Under the Wide and Starry Sky by Nancy Horan

Within speaking distance but silent and worlds away from one another, they gazed fixedly at the water.
    The Loing River was just beyond a long garden behind the inn, a rambling stone building that was empty except for them. Madame Chevillon, a motherly sort, took it upon herself to fatten up the children, who cooperated with gratitude. Fanny expected her own plumpness—her loveliest feature, Rearden once told her—was gone for good. She was so reduced from her previous self that Sam had paid a seamstress to rework her old clothes and make an inexpensive dress.
    The Chevillon was an eating place for a few men from around the area. They came in wearing muslin shirts soiled from the day’s work. They washed their hands in the kitchen, then settled down to mutton, wine, and local gossip. With its crackling fireplace, rows of pickled vegetables huddled on the windowsill, and pots huffing on the stove, the small room reminded her of an Indiana farm kitchen. The smells and the hum of conversations she couldn’t understand offered some succor to her.
    Margaret Wright had told her the Hôtel Chevillon was the most bohemian of the bohemian gathering places near the Fontainebleau Forest. “Barbizon has become too fashionable. It’s overrun by
poseurs
more interested in the
mise-en-scène
than in producing any actual art. The real painters go to Grez,” Margaret had assured her with authority, although she’d not yet been there herself. “And you needn’t worry. They will leave you alone, I think.”
    As the weather warmed, Madame Chevillon prepared for more guests. White sheets flapped on the clothesline; broth simmered on the stove. On a morning in late May, Fanny and Belle looked down from a window on the staircase landing to see a black-haired young fellow step out of the
diligence
that had brought him. Bob Stevenson, a twenty-nine-year-old Scot from Edinburgh, was the first of the regular summer crowd to arrive, and he looked every inch the
artiste
type Margaret had described. He wore trousers that ended at his knees, stockings with red and white horizontal stripes, and a smirk.
    Seated next to him that evening in the dining room, Fanny found him boorish.
    â€œThere’s an onslaught about to begin,” Bob Stevenson remarked, filling his glass with wine. “Once the others start to arrive, you’ll discover this isn’t the place to be if you are hoping for a little peace. Madame Chevillon said you had come for the quiet.”
    â€œOh,” Fanny said.
    â€œIs that right?” the man persisted. “There are places not far from here that would serve you much better if you are here to rest … “
    â€œI was
sent
here to rest,” she said, squinting at him across the table. Though he was just another young fool, he spoke English. “I had a son.” Her voice sounded dull and distant. “My children had a brother. He died …” She looked up at a corner of the ceiling, counting. “… six weeks ago.”
    The young man turned crimson. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    â€œStrange that they prescribe rest when you lose a child. There is no comfort in resting. One only thinks more.” She lit a cigarette. “Do you believe in heaven, Mr. Stevenson?”
    The man was disarmed. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
    Fanny let out a bitter little laugh. “Well, I guess I’ve got a foot in the same camp nowadays. I’ll tell you one thing,” she said, inhaling deep. “If there is a heaven? My boy has jewels in his crown.”
    Belle stood up then. “Come along, Mama. You, too, Sammy. Let’s walk down by the river.”
    When they appeared at breakfast the next morning, Bob Stevenson rose from his seat and bowed slightly. “You and your daughter are painters, Mrs. Osbourne?”
    â€œWe are.”
    â€œMight I interest you and Belle in a little outing? There