Box Set: The ArringtonTrilogy (84 page)

I hesitated before I said another word. He
marched over to where I sat and hovered over me, impatiently
waiting for a response. When I turned my face away from him,
avoiding his eyes, he told me to go downstairs and have Agnes make
me lunch. “Then come back. I want to finish today.”

While I ate, soothing my grumbling stomach, I
felt better, and just to help me relax, I washed down my deviled
eggs with a shot of brandy, then another. “That’s better,” I said
to myself, and I headed back to Richard.

The liquor helped me unwind, and Richard
seemed pleased with how well I now followed his instructions. It
pleased him the way my shoulders softened up; they weren’t so
awkwardly stiff. “Nice, very nice. Yes . . . perfect!” he
exclaimed.

“Was Vivienne a natural at this?” I asked. He
didn’t answer me.

“Did she like to sit for hours on end as you
waved your pencil around the canvas like a magic wand?” I teased in
a jealous manner.

“She didn’t mind,” Richard finally replied,
not looking up from the easel.

“I’ll bet she hated it. You know it’s not fun
to sit still for so long. And you don’t even talk!” I pouted like a
little girl.

“There. I’m finished. Now I want to take this
over to Mr. Hudson. He is expecting us.”

Richard gathered his large leather case,
packed up, and we hurried uptown. Mr. Hudson was impatiently
waiting to see Richard’s work and to meet me in person. He rushed
us into his cluttered office and took hold of Richard’s sketch.
With focused eyes peering through the small spectacles that sat on
the very tip of his elongated, bumpy nose, he scanned the portrait,
rubbing his wide chin with his chubby fingertips. Mr. Hudson was a
short older man, well into his sixties, with a full head of thick
silver hair unlike most I had seen before. His rounded forehead had
dozens and dozens of lines and creases above two unmatched eyebrows
that were black as coal.

I glanced toward Richard, looking to see his
air of anticipation, which was open and full of apprehension. His
breathing had almost stopped, and his jaw was clenched so tight I
was certain it would shatter. Minutes passed like hours as Mr.
Hudson studied Richard’s work. It was as if Richard’s entire career
was riding on this
one
sketch.

Finally, Mr. Hudson smiled . . . a broad,
elated smile, which allowed Richard to finally exhale and take a
long needed breath.

“THIS is what I have waited to see!” he
exclaimed. “You have finally delivered, Richard. This is good . . .
very good.”

From his large, solid wood desk, he opened a
drawer and pulled out what appeared to be an expensive bottle of
champagne. “A drink, to celebrate the years and years of waiting
for Mr. Parker to bring me the beauty that can take this dusty old
magazine to new heights!”

He handed Richard and me glasses filled to
the brim with bubbly champagne. Richard was beaming with pride. The
man he had worked for over the years had finally recognized his
talent as an artist. Why Mr. Hudson hadn’t admired Richard’s prior
work bemused me. I thought all of Richard’s work was exquisite,
especially the sketches of Vivienne. I wondered if he had shown her
portrait to Mr. Hudson. I believed she would have been Richard’s
ticket to becoming a prominent illustrator. Perhaps it was her
premature death that had stopped the process in its tracks before
the sketch ever made it to the magazine. I wanted to know more, but
the facts would have to wait. Richard wanted to celebrate.

We headed to the harbor section of the city
where he took me to a fancy seafood restaurant that served all of
my favorite dishes. Then, after our fine meal, we strolled to the
fish market. All the while, Richard chatted non-stop about how long
he had been waiting for the day, the one day, when his boss’s eyes
would light up and finally see the artist he truly was. “I have
worked five long years at the magazine. And finally John has seen
it!” he said in an uplifted voice. “I truly never thought this day
would come. He is going to use my art, your face, for the
cover!”

“I am happy for you, Richard,” I said. And I
was. It was more fulfilling to see his happiness than to imagine
any success I might achieve.

Richard reached for my hand and squeezed it
tight. We were in the park surrounding Castle Garden. It was late
in the day, and the air was still hot and humid. Sweet fragrances
flowed through the enormous park and lingered all around. The
bustling, dirty, stifling streets of New York City were redolent
with the delightful, flowery scent. We sat on a bench, side by
side. Richard stared up at the sky at the clouds, as if he were
seeing the world for the first time. Maybe he was.

“This, my newfound success, is all thanks to
you,” he said as he turned to me. His expression was serious. He
must have needed me to know how grateful he was. “If you hadn’t
agreed to come with me to New York, I would still be a second-rate
illustrator. I always knew I was better . . . I did. Since I was a
young child, I have been drawing, although my parents highly
discouraged it. In fact, my father used to punish me severely. He
locked me in the sod house, sometimes for a day or two with no
water. He told me I was good for nothing, a worthless son who
wouldn’t amount to anything. If I wasn’t going to be a farmer like
my oldest brother Todd, then he wanted nothing to do with me. I had
to hide my work until I was old enough to run away. I ended up in
France, thank heaven, where my talent truly blossomed. France is
where I met Judith Van Dorn. But without the acknowledgement of
Judith and of my peers . . .” I stopped him with a spontaneous hug.
I was the one who was grateful; I was the girl who had found her
way to a dream I thought would never come true. All the days and
months, locked away, brutally tortured, and left for dead . . . I
could never have guessed there would come a day when I would be set
free. Not even Warren’s endless promises had me truly believing I
would someday return home. It was Richard who was making it all
possible for me. It was Richard who saved me from a certain
terrible future, one in which I was never going to see Jasper
Island again. I was filled with gratitude and appreciation, and a
part of me felt he had been sent to find me, to be the father I had
so longed for. Affection and compassion seemed such a distant
memory, and it was hard . . . so hard to remember what it was like
to have Momma and Daddy near to me. Though Garrett Arrington wasn’t
my real father, he raised me just as any father would, and as much
as I wanted to hate such a man for deceiving me all my life and to
loathe him for leaving me with my hateful grandmother, I just
couldn’t help but miss him with such an ache in my heart, I often
thought it might shatter one day.

Richard was taken aback by my sudden
affectionate gesture. He had no idea how much I needed the love and
guidance of a parent, how I craved for someone to hold me. I missed
Daddy’s way of comforting me when I was feeling bleak. I innocently
saw the possibilities in Richard, or at least I wanted very much
to.

“Tomorrow, I would like to take you to a new
play Bart has created,” Richard said in a low, husky voice.

“That sounds wonderful,” I replied, not
lifting my head from his shoulder. Though he seemed unusually stiff
and awkward, he didn’t ask me to move. We listened to the trees
sway in the gentle breeze and the birds chirp on the branches
above. The moment took me back to days when I was a very young girl
and Daddy would sit with me out on the rocks that surrounded the
remote lighthouse station where I was born. That was our alone
time. We didn’t have to talk; it was enough just to know he was
there.

This new moment was one I hadn’t expected,
but had needed for so long. The world seemed to stop, almost
disappear, as my heart lifted just a little and let in some much
needed peace. I wasn’t dwelling on the past or worrying about my
future. I simply lived in the moment.

Back at the mansion, Richard excused himself,
saying the burden of years of waiting, and anticipating this day
had left him exhausted. He went off to bed and left me to do the
same. But again I lay in bed, wide-awake, and couldn’t stop
thinking of Richard. His beaming smile lingered in my mind; his joy
still radiated through my bones. It had been what seemed an
eternity since someone around me was happy, and I became happy,
too.

I wore one of Rachael’s like-new dresses to
the play. Richard showed me off to his gentleman friends once
again, but this time there was obvious pride in his gait, his
posture, and even in his voice. “Lillian has been selected to grace
the cover of my magazine,” he chanted, and patted my gloved hand
that dangled through his arm.

“And you, Richard, can’t be the assigned
illustrator,” they all joked. Even Bart Wilco laughed. No one
seemed to take Richard seriously - not his wife, not his friends.
It angered me the way these “friends” set out to stomp all over his
newfound success. It pained me to see him wince at their
insinuations, especially after all I knew about his suffering as a
boy and how his own parents didn’t appreciate his remarkable talent
as an artist.

“He certainly is!” I chimed in. Even Richard
was surprised at my flare-up. They continued to laugh as the
audience took their seats in anticipation of the performance.

“Lillian, when I am speaking to the
aristocrats of New York, Boston, and Rhode Island, please keep
silent,” he flatly whispered into me ear, then sat back against the
velvet-upholstered seat, fixing his stare straight ahead.

I was unhappy with his blunt request and sank
down and folded my arms up over my bosom. It was apparent I was
good enough to look at, but was not meant to speak or become
involved with business or politics. Daddy had always treated Momma
as an equal, and she was. Momma was smart and sharp-witted, and men
liked listening to her, especially Daddy.

Richard enjoyed the play, though I didn’t.
When he asked me what I thought, I agreed with everything he
said.

“Bart has asked us back to his apartment. He
has a proposal for me that I am very interested in hearing.”

Richard kept me by his side the entire time,
uninterested in joining his two floozy girlfriends in a private
room.

“Come on now, relax and have some fun,” Wanda
teased with whispers in his ear.

“Not now, Wanda.”

Richard was fixated on talking with Bart, and
when the opportunity came, he released my arm, pulled Mr. Wilco
aside, handed him a cigar, and the two of them made their way to
Mr. Wilco’s private office.

Ned Griffin was at the party once again, and
I noticed him gazing my way as I stood in a far corner, sipping on
a drink. I recalled when Richard had told me he didn’t like Ned
Griffin, so I made certain to stay clear of him.

I moved from one corner of the room to the
next, only giving a shy hello to the few people Richard had
previously introduced to me. Ned appeared to be talking, though his
eyes traveled with my every move until he suddenly excused himself
from the small group of men that surrounded him, and strode my way.
Panic filled me; I did not want any part of conversing with a man,
let alone a man I knew Richard didn’t trust. So I quickly turned my
back and pretended not to notice him coming my way, and prayed I
would blend in with the wallpaper, but to no avail.

“Hello, Lillian. So nice to see you again,”
he greeted with a pleasant smile. I extended my hand in proper
etiquette and allowed him to place a quick kiss.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Griffin,” I
lied.

He stood close and overbearing; I could feel
his breath causing the wispy strands of my hair to tickle my
neck.

“The word around the city is that Richard
finally got his foot in the door.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I lied again.
Ned made me nervous; I didn’t like him so near to me. My pulse
quickened with fear, and I began to feel woozy. Luckily, Richard
stopped the encounter before I lost control and called for him.

“Mind your business, Ned.” Richard scowled a
nasty glare and led me away.

“Why is she exclusively
your
business?” he flared back, causing everyone in the room to turn and
stare. What was it about Richard Parker that sent a room silent? I
wondered.

“Everyone, please excuse Mr. Griffin. I
believe he has had too much to drink,” Richard boldly called out,
and then announced we were leaving.

“I’ve got what I came for,” Richard mumbled,
just loud enough for me to hear.

“What was the meeting with Mr. Wilco about?”
I asked as soon as Richard threw his hat off and had a drink. He
had hired another aged English butler named Randolph, who nearly
flew across the room to fetch the hat and place it on the
tree-shaped wooden rack in the foyer.

“It’s all coming together quicker than I
could have anticipated,” he said after sitting down and lighting up
another cigar. “Pour yourself a drink and let’s talk.”

“I don’t feel much like drinking.”

“Fine then. I hope the news I give you will
put a smile on your beautiful face.”

“What is it, Richard, that should delight me
so?” I asked, wondering what great thing he had planned for me
next. I could see the enchantment in his eyes, I could feel his
anticipation over the venture I was about to embark upon. Richard
was on an obvious mission, and one that wouldn’t simply expose my
face on the cover of his magazine. Richard was driven to make my
success his number one priority.

“You’re fortunate, Lillian, truly fortunate.
Bart has made a part in the show especially for you. It is only a
small part for now, however, just to see how well you do. If you
are everything I promised, you will soon take the lead role, and no
doubt take Manhattan.”

My heart sank. He was making all kinds of
deals without asking me first. Though the idea of being a model
excited me, it was only because the money would lead me home. A few
successful covers and I would be certain to have the means to
travel back to Jasper Island. Now Richard was filling up my world
with so many expectations and long-term commitments. How long did I
have to stay before the law came looking for me? Was he holding
back, not telling me the truth about how much jeopardy I was truly
in? I wondered. I needed desperately to know, and I needed Richard
to know I wasn’t going to agree to be in Bart Wilco’s burlesque
act.