Uncertain of Cuthbert’s commitment to the story, Richard left for London the next morning to lobby his editors. Mason welcomed the reprieve because she needed the time away from him to do some of the new paintings that would be “shipped from the States.” She also wanted to give him time to miss her. But as it turned out, over the next few days she felt no inspiration to create the new works, and it was she who missed him—achingly.
Time and again, she found herself going to her window and looking out at the back façade of the Grand Hotel. She thought of his suite where she’d found such bliss, only to be pushed away, and she felt his absence keenly.
Finally, she was sick of it. She had to get away.
The timing was perfect. The Cirque Fernando had just ended its current season and wouldn’t start up again for another few weeks, so Lisette would be free to come along. They would go to the country and paint.
She sent a message to Lisette, bundled up all the painting equipment she’d bought the morning Richard had left town, then went to the offices of E. Larue, Real Estate Agent on the Boulevard Montmartre, and told him she wanted to take a lease on the villa in Auvers-sur-Oise that her sister Mason had rented the summer before. Using Falconier’s letter of credit, she paid three months’ rent in advance. This would afford her a place to go in the months ahead to be alone and paint in secret.
The next morning, Lisette met her at the Gare St-Lazare with all seven of her dogs in tow. She was delighted to leave town. “It will give me a chance to get away from that pesky Juno. Ever since he saw your paintings of me, he hounds me like never before. Every day, flowers. If I see another bouquet of red roses, I will lose my mind. Boxes of candy. Poems.”
Mason laughed. “Juno Dargelos, the king of the Apache gangsters, writes poetry?”
“Pooh! He can’t write his name. He must have made some destitute poet do it for him.”
Mason studied her friend. “He seems so devoted to you. You take lovers at the drop of a hat, but this man who’s considered a romantic Robin Hood by half the shopgirls in Paris, you won’t give the time of day.”
“What he did, I can never forgive.”
“It must have been something awful.”
“More than awful. Disgusting. But enough. I refuse to discuss it!”
The train took them through the northern outskirts of the city, over the Seine at the town of Asnières, which the Impressionists had immortalized in their art. Once they’d navigated the confusion of cramming more than half a dozen dogs into a single compartment and had settled down, Lisette pulled some grapes from her hand luggage and gave half of them to Mason.
“I asked around about your man,” she said.
“You asked about Richard?”
“But of course. I’ve never seen you so smitten with a man, and I worry about you. After all, you don’t seem to know much about him.”
“What did you find out?”
“Not much. He moves around Europe going to art shows and mixing with high society. Lives in hotels. Comes to Paris several times a year. He has money, but no one seems to know where he gets it.” She tossed a grape to one of the terriers. “He’s a mystery.”
“What about women?”
“Oh, lots of women. But none for very long.”
“What kind of women?”
“Mostly society types. An Italian contessa who never got over him. Some English heiress. That sort of thing.”
“No wife stashed away, I hope.”
“Mais non! If I’d found that out, I would have shot him for you.” The dogs were up again, all begging for grapes, which Lisette tossed to each, smiling her affection.
Mason mulled this over. “I suppose you think this is all a little crazy, don’t you?”
“Crazy? What’s crazy about spending the rest of your life pretending you’re a sister you never had so you can be with a man who wants to spend his life promoting your paintings, which you have to paint on the side because he can’t know you’re alive? What’s crazy about that?”
The absurdity of it caused Mason to laugh.
But Lisette wasn’t smiling now. “The only thing that really bothers me about your little comédie is that flic Duval. He’s no one to trifle with.”
“I’ll just have to be careful and not do anything to rouse his suspicions. I’ll only paint in Auvers and leave all my equipment there so I won’t leave a trail for him.”
Fifty minutes later, they arrived in Auvers-sur-Oise. It was a charming village of old stone houses with thatched roofs that stretched for several miles along the picturesque Oise River, rising in a series of terraces from its banks to a plateau of wheat fields that seemed to stretch to infinity. In the early days of Impressionism, Cézanne, Pissarro, and Berthe Morisot had painted extensively in its fields and rustic lanes and along its willow-draped riverbanks. The cost of living was much cheaper here than in Paris, and Mason had found it both economical and inspirational to spend several of her summers here.
The villa was located a mile or so upriver from the hamlet itself in a sylvan setting. They had a boatman row them from the landing just below the train station to the small private dock stationed between two large willows with dangling leaves that floated lazily in the water. Across a grassy expanse, the house with its black shutters stood by a huge oak tree with a swing attached. The rooms inside were tiny, in the French tradition, but numerous enough to house Mason, Lisette, the art supplies, and all the dogs. It was a peaceful retreat that looked as if it had sprung from a Louisa May Alcott story. But just as they arrived, the sky clouded up and it began to rain.
The rain kept up for the next three days and nights. Lisette was in a lethargic mood, and Mason had to struggle to make herself pick up a brush. She hadn’t worked for months and she’d been looking forward to it, but the dreary weather dampened her spirits, and the lack of momentum made her feel nervous and rusty. She forced herself to finish three canvases in the style that had so captivated Richard, but she felt disconnected from the process and the work gave her none of the satisfaction and sense of escape that it had before.
To add to her uneasiness, she couldn’t stop pining for Richard. Was he thinking about her as he went about his business in London? Or was he trying not to think about her? It didn’t seem possible that he could shut her out of his mind completely, as much as he might want to. Not after the explosive lovemaking they’d shared. But then she remembered all those other women—the contessa who’d never gotten over him. Had she, too, been convinced he was in love with her? Had he said to her, in that tormented way, I can’t do this? Thinking about it kept her awake nights, tossing in her bed, with the rain beating incessantly on the roof.
The warmth of a beam of sunlight streaming through the lace curtails awakened her on the fourth morning. Rising from bed, she could see that the gloom had passed and it was a delightful April day. Birds were chirping, the crocuses were suddenly in bloom, and the world, bathed in the golden light that had brought painters to France for the past 400 years, seemed newly born. Thrusting her top floor window open, she leaned out and took in a cleansing breath of the crystal air, feeling the familiar stirring inside that told her she was ready at last. She was itching to paint.
She ran into Lisette’s room in her bare feet and pounced on her bed, startling the dogs who lay sprawled about her, shaking her awake. Lisette sat up, muttering, her blond hair tangled and cascading about her shoulders, and held a hand to her eyes to shield them from the flood of morning light. “What time is it?”
“Who cares what time it is? It’s a new day. A new world. Out of bed, lazybones. I want to capture this beautiful morning before it goes away.”
They hastily packed a picnic lunch and spent the day down by the river. Mason had no stomach to attempt another “typical” Caldwell picture. She just wanted to paint Lisette in the joy of nature, to capture the quality of light on her face as the willow fronds blew around her in the gentle breeze. All at once, the enjoyment of painting returned to her.
They had a marvelous time together, like two children frolicking barefoot in the fields beneath the invigorating sunshine. They laughed and talked of nothing and everything the way they’d done in the old days before Mason had disappeared. They ate their picnic lunch on a blanket spread out beneath the willows, nibbling brie and bread and sipping wine, tossing tidbits to the ever-present dogs who performed the tricks Lisette had taught them in her spare time.
While playing with them, Lisette had stuck out her fleshy lower lip and given her mane of blond hair a shake. It gave her the look of a petulant child, and yet, with her lithe, sexual body, the effect was extraordinary. Mason had captured elements of this look before in earlier canvases, but she’d never seen it so striking or fully realized, this innocent, pouty sexuality.
“Stop!” Mason cried. “Stay just as you are. Don’t move a muscle.”
She brought over the canvas she’d been working on and began to make revisions. After a while, as it was beginning to come together, she said, “Lisette…”
“Hmmm?”
“You know about men.”
“Some,” Lisette shrugged. “It’s so cozy here, I could just go to sleep.”
Mason sat back to survey her work. “After years of constant practice, I finally feel that I’m beginning to know something about art. The finished products don’t always live up to the image I first had in my head, but they’re coming closer.”
“Oui.” Lisette sounded as if she was already falling asleep.
“Painting is familiar to me. But I know absolutely nothing about the art of seduction.”
“What’s to know? You just show the man your ankles and he won’t leave you alone.”
“There has to be more to it than that.”
“I don’t know. I never seduce men. They always chase after me.”
Mason tried another tactic. “You know how I feel about Richard, right?”
“I know you’ve lost your head.”
As she painted, she told Lisette about what had happened with him the other night. “He wants me, but he doesn’t want to want me. How do I get around that? I need something foolproof. Something he can’t resist.”
“Ah! Like a magic potion?”
“Well, yes, in a way.”
“I know just the thing. Perfume.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Bah! You think I’m joking? What do you think gives French women their legendary allure? Are we more beautiful than you?”
“You are more beautiful than anyone.”
“Have you ever seen a likeness of Madame Pompadour? Or Madame du Barry? Homely as doorposts! But they smelled like goddesses. Scent is the greatest of all aphrodisiacs. Every French woman knows that.”
“I hardly think you would ever need a perfume to drive a man wild.”
“No? When I need to be devastating, the first thing I do is go to see Madame Toulon. She is more than a concocter of perfume, she is a sorceress. She creates for me a scent men can’t resist.”
“Could she do that for me?”
“But of course.”
Mason wasn’t convinced. “I find it hard to believe a strong-willed man like Richard Garrett, with his confidence and experience with women, could be swayed by a mere perfume—”
Abruptly, Lisette held up a hand. She straightened up and peered into the distance. “This man of yours. Is he very tall? Dark like Lucifer?”
“I guess you could say that. Why?”
“I think he’s here.”
Mason shot around to see a figure coming their way from the road by the house. They were some distance from him, but Lisette was right. Richard!
In a panic, she looked at the scene around her: the canvas, the paints, the easel, the smeared smock she was wearing. Trapped!
“What are we going to do?”
“You hide everything,” Lisette told her, leaping to her feet. “I’ll stall him.”
With that, she pointed toward the oncoming figure and called out a command in French. At the sound of it, her pack of dogs, who’d been dozing contentedly in the shade, went barking across the field after him. They surrounded him, jumping up on him, nearly knocking him down, while Mason frantically grabbed the canvas, the easel, her paintbox and pallet, and tossed them all in a jumble under the blanket. She ripped her smock off, saw the pigment stains on her dress, and stepped out of that as well, stuffing them under the blanket with the rest of the incriminating evidence. She hurriedly arranged the picnic things on top, then turned to see what Richard was doing.
He’d crouched on his haunches and was holding out his hand for the dogs to sniff, trying to make friends with them. They were responding too quickly. In another moment he stood and his new friends led the way toward the two women.
Mason looked down at her hands and saw stains of geranium lake and chromium yellow. Glancing about, her gaze came to rest on the riverbank still muddy from the rains. He was coming closer by the second. “Quick,” she told Lisette, “take off your dress and come with me.”
Lisette obeyed and they hurried to the riverbank where Mason bent to bury her hands. Standing, both hands full of mud, she slung some at Lisette, who shrieked at her. “What are you doing?”
“Pretend we’re having a mud fight,” Mason urged, “so I can hide my hands.”
“Ah, oui.” Lisette followed suit, flinging it at Mason. Soon they were upon one another, rubbing mud on each other, laughing like two maniacs.
“I can’t think when I’ve seen a prettier sight,” a deep voice greeted.
They looked up at him, two women clad in petticoats and covered in mud. He was dressed in sporting clothes, casual yet immaculate and crisply tailored, looking every inch the gentleman off for an outing in the country. He’d removed his hat and a lock of dark hair fell rakishly over his forehead. As he noticed the way Mason’s damp, mud-splotched shift clung to her curves, his eyes darkened and his lips parted. He looked absolutely delicious. Mason had to fight the urge to run to him and throw herself into his arms.
Instead, remembering the necessity to keep her distance, she picked up a huge glob of the muck, straightened with a taunting grin, and said, “Come and join the party.” With that, she hurled it at him.
He stepped aside deftly and it sailed past him. “Not just now, thanks all the same.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Spoilsport.”
“The country air does odd things to people.”
“Ah, but you’re breathing the same country air. Sure you won’t change your mind?” She approached him, looking as if she might pounce on him at any second, head-to-toe mud and all. He backed away, which, of course, was exactly what she’d hoped he’d do. The farther he kept from her, the less likely he was to see the paint on her hands.
“How did you find me here, anyway?” she asked.
He shrugged. “A bit of detective work. It wasn’t too difficult.”
His words sent a chill through her. She glanced nervously at Lisette. “Mason used to come here to paint sometimes. She wrote me about it.”
“Nice to see the two of you getting on so well. I should imagine Mason would be pleased.”
“Oh, Lisette’s a dear,” she said quickly. “I asked her for directions to the place and she dropped everything to bring me here herself. We’ve been having a little vacation. Just us and the dogs.”
Some of those dogs had run in after Lisette and knocked her down so she sat in the mud as they crawled all over her.
“Apologies for invading your privacy, but I need to talk to you,” Richard said.
“Let’s go back to the house. I want to wash up.” She turned and began to walk, leading him away from the scene of the crime, thinking regretfully of the ruined painting beneath the blanket.
“What about your things?”
“Oh, Lisette will get them. What did you want to talk about?”
He’d been looking quizzically at the oddly shaped blanket, but her reminder distracted him and he caught up to her. “Have you made any progress on shipping the paintings from America?”
“I’m working on it, but it will take some time.” The mud was beginning to dry on her hands, making her worry that the paint might show through. She thrust them behind her back and said, “I did, however, manage to find three paintings that she exchanged here for food.”
Genuinely excited, he said, “Excellent! I can’t wait to see them.”
“You came all this way just to ask me that?”
“You’re right. There is something else. Something important. Next week, a man is coming to town whom I’d very much like you to meet.”
She couldn’t concentrate, feeling vulnerable as she still did from coming so close to being caught in the act. “All right,” she said distractedly.
“Shall I bring him here?”
“Oh, no. I mean it’s such a long way. I’ll go back to Paris.” They’d reached the house and she stood back, gesturing for him to open the door. “Go on into the front parlor.” She pointed the way. “I’ll get cleaned up and bring the paintings down.”
Upstairs, she hurriedly stashed all her painting equipment in one of the spare rooms. She washed off the mud and used turpentine to remove all traces of paint, then washed her hands again. That done, still in her petticoat, she checked herself out in the mirror. Her hair was falling about her shoulders in a disheveled way that made her look ready for bed. Her loins began to tingle.
With any luck, he’ll have to stay the night!
She’d intended to change into a clean dress, but, remembering the way he’d looked at her in her shift, she decided against it. Instead, she slipped into her laciest new petticoat—the tight one that accentuated all her curves—leaving the top two buttons open as if she’d been in too much of a hurry to finish. Her cleavage peeped through just enough to afford him a glimpse of hidden treasures. Then she fluffed her hair and carried the three paintings she’d completed downstairs.
As she entered the parlor, he turned from looking out the window and froze. His gaze came to rest just where she wanted it—on the swell of her bosom. It seemed to her that his face paled a shade. His throat moved as he swallowed.
“Sorry to be so long,” she said. “I tried to hurry.”
He shifted his weight to his other foot. “Perhaps you hurried a bit too much. Haven’t forgotten something, have you?”
She glanced down at the flimsy lace with its pink bow. “Oh, this? Does it bother you? I mean, you did just see me in my petticoat out there, so—But I could go change, if it makes you nervous. I just thought you’d like to see the paintings as soon as possible.”
“I do. And I’m not the least bit nervous.”
“Of course not.”
She set the paintings up against the wall opposite him for his inspection, bending as she did to provide him a glimpse of her backside. When she turned to him, he was frowning and his lips were pursed tightly. He waved his hand in a sardonic gesture, indicating for her to move out of the way.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to distract you.”
“Like hell you didn’t.”
She moved aside, suppressing a smile. He stepped over to the paintings, put his hand to his jaw, and studied them carefully, looking at them for an unusually long time without comment. One of them, another version of Lisette in the catacombs, he picked up and held to the light. Then he set it down again, still saying nothing.
She came up behind him, looking over his shoulder, coming in close so her breasts flattened against his back. It was so delicious to be near him again. She felt a shudder go through him before he stepped away.
“Well?” she asked.
“They’re good.” His voice sounded tentative. “But not as good as her best work. These must have been painted early on. Before she was fully up to speed.”
This annoyed her. All those miserable hours painting the damn things.
But she felt no attachment to them. He was right. They weren’t her best.
She put her hands behind her back, clasping the palms together, and stepped into his sight line. Once again, his gaze drifted, as if on its own accord, to her cleavage, which was now all but thrusting out at him. “It’s getting late. I suppose you’ll be needing to stay the night. We have plenty of rooms. You won’t even have to share yours with one of the dogs.”
“No,” he said too quickly, too violently. Then, collecting himself, he added in a carefully modulated tone, “As tempting as that may be—with or without the canine companionship—I have some pressing business in town. I’m going to rush and catch the last train back. I have a chap waiting with his wagon who’ll return me to the station.”
“The last train isn’t due for an hour yet. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some…refreshment first?”
His eyes flicked to her bosom and away again. “No. Thank you, no.”
With that, he bolted out of the door and down the path toward the road as if the furies of Hades were after him.
She fell back against the doorjamb with a sigh.
I guess I’m going to have to get some perfume, after all.
And then, belatedly, she wondered, How did he manage to track me down?