is like.”
Cassia looked down. Beatriz’s lovely face was rapt as
she looked up at the painting and Cassia knew at once that here was a kindred
spirit.
“You have the heart of an artist Beatriz. Do you know
how this painting came to be here?”
“Oh, Ysabeau had it before she was joined to LaSalle
and came to live here. She’s got loads of paintings. She sells some of them
sometimes, secretly, and gives all the money to poor children. Philippe told
me. This year she sold a Picasso.”
Cassia was stunned. The whole art world had been
humming with speculation a few months ago when a small hitherto unknown Picasso
had been put up for auction by an anonymous owner. It had gone for over sixty
million pounds. She had watched the proceedings with excitement, wondering who
the seller could be. My God, it came from right here, from this house. Oh, if
only she could get a look at Ysabeau’s paintings, what other treasures might
there be?
Dragging herself away she turned to Beatriz and pulled
out a chair.
“Show me your work. I see you brought your
sketchbook.”
Shyly Beatriz handed her the book, her expression
anxious;
“They’re nothing like the sunflowers Cassia. They’re
things and people I see every day; nothing exciting.”
Cassia looked slowly through the book. The child had
huge talent; the natural eye of an artist and a sensitive and fluid style.
There were trees, flowers and bits of landscape but what really drew Cassia’s
eyes were the sketches of people. Beatriz seemed to capture the very essence of
her subjects. She turned a page as the child murmured;
“There is Papa. I’m pleased with that one.”
She should be, thought Cassia. There was that face
that looked as though it belonged to a renaissance prince instead of a warrior.
She had captured his sensitive mouth, untidy hair and the slight sadness hidden
in his eyes. She looked up at Beatriz;
“You are indeed an artist. You must draw and draw and
you will get better and better. That’s what all the great artists did.”
The child blushed, a broad smile lighting up her eyes;
not Javier’s smile thought Cassia, probably her mother’s. There was the sound
of footsteps in the hall then Javier looked in;
“There’s my beautiful girl. I see you’ve been sharing
your favourite painting with Cassia.”
Beatriz beamed as she hugged her father;
“Yes, she knew loads about it and she looked at my
drawings and says I’m an artist too. Papa, are you leaving again? You’re all
dressed up.”
He was, thought Cassia admiringly as he dropped to one
knee to talk to Beatriz. He was obviously ready for their evening ahead in
London and had dressed formally as she had advised. She wasn’t sure she had
seen anyone look that good in a tuxedo before; every woman in the place would
be checking him out when they got to Harry’s.
Beatriz reached out with a delicate feminine gesture
and straightened his bow tie then brushed down the lapels of his jacket;
“Is Cassia going too? We were just talking, you
haven’t had breakfast.”
“I’m afraid so Bee. We’ll grab a coffee and a quick
bite. I’m sure Cassia will want to change. I’ll bring her back later.”
Beatriz turned to Cassia;
“Promise you’ll come back. I could draw you. Are you
going to put on a dress?”
“I promise Beatriz.” Cassia looked down at herself
then at Javier; “I had better put on a dress hadn’t I? I can’t have your dad
all dressed up and me looking like this.”
Damn it all, she would have to take Javier to her
place in Bloomsbury so she could change clothes. She had never taken anyone
there before, not even Flavia. Beatriz gave her father a quick hug and, picking
up her sketchbook and a warm pain au chocolat turned to leave;
“See you later. We can talk about paintings. There are
more you know.” The door shut behind her and they heard her rapid footsteps
crossing the marble hall.
“She likes you,” Javier poured Cassia some coffee and
passed her a
Cassia looked down. Beatriz’s lovely face was rapt as
she looked up at the painting and Cassia knew at once that here was a kindred
spirit.
“You have the heart of an artist Beatriz. Do you know
how this painting came to be here?”
“Oh, Ysabeau had it before she was joined to LaSalle
and came to live here. She’s got loads of paintings. She sells some of them
sometimes, secretly, and gives all the money to poor children. Philippe told
me. This year she sold a Picasso.”
Cassia was stunned. The whole art world had been
humming with speculation a few months ago when a small hitherto unknown Picasso
had been put up for auction by an anonymous owner. It had gone for over sixty
million pounds. She had watched the proceedings with excitement, wondering who
the seller could be. My God, it came from right here, from this house. Oh, if
only she could get a look at Ysabeau’s paintings, what other treasures might
there be?
Dragging herself away she turned to Beatriz and pulled
out a chair.
“Show me your work. I see you brought your
sketchbook.”
Shyly Beatriz handed her the book, her expression
anxious;
“They’re nothing like the sunflowers Cassia. They’re
things and people I see every day; nothing exciting.”
Cassia looked slowly through the book. The child had
huge talent; the natural eye of an artist and a sensitive and fluid style.
There were trees, flowers and bits of landscape but what really drew Cassia’s
eyes were the sketches of people. Beatriz seemed to capture the very essence of
her subjects. She turned a page as the child murmured;
“There is Papa. I’m pleased with that one.”
She should be, thought Cassia. There was that face
that looked as though it belonged to a renaissance prince instead of a warrior.
She had captured his sensitive mouth, untidy hair and the slight sadness hidden
in his eyes. She looked up at Beatriz;
“You are indeed an artist. You must draw and draw and
you will get better and better. That’s what all the great artists did.”
The child blushed, a broad smile lighting up her eyes;
not Javier’s smile thought Cassia, probably her mother’s. There was the sound
of footsteps in the hall then Javier looked in;
“There’s my beautiful girl. I see you’ve been sharing
your favourite painting with Cassia.”
Beatriz beamed as she hugged her father;
“Yes, she knew loads about it and she looked at my
drawings and says I’m an artist too. Papa, are you leaving again? You’re all
dressed up.”
He was, thought Cassia admiringly as he dropped to one
knee to talk to Beatriz. He was obviously ready for their evening ahead in
London and had dressed formally as she had advised. She wasn’t sure she had
seen anyone look that good in a tuxedo before; every woman in the place would
be checking him out when they got to Harry’s.
Beatriz reached out with a delicate feminine gesture
and straightened his bow tie then brushed down the lapels of his jacket;
“Is Cassia going too? We were just talking, you
haven’t had breakfast.”
“I’m afraid so Bee. We’ll grab a coffee and a quick
bite. I’m sure Cassia will want to change. I’ll bring her back later.”
Beatriz turned to Cassia;
“Promise you’ll come back. I could draw you. Are you
going to put on a dress?”
“I promise Beatriz.” Cassia looked down at herself
then at Javier; “I had better put on a dress hadn’t I? I can’t have your dad
all dressed up and me looking like this.”
Damn it all, she would have to take Javier to her
place in Bloomsbury so she could change clothes. She had never taken anyone
there before, not even Flavia. Beatriz gave her father a quick hug and, picking
up her sketchbook and a warm pain au chocolat turned to leave;
“See you later. We can talk about paintings. There are
more you know.” The door shut behind her and they heard her rapid footsteps
crossing the marble hall.
“She likes you,” Javier poured Cassia some coffee and
passed her a
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