43. Consultation
Rosalie Vincent had been right all those weeks before: the Jeffersonian's announcement of finding a long-lost masterpiece among its donations caused a great stir, and not only in the art world. Recognizing the general public's fascination with hidden-treasure stories, all manner of media outlets had jumped on the news-bandwagon, and, by evening, the fabulous multi-million discovery had been broadcast far and wide.
Bonnie had been kept too busy during and immediately after the press conference to check her email and messages, and so, it was only at her work day's end that she found her in-box and voice mail crammed with texts and messages from family, friends and acquaintances. Most everyone limited themselves to expressing excitement for her and best wishes going forward, while others, her brothers and Eddie principally, marveled that she had not burst with the news some time ago. Trev had texted, "I get now why you've been so preoccupied! This is really big! Can't wait to hear all about it. Call me." To her irritation, there was even a message from Wicks-Sweet, looking, as ever, to trade on their connection for an exclusive interview with an Institute insider. She deleted his request without a second thought.
Of the file containing the Lavallières' photos, there was as yet no sign. When, the press conference concluded, the French lovebirds had stopped to say their last goodbyes, Sébastien had reiterated his promise to forward the photos to her, and Isabelle, so in charity with the world and all its creatures as to embrace Bonnie warmly on both cheeks in farewell, assured her that she would not fail to remind him if, in his besotted state, he should forget. With that, Bonnie had to be content.
More calls came in during her homeward commute. Freya Wyndham-Pryce phoned to say how very pleased she and the Senator were to hear of the Jeff's good fortune and their dear Bonnie's share in it. Vanna Greeley had already checked out the Institute channel's accompanying video and wanted to congratulate Bonnie on her poise and clear, unaffected presentation. Her aunt Annalise playfully predicted that, given the strength of her on-camera debut, she would soon become a media darling, and the latest celebrity in the family. "Hank says to tell you he's very proud of you, hon."
Her Grandpa B echoed much the same sentiment when she dropped by his room after a quick supper of reheated leftovers. "Beauty and brains, just like your grandmother," he said, pointing with the remote to the flat screen where her interview was playing, not, Bonnie suspected, for the first time. "I wish she could be here to see this. It was her work, by and large, that made the Jeff a premier institution, and she would be pleased as punch that you're following in her footsteps."
Bonnie curled up beside him on the couch, and, taking one of his hands in hers, leaned in to kiss his cheek. "I miss her, too, Gramps. Every day. But she's always in my heart, you know? Inspiring me, guiding by example. All I've ever wanted is to be a credit to her, to both of you."
Her grandfather gave her hand a loving pat. "You've never been anything but, Bonbon. Or, at least not since you grew out of the bad habit of biting other children."
She opened her mouth to suggest he might have confused her with her mother, but she didn't want to risk upsetting him over something so trivial, and embarked instead on a recital of her latest doings (the expurgated version). He was, as she'd anticipated, intrigued to learn of Angela's portrait, and, not above being flattered by a world-class artist's interest in meeting him, amenable to taking in the show some time over the weekend. The hour having grown late, Bonnie lost no time in phoning Rosa to settle the details.
"Bonnie!" Rosa looked out at her from the vid-screen, her smile tentative, her gaze almost shy. "I'm so glad you called. I was beginning to think you wouldn't." The question Did he tell you? was there to read in her eyes, her uncertain expression.
"I apologize for calling so late," she said, trying to signal with her usual cordial manner that nothing had changed between them. "I've only just had a chance to talk with my grandfather, you see. He's looking forward to meeting you, and seeing your paintings, particularly the one of Grammy A. Is tomorrow good for you, or is Sunday better?"
The tension eased visibly from Rosa's shoulders, and she rewarded Bonnie with a smile of mingled gratitude and relief. "I'm not one for postponing treats, my dear, so let it be tomorrow, by all means. It would be my pleasure to give you and Mr. Booth lunch beforehand or dinner after, as you prefer. There is an excellent Italian eatery close by."
They left it that they would rendezvous at the gallery late in the afternoon, and go on to dinner or drinks if, after touring the exhibition, Booth decided he had sufficient stamina. "I shall make a reservation, just in case," Rosa said. "À demain, cherie!"
As she already had her vid-screen in hand, Bonnie stole a quick glance at her inbox, and there, finally, was the long-awaited email from Sébastien. Her fingers hovered over the display, itching to swipe the message open, but, out of respect for her grandfather, she clicked the screen off instead, and reluctantly put the device down.
Looking up, she found her momentary struggle had not escaped his watchful eye. "Go on," he said, "read it. Or play it. Or whatever it is you need to do."
"Really, Gramps, it's nothing that can't wait."
"I don't mind," he insisted. "And anyway, I've been meaning to check on the ball game. The Nats are going for their eighth straight, and their ace is on the mound." He picked up the remote, and, turning the flat-screen back on, flipped to the game, ending further discussion.
Bonnie watched the action long enough to ascertain that the game was a nail-biter: after six innings, neither team had managed to score, and the Nats' pitcher was on pace for a no-hitter. It was sports drama at its finest, and Gramps was immediately engrossed.
She retrieved her vid-screen then, and, dropping into an armchair a little ways off, pulled up the forwarded message. She expected to see only the file attachment but there was text as well: Sébastien had thought to include contact information not only for his assistant Armand but also for Félicien and Aurélie Lavallière, owners of the paintings. "I do not know if they will respond to direct inquiries," he had written, "but you can try them, especially if you remain curious about the six remaining paintings. Bonne chance."
She scrolled quickly though the first five photos, opting to return to the promising nursery scene after she'd had her first glimpse of the sixth. What she saw gave her no reason to regret her decision: the last painting was, perhaps, the most beautiful and evocative of them all. The principal figure, a solitary young woman richly dressed in pale pink satin and ivory lace, was pictured standing in profile before the trunk of a stately oak, its branches arching over her and throwing most of her body into shadow. With no other companion than the little spaniel who stared up at her devotedly, the woman, little more than an adolescent really, worked at carving letters into the tree; the initials "M. L." had already been completed as had a simple cross immediately below them. Head slightly bowed, expression absorbed, she held her small knife against the bark as if to begin the next letters, though she might, equally, have been hesitating, hardly daring to bare her heart, even in so secluded a spot. The figure's isolation suggested a need for privacy, and the somber color palette lent the scene a melancholy air. This was a woman, Bonnie thought, whose love could not be openly declared, who could only express it where no one was likely to see. If, as the letters hinted, the painter's inspiration was Madeleine Lavallière, would the next have been "E. B.," the initials of her married lover?
As she went back over the photos in reverse order, it struck Bonnie that the series formed a timeline of sorts: Madeleine by the tree was, perhaps, only recently established in Picardy as Blanchard's mistress, while, in the nursery painting, she had become the mother of his illegitimate son, and in the amusing vignette by the pond, she was the countrywoman dealing with her rambunctious boy while her ever-faithful brown and white spaniel explored the marshy bank. The figure tilling the field and the elderly man in the portrait probably represented the tenant farmer who had been prevailed upon in some way or other to take Madeleine as his wife. If his unflinching gaze and tight-lipped mouth were any indication, he must have been a dour, unfriendly sort of man. Bonnie found herself hoping he had not made Madeleine's day-to-day life a living hell.
She swiped back to the nursery painting, where, it was true, Madeleine looked radiantly happy bending over the cradle of her ruddy-cheeked infant. Her profile was, without doubt, striking in its beauty, but unless it proved identical to the one in La Coupe d'amour, it could hold no real interest for her. She enlarged the area of the mother's face, and studied the curve of the brow, the shape of the nose, the full cheeks, and rounded chin. The features were the same, she could have sworn it, but she was only too aware of the power of wishful thinking. She would have to prepare a transparency of the Lebrun profile and lay it over this other…
"Bad news?" Glancing up, she saw her grandfather regarding her with mild concern. "Commercial break," he explained, indicating the ad currently playing on the screen. "What's got you frowning?"
"Well, since you ask…" She restored the photo to its original size, and, returning to the couch, handed him the vid-screen. "What do you think of this painting?"
He took the device willingly enough, and gave the image his full consideration. "I'm no connoisseur, but it looks pretty masterful to me. A bit sentimental for my taste, but I do like the subject matter… Wait!" As she had done before him, he zoomed in on the mother's face. "This is her, isn't it? The woman who posed for Lebrun's painting."
Bonnie could hardly speak for delight. "You see it too, then, Gramps? It's not just me?"
He examined the detail again. "She's a little older here, I'd say, but not much. Is this another Lebrun painting? One that's not so well known?"
"No, it's by Eugène Blanchard. Remember him?"
"Wasn't he the guy who broke Lebrun's heart by walking out on him?"
Bonnie caught the teasing glint in her grandfather's eye, and shook her head in mock remonstrance. "That theory never held water. Anyway, it turns out this woman — Madeleine Lavallière — was Blanchard's mistress."
"While she was posing for Lebrun?"
"No. Or, at least, I don't think so. I expect they both met her about the same time, probably in Paris when they returned from their travels. Then, because they both wanted her, she wound up causing the rift between them."
He thought it over, and nodded. "A romantic triangle. Nothing uncommon in that. Any ideas why she'd've chosen Blanchard?"
"Apart from loving him back, you mean? From a pragmatic point of view, he was the bigger catch: wealthy enough not to have to paint for a living, and in line for a title to boot. If that was the motivation, she made the right choice: he took good care of her while he was living, and left her financially secure on his death."
Booth's eyebrows shot up in admiration. "That's a good piece of sleuthing you've done there, Sweet Tart. I'm impressed."
"I appreciate the attagirl, Gramps, but it's not like I did a whole lot of digging. One of the visiting French experts just happened to know a lot about Blanchard."
"You asked the right person the right question, didn't you? Sometimes, that's half the battle."
She conceded the point, if only to capitalize on it. "That being the case, and you being a seasoned investigator, let me ask you this: how do I go about finding a solid link between Madeleine and Lebrun? What's my next step?"
"Well, let's see… You've got a name, so that's something. Anything else?"
"I know where she was living beginning in about 1776, and that she married a local man."
"All right, then! Even with the little you've got, you can probably locate the record of that marriage on one of those on-line genealogical sites. You'd be surprised at how chock-full of information some of those marriage registers can be. You'll find the bride's maiden name for sure, and maybe even her place of birth and the names of her parents. That's where I'd start."
Bonnie looked at her grandfather with undisguised wonder. "How do you know all that?"
He shrugged, ever modest. "A person doesn't get to be my age without learning a thing or two along the way."
That jogged a sudden recollection. "You know who's a real whiz at that kind of research? Grammy A's old friend, Richard de Clermont. He heads up some genealogical society or other, and what's more, if I remember right, his family roots are in Picardy."
"Now you're cookin'! And how about that other fellow, the one who wrote that chapter on Lebrun? He might be interested in helping you out. He's the one who raised the question of what happened to Lebrun, after all."
Michel Doucette hadn't replied the last time Bonnie reached out to him, but she did not let that discourage her. Once she laid out her theory and the supporting evidence she'd gathered so far, he was bound to be as intrigued as she was. She felt a sudden surge of optimism. "You know what, Gramps? I do believe I'm going to get to the bottom of this mystery yet."
"If the answer's there to be found, you'll find it, Bonbon. You're not a Booth-Hodgins for nothing!"