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“Thank you.” Julia turned away, wondering what exactly had gotten into everyone. She unlocked her compartment door and stepped inside, removing her hat. And froze, hands on her hair. Her first thought was her compartment had not been prepared for the night. But that concern was only fleeting. She stared at the bench beneath the compartment window.
Three paintings were there, propped up on the seat. And she recognized the artist immediately. Her heart squeezed. She dropped her hat and the hatpin on the bench, moving closer to the canvases.
The pictures were painted in pastel colors, using impressionist style, making them appear as a fleeting wisp of memory. Her breath caught. Each contained the same subject—Julia herself. She studied the first. She was sitting on a bench outside the Rivulet train station in an evening gown with wilted feathers in her hair. Her gaze was cast downward, and she looked completely miserable.
In the second painting, Julia wore peasant’s clothing. She walked in the rain along a gravel path, leaning forward and pulling a rope that led a trio of goats. A chuckle escaped at the memory, sounding loud in the small compartment.
She moved on to study the last painting. In it, she had just awoken in the hayloft. Locks of her hair had come out of their braid, hanging messily around her face, and bits of straw poked out of it. One hand covered her mouth to stifle a yawn, and the other was raised in the air as she stretched.
A footstep sounded behind her.
Julia didn’t turn. She was too afraid to let herself hope.
The footsteps came through the adjoining door from her father’s sleeping compartment, and Luc stood beside her, so close she could feel his heat. “I’ve thought about these moments constantly over the past weeks. These memories. They are... they have become precious to me.” His voice was quiet, making Julia’s heart pound.
He pointed at the first painting, the figure of Julia sitting downcast in the rain. “Here, I felt something I didn’t understand. I didn’t know then.” He pointed to the second. “Here, in this moment, I thought what I felt... that it was... that I might be in love with you. And here...” He pointed to the third, his arm brushing hers as he did. “This is when I knew for certain.”
Julia didn’t turn. She could feel herself shaking but didn’t dare believe this was real. Not after what he’d said at the fair. It couldn’t be.
“Juliette.” He reached around her to take her hand, turning her to face him. “I owe you an apology. I know nothing will erase the words I spoke in anger. But I do ask your forgiveness.”
She kept her gaze turned downward, feeling shy and afraid of letting her heart open, afraid to be hurt again.
He touched beneath her chin softly, lifting her face. “I was wrong. I left you at the fair fully intending to take my painting and leave, but when I saw it in the Grand Palais, surrounded by such glorious works, mine among them...” He swallowed. “It was overwhelming. I would never have believed...”
“Father said your painting was awarded a prize medal.” Julia spoke in a quiet voice, glancing up quickly, then letting her gaze drop again.
“Oui.” He tipped his head to the side, catching her gaze. “You were right, Juliette. The Museé d’Orsay, they are going to sponsor an exhibit of my paintings. I have offers beyond what I could have imagined for works that have not even been seen. You knew it, saw that it was possible, and you risked losing our—our friendship to prove it to me.”
She smiled, the walls around her heart softening. “I was so worried, Luc. So afraid I would never see you again.”
“Will you forgive me?” He took her other hand.
Julia glanced at the paintings and looked back at him. A bubble grew inside her chest, making her feel as though she might laugh and cry all at once. “You remember me at very unflattering moments, Luc.”
He smirked, looking relieved that she was teasing. “Juliette, those moments, they mean everything to me.” He lifted her hand, placing it on his shoulder, and wrapped an arm around her waist. He tightened his hold, pulling her against him, and kissed her.
Julia lost herself in the kiss, in the feel of him, in the knowledge that he was here, and let the rest of her worries melt away. She kissed him back, wanting him to know how she’d missed him, how she believed in him and always would.
Hearing footsteps, Julia jumped back, her face flaming as her father stepped into the compartment. Luc kept hold of her hand.
A raise of the colonel’s brow was the only sign he’d seen anything at all.
Julia and Luc scooted farther toward the compartment door, making room for him to pass in the narrow space.
Colonel Weston sat on the bench facing the paintings. He studied the picture of Julia dragging the goats. “Such a talent...”
“Father, you knew Luc was here,” Julia said. “That is why you acted so strangely.”
He shrugged. “Went out for a cake, came back with”—he motioned toward Luc—“this bloke asking to marry my daughter.”
Julia gasped.
Her father looked up at her and then at Luc and shook his head. “Beat you to the punchline, did I, old boy? Sorry about that.” His eyes narrowed. “Perhaps if you’d spent more time talking and less—”
“The hour is late,” Luc said, interrupting. He rubbed the back of his neck, his face red. “I should take my leave.” He glanced at Julia’s wrist and then at her neck, where she normally attached the ribbon of her pocket watch, a flash of confusion crossing his features when he didn’t see the timepieces. “Juliette, would—ah, might you see me out?”
She followed him into the passageway, closing the door behind her and leaving her father staring at the paintings.
