Page 35 of The Velvet Hours
He had surprised her the last time he visited, when he confided to her that when he was a young boy, his governess had told him he had considerable artistic talent.
“I used to draw birds,” he told her as he threaded her fingers into his own.
“We had so many at the estate. And even though the larger birds, like the pheasants and the hawks, were the most majestic, I always gravitated toward the tinier ones, like the wrens and sparrows. I loved that they were so small you could hold them in your hands.”
She had smiled and closed her eyes, imagining Charles as a little boy with a sketchbook. She envisioned him looking like his son when she had seen him that day outside his home. The thin legs poking out of wool shorts, the white shirt and suspenders. What an endearing image of him sitting cross-legged in the garden of his family estate drawing birds.
“So now you know why I thought of you as my little dove.” His eyes looked at her softly.
It hadn’t surprised her that Charles had exhibited artistic talent when he was young. She knew that he had decorated her apartment, the scattering of objets d’art, the mirrors, and the furniture that was upholstered in the softest, most sensual hues. Those were not skills of a banker, but of one with a keenly trained eye.
“Why did you stop drawing if it brought you so much pleasure?” She tightened her fingers around his. They were both so relaxed now, she didn’t want him to fall asleep.
He let out a deep sigh and she felt her hand fall with his sinking chest. “My father, I suppose. He started taking me out to shoot. Never the small birds, but the pheasants and the grouse on the property. Mylife became less tranquil after that...” His voice trailed off. “By the time I was sent off to boarding school, I no longer had the peace of mind to lose myself in drawing.”
“How sad,” she said. “I would have very much liked to have you draw me.”
He laughed. “I’ve hired the best to do that... and a painting, not just a little pencil sketch!”
***
Now, a week later, he was even more fragile than at his last visit.
“How is the portrait developing? Will I be seeing it anytime soon?”
“Oh, but he’s only just begun sketching.” She reached for Charles’s hand. “You must get stronger so you can visit his studio. It really is the most marvelous place.”
He smiled. “I would enjoy that. I have the address already.” He patted the pocket of his suit. “There’s little difference between bankers and artists. In the end, they’re both crystal clear in giving instructions to where you must send the checks.”
She laughed. “Really, Charles, I think you’re going to be quite pleased when it’s done.”
“I’m sure I will... I only hope I can last long enough to see it.”
She realized that he had stopped avoiding any discussion of his health, as he had when he first took ill. He spoke openly of his decline, and even sometimes alluded to his own death.
Their roles had reversed. It was now Marthe who didn’t want to speak about the ugliness of his illness, or the painful truth that he would not get better, only worse.
“You will recover, my darling,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Why, it’s been a long winter, and spring has only just arrived. By the time you see the first roses in the Bois de Boulogne, you’ll be feeling so much better... I just know it.”
“I have set my goal not on seeing the flowers, Marthe. But on seeing you within a gilded frame.”
“Stop that... you will see it so many times over the years, you’ll grow bored with it.” She took her hand and ran it over his hair, then leaned over and kissed him. His once-soft lips were now cracked and dry.
“My dove,” he said, looking at her. His eyes were soft. “To be six years old again, so I could draw you with my own hand.”
She said nothing. She simply rose and walked out the French doors of the parlor to the small side room where she kept her stationery, her notepads, and her pens.
She opened the bottom drawer and searched until she found a pencil. She almost never used the red cedar sticks, but they were helpful when she had to go over the household budget with Giselle.
Marthe returned to the parlor. “Here,” she said, handing him the pad she had found and the pencil stick.
“Master Boldini won’t be done for several weeks, so yours will be the first portrait of me.”
He lifted his hand and took the pad and placed it on his lap. Then he took the pencil.
“I can’t remember the last time I did this,” he told her.
“I suspect it’s not something you lose completely...”
