Moonlight Over Paris(8)
Far more striking, though, was the garden, which spilled down the hillside in three lushly planted terraces. Framing the magnificent view were trees that would never survive an English winter—date palms and olives, figs and mimosa. There was even a little grove of lemon and orange trees. Whitewashed trellises supported tangled vines of clematis, heliotrope, Chinese roses, and bougainvillea, while spreading beds of thyme, chamomile, and lavender tumbled over their low stone walls onto undulating pathways of crushed limestone. Birdsong was everywhere, melodic and joyful; later, she knew, it would be eclipsed by the rising drone of cicadas.
“Helena? Shall we see you settled? We’ll do that, then we’ll have a late breakfast out on the terrace, and after that we’ll go down to the water and have a sunbath. Do you have a bathing costume with you?”
“There’s one in my trunk.”
“Oh, good. Leave your valise—Vincent will bring it in. And you can put Hamish down. He knows the way.”
Inside, all was dark and cool, the villa’s windows still shuttered to keep out the heat of the day. Aunt Agnes led them to a flight of stairs, its banister a sinuous curve of weathered wrought iron, and the three of them climbed the steps, Hamish’s claws clicking softly against the terra-cotta floor tiles.
“I’ve given you the best of the guest rooms, darling—my room is at the other end of the corridor. I think you’ll adore it. Do come in and tell me what you think.”
Agnes hurried to fling open the shutters on two large windows, revealing an expansive view of the terraced garden and, beyond, the infinite azure arc of the Mediterranean. “Will the room suit? I mean, apart from the view? You’ve the bed, and a desk and chair, and a little fauteuil if you feel like lounging. Is anything missing? I do want it to be perfect.”
“It is,” Helena promised.
“Oh—I almost forgot! Come with me—I’ve been dying to show you. Perhaps you could carry dear Hamish? He’s a little out of breath.”
Helena scooped up the dog and followed her aunt back downstairs and outside again, this time via a side door. They stood on a round, elevated patio that was shaded by a pergola blanketed in the scarlet blooms of a trumpet vine. Just beyond was a low, stuccoed outbuilding, its fa?ade dominated by a set of rough-hewn doors. Her aunt opened both doors wide and beckoned impatiently to Helena. “Come in. Come and see.”
The interior was dim, especially compared to the glare of the midday sun. She lingered at the threshold, intrigued by her aunt’s enthusiasm for the shabby old shed, and blinked as her eyes struggled to discern what lay beyond.
She saw the easel first. She blinked, and a table came into focus. A long table, pushed against the back wall, its surface covered with everything to tempt an artist’s heart: stacks of stretched canvases, reams of paper, boxes of pastels, tins of watercolors, a clutch of sharpened pencils in a tin. There were empty palettes, too, and an open case of brushes, every size and shape, all waiting for her.
And there were tubes of oil paint, scores of them, set in rows on the tabletop, their neatly lettered labels the only clue to the colors hidden within. All new, all untouched.
“I wasn’t sure what to buy, so I ordered one of everything. You don’t mind, do you? I thought it would be nice to surprise—”
“Oh, Auntie A. It’s . . . I don’t know what to say. It’s perfect. I never dreamed—”
“Don’t cry, dear. It’s just some paints and paper, and the shed wasn’t being used.”
Helena blinked away her tears, not wishing to spoil the moment with theatrics, and pulled her aunt into a heartfelt embrace.
“Is there enough light? I know you artists need to have plenty of light,” Agnes persisted.
“It’s perfect, I promise. Like a dream come true.”
“Oh, good. Let’s go back inside. I’ll remind you where everything is, and of course you won’t have met Jeanne and Micheline. My cook and housemaid. Such dears, though they don’t speak a word of English, and I’ve barely any French. Still, we get on well together, and Vincent can translate in a crisis.”
Her heart full, her mind’s eye awhirl, Helena cast one last glance over her studio—her studio—and followed Agnes inside.
Chapter 4
Villa Vesna
Antibes, France
5 July 1924
Dearest Amalia,
I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of news for you this week, for life on the C?te d’Azur continues in much the same vein as it has done since my arrival. I quite enjoy the routine—up at dawn, a solitary walk down to the water, some sketching there if I feel inspired, then back home for breakfast on the terrace with Auntie A. After that I move to my studio and work up sketches from the day before, with a break for lunch around one o’clock. I did try asking the cook if I might simply have a sandwich on a tray, but I only managed to horrify the poor woman. So lunch at table it is, with the addition once or twice a week of Auntie A’s friends.
You won’t be surprised to hear that our aunt knows everyone here: the great, the good, the notorious, and the merely interesting, too. At first, when people visited, I was a little concerned they might have heard of my social difficulties back in London, but no one has said a thing. Not yet, at any rate! Agnes introduces me as her niece, says I am visiting from England, and that is that.