Sweet Celeste: Belle Époque Series, #1

By Aster Stillwell

Celeste Martin dreams of becoming an artist like her famous father, but years of self-doubt find her working at the Louvre copying other people's paintings. When her father mysteriously abandons her and her young brother, she must find a way to support them. Unless she can overcome her insecurities, forging her father's work appears to be her best option—until a handsome American starts asking too many questions.

Alexander Bennett believes in reason over emotion. He uses science to analyze paintings uncovering frauds to provide his wealthy clients with certified originals. After the authenticity of a Cyrus Martin painting comes into question, he grows suspicious of the man's beguiling daughter. Unfortunately, whenever he is near her emotion takes over.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aster Stillwell
• Release date: Sep 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386734246

Aster Stillwell

Aster Stillwell is a hopeless romantic who believes everyone deserves a happy ever after. She studied art for eight years, traveling to Spain, Greece, Italy and France to see some of the world’s greatest masterpieces first hand. Her interest in history and art, led her to combine them in her Belle Époque Series. The first novel in this series, Sweet Celeste, won first place in the 2017 Pages from the Heart unpublished historical category. When she is not writing or traveling, she can be found with her husband of twenty-seven years walking along the New England coast with their golden retriever or cooking up meals for her two wonderful daughters.

Book preview

First Edition. September 2018

Copyright 2018 Aster Stillwell.

Written by Aster Stillwell.

Editing by Mary-Theresa Hussey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means, with the exception of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews, without written permission.

This is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

About the Author

PARIS, JULY 1884

Do you wish you were like Papa, Celli?

Although asked in a small voice by her young brother Felix, to Celeste — Celli to him — the question resonated through the garret studio like the bells of Notre Dame. She could hear the underlying censure. Their father, an acclaimed artist, often disappointed Felix in his role as a parent.

She had been mixing the perfect shade for sundrenched vermillion to complete the highlights of a gown in one of their father’s paintings. At Felix’s question, she stopped to study his expression. Unfortunately, his perch high on the artist’s ladder in the attic studio made it difficult for her to gauge his mood. She replied carefully, I wish to make Papa proud and to be an artist.

Her brother shook his head as if he disapproved of this goal. Is being my sister not enough?

I would still be your sister.

You would be busy with other artists and have no time for me. She could hear the pout in his voice, but more importantly she understood his frustration. Their father spent the majority of his time away from home...away from them.

My friends would be your friends, Felix. Besides, I doubt I will ever be as great an artist as Papa, she said with a sigh. I make money copying other people’s paintings. Right now, that is all I am good for.

You are also good at reading me stories. He gave her a gap-toothed grin. We should go do that now...outside under the tree in the yard.

Celeste finished mixing the paint. Because the windows had been opened earlier, the scent of linseed oil and turpentine only just started to rise from the three half-completed canvases lining the wall. Papa wanted to finish Countess Belmar’s gown. If you run downstairs to let him know the paint is ready, I will read to you.

Felix stood and, holding the railing of the ladder, hopped down two steps. Once at eye-level he pinned her with a disconcertingly mature gaze. I can see the street when I am high enough up on the ladder. Papa left with one of his friends half an hour ago.

Impossible, replied Celeste. Even as she denied it, she knew Felix told the truth. Her gaze dropped to the palette and the color she’d blended to perfection. Though not the first time her father deserted her in the middle of a project, her irritation reached a peak. Papa told Countess Belmar’s courier — at least her eighteenth this month — he would have the portrait completed in another week! What excuse do I give the woman this time?

Papa will figure out what to tell her, Celli. Come read to me?

She knew her father would not own up to his procrastination but saw no sense in weighing her brother with the information. Instead, she voiced her impotence by complaining about the paint.

This will go to waste, she cried.

It’s a pretty color, he said before he jumped off the ladder with a thump. Rushing out the door, he called out. "I will fetch Robinson Crusoe and wait for you in the yard!"

Alone in the studio, Celeste sat on a stool, shoulders slumped as she considered the situation. Low-angled sunlight slanted through the mansard windows, bathing the room in a warm glow. The ideal light for painting her father insisted because the windows faced north and the light remained consistent all day. He’d imparted that wisdom a long time ago. Celeste fervently wished for that man to return. The father she remembered before her mother’s death. She recalled how he’d spent his time with his children, painting with passion while teaching and encouraging their own artistic explorations; their mother, Juliette, presiding, quietly observant, over them all.

Her mother’s role in their lives had seemed peripheral. Now Celeste understood how much Juliette anchored them, grounding Cyrus in home and family. Four years had passed, and neither she nor Felix could hold him. He flitted in and out of their lives, spending most of his time at dance halls, on bar stools and at the homes of other artists rather than with them in Montmartre. Now he painted only to pay the next set of bills; disappearing for days and sometimes weeks at a time until, his pockets empty, he made his way home again.

The thought of the paint going to waste irked her. Finding a well-used bristle brush, she applied the bright color to the canvas. As a young child, she’d often helped her father with his work, mostly mixing colors but as the years progressed she finished up the paintings themselves. She could spend hours trying to capture the likeness of something or perfecting a new technique.

A rough argument on how she might convince Papa to stay home formed as Celeste completed the patches of sunlight on the countess’ gown, cleaned up the paints and brushes and went to join Felix. Pleasantly warm, the day, like the sirens in Homer’s Odysseus, kept her from her purpose longer than planned. Amid the droning bees and sweet fragrance of clover, she and Felix dallied long after they finished a chapter from the book. The delay, Celeste realized later as she walked along the streets of Montmartre, had been a mistake. Her father would now be ensconced with his friends and deep in his cups. Nevertheless, having made up her mind to confront him, she continued.

The dulcet afternoon had turned into the perfect evening. It hung like fruit — ripe, succulent and ready to be devoured by the denizens of Paris. Streets that had been quiet earlier teemed with couples strolling arm-in-arm. People paused as they stepped out of carriages, admiring the sight of the city stretched out below them, the Seine shimmering like the finest gold necklace across the bosom of Paris.

On afternoons such as this, when the breeze felt like a soft caress, everyone flocked to Montmartre, filling the streets as they made their way to the guinguettes, open-air dance halls. Soft chatter and laughter floated to Celeste from Moulin de la Galette. Ever since the conversion of one of its windmills into an observation deck, the place had grown in popularity.

A crowd had already formed at the entrance, so she found her way to the rear and entered through the kitchen with a wave to the maître d’. At barely five feet two inches, Celeste found it easy to slip through a crowd, but difficult to see above everyone. Ignoring the lively music, she listened instead for the rowdiest group of patrons and then made her way toward them.

Nearing, she detected her father’s deep baritone. He sat at a long narrow table covered with a collection of wine bottles and glasses, filled to different degrees, and emitting a luminescent glow from the low candles shining behind them. Several men leaned forward in their seats eager to listen and participate in the conversation. Their dark coats offset the colorful dresses of their female companions. The conversation bubbled and eddied. No one noticed Celeste as she squeezed closer to her father’s side. She might have been invisible. Even a gentle touch to his shoulder did not turn his attention away from his friends.

Bending slightly, she whispered, Papa.

He turned his head, noticed her and, ever flamboyant, jumped halfway out of his seat, proclaiming in his loudest voice, Celeste! What a wonderful surprise!

All eyes turned toward her.

This is my daughter, Celeste! he proclaimed.

The smile she attempted in greeting felt more like a grimace. Nodding at the group who called out their salutations, she murmured to Cyrus, I am acquainted with almost everyone here, Papa.

Come. Let us get you a chair...a glass of wine. Her father waved to one of the waiters.

She angled her body away from the group, trying to speak only to him. I...I came about the portrait and Felix.

Mishearing, an older man, one of the few she did not know, said, You would make a wonderful portrait, Mademoiselle Martin. You must allow me the honor of painting it!

As if I would entrust my daughter to you, Markus! Her father slapped the table at his own wit before continuing jovially. Stay away from him, Celeste. He is a drunkard and a womanizer! Everyone laughed. Even Markus did not seem to mind; he winked at Celeste.

Would you entrust her to me, Cyrus? asked Richard Bonamie, a long-time acquaintance of the family.

Papa laughed. So you, like that philosopher Peter Abelard, might find himself half a man?

The threat and innuendo had been intended to shock his guests and get a rise out of Bonamie. Her father had clearly not considered her feelings before speaking. To imply any sort of love affair between her and the man had Celeste wishing she could dissolve into the floor. Everyone but Bonamie laughed. Wearing a calculating smile, he skewered her with his black eyes.

As a shiver ran up her spine she turned toward her father. Papa, won’t you come home? she implored. You have obligations and we need to discuss Felix.

Cyrus dropped his head in a pantomime of melodramatic defeat. When he lifted it again, he played to his audience. Do you hear her? She does not understand how to have fun. Other young women might have come to dance and be merry with the rest of us. My daughter yearns for me to work!

One of the women, the actress Honora Lavalle, tittered. Are you certain she’s your daughter, Cyrus?

Seems more like your prison guard! Someone else hollered.

Idiots! You are upsetting the poor dear, Lulu, an auburn-haired model and muse to many artists, rose to come to her side. There. There. You must not let their teasing upset you.

Celeste felt as if they all watched her, judged her and declared her unworthy of being Cyrus Martin’s daughter. How could the brilliant artist have such a quiet mouse of a child? Dabbing at her damp cheeks, she tried to smile at Lulu. I am fine. Thank you for your concern. When he grows tired, please send him home. She slipped past the press of bodies to the exit.

With short, rapid steps Celeste left the club behind, until she reached the open fields on the northwestern slope of the butte. Gulping in the cool twilight air, she watched the sun slip below the horizon and turn the sky from gold to shades of violet and blue. Thoughts of how best to match the hue — cobalt blue, lemon yellow, ultramarine and manganese violet — ran through her head.

Whether soothed by the actual sunset or the cerebral paint mixing exercise, Celeste felt some of her frustration dissipate. The foray to Moulin de la Galette had been a mistake. Her father loved an audience; more specifically he adored being the center of attention. Trying to pull him away was a fool’s errand. Better to speak with him alone, at home.

Putting on a happy face for Felix, she joined him for a dinner of beef stew, prepared by their old nanny and housekeeper, Yvonne Dupris. Yvonne and her husband, Yves, had quietly cared for the small Martin household for many years. Because of that, Papa often took them for granted. When Celeste realized this several years ago, she began overpaying them when she could. After her mother’s death, Celeste ran the household and managed her father’s dismal finances. Cyrus spent money faster than he made it. Now, Celeste had to nag him about frugality and responsibility. She vowed to attempt to reach him once more. After seeing Felix to bed, she settled in the front parlor to wait for his return.

Lighting the paraffin chandelier, Celeste curled up on one of the striped settees with her sketchbook. Drawings covered the front and back of most of the sheets. Turning over page after page, she found several blank ones in the middle of the book. She recalled the Montmartre sunset. Then, tongue between her teeth, she touched charcoal to paper and roughed out the scene. On her second sketch, Yves came to check on her.

Is there anything you need, mademoiselle?

A father, Celeste thought wryly. Aloud she said, I have everything. Thank you, Yves. Have a peaceful night.

You as well, mademoiselle. He bowed and left her alone.

She slept soundly. If her father had not made such an unholy racket when he returned, Celeste might not have awakened. Roused by the noise, still befuddled, Celeste walked to front hall to meet him.

You are in bed? His tone accused her.

I wanted to speak with you.

He tossed his hat on a chair and regarded her with reddened eyes. It is late, Celeste. You should be asleep.

Tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear, she lifted her chin slightly. Would you please come into the parlor for a moment, Papa?

No, he growled, turning toward the stairs. I am going to bed. Something you should have done hours ago.

I would not bother you unless I felt it very important! she said firmly. His dark eyebrows rose high in silent skepticism. Truly, Papa. It is about Felix. As of late, he has been anxious. I believe he needs security...needs you, his father.

His brows came crashing into a dark scowl. Celeste, you speak of things beyond your understanding.

Is it so farfetched to think a son needs his father?

Bah! I am proud of Felix — the boy is imaginative and clever — no man could ask for a better son. The last thing he needs is a degenerate father to bungle his brain!

Then stop with the debauchery and excess!

Cyrus placed one foot on the bottom step and glared at her. Enough, Celeste! Your brother never vexes me. You should follow his example.

After he spat the words at her, he turned and mounted the stairs. The sound of his footfalls and the slight creak of the wood echoed in the quiet hall. With each step, the silence opened like a yawning gap between them.

And Celeste feared it could never be bridged.

PARIS, OCTOBER 1884

Alexander Bennett looked up from the eyepiece of his microscope to stare at his cousin, Charles Southerly. They were in the laboratory that Alexander created on the top floor of his apartments at the Hôtel Siréne, his residence in Paris for the past three years. Bright light spilled in from the windows running along Avenue de l’Opéra.

No female fripperies warmed the space — no draperies, sashes, valences or carpeting. It felt bare and scientific though it lacked the messy, haphazardness of some scholarly rooms. Within the empty rectangle of the space stood a long wooden table clad in aluminum. Upon it in precise rows rested a series of beakers, several flat tin trays, magnifying glasses, a pair of goggles and Alexander’s prized microscope. From his seat before the large contraption, he scowled at his cousin.

Unconcerned with the expression, Charles lounged in a leather club chair eyeing the bowl of fresh fruit and platter of flaky pastries Alexander’s landlady left for him. Abandoning his microscope to join his cousin, Alexander asked Charles to repeat his news.

Miriam Roberts insists the Cyrus Martin we purchased for her is a fake.

Alexander sat on the arm of the leather chair opposite Charles. Impossible. I ran the usual tests; the brush strokes, the signature, the origin of the pigments and the thinner used in his paints all match, he explained.

According to the indomitable woman, none of that matters because Cyrus Martin has been out of town for months.

Since when does an artist’s presence or lack thereof constitute fraud? asked Alexander, rising to pace the floor.

Charles popped a pear sliver into his mouth. I do not agree with her, Alec. Unfortunately, she is extremely vocal and has the ears of many of our clients.

Mrs. Roberts’s gossip should not affect the value of the work, especially not once the authenticity has been scientifically verified.

Ironically, if she and her friends were less dubious there would be no need for Southerly and Bennett. In this instance, unfortunately, her ranting to anyone who will listen about scams and forgeries resulted in the cancellation of two other Cyrus Martin paintings.

Ending his pacing by the windows that looked at the street below, Alexander rubbed his head. The entire point of our business is how meticulously we verify the quality and authenticity of the art we deal with...even that of living artists.

Perhaps we should give tours of your impressive laboratory, Charles offered.

What will a tour do for Mrs. Roberts? Alexander lamented. She won’t be satisfied unless she sits to tea with the artist.

That is not a bad idea.

Arrange it and leave me to my work, Charlie.

You can be churlish when your specimens give you trouble or is it something else making you grumpy? By my count, it has been a solid month since you joined me out on the town.

Alexander ran a hand through his hair. Has it been that long?

Have you seriously lost track! I am a veritable beast if a week goes by without succor. Sometimes I wonder if you are truly human, Alec. Devouring another slice of fruit, Charles continued teasing his cousin. Perhaps your abstinence has to do with Lillian Price? Is it possible you have made up your mind to propose?

Alexander regarded his guest. Charles had been four years old when Alexander and his little sister, Edith, went to live with them in Massachusetts. They had been close ever since, more brothers than cousins. Yes. I am decided, but I told you as much before today. Why do I get the sense you disapprove of my decision?

It is not a matter for my approval or disapproval. Lillian is wonderful, but you are but twenty-nine. You moved to Paris three years ago and have barely enjoyed the amazing bounty before you. As Charles said the last, he spread his palms up and out, indicating the world.

I am not you, Charlie. I have no wild oats to sow.

Tell me again why you want to marry Lillian.

Next year I will turn thirty. That is the perfect age for a man to marry and start a family. Lillian and I get along well and she appears fond of me. Her father is a physician — a man of science whose company I enjoy. As an added benefit, she speaks French like a native. That may help us attract additional patrons.

Charles sank into the chair. Your approach is a bit cold blooded for me. I would have first mentioned her striking green eyes...her flaxen hair... her rosy lips. He waved his hand as he listed her traits. If getting along with a woman’s father is your key requirement in a wife, by all means propose to her.

Of course, I think her beautiful! Alexander felt slightly offended. I thought that too obvious to mention. I will have you know, I plan to give her my mother’s ring and would have proposed, but Lillian left Paris with her family. Dr. Price is attending a medical conference in London.

Alec, what of love? You cannot use reason and science to shield yourself from all emotion forever.

I am content with my choices, he replied dismissively.

Very well but know it is not always a choice. I am not sure what would be the greater tragedy, for love never to find you or for you to find yourself suddenly in love.

Ignoring the baiting, Alexander asked, Why are you really here?

To ask you to accompany me on a little outing, said Charles waggling his eyebrows.

Alexander glanced at his microscope. Join you where — the cabaret? That generally precedes the bordello when you are involved, and that does not seem appropriate given my plans.

Flashing a cheeky smile, Charles rose. "Later perhaps we can pass a few pleasant hours with food and entertainment. Right now, we will pay a call at the Gallery of Georges Dido to find out exactly when