Her pause is lengthy, but she finally says the words out loud. “There were bruises on her neck, sometimes her face. We saw them, but no one said anything out loud. You understand?”
I nod. I understand too well.
“He claimed his first wife fell down the stairs, broke her neck. But that rings false.”
We sit in silence for a moment. “You do not want Marie-Celeste to marry this man,” I finally say. “That is why you agreed to meet with me?”
“I cannot voice that concern to anyone we live near. He has standing in our village. He is wealthy. Our family farm needs support. And saying no to him, there could be consequences. But Marie-Celeste, she is special. So smart, loving. She continued in school and has excellent marks.” Pride radiates off her now. “You are a stranger to us. But you are a stranger with means.”
I have underestimated this woman.
She continues, eager now, to finally get to her point. “This marriage would not just benefit Marie-Celeste and secure her future. It would help us all. The man is generous. He owns the land we work on. We do not have the luxury of refusing men like him. We survive here. We do it as best we can.”
Wasn’t that how I had lived for so long, simply struggling to survive another day?
“You will need money, the family will need money in order to refuse this marriage.” I know now why she agreed to meet me. My mind chases the possibilities. I could ask Jo for a loan, though I don’t think she has extra money, or for a painting to sell, knowing she despises giving the art away right now, even to those closest to her. I’d have to hope that she would understand and be generous. It would involve a lengthy discussion of my past and my daughter, a discussion that is long overdue.
“You could meet her. I could introduce the two of you. There could be a relationship.”
My daughter’s aunt knows exactly what I long for, and I must find a way to make it happen.
“It is possible,” I say slowly. “When would you need the money to offer Marie-Celeste’s family to refuse the marriage?”
“By the summer, preferably.”
“And I can see her? We can meet? What will her mother think of that?”
“Her mother needn’t know. It would break her heart, but the girl and I have our own secrets. We always have.”
I think about the secrets I have kept from Jo, the letters from Gachet in my bag that may contain some of them. My mind travels down a dark path. There is another way to get this money. But I could never…
Jo is too trusting. I have cataloged the pieces, kept the ledgers for her. I track when they are shipped off and returned, and because Vincent painted so many, the ledgers are not always accurate. If one of ours were to go missing, it could be years before Jo realizes it. Vincent painted the same scenes over and over again. Many were near perfect replicas of one another. It is possible. Not easy, but not impossible. There are many dealers who have reached out to Jo whom she has ignored; Henrik Swanson is onlyone of them. I’ve been quiet for too long; the woman across the table from me is clearly growing worried that she has lost me.
“Give me some time. I’ll be in touch,” I say, pushing my chair back from the table, as the woman remains seated.
I promised Jo I would return to see her back to town. As I head to Gachet’s to get her, the sky turns to purple; the first stars start to rise. I once again see this land as Vincent did, in swirls of color. It must have been beautiful and frightening to walk through life as though it were a canvas.
I pause outside Gachet’s house, staring at the silhouettes of the doctor and Jo huddled around the table. I know then that I will betray her if I needto.
23
Emma
“I’m a goddamngenius. I’ve figured it all out.” Lucie accosts me with her frenetic energy the second I slouch through the door.
“Figured what out?”
“How we’ll do it.”
“It?” My brain is foggy.
“Are you okay?”
“Sorry. I’m exhausted.” I look longingly toward my bedroom.
“In a good way?” She smirks. “Matthew?”
“Yes, Matthew, and not the way you think.” I don’t have the energy right now to explain the broken teacups, the tears, his guilt and shame.
