Thanks for reading and reviewing. I do love reading them all. I am obsessed with writing this still, I just have very little time at the moment :(
Chapter eight.
Rose was hesitant. But then, she had been the one to invite Jack to view her collection of paintings at such an ungodly hour. It was illicit, it was strange but yet almost as though there was something so natural about it. That was the thing about her relationship with him. Why did it feel so effortlessly easy?
When Rose was alone, mostly during her pregnancy, she would come to the gallery where strange and contorted faces would watch her in return and try to make some sense of her as she did them. It was almost as though she completely understood the minds of these brilliant Impressionists. When in Paris, she would stand and admire the work of the most bizarre kind, and she felt a kind of kinship with the artists. All art meant something, even if only to the artist. Those strange lines of various colours upon a canvas, though they may be senseless to viewers, must have made complete sense to the person whose hands and minds it had been created by and from.
All of the "mud puddles" as her husband would put it, were the most real and honest witness of her own misery. They seemed to grasp her, to understand her and now, as her bare feet slowly tapped across the ancient decking of the floor, she felt Jack close behind her. Electric lights would have illuminated the entire room at the flick of an almost magic switch but she had collected a taper on the way upstairs and now, it cast an eerie glow across the gallery. It wasn't a large space, more like an oblong shaped room located just off the main staircase, a room which had almost been forgotten if it wasn't for Rose's frequent visits there. Like most spaces which hung art; the room by day would be filled with daylight and appear vast and airy. Now though, even the moonlight was covered by thick, hanging green velvet drapes and yet it was the most wonderful place for her to come. To think. To breathe. But now, with Jack's presence just behind her, she tried very hard to concentrate on the work before her.
As she came to stop just before the first beautiful painting upon the wall, it was about large; 40 inches long by perhaps 30 inches wide. Rose placed her lit taper on the long table before her which expanded most of the length of the wall. Her hands came to rest at her midsection and she seemed to remember that she was wearing just her white nightgown; that in itself was a scandal.
''Monet!'' She heard Jack whisper, awed.
''Yes,'' she turned to see him, and he was completely riveted by the colours upon the canvas above her. It was a woman, with a parasol, looking towards the artist, whilst a small boy was in the background. The palette was of blues, greens and yellows.
'''This one is The Woman With A Parasol, or -''
''Le Promenade.'' Jack whispered, completing her sentence, looking up at the broken colour, energetic strokes, and simplified detail. ''Jesus, I have never seen anything so brilliant. Look at his use of colour. There's movement in this pose. Monet's brushwork follows the contours of the dress. The child appears more static. No twists or turns. You can see how there was wind, too. It looks like a windy day. The sky is full of energy and movement. For the grass, there are short, jabby strokes. It has a more erratic appearance. But, notice how the grass follows a broad movement with the wind…''
''It is an intimate moment between a man, a woman and their child.'' Rose raised her eyes to the face of Camille Monet; the subject of the painting. ''Monet painted his first wife a lot, I think he must have truly been in love with her, at least during these times.''
Jack was quiet for a moment, as though he required time to take in such a magnificent sight which was truly before his eyes. ''Yes, I think he was.''
''Did you know that they had their first child out of wedlock? Jean, who is in the painting, how scandalous that must have been.'' Her voice was playful, as she moved her bare feet towards the next painting but she left the taper where it was, until Jack slid it further along.
''This one is Waterlilies at Giverny. It wasn't actually a painting that Monet deems his 'greatest work of art' but it is beautiful.''
''Look at his use of colour. The late afternoon sun casts a shaft of light over the bridge, illuminating the right-hand side in pale green in contrast to the prevailing darker blue-green. I mean, I…'' Jack trailed off, completely lost in a canvas which she too, had found herself utterly transfixed by so many times.
''You know, when I look at this one, I can feel how peaceful it would be, to just be stood, upon that bridge and watching the pond. Hearing the water. The tranquillity is endearing.''
''When I saw him in Giverny, I almost couldn't speak, but seeing this now and his creations is just never what I could imagine.'' Beneath the dim taper, casting an eerie orange glow across everything about the room, Rose felt his desire for the work. Jack was moved. Just as she had been. Just as she was now, with her curious eyes watching his reactions. "Guys from a small town never get to see stuff like this."
''You can see them better by daylight. When the drapes are open.''
''Did you buy these in Paris?''
''Yes,'' Rose settled her gaze upon him, even though her fingers knitted together and then apart, as though they were looking for something to do. Someone to touch. They were distracting her from just about everything. Her hair, curled down her back, felt unruly and the length of her nightgown, whilst long enough to come to her ankles, kept baring her feet as she took feather light steps. ''Cal insisted that they were worthless. I fear that he and I do not share the same taste in art, or in many things as each other, but I do not believe them to be a waste of money. I draw much comfort from them. Isn't art something to become lost within?"
''They're priceless. To some.'' Jack removed his hands from his pockets, running them through his hair and he smiled, knowingly. ''People from your crowd, they think they're giants. They think they're the know all and end all."
''Why tell me such a thing?''
''Because it's true.'' He bowed his head. ''You seem different from the rest "
Rose's heart raced. He was a complete unknown entity and yet she was so drawn to him like she had never been pulled before. Was it the mystery which surrounded him which caused the appeal? No;, she knew that, because if he told her every single minor detail about his life, she suspected that she would find him even more fascinating than she could possibly ever imagine.
''I am different. Odd some may say.''
He came to her. His eyes were bright and they sparkled beneath the dim light. He stopped a foot or two away and she straightened her back, deciding that slouching did very little to show her strength. She would need the strength to face him. She had to show him the opposite effect of what he did have upon her body. She must stand; tall and steady.
''I don't find you odd.''
A chill came out of nowhere and it awakened all of her senses, heightening them as though she had seen the sun for the first time in her life. Slowly, his hand came to her chin, brushing upwards to her cheek. It was roughened but yet so gentle. She longed to close her eyes and relish the feel of his hand upon her bare cheek but she knew how improper it was. If this man was to kiss her now, then she would truly fall beneath his spell. But, if he claimed her mouth right there, then she would succumb and not push him away. How on earth could she?
Rose had stilled at the point he had touched her.
''You have to breathe or you'll be falling again and not waking up for some time.''
Rose could only nod. She was no longer aware of her own body, of anything around her for she was cast beneath the wicked spell of his stare. Her lungs expanded once more, as though it had remembered the way to take in oxygen and the half dizzy spell stopped.
"I am quite capable of breathing."
Jack's hand moved upward, playing with a loose strand of her curls. She closed her eyes, melting against his hand, knowing that right in that moment, she was truly dazzled by him. Her scalp tingled as he curled her hair around his index finger slowly. Why was he doing such an intimate act but more importantly, why was she so affected by it.
She opened her eyes, meeting him once more. She couldn't look away and neither could he. Everything blended beautifully into the background and only he existed. The power of his stare was magnificent, spell-binding and she knew that it would haunt her for a lifetime.
''W-what do you think of Monsieur Monet and Camille having a child out of wedlock?'' Rose found the strength to speak, and he moved his hands from across her cheek and retreated it within his pockets. ''Surely that is still a sin, even in Paris?''
Jack could only smile, and raised his eyebrows. ''I assume that sex out of marriage is a sin. Living in sin is the Devil's work!'' He said, in a mock exaggeration.
''Is it?''
''What does it matter?'' He shrugged. ''Love is love. He loved her. He married her.''
''Yes I believe that he did, and she passed away so very young. Just after their second child was born, I believe.''
Taking small steps towards another painting, grey and black in tones, Rose halted and could almost not glance up to a canvas which had captured her from the start. It was of Camille Monet, on her deathbed. ''She was eighteen years old when they met, and she left her fine home to live with an artist who could barely sell his work.. When she bore his child without marriage, their families disowned them. Well, hers at least for some time.''
Adjusting her eyes in the new flame of the lights, he stepped closer to her, out of a shadow to stand a few feet beside her. Rose pressed her hand to her heaving chest where she suddenly was breathing in over time. It was difficult to look up at such a young woman, depicted towards the end of her life in such pain. Painted with such dreary colours. Paintings were often fiction, and works of an artist's mind but this story was a true one. A young woman who fell in love with an artist. It was powerful, poignant and showed a real tenderness.
''How did she pass?''
''I don't know. I heard about cancer. I heard…complications from her pregnancies.'' His eyes shone in the darkness and she knew that her own were already lined with tears. Turning away from the painting, she went towards the collection of Degas. Jack seemed to linger about the painting for a moment, closing his eyes and then blinking to the ground.
''I can't imagine how tormented you could be trying to capture that. His wife is dying. Yet, he still manages to create something so powerful.''
''Yes, it makes me consider everything about my life. It makes me almost wish to be immortal so that I never have to leave my children alone. I couldn't bear it.''
Jack stepped closer, his feet barely making a noise on the wooden flooring. It was as though he was a ghostly apparition of some sort and yet, here he was when she blinked several more times. His hair hung into his eyes, and as she watched him come towards the selection of Degas, she found herself wishing to move backwards, as though his close proximity was the reason that she was suddenly, again, unable to even focus on anything. Seconds ago, a wave of sickness had come at her; facing the canvas of a dying woman. A mother. A wife. All of the same things as she. Now, that was passing and all Rose could do was turn abruptly to collect the taper which they had left on the table.
''How do you know so much about that?''
''I read a lot. Books about art. Books about the meanings behind the creations. Monsieur Monet used his wife in several pieces; all of them are beautiful.''
''And you like dancers, too, huh?''
Bringing the taper to illuminate a selection of Degas, Rose smiled, feeling the familiar lapping of calm which she had whenever she viewed anything like the ones before her. Each was a dancer, taking a stance, dressed in blues or silvers. ''More than anything.'' Rose whispered. ''I look at them and find myself wanting to move with them.'' He wrung his hands before him. They were fine hands; workers' hands. She removed her attention from them. ''Do you feel that way?''
''Of course. That was why I went to Paris. To fall in love with art in another way.''
''Isn't that where all the true artists live?''
''Yeah, it is. I put everything that I could in Paris onto paper. I watched the real artists work day and night. They never slept until the canvas was finished. I saw fights, tears, blood and all over a piece of work they were so passionate about.''
''Do you find yourself so very passionate about something that way?''
Rose awaited his response with a held breath. Her chest was still, he noticed this much. She raised her brows so that he hurried his response. When his gaze fell on her once more, she felt the flush of her cheeks. When he watched her, it was as though he could see into her very soul and she had never felt so fully exposed to another person in her entire life. Her breathing had returned and she slowly inhaled the air around her as though she struggled to remember that she needed it to survive. Her heart had started to race and she had just managed to steal the hammer of its pound. In the silence of the night, she was sure that he could hear every beat of it, perhaps even see it through the materials of her clothing, because that was how hard it felt to be.
''Yes I am.''
His voice broke the minute or two long silence and it was the most unimaginable response one could hope for. Butterflies fluttered, her hands shook and his gaze had not wavered one bit. He was reading her every facet; watching her responses. Examining her. Weakening her...
''How can you be so passionate about art when you say so yourself that you no longer have the urge to draw so much?'' She dismissed his words the only way she knew how and with a wave of her left, dainty hand until he clasped onto it with his own.
''I still have the passion for it.'' He fired back, quietly and quickly. ''I wanted to draw you from the moment that I saw you. I knew that there was something. A burden. I watched you from afar. I saw the way your smile never reached your eyes.''
Rose's gasp came out in almost a groan. Once she had placed her hand in his and felt how he allowed her to bear weight upon him so that she could stand properly without an issue. She turned, noting just how close their faces were. Up close, he was even more beautiful than from afar, and she feared what could happen next for the first time since their meeting. How could she feel utterly safe and so afraid at the same time? She took a shaky breath, gaining some confidence.
''Thank you for that fine analysis.''
''It isn't that. I was intrigued by you.'' Jack's voice was soft, concerned and she couldn't help but feel he wasn't lying. Not slightly.
''That was before. When you didn't know that I was having a child...''
Rose swallowed the large lump in her throat. Being this close to him was dangerous for the both of them and she couldn't help but feel seduced by the intoxicating aroma of him and the intensity which he brought to the air. It was as though it was heavy and she was in a trance like state which only ceased when he disappeared.
''I care more about you now. And Adeline, too.''
Rose couldn't breathe; his face was an inch or so from hers. If she stayed any longer, the tension would grow stronger. Her eyes met his, glancing to his lips and then back as her stomach sank at the utter realisation of one thing; she could never leave her world. Whilst she still had some rein on herself, she found her voice.
''I think there is a few more left.''
Jack swallowed harshly and loosened his grip on her delicate hand. He sighed, running his right hand through his hair as a sign of his frustrations. Rose lowered her lashes; she couldn't even look at him.
''Rose?''
''Yes?''
Rose gathered herself to see that he had turned away, toward another selection of more lively oil paintings. ''Who is this by?''
''Something Picasso.'' Rose came to stand nearby whilst glancing up at Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. ''He used distortion of the female's body and geometric forms in an innovative way, which challenged the expectation that paintings will offer idealised representations of female beauty. Do you like cubism?''
''I like some of it.''
''Do you like the female form upon a canvas?'' Rose felt her cheeks glow at the question which she had asked, from her own mind, without fully knowing what she was saying. Jack gazed down into Rose's eyes. He could feel the tiny contact between them. Rose gazed back and took a look at his face and his lips. She wondered for a split second what it would be like to kiss him.
''Yes, one of the better things about Paris was girls willing to take their clothes off.''
''Pardon me?''
The air turned slightly awkward and Rose felt the discomfort.
''I have sketches of the female body. The women in Paris are happy to be models and they are so beautiful. So expressive with how they move. Especially with their hands.''
''Well, well, it appears that you indulged in several love affairs whilst in the art capital?''
Jack's laugh almost rippled her stomach, and it echoed across the small room. ''No, no. Most of them were prostitutes. They had a good sense of humour though.''
''Would you show them to me?''
''Of course. I would be happy to.''
Something about the prospect of witnessing the way Jack had captured beautiful women onto paper caused a slightly strange motion in her stomach. Her head and her heart were completely separated.
''Does your husband like these paintings?'' The question was thrown toward her without a warning and she felt herself go. Jack watched her crumble before him, and he knew that she was in need of an escape. The fractured pieces of memory would continue to haunt her until she found some form of respite. He knew that much from his own experience. Rose found that once she had been honest with him, the rest of it tumbled out of her mouth very easily. It was an outlet which she had needed for so long. She had needed her voice to be heard, to be soothed afterward and to be told that it was all over. She needed that now.
"No, he detests them." Rose sighed. ''I fear that with my marriage, my life would become yet more controlled. They always have to be in control. While all the time outside of this world; there is food, and love, and life and children. Isn't that worth living?''
With that, Jack pulled Rose a little closer to him. She rested her head numbly on his shoulder, feeling his arm wrap around her, and in those few seconds, she felt more loved than she had in a long time. Jack seemed to give her strength and when she felt she had poured her entire soul out to him and more, she felt the relief which flooded through her. Even just to tell someone her deepest fears was therapeutic and now, he held her. Like she hadn't been held onto before.
''Yes, it is worth living, Rose.'' He whispered to her, as though the whole world would know their secret.
''Isn't that what life is about? About learning, growing and caring. About submerging yourself into interesting things, inspiring things, to inspire others or to help others. What could we pass onto our children if not?'' She laughed, cruelly. ''A handful of insecurities, debts and more misery followed by a marriage to a man who I don't love.''
''Does your mother know you don't love him?''
''Yes, but we don't marry for love, but convenience. This match saved the family name and my mother could rest knowing that the debts are paid. But my daughter has no father and I feel as though I have no husband.''
''But the price is worth much more.'' Jack smiled, in the sincerest, beautiful way. ''Your happiness...''
Rose almost extracted herself from the embrace until it was clear that she couldn't. It was hard. The warmth of him was strangely comforting, the scent of his was intoxicating, the touch of his hand across her shoulders in the lightest, most innocent way but all together, it set her senses on fire.
''A small price to pay. I am a woman and Adeline will grow into a woman. We have very little choice."
''You do know that there is no way out of this now? I'm too involved, if you jumped then I would, too. I can't turn away without knowing that you will be alright. That's all that I have ever wanted.''
Jack felt her nod in his grip and resisted the urge to kiss the top of her head. They stayed silent for a while. Two strangers finding strength and comfort from the other in a twisted world of which they could never be anything, not even friends.