The Cornish Knot Read online

  Someone may know Wil.

  I do love him so.

  Megan thought Isabel was being overly romantic about this Wil, but until she knew something more about him, it was hard to be certain. With the painting from Isabel’s room at Trevennick Hall safely locked inside a specially made padded case, she hoped Trina might be able to tell her something more about him when she got to Florence. She wanted to know more about this nameless artist.

  Who was he? This Wil ...

  One day, Megan’s wanderings took her to Montparnasse where she found many of the places Isabel had listed turned into private homes and modern office blocks. Newer style bistros and cafés had popped up everywhere and the huge modern tower intruded on the landscape, which gave Megan a totally different perspective of Paris life from anything Isabel and Mrs B would have known. Disappointed, she couldn’t quite put her finger on what was missing.

  Maybe some of these places were the ateliers where the artists used to work, she thought. Had Isabel ever come here on her own?

  Whatever Isabel saw was not there now.

  Megan shivered in the cold air and looked for somewhere to have lunch. Soon warmed by some vin de pays served in an earthenware jug, she sat contemplating Isabel’s journal entries over a leisurely lunch, making comparisons between their lives.

  Megan knew enough of art history to know that, like Montmartre before it, Montparnasse had grown into an intellectual breeding ground full of artists: musicians and composers, singers and dancers, poets and writers as well as painters and sculptors.

  Isabel had loved it. She wrote about them often. Art seemed be a magnet for this sheltered young woman. Was that her passion? Did she understand art enough, or was she simply captivated by the lifestyle of these nonconformist people?

  Centuries ago, art was the only way people could see any sort of world beyond the small village they lived in. Photography and modern travel changed all that, and painters were free to let their imaginations run wild. In their shabby, chic clothes, the bourgeoisie would have attended the various balls and soirées looking for patrons to pay the bills, which is where Isabel would have met many of them.

  The buzz surrounding these artists would have seemed romantic and titillating to a young girl. Megan understood how Isabel had been mesmerised but could not conjure up the same level of enthusiasm. In another century or two and looking back to the rush and bustle of modern twenty-first century society with its thirty-second sound bites and ‘flash-fiction’ genres, Megan wondered whether today’s craftsmen would be granted the same level of respect and reverence as those of the eighteenth and nineteenth century. Did today’s artists even gather like they once did, to share ideas and develop schools of thought? She doubted it, in both cases.

  Isabel’s Journal

  16 December 1910 – Paris

  It seems we are to leave this city soon and travel to Nice in time for Christmas. Pity. I was just beginning to know my way around, and I enjoy going to all the balls and the theatres. The nightlife is so lively here that we sleep in the mornings, have lunch and go shopping or sightseeing early afternoon. Then we rest in the later afternoons before dressing for dinner and our evening out again. I am rather weary of all the sightseeing. I don’t want to see another monument. I’d much rather go to the soirées where I’m meeting the artists I crave.

  I’ve met M. Toulouse-Lautrec, a very eccentric character, and the rather odd M. Degas. He argued with everyone about the littlest thing, although he was happy to speak at length about the dancers at the music halls and nightclubs. I’m not sure I understand M. Degas’ views on the Jewish people. He was very rude about them. I must ask Mrs B what she thinks.

  I also met M. Matisse. He says I should visit him in Montparnasse. He is strangely conservative in appearance but his paintings are bright and colourful. They are not quite ‘real’ looking, not like M. Renoir’s, but have more lines and colours in the right places giving the impression things are as they should be. I like them very much.

  Chapter 20

  By early March, Megan found she was increasingly disillusioned. Isabel’s month in Paris had been full; Megan’s was running low after a couple of weeks. Isabel had places to go and people to see; Megan talked with no one. Paris had also turned really wet and cold.

  On such days, she preferred to stay in her apartment reading, writing emails and checking The New Zealand Herald website to keep up with events at home. She ventured out less and less and then only when something from the guidebooks or on the Internet stirred her imagination. She found being alone in a foreign place was nothing like being alone in your own home. She’d been happy with her solitude in New Zealand, now it seemed like a chain holding her back. From what, she wasn’t sure, but she felt restless and disturbed, warning signs of her vulnerability.

  One afternoon, while she was thinking she should move on to Isabel’s next destination, there was a knock on the door.

  “Surprise!” shouted Jessica, as she rushed into the room and threw her arms around Megan.

  “What are you doing here? Oh, am I pleased to see you.”

  “I’ve taken two weeks off. I’ve always wanted to see Paris, and since you were here, it seemed like a good idea. You also sounded a bit low in your last email, so I’ve come to cheer you up.”

  Once Megan had worked out Jessica was booked into a nearby backpackers, she insisted the young woman take the foldout bed in the living area and share with her. They had a lot of catching up to do.

  Megan discovered Jessica had never been to Paris before.

  “Somehow it just never happened. I made it to Switzerland once, skiing, and another time a quick visit to Monte Carlo ... but Paris was always on the ‘to-do’ list. Now I’m here, I’m dying to visit the Ritz – Coco Chanel once lived there. I love her as a designer.”

  They booked for afternoon tea with a small glimmer of hope they might be able to visit the famous suite. The concierge proved completely unhelpful, so they made do with photos of the magnificent rooms, hanging on the walls.

  For days, Jessica dragged Megan out to walk the Champs-Élysées, taking delight in the upmarket shops or wandering the famous Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, still the street for fashion. Excited by a find at the antiques market, Jessica bought a set of iconic vintage Chanel buttons complete with the trademark interlocking Cs. But she was even more excited to learn Chanel had opened her first hat shop in 1910.

  “Did Isabel visit there by any chance?”

  “If she did, she didn’t mention Chanel by name, so obviously the famous Chanel was yet to become famous.”

  It took them two days to go round the Louvre.

  “I never realised this place was quite so extensive,” laughed Jessica as she turned the pamphlet upside down trying to work out which gallery they should head towards next. Whilst Megan’s energy was waning, Jessica’s was not.

  The day they took a Seine River cruise turned out brilliantly fine and crystal clear. In the late winter sunshine, everything shone brightly, especially the gold on the Alexander III Bridge and the cupolas on the domes of the many churches and important buildings. The cool wind off the water kept them inside to view the passing scenery through the expansive windows that curved over their heads. The riverboat glided under the numerous bridges while lunch was served to the sounds of French jazz singers. Jessica was almost jumping up and down with excitement and understood why Isabel had been smitten. Paris in springtime was a self-explanatory cliché for romance, even if Constance described Isabel’s writings as silly nonsense.

  Jessica brought new life and new meaning to Megan’s stay in Paris. Evenings were now spent tasting French food in all its splendour, from the simplest of brasseries to the best of fine-dining restaurants, where the waiters wore white gloves. The subtle expectation that diners would change from sightseeing clothes into dressier attire was one aspect of Paris life they enjoyed.

  “I like the idea of dressing up. It’s fun and adds that certain ... how do the French say it
? – je ne sais quoi – to the whole ‘going out’ thing.” Jessica twirled in her new dress. “And a brilliant excuse to buy new clothes.”

  “I agree. Dressing for dinner turns the most basic of human needs into an event worth celebrating. And I can’t think of a better place to celebrate eating than in Paris.”

  Their forays to Isabel’s haunts had, once again, left Megan cold. She found them false in their modern form. Maybe in Isabel’s time they were the epitome of style, but they weren’t to Megan’s taste.

  One evening, over an elegant dinner with several exceptional wines at Le Grand Véfour, one of Paris’s oldest and most exclusive restaurants, Jessica started to talk. Surrounded by restrained grandeur, regal, plush and smart with museum quality mirrors, tapestries and paintings, its calm and unobtrusive atmosphere seemed to suit Jessica’s mood.

  “Megan,” she began tentatively. “Since our time in Paris is coming to an end, I think I must say thank you. I really appreciate not being plied with questions about why I wanted to come.”

  “No need, Jessica. I’ve enjoyed your company. It makes evenings like this worthwhile. I wouldn’t have come to a place like this on my own.”

  Megan had not mentioned her growing concern that her decision to follow Isabel was not turning out anything like she’d expected. At times, she felt quite depressed about the whole journey.

  “I’m glad I’ve been of some use then, because you certainly have helped me.”

  “Looks like we’re having a mutual appreciation moment.” Megan chuckled and raised her glass. “To us ... in Paris ... today.”

  Jessica clinked her glass against Megan’s and took a sip before suddenly launching into her life story. “I was only seventeen when I took up law, mostly to spite my brothers. Looking back it was a stupid reason to commit to a career. My father virtually disowned my two brothers when they opted not to take law and carry on the family firm forever, ad infinitum. That was when Mum was diagnosed with cancer.”

  Her voice was filled with sadness as she explained when her mother died, and afterwards, she had carried on living with her father. “Then, when grandfather died three years ago and Dad moved us to new premises, the business boomed ...”

  Jessica took another sip of wine and fiddled with her fork, pushing a piece of parsley around the plate. “Oh, I don’t know. I got so embroiled in everything there didn’t seem to be a good time to make a break. I began to worry about whether I would end up like Constance. Lonely and unloved.”

  Megan decided not to interrupt. There was obviously something simmering, something the young woman needed to put into words.

  “A while back, I started to panic. Had I really made the right decisions? Did I definitely want Dad to change the company name? Would that lock me into a future I couldn’t get out of? With Mum gone, I suddenly felt I had no one to talk to, and I was scared.”

  Megan was still at a loss as to what Jessica was actually saying. “And now?”

  “I’ve discovered something about myself in the last months, but especially in the weeks we’ve been here.”

  Another long pause.

  “And what is that?”

  “I like strong women who make a life for themselves by going against the trend.”

  Megan listened as Jessica talked of how Chanel had ignored her critics and forged ahead regardless, and Julia Child, despite the setbacks, made cooking her life. She spoke of political leaders and scientists, of suffragettes and human rights activists and of authors and philosophers. Whilst impressed with the young woman’s knowledge, Megan wondered where she was going with this list.

  “Great women,” said Jessica. “Women who stood up for what they believed in.”

  “And what do you believe in?”

  “That has always been my problem. I don’t have any strong beliefs worth fighting for.”

  Another course arrived, served by a helpful, friendly waiter who answered Megan’s appalling French in much better English. They listened to his description of the giant langoustine fricassee with zucchini and mushrooms in almond milk and orange blossom, which made their mouths water. For some minutes nothing more was said, while they savoured their meal.

  “I’ve been trying to work out what I like, what I’m good at and what I want.”

  “And do you have any answers?”

  “Sort of. I like clothes. And art, well some of it anyway.” Jessica filled her mouth with another large prawn, trying not to drip sauce over her. “And food.”

  “Don’t we all,” laughed Megan. “That’s a good start.”

  “I don’t mean just eating food, but this.” Jessica pointed to her plate and waved her hand around the room. “The whole thing. Coming to Paris has opened my eyes. I doubt I would have discovered any of this living in a small Cornish town.”

  “So, what are you good at?”

  “My job.”

  “Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Megan was truly baffled now. She thought Jessica was going to come up with something far-reaching, not status quo.

  “Yes. It is. And in some ways, it’s a relief. I’m twenty-nine, single, no kids – and no prospects at the moment either – and ... well, you see ...” Jessica fidgeted in a most un-Jessica-like way as her eyes wandered around the room.

  “Goodness, Jessica. What is it? After all this talk about strong women why beat around the bush now?”

  Jessica visibly relaxed and even smiled. “You are so right. Again. And I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”

  Megan acknowledged the compliment. “So, you are good at your job, you like high-quality fashion, art and top-notch food. So far, I understand. So what aren’t you good at, and what is it you want?”

  “I’m a hopeless cook,” she laughed. “But that’s not the point, nor really what I want to say. I want to say that I include Constance and you in my list of strong women.”

  Somewhat surprised to be included in such a list, aware of her weaknesses and how lost she felt, Megan quietly accepted the praise. “That’s very generous of you to say so, but why, exactly?”

  The question seemed to break the last of Jessica’s hesitation. She believed they owed Megan a debt of gratitude. Few people knew anything about Constance – other than they had a job because of her – until Megan willingly travelled halfway round the world to show them.

  “You’ve done such amazing things. You had the courage to leave everything you knew and set off on your own, not at all sure what you might find – while I’ve been worrying if I had made the wrong decision in the safety of my own backyard.”

  Megan held back from offering advice. Jessica had obviously worked through her dilemma and reached a conclusion.

  “You have no idea what a difference it has made for me to talk openly without criticism, without you telling me what to do, but just accepting me.”

  “I understand what a terrible loss it has been for you, losing your mother so young. I also understand your sense of loyalty to the family firm. I think you realise doubting yourself isn’t going to provide answers. It seems to me you have managed to reconcile many of those worries and are looking forward. Am I right?”

  “See. That’s exactly what I mean. Wise counsel without suggesting a thing! And yes, you’re right, and yes, many of my doubts have gone away. I realise now I don’t have to fight the world to be successful. I don’t have to be a famous figure to make a difference, and I don’t have to be unloved or lonely because I’m not a wife and mother – yet. My life is what I make of it. You and Constance taught me that, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  Megan’s Diary

  12 March 2011 – Paris

  I found what Jessica said both humbling and rewarding. I’ve never seen myself as a strong woman. I don’t think I would have done any of it without Tony ... but then he always did tell me I could do anything I set my mind to. All he ever did, he said, was turn me round so I was looking in the right direction. Maybe he was right.

  Jessica’s take on
things has given me something to think about. It never occurred to me someone as young as her would see strength in my ordinary life, but if she has been inspired by me being me, then I’m pleased.

  She seems excited by my ill-defined schemes looking ahead. They need a lot more work before anything can come of them, but I think they are starting to make sense to me. Now I’ve got Constance’s inheritance I have to do something worthwhile with it. Some things in life you can control by your choices, others are handed to you by fate. How you deal with them is what is important, something Jessica has just learnt. I’m glad I could help her reach that conclusion, never mind how inadvertently I managed it. She’s a bright, intelligent woman. She’ll find her way. She will happily return to Cornwall with a new spring in her step and a determination to enjoy every moment of her life.

  I wonder what she meant by her parting comment? ‘She had something she wanted to pursue.’

  I have to rethink my views on Isabel. Much of her journal is lightweight and girlish, but what happened later? Was she a strong woman, making choices she was prepared to live by, to the point of leaving everything she had ever known? Or had circumstances dictated the direction her life would take? That is something I need to find out.

  The last pages are missing from her journal, right at the point where she might have said. Did she rip them out, or did Constance?

  Chapter 21

  As the train sped along the tracks taking her to Venice, through towns and villages and past fields and distant scenery, Megan’s thoughts were of things past not present.

  Her travel diary lay open, untouched, on the table in front of her.

  Over the last few weeks she had been much more diligent about recording places visited and scenery observed: dry, factual and mildly informative, but journals needed something more. She’d learnt that much from Isabel’s. They needed descriptions of places, buildings, food – and impressions. As interesting as it may have been, Isabel mostly wrote about frivolities, leaving huge gaps and Megan with an endless list of questions.