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TWENTY-NINE

I n April, Berthe is astonished to discover she’s pregnant.

At thirty-seven, she was convinced she could not conceive.

She immediately counts the time since her last monthly visitor, and is both thankful and disappointed to discover the child is Gène’s, as she hasn’t been with édouard since last November.

She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised at her condition, as Edma, two years her elder, is also with child, and Yves, eighteen months older than Edma, had a baby just last year.

She doesn’t quite know how to take this turn of events.

It’s exciting to think she’ll join the ranks of motherhood, know the sweetness of her own babe in her arms, especially at the same time Edma holds her newborn. But there are many concerns.

At her age, the physical demands of both pregnancy and giving birth will be challenging, especially because she’s tended toward sickly most of her life.

And although she would not admit this to anyone, now that her work has begun to be recognized, she worries a child might hinder her ability to carve out time to paint.

She’s also saddened that Maman didn’t live to see this moment.

How much joy it would have brought Cornélie to watch her most wayward child finally fulfilling all the aspirations she had for her.

When she tells Gène, he’s stunned, almost disbelieving. “But, but we hardly ever,” he stammers. “How, I mean, not how, but, but I thought this wasn’t possible.”

Berthe laughs. “I didn’t either, but apparently it is. According to Dr. Aguillard, our little one should be born sometime in early November.”

“Our little one…” His face floods with awe.

She sits on the arm of his chair, something she rarely does. “It’s true. You’re going to be a father.”

He tentatively reaches his hand toward her belly but lets it hover just beyond her dress.

“I’m not going to break, Gène.” She takes his hand and places it on her stomach. “Not much there yet, but I’ve been assured there will be soon.”

“The greatest gift.” His eyes fill with tears, and hers do too. He drops his gaze, overcome with emotion. “Thank you,” he says, his voice cracking.

When they go to dinner at Antoinette’s and tell the Manets the news, there’s an outburst of joy and good wishes around the table, although Suzanne is subdued, either jealous over the pregnancy or fearful her husband is the father.

Gène is grinning like a boy who just found hidden treasure, and Berthe, suddenly shy under all the attention, flushes with pleasure.

Her child’s surname will be Manet, direct kin to both édouard and herself. Intertwining ties of love and blood.

édouard comes in as dessert is being served, and when Gène announces her condition, édouard appears as happy as the rest, smiling at her proudly, kissing her on both cheeks, and heartily shaking Gène’s hand.

“Wonderful, wonderful news,” he crows. “I couldn’t be happier. A niece or nephew for Oncle édouard!”

When everyone resumes their chatter, he shoots her a questioning glance.

Berthe avoids looking at him, knowing what he’s thinking, what he’s hoping. And although she might prefer the child be édouard’s in her heart, her head knows it is better this way. As édouard helps her with her coat, he whispers his question.

“Gène’s,” she whispers back.

When she glances up at him, she sees he’s crestfallen, and she can’t stop herself from touching his sleeve to show she understands.

Then he pulls himself together and smiles at her. “All for the best,” he says, but she knows he doesn’t mean it.

BECAUSE OF HER age and medical history, Dr. Aguillard orders Berthe to spend as much time as possible in bed.

She’s cut off from the bande, from édouard, and from painting.

It’s a difficult confinement in many ways.

Not only does she chafe under the restrictions, but she seems to suffer every malady pregnancy can bring.

She’s reminded of the lonely days following Edma’s marriage, but at least then she was able to paint and leave the house.

Edma must remain at home awaiting her own child, and Yves has an infant and a passel of other youngsters to care for.

Gène’s migraines become worse and more frequent, most likely from an overabundance of fretting over her, although his absences do offer some relief from his oversolicitousness.

The summer is endless, extremely hot, and vile stenches from the street enter through her open bedroom windows, increasing her nausea tenfold.

Although she’s halfway through her pregnancy, she still vomits daily, which, to the doctor’s consternation, causes her to lose weight rather than gain it.

He upbraids her as if this is her fault.

She accepts that she will surely die before the birth, and there are many times she wishes it would happen that very day.

Although the fall offers cooling weather, her discomfort grows as the final months swell her belly, along with her legs and hands.

She cannot believe any woman who has experienced this wretchedness would ever consent to a second child.

In November, Isabeau Morisot Manet is born, a plump and healthy little girl. Berthe notes the irony as édouard signs the baptismal papers and he grasps Gène’s hand in congratulations. As happy as she is to give birth to a Manet, she’s taken aback by Isabeau’s appearance.

My dearest Edma,

It is done. I have a daughter; you, a new niece.

I was planning to name her Rose, but as she is too unattractive to carry a name so evocative of beauty, I deemed to call her Isabeau.

Gène is disappointed that she is not a boy, but I told him he should be happy because she looks like one.

She also resembles him, nothing of the Morisot in her at all.

The child is an inflated balloon, so fat the doctor was amazed, as I had gained so little weight during my confinement.

I also must tell you that her head is as flat as a paving stone.

I am weak and bruised, and must agree with George Sand when she calls the marriage bed the beginning of male dominance and a wife’s painful experience of birth its culmination.

Within a month, as Berthe’s strength improves, so does her frame of mind.

Isabeau has claimed her heart, and she’s addled with love for her daughter.

Everything the child does is astounding, and when Isabeau, who she calls Izzie or Izzie-belle, is napping or with the nursemaid, Berthe aches for her the way she aches for édouard when they’re apart.

édouard comes by frequently, ostensibly to visit Isabeau, but in fact to spend time with Berthe.

An advantage of their family ties, as he once promised.

Gène, who seems a tad afraid of the baby, hovers nervously when his brother is in the house.

édouard is surprisingly easy with the child, considering he has none of his own, and dances through the rooms with Isabeau to make her laugh.

When she beams her toothless grin, so does he.

“I can’t believe you ever believed this child was homely,” he says, handling the smiling little one back to Berthe. “Look at those cheeks. At that luminescent skin.”

Berthe nuzzles Isabeau, who chortles with delight and grabs for her mother’s curls with her chubby fingers.

“Perhaps she’s starting to grow out of that stage.

But no matter what she looks like, she’s as sweet as an angel, like a kitten, always happy.

” She sits the little girl on her lap and pulls her up to a stand.

“Aren’t you, Izzie, my little Izzie-belle? Are you just the best baby ever?”

édouard watches her, smiling lovingly. “When do you think you’ll be able to return to the studio?” His tone is suitably reserved, as the servants are about, although Gène is in his darkened bedroom with another migraine.

“I’ve been dying to paint my darling here,” Berthe says, giving the little girl a flurry of kisses. “I suppose the nursemaid will have to hold her, but she’s already starting to sit up by herself. Aren’t you, you little rascal?”

“So you’re planning to resume soon?” he asks politely, as if it’s a casual question, when it’s anything but. He’s wondering how long it will be before they’ll be able to be together again.

“Here, yes.” She rests her chin on Isabeau’s head, and locks her eyes on his. “I think it will be at least a few months before I can consider painting with the others. Although for many reasons, I wish it could be tomorrow.”

“As do I,” he says, holding her gaze.

“édouard,” she whispers.

He rises from his chair and sits down next to her on the sofa.

He leans over to kiss the baby, pressing his body into Berthe’s side, sliding a hand behind her back.

She doesn’t move, relishing his closeness, the warmth of him, wishing their time together could somehow be stretched.

But the parlor is a dangerously open place, and she reluctantly pulls away, placing Isabeau on the cushion between them.

OVER THE COURSE of the winter, Berthe returns to painting almost daily, resuming the schedule she followed before Isabeau was born.

She works in her studio and at édouard’s, maintaining her standing as a professional artist while also that of a wife and mother, much to the chagrin of many in their social circle, arbiters as they are of all that is acceptable.

She’s unwavering, despite the raised eyebrows and whispers, and Gène has held to his promise not to thwart her.

But given his response to Parisian Summer , she’s not at all certain this will remain the case.