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“Ah, you see?” Sylvie said. She rose and took Julia’s mug with her own to the kitchen. “You miss him. But do not worry. Pierre will return him soon.” She set the mugs in the washbasin. “Well, it’s back to work, eh?”
“How can I help?” Julia asked, glad for a change of subject. Her thoughts were fanciful, and she was being silly to even entertain them. She looked around the snug little cottage but couldn’t immediately see anything needing attention. “Do you need assistance preparing dinner?”
“Not for a little while yet.” Sylvie pursed her lips and glanced toward a basket by the hearth. “I do have nuts to shell... but I’ll not ask you to do that. Would you play with Élise instead? Between the baby and the housework, she gets less attention than she used to, and I know she would love to show you her drawings.”
“Oh, are you an artist, Élise?” Julia asked.
The little girl studied Julia for a moment, then seemed to make up her mind. She went into a bedroom and brought out a large notebook and a wooden box.
She sat at the kitchen table, and Julia joined her.
Sylvie sat next to the fire and set to work cracking the shells off almonds with practiced movements and dropping the nuts into a bowl.
“May I?” Julia asked. Seeing Élise’s nod, she opened the notebook and carefully turned the pages, commenting on the drawings the young girl had made.
The wooden box contained coloring pencils, and Julia could see that the child took good care of them. They were arranged in color order with a sharpener and a rubber eraser.
Élise had spent an exceptional amount of time on her pictures. Julia thought she would love to get such dedication from the young ladies at Frau Pichler’s finishing school. Most of them rushed through a drawing assignment, just wanting to be finished. But not this girl.
Julia turned another page, recognizing a rendition of Élise’s house. It was, of course, drawn in the simplistic manner of a child’s skill. But she recognized an attempt at shading on one side of the chimney. The vineyard and the mountains beyond were colored in progressively lighter tones, showing a basic attempt to portray depth. Advanced for a child of her age.
Another page contained a portrait Julia guessed to be Sylvie. The proportions and spacing of the features were advanced as well.
Julia pointed out some of the places where she could see Élise had made an extra effort. “These are very good, Élise. My father works with famous artists all over the world. I have learned to recognize talent, and I can see you work extremely hard on your drawings. If you continue to do so, you will make a very fine artist.”
Élise nodded thoughtfully. “And maybevotre pèrewill work with me.”
Julia smiled. “I hope that happens.” It was a pity she and Luc wouldn’t remain long enough for him to draw with Élise.
The young girl flipped to a page farther back in the notebook. “This is Adeline’s cat.” She turned the book toward Julia, showing a partially completed drawing. “Adeline is my cousin. But we have not been to her house for a long time. So I cannot finish the picture.”
Julia nodded. “I see.” She glanced toward the window and saw the rain had at last stopped completely. “Perhaps you might like to draw a baby goat.”
Élise’s face lit up. “I would like that very much!”
Once they obtained Sylvie’s permission—with a promise to avoid mud puddles—Julia took the girl’s hand, and the pair walked out to the animal pen, drawing supplies in tow.
Élise laughed when she saw the little goats. She stood beside the pen with her drawing pad and pencil box while Julia dragged over two wrought-iron chairs from an outdoor café set.
The chairs were damp, so Julia hurried back inside for a towel, and a few moments later, Élise sat with her pad on her lap, and Julia sat beside her, holding the pencils. “The mother is Honey,” she said. “But the little ones don’t have names yet.”
“You might call the one with the black forehead and white face Guignol,” Élise said.
“Like the puppet?”
“Oui.” Élise spoke slowly, concentrating on her drawing. “I saw a Guignol show in Cavaillon. With Adeline.” She looked up at the goats for a moment, then back at her paper. “The other one could be Spot. Because she has spots.”
“Guignol and Spot.” Julia thought the logic was sound.
“I am drawing Guignol,” Élise said. “Because the black pencil is longer.”
Julia watched the goats and the girl. She inhaled the smell of fresh rain and grape vines and flowers and imagined what it must be like to be Sylvie Deschamps. There were no houses closeby that Julia could see. Sylvie probably did not often have visitors. Was she lonely? Or did she find joy in caring for her home and family? Julia knew financial matters were always a concern for farmers. The blight had ruined thousands of vineyards, sending their owners to the cities for work. Did those who remained worry that such a disaster could happen again?
She looked beyond the pen, beyond the garden, to the vineyard, planted with young vines. Provence did not seem barren and desolate, as she’d thought when she’d ridden from the Rivulet train station. The people were happy. And in the air was a feeling of... hope. That’s what made a man plant new vines from America or an old lady make the sweetest cheese or a girl draw pictures of a cat. Hope for the good things that life would bring if they poured their heart into the things they loved.
She considered Luc and the paintings hidden away in the storage building. Julia’s heart grew heavy. She believed Luc cared about the orchard. But art was his passion. She’d seen it in his paintings. And Luc lacked that hope. If only she could find a way to give it to him.
Chapter Thirteen
