Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(37)

To her delight, Celia unearthed treasures that were moved immediately to the garçonnière: soft green and rose tapestries, crates of lovingly wrapped pink-flowered china, an Italian baroque clock adorned with tiny satyrs, a Louis XV chaise and side chairs, gilded and upholstered in lemonshaded damask. Celia chose delicate patterned paper for the walls and fresh white paint for the woodwork and doors. Soon the garçonnière was changed into a comfortable cottage with light, airy rooms. Celia loved every inch of it, especially the parlor with its French glass doors and white marble mantel, and the unusual octagonal-shaped library with its Creole-made furniture.

“You have made this place so beautiful,” Lysette exclaimed as she viewed the results of Celia’s efforts. “You have a way with colors and arrangement, and…qu’est-ce que c’est?” She had opened a door to the smallest room in the house, one devoid of furniture except an old rectangular table, a stool, and an easel. No curtains framed the windows; no rugs covered the floor. There were blank canvases stacked against the wall. Sketchbooks, brushes, and paint were scattered over the table. Lysette stared at Celia with surprise. “Max told me you had asked him to bring some supplies from town, but I did not suspect you were an artist.”

Celia’s cheeks flooded with color. “Oh, I am not an artist, not at all. I merely…Well, I enjoy…Oh, please do not look at any of those. I would rather they remain private.”

Lysette withdrew her hand from the closed sketchbook.

Afraid she had offended Lysette, Celia struggled to explain, her face hot with embarrassment. “No one has ever seen my drawings. They…they are hen scratchings…merely an idle pastime. As a child I liked to paint and sketch, but then my mother died and there was no longer time for me to…” She cleared her throat uncomfortably. “I hope you do not mind that I converted this room. The work I do here is of no merit, not good enough to be seen by anyone, but I find it relaxing and…I could not do it at all if I thought someone might see it. If Philippe were alive I would never have taken it up. He would have insisted on looking at my amateurish efforts, and I could not bear that.”

“Why, Celia…” Lysette’s voice was gentle. “There is no reason to be distressed. You may use this room for any purpose you like. I am glad you have such an interest. I would never do anything to interfere with it.”

“Thank you,” Celia replied almost inaudibly.

Lysette studied her downbent head. “You are a quiet, undemanding person, chère, too much so. At times you worry me.”

“I have everything I need…there is no reason to worry.” Celia began to back out of the room before any more could be said. For Lysette, it was natural to lavish affection on those around her. But Celia had been close to only a few people in her life: her father, her brothers and sisters, and Philippe. Only with them had she been able to risk sharing her private thoughts and feelings.

She had written to her father about Philippe’s death and the new life she had found here. Her series of matter-of-fact letters had been answered with sympathetic but equally prosaic replies from her family. Perhaps outsiders would find their attitude odd. The Verités were an unemotional lot, cool and practical, avoiding displays of sentiment. Her father believed that as long as physical health was maintained, all other concerns were minor. And of all Robert Verité’s children, Celia knew herself to be the most deeply reserved. No one, not even Philippe, had reached the distant and remote part of her heart, the part that would always be locked away from others.

There were strong needs within her, longings impossible to put into words. She felt she would have been safe with Philippe, that he might have eventually come to understand the reckless emotions that were hidden inside her. It haunted her, the question of whether they could ever have found true intimacy together—not just of body, but of soul. Now she would never know.

Celia never allowed herself to think of Philippe in the hours just before bedtime. If she did, she was certain to have violent dreams in which she would see him drowning, reaching up to her, pleading with her to save him. She would awake drenched in sweat and tears, shaken with the feeling that Philippe was alive, when she knew he was not.

“No, Vesta.” Celia nudged away the orange cat who was attempting to climb into her lap. Vesta had tired of watching the splashing water in the fountain and had placed a wet paw on her knee. Since Celia had moved into the garçonniére the cat had taken up residence with her. Reconciling herself to the uninvited guest, Celia had named her after the ancient Roman goddess of the hearth. The two of them sat in Celia’s favorite corner of the Vallerand garden, a secluded spot bordered by a double row of lemon trees. Four paths made a rectangle, one side of which was a stone wall. An arched niche and a fountain of graduated basins was built into the wall.

It was a sunny day with a light breeze, the kind of day that was so common in France and so rare here. Celia pulled off her wide-brimmed black bonnet and tucked one of her feet beneath her contentedly. The pose lacked decorum, but no one was here to see her. She sketched the scene around her idly, letting her mind wander from one daydream to another.

Annoyed by Celia’s refusal to hold her, Vesta jumped from the bench to Celia’s feet and reclined on her side to clean a white and orange paw. Celia smiled and kicked off one of her slippers, using her toe to tickle the cat’s furry stomach. A loud purr hummed through Vesta’s body. The cat looked up at Celia through half-closed eyes.