One Summer in Montmartre Read online

  One

  Summer

  in

  Montmartre©

  By

  Teagan Kearney

  The right of Teagan Kearney to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchases.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover photo: Shutterstock (Masson)

  Dedication

  To the one and only Tim—where would I be without you?

  To Jane, who, since we first met, has always been a source of great encouragement.

  And to Christine, who came to my rescue when I needed it.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  From the Author

  Chapter One

  Life is unfathomable in its infinite variety. People come and go, loving, hating, making babies, laughing, crying their tears, caring and not caring as they live their lives till death arrives. On the whole, we view our own lives as the most important.

  London, May 2007

  Anna was indifferent to the clamorous sounds of the city, focusing on the click of her heels as she walked. She kept her head down and her attention fixed on the pavement, diverted on occasion as a pair of flamboyant shoes flashed passed. Even the smell of freshly ground coffee failed to tempt as it teased its way through the air chasing a flirting drift of newly baked bread. From time to time, she looked up to check her direction, trying at the same time to ignore the hurrying passers-by. She avoided looking at shop windows—she did not want to catch sight of herself.

  Anna did stop once when a window display caught her eye. She was mesmerized by the long swathes of pure white cloth before noticing her reflection in an oversized gilt-edged mirror in the center. The black jacket and skirt she wore did her no favors. Her hair, bright auburn in her youth, now fading and tired, was scraped back in a bun, although several strands had escaped and fluttered around her face. Her pallor, the dark shadows under her eyes made her look wraithlike and ghostly. She wanted to retreat into her inner world, away from the noisy bustle of pedestrian and motor traffic.

  Anna had postponed this trip after the sudden, shocking death of her son, Jeremy, in a car accident six months ago, until she surrendered to the fatalistic realization that each day would be no different from any other. Jeremy had loved spring. A shame it wasn't raining, because then no one would have noticed a tear or two, but the fresh spring day with chubby white clouds scudding across a blue sky and air that was apple crisp with promise, meant she needed to work harder at the pretense of normality.

  The old-fashioned bell tinkled as she opened the narrow door of the art restoration shop tucked away in a corner off Belmont Mews. Sighing with relief, she gratefully accepted the peaceful respite offered by the dark comforting interior. She had come here for a purpose. The world reconfigured itself back into an identifiable place where she could function.

  Mr. Bentonly popped out from between the faded purple velvet curtains which separated the front of the shop from his workspace. He adjusted his glasses, his careworn face creasing into a smile when he saw his customer. "Ah! Mrs. Seeger. How good to see you! I hope you and the family are well?”

  A sliver of panic edged itself into her awareness. What should she say? The truth? She didn't need to hear the same respectfully polite phrases trotted out where they ran needle like along well-worn grooves rasping at her grief. People were sometimes uncomfortable when a truth they were unprepared for was laid out too bluntly. And whereas she and Greg had used this particular framing shop for many years, this was a business relationship.

  "We're fine, thank you." She hoped her clipped tone would discourage conversation.

  "And the children? I expect they're grown up and flown the nest?" His mild politeness hurt.

  "Oh yes, off doing their own thing." She pushed down on the emotional wave swelling in her gut. For a second she was back in the church, standing at the end of the pew next to Jeremy's wreath covered coffin. She'd been so medicated she hardly managed to stand‒Greg's hand under her elbow held her upright‒and the one image impossible to eradicate of Jeremy's broken remains in the coffin. Her prayer, then and ever since, was that his guardian angel had taken away his pain and eased the last few minutes of his life. Please God, she begged, no more questions. "Does the frame do justice to the painting?"

  Mr. Bentonly gave no indication that her change of topic came as a rebuttal. Remorse flitted briefly across her mind. He'd never been anything else other than courteousness personified.

  "Please, come through. You can check for yourself and if the work is satisfactory, we'll arrange a delivery date." Mr. Bentonly led the way, cautiously threading a path through stacks of frames of various shape and size on one side and paintings in stages of re-framing on the other. Anna's painting, illuminated by glistening shafts of sunlight, stood at the rear of the crammed workshop. He stood attentively to one side as Anna examined the frame. The doorbell chimed.

  "Take your time, Mrs. Seeger." Mr. Bentonly left to attend to his customer.

  Anna turned from her scrutiny of the frame to the picture itself which depicted a large bunch of flowers in a vase on a windowsill. A few strokes and dabs of paint indicated a rural landscape outside the window. But the flowers drew the eye in, dominating the picture; a glorious riot of chrysanthemums, forget-me-nots, cornflowers, daisies, poppies, lilies and roses with every line, shape and shade giving visual delight.

  The years melted away, and she could hear Greg's voice dizzyingly full with eagerness and love.

  "No," Greg insisted laughing. "I'm carrying my beautiful adorable bride over this threshold too!" He'd lifted her up, and doing his best to ignore the abundant creamy white silk and chiffon tangling around his legs, staggered across the room until they collapsed on the bed, arms and legs flailing wildly in the air and laughing hysterically. "I love you," he said, his blue eyes dancing with happiness.

  The ebullient mixture of champagne and youth meant it didn't take Greg long to shed his wedding apparel, while Anna struggled to extricate the elaborate pearl and gold clips out of her thick, copper hair. When the mass of curls tumbled down her back, he'd paused for a moment, his breath caught in his throat and, overawed with the beauty of her, he hardly dared speak.

  But they'd fallen back into hysterics as Greg struggled with the thirty tiny silver hooks tucked behind a seam at the back of her dress, cursing the fact his fingers were blunt spades and unsuit
able for such tasks. When at last she escaped her wedding finery, they made urgent, passionate love.

  They were ready to leave with the taxi waiting outside to take them to the airport for their honeymoon in Monaco, when Anna spotted a big, rectangular object wrapped in brown paper leaning against the wall. Curiosity took precedence, and she'd imperiously made him wait, a humble servitor, as she searched for a scissors and cut the string binding the paper in place.

  "I bet it's a mirror, with a gorgeously elaborate frame," she speculated aloud, ignoring Greg's playfully piteous pleas about times and airplanes.

  Tearing the covering off, she'd been silenced by the blaze of color leaping out from the painting, and startled at the generosity of such a gift. "Oh Greg, It's beautiful. I adore it." She ran her fingers along the intricately carved border. "Gold leaf," she murmured. "The frame's a work of art too." Turning to Greg, she reached up impulsively planting a carmine kiss on his cheek.

  "We've got the rest of our lives to gaze at it when we get back, but we have a plane to catch. Come on!" He grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the room and down the stairs.

  Their youth and passion had made them invincible; they were confident and secure in their exacting demand of joyous fulfillment from life. Somehow, in that time and in that place, they'd been untouchable.

  The gilded memory receded, and Anna moved further back to view the painting, momentarily lost in delight. Lucas Marteille, a less renowned artist, associated with the French Impressionist movement, had painted the picture, and it was, without doubt, one of his finer works. Gregory's father had inherited it, and he, in turn, had given it to them as a wedding present twenty-five years ago. The painting with its vivid colors encapsulated life itself, and she'd placed it in their bedroom, wanting to contemplate it at her leisure.

  It had been a while since she'd noticed the gold leaf on the frame flaking off around the edges and contacted the framer for his services, but she hadn't been ready to come and view the new frame until today. Seeing the painting once more, she recognized how much it meant to her.

  "Is everything satisfactory, Mrs. Seeger?" Mr. Bentonly inquired softly at her shoulder.

  "It's perfect. How soon can you have it delivered? I've missed this painting. It really is my favorite possession."

  Back out at the counter, Anna paid and made arrangements for delivery.

  "Ah, I have one more thing." Mr. Bentonly's voice wobbled with a faint tremor. "This." He took out a faded envelope from under the counter. "We came across this attached to the inside back of the frame." He handed it to her.

  Anna took the thin yellowed envelope, turning it over and inspecting the back. She opened the unsealed flap with care, removing one sheet of folded paper.

  "I believe you're the first one to open that letter since it was placed there."

  She paused momentarily as her heart skipped a beat. A fleeting presentiment flickered into life but fled before she grasped its intent. She read the letter before passing it to Bentonly, who waited with patient interest.

  He glanced at the page but ruefully returned it. "I'm afraid, Mrs. Seeger, I don't speak French. Would you be so kind...?"

  "I'll try." She knew a little French and was proficient in the little she remembered, but her vocabulary was limited. She scanned the letter. "The signature says Luc Marteille, but I need a French dictionary to translate the whole thing. I'll read you what I can, if that's okay with you?"

  "Oh, more than satisfactory," Mr. Bentonly replied.

  Anna cleared her throat. "My dear Hélène... we have parted... remember this… shall keep... I know you love me..." She broke off and stopped reading. "I'm sorry but there are too many words here I don't know. What I'll do is I'll send you a copy after I complete a translation. Would that be okay?"

  "Oh, yes. That's very considerate of you. A fascinating find don't you think?" he said as Anna replaced the letter in the envelope where it had lain cocooned for over a century, before slipping it into in her handbag.

  "Yes, indeed, and my thanks for this intriguing letter, and of course, for the work on the frame. It's a pleasure doing business with you. I'll be in touch."

  "Goodbye Mrs. Seeger." The doorbell tinkled as Anna left.

  Taking a deep breath and plunging into the pulsing streets, she encountered the strangest of feelings. The unforeseen discovery of the artist's letter, and knowing her painting would soon be home, offered space for a gleam of hope to slip in, lifting the despondency of her earlier mood. Walking briskly back through the lunch time crowd, she realized she was experiencing anticipation and something else recently absent from her life, optimism.

  Chapter Two

  The space surrounding an artist is, of necessity, an arena of chaos because a sterile environment does not nourish creativity. Seeds are sown, nurtured and burgeon in apparent anarchy, and whether the turmoil is internal or external is irrelevant.

  Paris, June 1873

  Luc Marteille's attic studio was ideal for painting. There were two skylights in the roof so that light flooded the space with light, even on the dreariest of winter days, and a window gave a limited view of Montmartre's wooded hill. The room was a generous size, but that wasn't the first impression visitors received upon entering the room after climbing four flights of narrow stairs, as they were usually too out of breath to notice.

  In pride of place was the canvas currently being worked on; nearby stood a number of battered wooden tables littered with brushes, clean and dirty mixing pallets, glass jars, rags and paraphernalia needed for painting. Canvases, in various stages of preparation, and paintings at different levels of completion, were ranged along the walls, filling the available space. The odors of oil paint, linseed oil and turpentine permeated the room further bewildering the senses, and the impression was one of chaos to the untrained eye.

  A battered brown couch for friends or prospective buyers was positioned at the one end of the room. At the opposite end was a chaise longue, where his current model, Hélène, lay stretched out on one side, elbow bent, chin resting on her hand, her shawl and dress draped just so.

  Luc stepped back from his canvas thoughtfully studying his model for a minute and, without a word, resumed working with unwavering concentration. Moving back after a while to take another measured look, his face contorted. "No!" he shouted, slamming his brush on the table then rushing over to the young woman.

  She, in turn, dropped the pose she'd been holding, clutching the shawl around her body and pressing as far back into the couch as was possible.

  "No, no, no!" He fumed. "For goodness sake, girl! What's wrong with you? Stay where I put you and stop being so frightened. What do you think I'm going to do to you?"

  "I'm, I'm sorry," she stammered in alarm at his outburst. "I'm sorry M'sieur Marteille. I will try harder not to move. This is my first job as a mode...."

  "I know, I know. You're standing in for Louise because she's pregnant and about to drop her baby. I know. You've told me ten times already."

  She blinked rapidly as unexpected tears appeared at the corners of her eyes.

  "Oh, merde! You're not going to cry are you?"

  She swallowed hard, managing to avoid an embarrassing flood.

  "There, there." Luc patted her on the shoulder in much the same way as he would have patted a cat or a dog if he'd had one, but his art absorbed him far too deeply to consider the value of a pet in any shape or form. "Let's have another try." He gently but firmly repositioned Hélène exactly as he wanted her, with a little turn of the shoulder here, a raising of the chin there, before standing back a step or two to check her posture. Finally satisfied, he returned to work, checking for one last time before starting to paint. "Good. And don't move a centimeter until I give you permission." His sharp tone left no room for anything but absolute submission.

  Half an hour later Luc stopped and examined his work in detail, a frown creasing his forehead as his eyes flicked back and forth between Hélène and the painting. Satisfied, he gave her a b
rilliant smile, turning the full charm of his looks and personality on her. "The light isn't going to last much longer, so we're finished for today."

  Hélène stretched as much as was possible in front of someone she felt was a complete stranger before swinging her legs on to the floor and standing up. She smoothed her skirts as her body adjusted to the pleasure of being able to move.

  "Tell me about yourself. Hélèna isn't it?" Luc asked her as he began to clean his brushes.

  "Hélène, M'sieur."

  "Well Hélèna, are you from Paris?" Luc dipped his brushes into in a glass jar filled with pungent mud colored liquid, swilling them around in little circles before wiping them on a scrap of cloth, then placing them in another fractionally less dirty glass jar, filled with the same sharp smelling solution.

  "I'm from a small village near Bordeaux, M'sieur. Louise is my second cousin. This is the first time I'll be an aunt." She smiled at the thought.

  Luc studied her. "Come here." He took her by the arm, leading her over to the window where he examined her face.

  She was far too intimidated by such a celebrated artist to return his gaze. Instead, she stared out over the roofs of the houses. The fields and woods glittering in the distance reminded her of home. Paris was new, big, and different. Luc was standing so close it was hard to ignore his breath on her cheek.

  Louise had spent time‒at least half a dozen conversations‒impressing upon her how popular Luc Marteille's work was at the moment among people who bought art. Before Hélène left that morning, she'd repeated her warning. "He's passed the up and coming stage and is considered to have arrived. He showed several paintings in the Salon des Refuses exhibition last year that were the talk of the town. You don't know how lucky you are to be in Paris and sitting for Luc Marteille!" And as an afterthought, she added "And don't, whatever you do, fall in love with him. An artist's mistress has a very short life. And your parents and Claude would kill me!"