Midnight Harvest (34 page)

“Your housekeeper—yes, I recall.” He stepped up onto the porch beside her, under the broad eaves that sheltered the front door.

There were footsteps inside the house, the distinctive sound of heeled shoes, and then the snick of a lock, and the door opened inward, revealing a woman of about thirty-five in a plain dress of dark blue; her hair was done up in a simple bun and she wore only a touch of lipstick. “Good afternoon, Miss Saxon,” she said, glancing toward Saint-Germain with veiled curiosity. “The mailman arrived at one, and I put your letters on the table. There’s one from your nephew.” She indicated the small taboret under a framed painting of deer grazing at the edge of a meadow; the impression was pastoral, but with an underlying unease, as if the deer were being watched by a predator.

“Thank you, Clara,” said Rowena, maintaining her composure as she and Saint-Germain stepped into the foyer. “We’re going into my studio.” She smiled. “The Comte here was one of my first patrons. He and I met in England, before the Great War.”

Clara regarded him narrowly. “Do you say so? He must have been very young.”

Rowena looked a bit startled; she picked up the envelopes on the taboret and began to sort through them. “Yes. We were both much younger then, and our lives were very different.”

“I should think so,” said Clara. “Is there anything you want of me just now, or shall I go back to making dinner?”

“Oh, yes, please,” said Rowena. “A tray with tea and English muffins—you know what I like—and a snifter of brandy,” she said. “We’ll be in my studio.” She put all the envelopes but one back on the table. “I’ll take care of the mail later. Come along, Saint-Germain. I want you to see what I’ve been working on.” He followed Rowena after favoring Clara with a nod; Rowena opened the pocket-doors on the left side of the foyer, and motioned to Saint-Germain to come along. “These used to be parlors, and could be opened up to make a small ballroom; my grandfather often entertained fairly lavishly. They make a fine studio, and you can see the windows I had put in at the far end for north light,” she said, pointing these things out, a bit of her nervousness returning. There were paintings on almost every foot of wall-space, some of them finished and framed, others in various stages of completion. “That group I did on a trip up to Mendocino, a little town about a hundred sixty miles away. The coast north of here is still fairly remote and the road is not an easy one, but the town—you can see the saw mill in this view—has a beautiful location, and the isolation makes it unique. The painting in the foyer is part of the series I did there. I did twenty watercolors and nine oils.” She put down her purse on a trestle table and pulled off her gloves. “And these are my studies of the bridge being built. This one is the Oakland bridge—as you see, it’s further along than the Golden Gate—and the—” She stopped abruptly and put her hand to her mouth. “Oh, dear. I am rattling.”

“No. I don’t think so,” Saint-Germain said. “I think you’re trying to compress more than two decades into ten minutes.”

She managed a bit of a chuckle. “You’ve always been kind.”

“Not always,” he said, suddenly reserved. Then he looked directly into her golden eyes and offered her a fleeting smile. “You needn’t bother trying to tell me everything in an hour. I would prefer not to leave for a while, unless you ask me to go; and there will be other times for us to talk. I am very much enjoying your company, and your art. You may take your time telling me whatever you’d like me to hear, or you can say very little, and allow me to study your work.” He indicated the pictures on the walls. “I didn’t know there was much interest in representational art”

“Oh, not in some circles,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal. “But a few people still like artwork they can understand directly, and, although they may admire large abstractions, prefer something a bit more … familiar for the walls of their homes.” She pointed to a place high on the wall in the front half of her studio. “That’s one of the studies I did from memory.”

He looked at the watercolor portrait that was, as far as he could tell, a good likeness of his face; Rogerio could tell him more confidently. “I’m flattered.”

She studied it. “I don’t know. I’ve missed something; I think it’s your eyes, but I’m not certain. That color: blue so dark, it’s black. I’ve tried to capture the depths, but so far … That’s hard to achieve. But your presence is even harder. It is strange that you are unchanged, although you warned me you age very slowly.” She looked away and began to pace. “I have the two sketches I did as studies for that upstairs, in my bedroom.” She suddenly went quiet again.

“How very good of you,” he said as if he did not notice her silence. “If you would like to show them to me at some time … Bring them down, if you wish…” He let the suggestion hang in the air between them.

“Not today, I think,” she said, suddenly prim; she made another turn about the studio. “At least, I haven’t made up my mind.”

“Whatever you wish,” said Saint-Germain, and nodded to a small settee in the Edwardian style, covered in faded burgundy velvet. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead. Sit down. You needn’t stand on ceremony—literally or figuratively,” she told him brusquely, but remained on her feet, walking back and forth, the sharp sound of her heels marking her progress.

He did as she recommended, making himself as comfortable as the old furniture would allow. Looking around at the various sketches and paintings, he said, “I like your subjects; your ability to make implications not apparent at first glance is quite remarkable.”

She nodded, a bit distracted. “Thank you. I’m glad you like them.”

“Oh, I do,” said Saint-Germain. “You’ve developed a strong … voice of your own. I suppose I can call it a voice, although we’re discussing paintings?”

“Yes, you can,” she said, warming in spite of her growing restiveness. “I’m glad to hear you like that about my work: it’s what I like about it.”

He was about to say something more when the side door opened and Clara Powell came into the room, carrying a tray in her hands. There was a large porcelain teapot, two cups-and-saucers, a covered plate, and two snifters of brandy on it, along with a pot of milk and a sugar-bowl, as well as silverware and napkins. She shot a single look in Saint-Germain’s direction, then set the tray down on a small table near the wide rear window. “Just as you ordered, Miss Saxon.”

“Thank you, Clara,” she said, coming to a halt at last.

“Do you want me to stay? Dinner’s in the oven, a leg of lamb stuffed with onions and wild rice, and there’s a salad in the refrigerator; it’ll be done at seven. I’ve set two places at the dining table, but if you’d rather I clean up tonight…” She let the suggestion trail off as she glanced again at Saint-Germain. “You don’t have to be alone.”

“Thank you, Clara; I think I can manage,” said Rowena, smiling at this display of protection.

“I’ll be here another fifteen minutes, if you change your mind,” she said, and withdrew.

“I think she’s prepared to throw me out bodily,” said Saint-Germain, a wry smile touching the corners of his mouth.

“As if she could,” Rowena scoffed.

“She is ready to try,” said Saint-Germain, and nodded toward the tray. “But she is also willing to encourage me.”

“Goodness, yes,” said Rowena. “She has hoped I would find a—she calls it a
beau,
or sometimes a
suitor.
Can you imagine a suitor? At my age?”

“Not a swain?” Saint-Germain asked.

Rowena actually laughed. “No, not a swain.” She drew up a chair to the table, where the tray waited. “I don’t imagine I can tempt you with tea or English muffins.”

“Thank you, no,” said Saint-Germain.

“I didn’t think so,” said Rowena, and lifted the cover from the plate, revealing two split, buttered English muffins. She picked up one of the halves, dropped a napkin in her lap, and bit into the crusty, white pastry, taking care not to let the melted butter run down her chin. Then she set the rest of the muffin down and went about pouring herself a cup of tea, putting a little ornamental strainer over the cup to catch the leaves. “These things might not be English, but I do love them,” she said as she stirred milk into her cup and picked up the muffin again.

“You’re hungry,” said Saint-Germain.

“I’m ravenous,” she exclaimed. “If I have to wait until seven to eat, I’ll gobble the table linens.”

He watched her devour both halves of one English muffin and go through three cups of tea. “Do you miss England?”

“Occasionally,” she said. “But not nearly as much as I thought I would.” She wiped her mouth with the napkin—most of her lipstick came away on it.

“What do you miss the most?” He leaned back, crossing his ankles and studying her.

“The smallness,” she said at once, as if she had thought this out some time ago and was satisfied with her answer. “Here everything is vast—you travel for hours and hours and still you’re far away from your destination. In England, nothing is that far away, and although the heaths and dales are wonderfully wild, they aren’t remote in the way things are here; the scale is entirely different. It’s a cozy place, England. California, while beautiful, isn’t cozy, and America is huge. When I came across the country in my grandfather’s private railway car, all those years ago, I was astonished by the size of it.” She poured herself a fourth cup of tea and stirred in milk. “At first, the amalgam of people perplexed me; now I’ve come to like it, and I’m sorry for all the artificial divisions that remain.”

Saint-Germain regarded her thoughtfully. “The amalgam—do you ever paint that?”

“Oh. Yes. Ten years ago I did a series of street-scene studies, looking for places that had the greatest variety of subjects in them. There was a total of nineteen paintings in the suite. I did three in North Beach, along Columbus Avenue, where the Italian part of the city almost touches Chinatown. I did another out on Geary, where the Japanese and Russians have settled, and two around Mission Dolores, where the Irish and Spanish tend to live. I did a couple at the crest of Nob Hill, at the front of the Mark Hopkins, and studies of passengers on the trolleys, fishermen at the Wharf, the Cliff House in the fog. They were fairly well-received in a one-woman six-week show I had in ’28. Most of the paintings sold, and the reviews were better than I had expected.” She smiled with a touch of embarrassment at her pride. “It was probably the best one-woman show I’ve had so far; I haven’t had one on my own since. I’m almost afraid to try another, in case it doesn’t go as well.”

“It must please you to get recognition for your work,” he said, contemplating her changing expressions.

“Most of the time,” she admitted. “But it can be awkward; it depends on the circumstances.” She reached out and turned on one of the standing lamps in the room, casting back the shadows that had begun to thicken in the fog and fading day.

“I can imagine,” said Saint-Germain with a hint of irony. “Successful women, especially those in the arts, can be—”.

She interrupted him. “Men don’t know how to deal with me, and women worry that I’ll take their men away from them. There. Now you know.” She put down her teacup with a bit more force than necessary. “It happens less often now that I’m over fifty, but from time to time I find it difficult to mix in certain circles. A woman on her own can be a social liability, and that doesn’t change as one gets older. And I’m not inclined to spend my time with the groups of widows one sees everywhere—not that most of them would have me. My friend—the one I wrote you about, who had the stroke?—he used to be my escort to social events, which suited us both down to the ground. We enjoy many of the same things, and he’s been very good company, with no complications. I think I made things easier for him, as he did for me. Now that he isn’t able to leave his bed, I try to visit him once a week, but he is … so unresponsive, I don’t know if it does him any good.” Reaching for one of the snifters of brandy, she said, forcing herself not to dwell on her friend’s misfortune, “I haven’t gone out much since Greg was stricken.”

“Poor man,” said Saint-Germain; over many centuries he had seen many of the ills that could blight the human body, but the isolation imposed by stroke seemed to him one of the crudest. “He must be suffering.”

“Yes,” she said, and pinched the bridge of her nose as she held the snifter. “On many accounts. And there is nothing very much that can be done for him.” She looked away from Saint-Germain. “He had a companion for years, who tried to care for him, but after a while had to hire nurses for Greg.”

“I gather your friends are homosexual,” said Saint-Germain.

She looked up at him sharply. “Yes. They’re very discreet, of course. If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t know. Penelope was horrified when she found out that I was willing to be seen with such a man, though I reminded her I was perfectly safe with Greg; which she should have found reassuring, but she didn’t, as if she thought something perverse might be communicated to me. She believes in the stigma associated with such men, as if they wore brands, or—”

“There was a time, not so long ago, when many did, if they were caught: wore brands, and worse,” said Saint-Germain.

Rowena took a deep breath. “Not that Penelope knows only heterosexual men, as much as she may think that is the case.” Her features softened. “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not,” said Saint-Germain.

“Why do you say that?” She was deeply interested.

“Because it’s a pattern I’ve seen before, in many guises,” he replied, thinking back to Ettore Colonna in Rome, not quite three centuries ago, and all that he had endured. “At least they don’t kill homosexuals anymore, though there are still some hard laws against it, and a great deal of blame and fear; much the sort of things vampires have endured, and for similar reasons.” He paused. “There have been times and places when homosexuality was openly exalted and privileged, but those were few, and circumscribed. For the most part, except in very specific circumstances, there has been intolerance at best and persecution at worst—centuries and centuries of it.”

She fiddled with her napkin. “Have you ever—? I mean, with men?”