M. Swales
M. Williams
M. Zielinski
She blinked, rubbed at her eyes, and read the list again. Her name was on it. Her name, and Mathilde’s, and étienne’s. Daisy’s was not.
How was it possible that her name was on the list? Ma?tre Czerny didn’t know she existed; and if he did, if by some means she had made an impression on him, it certainly hadn’t been a positive one. In eight weeks—nearly a hundred hours of class—he hadn’t directed a single comment at her, good or bad, and he had never, not once, spared a glance for any of her work. How could she have been chosen for the oil painting class when far more capable students had been left off the list? It simply made no sense.
étienne had been brave enough, a week or so earlier, to challenge the ma?tre’s habit of only selecting twelve students from a class of two dozen or more. Silence had followed his question, a silence so profound she’d heard the thump of her own heartbeat, and Helena had feared that her friend would be expelled. At the very least, the ma?tre would find a way to cut étienne down to size.
“You remind me of myself at your age, Monsieur Moreau. I, too, questioned my teachers, especially when their decisions appeared unfair. So I have a certain tolerance, even fondness, for a young man who dares to speak his mind.
“Why do I choose only twelve among you? I do so because I am not a patient man. I am not a charitable man. And I do not have the patience or charity to waste my time on incompetent students. Understood? Bien.”
After class, when they began their walk to the studio, she made a point of hanging back with Daisy, just so they might have a chance to talk. She’d wanted to say something earlier, but étienne had been seated between them all day.
As soon as she fell into step beside Daisy, her friend smiled and linked her arm with Helena’s. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you, but I—”
“I’m fine. I’ve worked in oils before and they’re not my favorite medium. Besides, I’m not sure I could stand any more time in one of the ma?tre’s classes.” She rolled her eyes, and Helena tried to smile.
“He’s a brute, and we both know it,” Helena said.
“Perhaps. But he was right not to pick me for the class. And I truly, honestly, am not upset. So don’t worry about me. Promise?”
“I promise.”
Mathilde and étienne were walking just ahead, and Louisette trailed several yards behind. Helena was fairly certain the woman didn’t understand English, but pitched her voice low just in case.
“Forgive me for intruding,” she ventured, “and don’t feel you need to reply, but I can’t help noticing that your father is really very, ah, vigilant.”
“He is,” Daisy acknowledged, her expression resigned. “I know.”
“How do you bear it? Having her follow you around day after day?”
“It was hard at first, but I got used to it after a while. What else could I do?”
“How long has it been?”
Daisy’s sigh was almost inaudible. “Almost six years. Do you recall my talking about some work I did near the end of the war?”
“With wounded men? Yes, you did mention it. I did something similar. Writing letters for the men, and drawing portraits of them to send home. Was it like that?”
“Not really. It was . . . have you ever heard of the Studio for Portrait Masks? No? The wife of one of my father’s colleagues founded it. Mrs. Ladd was an artist, a sculptor, actually, and she’d heard about a studio in England that provided masks to men who had been disfigured by their injuries. It made her think she might be able to do something similar in France. She went to England, to learn how to make the masks from the experts there, and then she set up a studio here at the end of 1917.”
Helena nodded, trying to take it all in. “How did you come to work there?”
“I was bored, plain and simple. I got to talking with Mrs. Ladd at a dinner party one evening, and she told me about the studio, and then we met again so she could make sure I was serious about it. I mean, the last thing she needed was someone who’d take one look at a man who was missing his jaw, or his nose, and faint on the spot.”
“Presumably you passed inspection.”
“I did. It was upsetting at first—how could it not be?—but the only thing that really bothered me was how depressed most of the men were. Some of them had been rejected by their families because of how they looked, you see, and they’d pretty much given up hope of ever being able to walk down the street without people screaming or turning away.”
“Did you make the masks?”