With Violets by Elizabeth Robards Page B

that the monochromatic sameness will not work for Édouard’s painting and he will require one of us to change. But he will be the one to make that decision, I think eying, the short, puffy Mademoiselle Claus.
    I would not go so far as to call her fat, but she is an unre-deemingly plain girl. She has no neck to speak of and a long, pallid face with close-set black eyes that gave the appearance of

    two raisins pushed into rising bread dough. The simple white frock does absolutely nothing for her complexion.
    “May I offer you some tea?” Édouard asks. “Or a cup of chocolate?”
    “Tea, s’il vous plaît. ” Maman pointedly turns her back on me, to talk to Madame Chevalier, Fanny Claus’s chaperone, a formidable-looking woman wearing a matronly navy blue dress with a high, rounded waist and fitted sleeves with epaulettes .
    I am looking at the paintings hung on the far wall. So many of them; it’s difficult to take them all in. Portraits, still-life scenes, fruits, f lowers, vegetables . . . Even more tucked in a little nook around the corner of a partition.
    “Mademoiselle, what may I prepare for you ? Tea, chocolate?” Édouard smiles.
    “Nothing for me, merci.”
    “Are you sure there is nothing with which I might tempt you?”
    His voice is a velvet cloak, inviting me to abandon all my apprehensions and allow him to wrap me up in it. It steals my breath and sends my stomach into tight spirals.
    Something f lares inside me, challenging me to call his bluff. “Beyond tea and chocolate, Monsieur, what sort of temptation had you in mind?”
    His eyes widen. I have rendered him speechless. Instantly, I regret being so vulgar. But as the feeling envelops me like the sticky summer air, I turn away to join the others. He detains me with a hand on my arm, stopping me with a simple touch. The others—I cannot see the others, but I can hear them chatting ignorant of our physical contact right behind them.
    “There are a great many offerings with which I might en-deavor to tempt you, Mademoiselle.” His words are a sultry whisper, and he steps closer. “Right now, I daresay, is not the time. But I can make time, if you like. ”

    I close my eyes against the feverish lurch of pleasure that springs forth in my belly. I am powerless to move away. Even if I could, I would not because then I would not be able to savor the nearness of him. His scent—a mixture of coffee and paint and another note uniquely Édouard—beckoning me to lean closer, until the course texture of his beard brushes my cheek.
    I pull back, startled, reclaiming my personal space. Édouard releases me without another word and disappears.
    I linger alone for a moment, trying to regain my bearings.
    When I rejoin the others, he is bent over a small spirit-stove, where he has busied himself heating the water for Ma-man’s tea.
    Monsieur Guillemet’s deep voice resonates through the room. A f lutter of ladies’ laughter erupts. I notice Fanny Claus looking at me. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t blink. The way her morbid raisin eyes bore into me makes me fidget. Had she sensed the exchange that took place between Édouard and me?
    Nonsense. How could she?
    Édouard bangs around, opening and shutting cupboards, setting out tea tins, a kettle, and cups. He seems in no particular hurry to get the painting under way.
    I’m glad because I need to gather myself.
    I am not the type of woman to swoon, but it would be a lie if I said his sudden frankness did not affect me. His offer to make time is a stone plunged into deep water, leaving my emotions rippling from the impact.
    Thank God, Fanny Claus finally turns her boring black gaze back to the conversation. I lift my eyes to the vaulted, paned-glass ceiling to offer a silent prayer of thanks.
    The clear view makes the studio appear larger and brighter than I had imagined. Although if pressed, I could not tell you the mental picture I had conjured of Manet’s atelier .
    I glance around Édouard’s