A prompt from #Debut19Chat to tell a story about a secondary character in my novel inspired me to write my first-ever flash fiction. Here’s a scene with Mary Cassatt and Berthe Morisot.
Paris, August 1888
I’m about to go mad with boredom! The weather is so fine that I long to ride in the Bois de Boulogne. Of course, it was riding that led to my confinement in this bed. A fall and now a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder.
Mother steps into my room, holding a tea tray. “Mame, dear, you have a visitor.”
Berthe swishes in, the very image of a chic Parisienne, wearing the latest style—a white pleated skirt with a short, fitted jacket—while I sprawl on my bed, tall and gangly, my leg propped up on pillows.
We are so different in appearance and background. The critics loved to pit us against one another, the only two women Impressionists. But we are allies, not adversaries. Who besides Berthe Morisot could know what it meant to be a woman coping with the quirks of our male counterparts?
“Bonjour, Mary,” Berthe says as she positions a vase of lavender interspersed with miniature sunflowers on my bureau. She can’t help making it sound like May-ur-ee, as if she is swallowing a syllable in the middle of it.
“Merci beaucoup for bringing a little bit of summer indoors for me.”
“The florist told me these arrived on the morning train from Provence.” I’ve had many letters from well-wishers. And Degas dropped by with a poem he’d written. But only Berthe thought of a way to get me out of this room and take me all the way to Provence.
“Ma chére, you must be trop miserable,” she says in her hushed voice.
Naturally, she understands. It is my right shoulder that was injured, leaving the hand on that side numb and useless. “I haven’t held a brush in weeks,” I tell her. “Perhaps my painting days are over. It’s been two years since the last Impressionist exhibition, and now this…”
“May-ur-ee?”
“Yes?”
“You are stirring your tea with your right hand.”
“So I am!” This means that my shoulder is mending and strength is returning to that arm. I test my dexterity by twirling the spoon between my finger and thumb before it clatters to the saucer.
This little demonstration is all Berthe needs to see to convince herself that I will soon resume my work. She sets down her cup and saucer. “Bien, I’m off to the marchand de couleurs. What can I bring you?”
“If you could…I will need cadmium red and thalo blue to paint my lavender bouquet.” I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to return with the correct colors.
“À bientôt!” Berthe whispers before sweeping out of the room, the fringe at the hem of her skirt swaying as she rushes off to do her errand. The scent of lavender wafts after her.
Oh, to be able to join her. But, although my imprisonment will last a while longer, I will be able to paint again. And as soon as I am on my feet, I really must go directly to Worth to order some fall couture.