Page 55 of The Quiet Wife
“You asked me how you should hold your hands. You should clasp them behind your back as you are doing now and look over your shoulder.”
“Do you want me to smile?”
Jemie shook his head. “No… yes… no… let’s see.”
Frances cleared her throat. “Very well. Do you want to start now?”
Jemie grabbed a sketch pad and a box of what looked like pastels.
“Would you stand in the middle of the rug?”
Frances did as he asked. “Where did this come from? I don’t recognise it.”
“I made it,” he mumbled, fishing through the box and fetching presumably the colour that he needed.
He picked up the pad and drew. She could just about make out what he was doing from her position, and she watched as he sketched dramatically long strokes that, after a moment, turned into the train of the dress. Her head and arms emerged after that, and he drew marks like the roses on the gown. He worked solidly until it was looking wonderful, then made a sound of exasperation, tore out the paper and screwed it into a ball.
“What are youdoing?” Frances gasped.
“It’s not right.” He picked up the pastels, apparently undeterred, and began again.
“Talk to me,” he murmured, not looking up.
“What about?”
He shrugged as his hand flew and once again, she emerged onto the paper. “Anything. The children?”
Frances blinked and thought for a moment.
“Well, as you know, Freddie was my first born…” She gushed about all the children, the words flowing easily. What they were like, their personalities, how they squabbled horrendously and how much she loved them. How they were growing. It wasn’t all one sided because Jemie asked questions, laughed with her, and she relaxed so much she even told him about the son she had lost which she never normally mentioned to anyone. At this point, he stopped drawing and looked at her with such compassion it made her eyes water.
“I’m so, so sorry. I can’t imagine that kind of pain. You must think of him often.”
It took a moment for her to gather her composure enough to answer.
“I do,” she choked.
He stood and approached her. He examined his pastel covered hands followed by the gown, held them aloft, and rather awkwardly kissed her cheek.
“I’d offer a hug but…” he nodded to his hands. He sat back down and carried on sketching as though he hadn’t just stolen her heart.
***
For the next few weeks, Frances fell into a routine. In the afternoon, or sometimes in the early evening, she would change and sit for Jemie. Although it involved more standing than sitting. She would talk to him, he would listen attentively and sketch, then they took tea. She had never talked about herself so much in her life.Sometimes Jemie stopped drawing and they just talked. It was astonishing how easy he was to converse with and how quickly the sitting had become the high point of her day with her flourishing under the attention.
A few days later, as usual, she presented herself. He grinned at her and sorted his materials.
“You can sit down today,” he brought her a chair when Frances emerged from behind the screen that afternoon.
“How kind.”
He chuckled and sat opposite her. He scrutinised her face. “Think of something that makes you sad.”
That surprised her but immediately she thought of Frederick and all the arguments.
“That’s perfect.” Jemie sketched furiously for a few minutes then paused. “Try to think of something that makes you worried.”
“Why do you want me looking sad and worried?” she said, taking umbrage. “I want to look serene and beautiful, not miserable and hagged.”
