Free The Last Van Gogh by Alyson Richman Page A

shouldn’t have said anything.”
    I didn’t answer her at first. I was still holding one of the potatoes in my hand. I expected her to look away from me out of shyness. But Louise-Josephine did not waver. She stood there staring at me, her eyes dark as claret.
    “Yes,” I finally said. “It’s true. He’s asked Papa if he can paint me.”
    She nodded her head and placed one of the potatoes in the bowl of cold water. “I suspect there will be some excitement in this house this summer.” A faint smile crossed her lips. “It will be a pleasant change, don’t you think?”
    I looked at her as if I didn’t know what she meant by such a comment.
    She turned away from the table and brushed her hands on her apron. Looking directly in my eyes, she said rather matter-of-factly, “Of all the treasures in this crowded house, you’re the thing that has caught his eye.”
    I wanted to embrace her when she said that. It was probably the kindest thing that anyone had ever said to me in my twenty-one years.
    “You really think so?” I said to her as I inched closer. I was like a starved child desperate for any other morsel of flattery she could give to me.
    “Oh, yes,” she said. “He would never ask to paint something that didn’t inspire him. It must be a wonderful feeling to know that someone finds you so beautiful.”

NINE
     

Secrets
     
    F OR years now I had tried to convince myself that Madame Chevalier and Louise-Josephine were just visitors in passing, that one day “Chouchette,” as my Father affectionately called her, would pack up her one suitcase and take her daughter and leave.
    I imagined her leaving as she had arrived. Wearing that memorable black dress, the silver buttons still shiny, her figure still poking through the cloth. It was a ridiculous fantasy, now that I look back on it. For I knew early on, though I didn’t want to accept it, that Father never had any plans for her to be a real governess to us.
    I am not sure if it was because I was looking for someone to reaffirm my suspicion that Vincent might be attracted to me or because she seemed to be taking notice of my feelings for him, but I suddenly welcomed Louise-Josephine’s overtures of friendship toward me.
    She was twenty-three now. Although she had lived nine years under our roof, I had never formed a close relationship with her. Over the years we had been polite to each other, and we had worked occasionally in the kitchen together when I needed assistance. She had helped me with the spring cleaning, even when her mother remained in her room doing needlepoint. She tried perhaps on more than one occasion to speak kindly to me but our exchanges rarely went beyond common pleasantries.
    Though our lack of common interests had something to do with it, another part, I realize now, was my own snobbery. I resented the two of them living with us while their responsibilities remained unclear. Paul and I were old enough that we no longer needed Madame Chevalier’s supervision. I did not expect to be waited upon, but I did not understand, either, why Father, who clearly had feelings for Madame Chevalier, went to such lengths to pretend that she and her daughter were living here to assist Paul and me—when clearly they were not.
    Now, however, I began to welcome the idea of having a girl close to my age in the house. Louise-Josephine no longer seemed preoccupied with coddling Paul—he was too old for it now, and I’m sure she noticed, as I had, that he seemed to be going through an awkward stage of wanting to do everything like Papa.
    I felt myself beginning to warm toward her. After all, she was kind to tell me she believed Vincent thought I was beautiful—and I yearned for a few moments alone with her to ask her why she believed that to be so.
    I began to observe her routine. I noticed how she tried to stay out of our way, how she did little things to try and be helpful. I had never noticed before that she would often snip the dead flowers