Chapter 36

Camille was not in her room. She had taken to disappearing at night. I’d been concerned the first time she’d done it in London, when she’d walked the streets near the lodgings we’d taken and wandered alone through Hyde Park. At least here she would be safe, and I wasn’t going to worry Ma and Papa by telling them. I sighed and settled down on her bed to wait for her. When I woke, the room was light and the birds were calling to each other. Camille had not come back. I pulled on a shawl and ran out of the house. The grass was damp from last night’s rain and soon the hem of my dress was soaked. She was nowhere to be seen. I searched the rose garden and went down to the stream that ran through the bottom of the garden, growing more and more frantic. Surely she hadn’t gone out the gate. My chest heaving with panic, I ran back up towards the house and stood under the elm tree where I could get a better view of the lawns, which sloped down towards the limestone walls. A twig snapped above me and I looked up into the tree. There was Camille, huddled on a branch, her back to the trunk. She stared down at me sightlessly. When I called to her she shook herself, as if waking from a dream and slowly began to climb down. She stood before me, her teeth chattering, hair hanging in damp tendrils and her clothes wet through. I put my shawl around her and led her back into the house.

I towelled her dry, the way Ma used to do to me after a bath, and put her into bed. I took off my own wet dress and climbed in after her, held her until the warmth of my body crept into hers and she stopped shivering.

Her breathing grew regular and I thought she’d fallen asleep when she spoke. ‘Jessie, I’m sorry.’ And she began to cry, great heaving gulps, like a child. I held her more tightly and kissed the top of her head.

‘Don’t fret, my lamb, don’t fret,’ I said, using the words that had comforted me as a child.

She rubbed at her eyes and sat a little apart from me. ‘I didn’t mean those things I said about you. How could I? You know that, don’t you?’ Camille’s navy blue eyes were ringed with dark shadows, her brow creased with anxiety. I nodded and she relaxed a little. ‘Rodin and I, we had a fight.’

For the first time in a long while I wanted to laugh. ‘You don’t say?’

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. ‘Of course, it was obvious. I behaved like an idiot.’

Now that I’d found her and she was safe, I allowed myself to be angry with her again. ‘You behaved horribly, not only to me, but to my parents.’

Camille rubbed her forehead. ‘I know, I know. But listen to me, and maybe you will understand.’

I crossed my arms and faced her. ‘What could possibly excuse such rudeness? In my home, Camille, in my own home.’

‘Rodin told me he won’t leave Rose. He said we can never be married.’

‘What? But he promised! Does that mean you and him…’

She covered her eyes and began to weep again.

Rodin had left before we came down to breakfast. A note on the hall table thanked us for our kind hospitality. Désolé but he had to leave immediately for Paris to sort out a problem with his exhibition with Monet. Camille tore the note into pieces so I had to write it out again in an approximation of Rodin’s scrawl and give it to my parents at breakfast.

Ma squinted at the note. ‘What terrible writing. That’s a shame he had to dash off, such a nice man.’ She smiled at Camille. ‘Are you feeling better dear? You look a little peaky.’

It was an odd summer – not at all like I’d imagined it would be. Camille’s moods were changeable: affectionate towards me one day and the next she’d be distant and cool. She went away to stay with Amy Singer’s family, making it clear she wanted to be on her own. And when she returned she talked incessantly about the Singers, a large, artistic family. Their bohemian home seemed more to her liking than Wootton House and its quiet pace. We went to stay on the Isle of Wight with an old schoolfriend of mine, Florence, and I thought we’d finally have time together, walking along the cliffs and sketching. But Camille struck up a close friendship with Florence and I’d often find myself excluded in those subtle but devastating ways women employ to make it clear you are not wanted.

But still I kept making excuses for Camille. She was confused; she was heartbroken over Rodin; she was fragile. The stream of letters continued to arrive unabated from Paris in Rodin’s unmistakable hand. Some she’d tear up and stamp on the pieces, others she’d press to her lips and tuck into her pocket to read again later.

Finally, September arrived and it was time for her to go back to Paris. Ma had asked me to stay on for Christmas and I’d agreed. As their only child, I knew they missed me dreadfully. Besides, Camille’s long visit had put a strain on our friendship. Perhaps we needed a break from each other.

I knelt on the floor, helping Camille to pack. We layered her dresses with tissue paper and folded them into her trunk. We worked in silence and I thought how different it used to be with her in the early days of our friendship, when I could say anything to her, no matter how irreverent, my candour rewarded with shouts of laughter and an answering jibe. Instead I’d taken to choosing my words carefully, watching her face anxiously for the first signs of an outburst. I’d always prided myself on my courage and hated this new tentativeness. And, it only seemed to make Camille more impatient with me. I’d watch powerless as her lips curled with disdain as I stuttered some inane pleasantry. She was slipping away from me and I knew unless I fixed what had broken between us, I’d lose her. I sat back on my heels and summoned the Jessie who was afraid of nothing.

‘Camille, look at me.’

She glanced up and went back to folding a shawl. I grabbed her wrist. She tried to shake me off but I held on.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘This summer, I’ve found it difficult, found you difficult. At times you’ve behaved as if you were my enemy, not my friend.’

Camille sighed and I released her wrist. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’ve not been myself, I’m sorry. Can’t we be friends again?’

‘No we can’t, not until we sort this out. Sorry just isn’t good enough.’

Camille stood up and walked towards the window. She looked out at the elm leaves, which were turning to copper. ‘It’s all Rodin’s fault,’ she said with her back to me. ‘He ruins everything. He wants to control everything – me, you. I haven’t been able to think straight.’ She turned around. ‘But it’s true that things can’t go on like this. It’s intolerable for all of us. When I go back to Paris, I promise I’m going to sort everything out. I know you’ve hated acting as our go-between and putting up with my moods, but you won’t have to do that any more.’

She came and knelt beside me and put her arms around me. I closed my eyes. These were the words I’d wanted to hear. I’d talk to her about spending more time in our own studio, working on our own pieces. Perhaps everything would go back to how it used to be when we’d sit and drink tea, and smoke and talk about our plans. It would be Camille and I against the world once more.

‘Jessie,’ she whispered. ‘You are my one true friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Can you forgive me?’

I nodded through tears. She was my Camille once more. Everything was going to be all right.

I disentangled myself. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. Come on, we’d better get your packing finished.’

She dug into her skirt pocket and grinned at me. ‘Not before we have a last cigarette.’