“More of the letters between Vincent and his brother that Vincent left with me. I found them when I was going through my own papers. In the midst of his illness Vincent asked me to keep these and I want to return them, but with the exhumation and Jo grieving their loss all over again, I do not want to burden her. I want to entrust you, as her closest confidante, with determining the right time for her to receive them.” There’s something coded in his speech and my nerves tingle as I tuck the parcel into my bag.
“I will do so, Doctor,” I say as I leave and hurry down the road. Being here is like seeing Vincent’s paintings come to life. The wheat fields and church near the cemetery, the mossy thatched roofs of the homes along the lane. We’re staying at theAuberge Ravoux, where Vincent rented a room for his final months here, not the exact one he stayed in, but one across the hall. Because he took his own life, the owner of the building cleared all the furniture from the room where Vincent died with Theo at his side, and has not rented it out since. We visited it, though. There are still holes in the plaster walls where Vincent hung his paintings to dry. His funeral service was held here in the restaurant of the inn after the church refused to host it. I may be sitting in the exact place where his coffin sat covered in his paintings and beloved sunflowers.
I’m eager to pull the letters out of the bag as I wait for my past to walk through the door. Are these the words I’ve been waiting to uncover? The ones that will reveal my relationship with Theo? Is that why Gachet entrusted them to me and not to Jo?
But before I can begin reading, my daughter’s aunt comes into the room. She pauses on the threshold and makes her way to me slowly, hesitant. Each step seems measured, as if she’s still deciding whether this meeting is wise.
We couldn’t be more than a few years apart in age, but she looks many years older. Likely the fault of a lifetime working out in the sun, the rain, and the cold. I have gone soft in the city. But more than that I have grown rich in this woman’s eyes. I was once a teenager who gave away my baby because I had no means to support her, and now I appear in this village in my wool overcoat and one fine dress. I had wanted to impress her, but I may only be stoking her envy.
“I almost didn’t come,” she says when she sits down. “My sister does not know that I am here with you.”
I give her a small, cautious smile to reassure her that my intentions are pure, that I don’t come here with any hint of malice. “Thank you for meeting me. I know you did not have to.”
Her eyes crawl over my clothes and body as I mumble stupidly.
“You are no longer a whore,” she finally states, perhaps wanting things between us to be more equal by recalling my past.
“I run a boardinghouse now.”
“You must have had a generous benefactor.”
It is obvious what she is implying. I must have captivated one of my customers to the extent that he offered to finance my escape.
“I was blessed.” Indignation shoots through me then, though I try to hide it. Even when I was working for Madam, I regularly asked her to take money from my pay to send for my girl’s care. It was not a small sum. Money cannot compare to the love and presence of a mother, but my breast swells with a desire for the smallest amount of recognition. This woman will not give it to me.
“What is it you want from us?” she finally asks. “Most women like you do not try to continue a relationship with their child. Why did you insist on coming here today?”
“I wanted to thank your family. For what you did. For what you continue to do. For keeping her safe.” I do not say what I truly want, which is to meet my daughter.
“We did much more than that,” she scoffs. “We raised her as our own. She is ours.”
Though it is true, her words pierce me.
“She is yours,” I agree. “I wanted to know that she is well. To see if there is anything she needs.”
The woman’s eyes widen slightly at that. There has to be a reason she agreed to meet with me.
“She is to be married,” she says abruptly.
“Married? But she is just sixteen.”
“She will be seventeen soon. It is not so young. He is a landowner who lives in the next town, a man who lost his wife. He has two young children and is in need of someone.”
I do not like the sound of any of this. Married at sixteen, a mother to two young children, not her own. But what am I allowed to say?
“There are other young women whose families are eager aswell because of his position and his finances. But Marie-Celeste has many advantages. She is very beautiful. She is quick and obedient too, but her face is what he wants.”
I try not to object. I have no claim to this girl, no say in how she lives her life. I forfeited every possible right and yet this is not what I want for her.
“Is he kind?”
“Absolutely not.” The aunt stares directly into my eyes. “There are questions…” She trails off.
“Questions?”
“About how his first wife met her end…” Her eyes dart around the bar nervously though no one is paying us any mind.
I prompt her gently. “What are you saying?”
