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“I’m sorry,” she apologized to Aristide, who seemed to be waiting for her to speak.
“I was saying that I was very impressed with your work. I especially loved your flora. They are so vivid. I have never seen anything like it. Your color saturation technique, in particular, is outstanding.”
The sincere admiration of her skills brought to Manuela’s attention—just as when Cora had done it—how long it had been since appreciation for her work did anything for her. One could only hear so many times that art was for ladies of leisure. That it was a nice-enough hobby for pretty girls while they waited for a husband, before one lost the drive for it. Even her pieces that had been selected for the exposition had been submitted bythe wifeof one of her old instructors in Venezuela.
She’d dreamed of being a great artist once, but she hadn’t thought of that for a long time. She’d certainly never thought of it as anything like Aurora’s medicine or Luz Alana’s rum business. It was merely something she did well. Not something she attached ambition or drive to. But her time with Cassandra and her friends had altered her sense of what a woman could do with her art.
“Cassandra informs me that you will be returning to Venezuela soon, to be married.” Pasquale’s eyes were brimming with kindness, but his words cut her like a knife. “If you were to stay here in Paris, I’d offer you a position as an instructor. I have been looking for someone who can achieve that kind of detail for our botanicals classes.”
“Don’t mind him. He is perennially attempting to recruit my friends.” Cassandra winked at Manuela. She assumed Pasquale was referring to classes for his children, since she’d never heard of women instructors at a formal institute. Académie Pasquale was the most successful art school for those preparing for the entry exam at the Académie des Beaux-Arts. She couldn’t imagine them allowing women to instruct the students looking to enter the rigorous program.
“Manuela is much too talented to be instructing children how to doodle daisies,” Aurora, who had clearly made the same assumption, chided Pasquale.
“Aurora,” Manuela rebuked her friend, but the master only laughed, that same kindly expression on his face.
“Oh, she would be teaching adults,” he assured her. “In addition to the instruction to those preparing for the entry exam, we also impart classes for illustrators, sketch artists, even cartoonists.” He turned to Aurora with an apologetic smile and directed her attention to a large, framed illustration of the different parts of the human brain. “We even instruct artists on scientific illustrations. We’ve had an increase in demand for commercial art, you see,” Pasquale whispered as they passed a class of about ten students gathered in a circle drawing a model sitting on a banquette at the center of the room. Three of them were women, and no one seemed very concerned about that.
“You have mixed classes,” she commented, and Aristide sent her an amused look.
“We do. Not all of our male students are willing to participate, but many are. Paris is not London or New York. We’ve always taken pride in bucking convention.”
“Mostly because we’re too busy engaging in all matter of sin to care,” Cassandra joked, and they all laughed, but Manuela’s attention remained on the group of students.
“I have noticed that many businesses, especially those selling food and beverages, are using posters as advertisements.” Pasquale nodded approvingly at her observation. “It is becoming more and more popular, and many studio artists are taking them on to secure a more stable income.”
“It seems like the working artist could be a viable profession,” Aurora announced pointedly. Manuela didn’t dignify that with an answer. Thankfully Aristide had a sketch of some craniums to distract her friend and she was able to slip out of that potentially distressing conversation.
“How did things go last night?” Cassandra asked, catching up with her in front of a row of illustrations for children’s books.
It was definitely uncouth to discuss any details of the previous evening and that morning, but she was desperate to obtain some perspective from someone who knew Cora. The trouble was that the things that bothered her were well beyond the boundaries of their agreement.
“Did they truly move my paintings?” she asked, heading off any talk of her feelings about Cora, while at the same time indirectly probing Cora’s feeling toward her. She barely made sense to herself these days.
“Yes.” Cassandra sent her a curious look but respected Manuela’s change of topic.
“And fix my name on the plaque? Because before it saidManolo.”
“They did, and it was correct.”
“Was it her?” Manuela asked, unable to contain herself.
Cassandra sighed deeply, then lifted a shoulder. “I wondered, since you’d mentioned it that night at dinner. But Cora has the very unfortunate habit of hiding anything and everything she does for others. She’d kill me if I told you even a tenth of it.”
This was exactly the opposite of what she needed to hear. She wanted to be apprised about the many instances in which Cora had behaved like a complete comemierda, so her heart could stop clenching every time she heard the blasted woman’s name.
“Your friend is confusing.” The outburst earned her a sympathetic look from Cassandra who seemed to take in stride that her best friend was out there driving unsuspecting women mad.
“I assume she was not a gracious host this morning?” The cringe on Cassandra’s face almost made Manuela laugh, then she remembered how quickly Cora had gone cold.
“That’s the confounding bit,” she admitted, leaning to look at the portrait in front of her. “Things were going so well, and then she realized she’d forgotten a meeting and flew out of the room like the house was on fire.” And what was the point of even discussing this? Just because she had put her marriage out of her mind, it didn’t mean it wasn’t happening when she returned to Venezuela. “It doesn’t matter,” she finally said, averting her eyes from Cassandra’s. “Cora is just keeping to our agreement.”
The disgruntled exhale from behind told Manuela that Cassandra didn’t like that explanation, but in the end Cora’s best friend’s opinion didn’t matter either.
“The sad thing is that she is not keeping to it at all,” Cassandra said to Manuela’s back. “That day that you two met for lunch, she swore to us she would never bring you to any function or events where we could meet you.”
Manuela turned to look at Cassandra who was brandishing a raised eyebrow in her direction. “She probably forced herself to break that promise because she felt bad for me due to my paintings.” Which she had then gotten sorted for Manuela.
“I’ve known Cora for a long time,” Cora’s best friend told her. “She doesn’t allow just anyone into her private life, no matter how badly she might feel for them.” Cassandra bit her lip, clearly debating how far to delve into her friend’s past. “She’d just lost Benedict when we met,” she began, at length. “And she was...” Cassandra’s voice faltered then, as though even recalling the state Cora had been in then still affected her.
