pleased to see that this time Frank wasn't glued to his side. I collected my sweatshirt and slouched off toward the stables, my bed, and my book--Isaac Newton would be better company than all 399.

these people having too good a time together, and once I'd gotten more than three hours' sleep I'd be decent company myself.

The stables were deserted, the rows of little bedroom doors closed, except for mine, which I'd apparently left open--that was careless, although my wallet was in my jeans pocket and I wasn't worried about the rest of my things. n.o.body seemed to lock up much here anyway. I went in, numb, and gave a little screech in spite of myself; Frank sat on the edge of my bed, wearing a clean white shirt open to the waist, jeans, and a necklace of heavy brown beads that was actually rather like mine. He had a sketchbook in his hand; he was rubbing his thumb on a fresh drawing, blurring lines. His tan was breathtaking, his muscled ribs contracted a little as he leaned forward over the page; he rubbed with concentration for a second more and then looked up and smiled. I tried not to actually put my hands on my hips. "What do you think you're doing here?"

He put the sketch down and grinned at me. "Oh, come off it. You've been avoiding me for days."

"I could call the organizers and have you evicted."

He settled his face into more seemly attention. "But you won't. You've noticed me as much as I've noticed you. Stop blowing me off."

"I haven't been blowing you off. I believe the word is 'ignoring.' I've been ignoring you, and maybe you're not used to that."

"Do you think I don't know I'm a spoiled brat?" He put his bristly blond head to one side and regarded me. "How about you?" His smile was contagious, to my dismay. I folded my arms. "Are you one, too?"

"If you weren't a spoiled brat, you certainly wouldn't be here in this totally inappropriate manner."

"Come on," he said again. "You don't think about appropriate and inappropriate like that. I'm not here to jump your snotty bones anyway. I've just thought all along we could be friends, and 400.

I thought you might talk with me if we were alone and you didn't have to show off to other people."

I didn't know where to begin taking him apart. "Show off? I've never seen anyone more concerned with image than you seem to be, young man."

"Oh, now we see your true colors. An anti-sn.o.b. That's better. After all, you went to art school yourself, and I know where. Not bad." He smiled and showed me his sketchbook. "Hey--I've been trying to do a self-portrait in your mirror. I was just touching it up. Do I look like a show-off?"

I glanced at the drawing in spite of myself. It was wistful, quiet, a thoughtful face I wouldn't have a.s.sociated with what I'd seen of Frank. It was good, too.

"Very poor shading," I said. "And the mouth is too big."

"Big is good."

"Get off my bed, mister," I said. "Come over here and kiss me first."

I should have slapped him, but I began to laugh. "I'm old enough to be your mother."

"Not true," he said. He put his sketchbook down on the bed, stood up--he was exactly my height and width and shape--and put a hand on either side of me, against the wall, a gesture he had surely learned from Hollywood. "You are young and beautiful and you should stop being so cranky and have some fun. This is an art colony."

"I should have you kicked out of this art colony, you child."

"Let's see, you would be--what, eight years older than I am? Five? So dignified." He put one hand on my face and began to stroke my cheek, so that a flame leapt from my shoulder to my hairline. "Do you like to pretend you're self-sufficient, or do you really enjoy sleeping alone in this stall?"

"Men are not allowed in here anyway," I said, removing his hand, which went right back to its gentle work around my temple 401.

and down my jawbone. I began to long in spite of myself to put that fine, dexterous young hand elsewhere, to feel it everywhere.

"That's only on paper." He leaned in, but slowly, as if to hypnotize me, a successful enterprise. His breath had a pleasant, fresh smell. He stayed there until I kissed him first, humiliating myself but hungry, and then his lips met mine thoroughly, with a restrained strength that made my stomach flip. I might have ended up spending the night against that silky chest if he hadn't put his hand to my hair and lifted a strand of it. "Gorgeous," he said.

I slipped out from under his tanned arm. "You are, too, little boy, but forget it."

He laughed with surprising good nature. "All right. Let me know if you change your mind. You don't have to be this lonely if you don't want to. We can just have a few of those good conversations you insist on avoiding."

"Just leave, please. Jesus. Enough."

He picked up his sketchbook and went out as quietly as Robert Oliver had from the studio the night before, even closing the door respectfully behind him, as if to show me the maturity I had underestimated in him. When I was sure he'd left the building, I threw myself down on my bed and wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and even cried a little, but fiercely.

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CHAPTER 67 1879.

By the time their train arrives at the coast, it is night and they have fallen silent; she is weary, her veil spotted with a little soot that makes her feel there is something wrong with her eyesight. At Fecamp they prepare to leave the train for a hansom cab to etretat. Olivier collects their smaller bags from the shelf in the compartment where they have talked all day--the trunks will follow--and it seems to her when he stands up that he is stiff, that his body under his well-cut traveling suit is indubitably old, that he has no business touching her elbow when he speaks with her, not because he isn't Yves but because he isn't young. But he sits down again and takes her hand. They are both wearing gloves. "I am holding your hand," he tells her, "because I can, and because it is the most beautiful one in the world."

She can't say anything to equal that, and the train is shivering, stopping. Instead she pulls herself free and peels off her glove, then returns her hand to his. He lifts it up to examine it, and in the dim compartment light she sees it objectively, noticing as always that the fingers are too long, the whole hand too big for the small wrist, that there is blue paint around the ends of her first and second fingers. She thinks he will kiss it, but he only bows his head, as if pondering something private, and lets her go. Then he stands, agile, picks up their bags, and invites her politely to leave the compartment ahead of him.