Read Online Season of Light by Katharine McMahon - Free Book Online

a ravenous quality to their hunger, even when it comes to love.’
    ‘Don’t you admire them for that?’
    ‘I do, yes, but I see a more subtle version of that fire burning in you. It’s there in the way you make love to me. Very shocking, mademoiselle, I might add. But otherwise you are uncomplicated. You make no other demands on me. You ask for nothing except this. That is what I love.’

Chapter Seven
    On the second Saturday afternoon in July Philippa insisted on walking in the Jardin des Tuileries, although the weather had turned oppressively hot. While rejoicing in her sister’s recovered health, Asa could not help feeling dismayed, because later that day she had planned to meet Didier. What if they were not back at the Montmorency in time for her to plead the need for a rest in her room, thence to escape? What if Philippa enjoyed herself so much in the open air that she chose to travel farther, to view the construction of the Magdelaine Church, for instance, or the ancient St-Eustache? But there was no dissuading Philippa, whom weeks of sickness had inclined to tears when contradicted. So they helped her into protective scarves and gloves and a deep-brimmed hat to shade her from the sun – later they realised that the exceptional heat had been a portent of the hailstorm that was to follow – and drove to the Tuileries, where Philippa progressed at snail’s pace, leaning on both Morton and Asa.
    A palace clock chimed two. Morton said they should stay only an hour so as not to overtire his wife, but Philippa was enjoying herself, for the first time relishing her pregnancy and delighting in the toffee-apple shadows cast by trees planted in regimentally straight rows and the bustle of Parisians who paraded through the gardens with their infants and their flowered hats and their miniature dogs. She loved the rainbow colours of the women’s gowns, the new fashion for airy skirts unsupported by hoops, the mix of flower seller and aristocrat, maidservant and artisan’s wife. She did not choose to see the prostitutes lurking in the shadows or the beggars who crouched in crowded squares, scratching in the dirt for any scrap or coin.
    Strolling along broad or narrow avenues, the Mortons made unfavourable comparisons with London parks, which they said were designed to resemble nature at its most random and lovely, none of this French obsession with symmetry. They sank on to a stone bench and rested, progressed down broad flights of steps, leaned on parapets, paused in a patch of deep shade then, as they moved forward again, encountered a crowd of young people who were hurrying towards them in a babble of talk and laughter: at the forefront, the leader, Didier Paulin.
    For once Asa had been too preoccupied to look out for him. In any case, she had thought that he would be working in the Palais de Justice. So it was as if in a dream that she spotted him in the midst of that group of young people; a very public version of Didier, dressed in work clothes but apparently in holiday mood as he flung his arm about a friend’s neck and gave him a playful punch.
    Would he even notice Asa, let alone acknowledge her? And what was it about him that delighted her each time she saw him? He was such a boy – the grin, the tousled hair – so beautiful as he made a characteristic movement with his hand, thrusting the palm forward, oblivious to her at that moment, yet intimate even with the place on her instep which, when touched, caused her to yelp with laughter.
    The momentum of the group was interrupted as Didier’s companion glanced across, caught Asa’s eye, swept off his hat and bowed with exaggerated gallantry. Philippa paused. The young man nudged Didier, who, noticing Asa, stopped mid-sentence. Recovering quickly, he came over, took Philippa’s hand and said: ‘My dear Madame Morton. Do you remember me? We met at the Odeon, Figaro . I have since met your husband and sister again at Madame de Genlis’s salon.’
    He then