The Portrait (23 page)

He wished he knew how they did it. Even planning for the next day was beyond his capabilities. He didn't understand how to think that way, how to plan, and he wanted to. He wanted to understand how people mapped out their lives, how they went so easily through a day. How they managed to keep from destroying the people around them, destroying themselves. He looked down at his arm, at the too-smooth stump, the thick pink ridge of scar. Christ, how did they do it? How did Genie do it?

"Genie," he said. His voice was hoarse and rough, it didn't sound like his. But the moment he spoke she stopped, he heard the silence.

"Yes?"

He tried to read her tone. Was it wariness he heard? Concern? He didn't know, couldn't decide. He continued anyway. "Genie," he said again. "Tell me—tell me how you plan your day."

"How I plan my day?" She sounded confused now. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Do you ... do you have a schedule?"

She gave him a funny little smile. "A schedule? Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"You know what you're doing each day."

"Yes."

He took a deep breath and looked away from her. "How do you know?"

"Well . . . There are just things that need to be done. And people who expect you for things. Dinners, for instance. And parties. And school. Just . . . things." She moved across the room; he felt her presence behind him, and then she was in front of him, leaning against the window. He wondered if she was cold, and then realized the fire she'd started had warmed the room. But he was still cold. Freezing cold.

She gripped the sill with her fingers and shook back her hair. She was wearing it loose. It fell over her shoulders and down her back, light brown strands clung to the satin of her dress.

"Just things," he managed.

"Yes. Things like ... I went to Atkinson's every day for lessons. Always. Unless I was too sick to go—"

"Too sick?"

"Yes, well, I—I was often ill." She rushed through the admission as if it embarrassed her. "Before Chloe died, they were going to send me away, to a hospital. But then she died and . . . and I didn't go."

The name sent anger spearing through him and he tried to remember why. "A hospital? What kind of hospital?"

"I don't remember," she said quietly. "Does it matter?"

No. No, of course it didn't. He shook his head. "Go on."

"Go on?" She paused, cocking her head as if she were trying to remember. "Well ... my father was a great scheduler. He loved his salons—we probably had one or two a week. People came from all over the state. Writers and artists. . . ." She closed her eyes and smiled as if she were recalling a precious memory.

He wondered how she did that. How did people have memories that were precious? He had none. Only things he would rather not remember. Despair and embarrassment and pain. All of his memories were like that.

She opened her eyes. "Hiram Powers was there once."

"Ah, yes, he did the sculpture you disliked. 'The Greek Slave,' " he said.

"Yes. I wasn't lying when I told Mr. Tremaine I'd seen it."

"I never supposed you were," he said. That night at Anne Webster's came back in hazy detail. It seemed a hundred years ago. He hadn't even planned that, he remembered. Had just gone and expected to be welcome—and was.

He sighed, feeling drained. "I don't understand schedules," he said bluntly. "I've never had one. I don't know what will happen from moment to moment. Some days are good. Some . . ." He shrugged, letting the sentence fade into nothing, letting her draw her own conclusion, waiting for the look of arrested sympathy on her face, the pity he hated and wanted at the same time.

"Oh, Jonas." She came to him, all soft compassion and healing words that frightened him, pained him. But he didn't try to pull away when she knelt before him, between his legs. She reached out to take his hands, grabbing one, stopping short just before the other. He saw the moment she saw the stump, saw her startled shock, the quick way she tried to hide it.

His embarrassment numbed him, his self-hatred sprang to life. Deliberately he grabbed on to it, held it.

"Does it shock you?" he asked hoarsely, not sure what answer he wanted her to give, whether he would prefer the truth or a lie.

"Yes, a little," she admitted, holding her ground. "I've—I've just never seen it before. I was surprised."

"Surprised." He laughed humorlessly. "Not as surprised as I was when they took it. I woke up alive and without a hand. I didn't expect either one." He lifted his arm again, staring at the artificial smoothness of the flesh, the rounded hump of a wrist, the ridge of still-pink scar that marked the sutures. And then he turned over his other hand, wrist up. There it was, the companion scar that marked it, a thin white scratch, barely noticeable but there nonetheless. He eyed it casually. "Odd, don't you think, that I could cut one so deep and not the other?"

It took a moment for her to understand his words. He knew the precise moment she realized his meaning, felt a tingle of satisfaction at her gasp. She had given him the response he wanted finally, the one he expected. Revulsion. Horror. The same reaction his father had. The same look he'd seen on the face of his roommate at Barbizon, who'd found him bleeding and semiconscious and wanting to die. Jonas had screamed at them to leave him alone, had fought them when they tried to take him to the hospital, fought until the blood loss make him weak, until he passed out in the wagon.

And when he'd awakened it was to the stench of cauterized skin and the coppery scent of blood. It was to horror so intense he'd thought he would never see its like again.

But that was before he'd gone home.

That was before Bloomingdale.

He looked at Genie with smug satisfaction. She was like all the others, after all. Her horror was proof of it. Like them, she was only willing to love him, to stay with him, until she found out the truth. Madness was an easy thing to deny when it meant only brilliance and temperamental behavior. It was not so easy when it meant playing God.

"My father sent me to the Bloomingdale Lunatic Asylum after that," he continued, his voice light and nonchalant, as if he were describing a promenade in the park. "You know it?"

He looked at her expectantly. She was staring at him the same way those inspectors had, the men who toured the facility every few months, studying the lunatics as if they were animals in a zoo.

"I've heard of it," she said in a whisper.

"I was there for four months," he said, going on, wanting to shock her into terror, into flight. "A madman. They told me I was insane."

"Were you?"

      
He looked at her challengingly, daring her to run. "You tell me."

      
She met his gaze. For a moment she just looked steadily at him, and then she licked her lips and shook her head, a slight shake, a quick denial.

      
"You can't make me leave, Jonas," she said softly.

      
He laughed bitterly. "Don't make promises you can't keep."

      
She took a deep breath. He saw the rise and fall of her breasts, felt the warmth of her sigh on his face. But she said nothing, only squeezed his hand and got to her feet. He heard her move back across the floor, to the stove.

      
"Dinner will be ready soon," she said, "I hope you're hungry." Her voice was light—as if she didn't have a care in the world.

      
And perhaps she didn't, he thought. Perhaps she simply didn't understand what he'd just told her, the kind of man he was.

      
But he knew in his heart that she did.

      
And it scared the hell out of him.

Chapter 20

      
S
he told herself she was right to stay with him. She told herself he needed her. She reminded herself of it whenever she wavered in her determination—like this afternoon, when he'd tried to drive her away. There was no one else to stay with him, and she couldn't leave him alone. Especially not after today.

Imogene sighed and turned back to the bed, watching him sleep. She remembered how Jonas had collapsed once she and Rico managed to get him inside yesterday, how he'd curled into a ball, turning his back to them and falling into a restless slumber soon after. She had meant to go then, even though it bothered her to leave him that way. But Rico had given her a look that dissolved her intentions and said simply: "I'll send a message to your godfather and tell him you're here."

She'd known then she wouldn't go, at least not that night. Besides the fact that she didn't want to leave Jonas alone, she was afraid he would wake and start screaming for her again. If she wasn't here to soothe him. ... It made her stomach knot to think of what might happen. For some reason her presence calmed him, and she thought he needed calm. So she didn't leave. She spent the night perched in an old ladder- back chair she pulled up beside his bed, and this morning she woke early, stiff and weary and determined to go home, to try to explain things to Thomas and Katherine, to leave the dangerous Jonas Whitaker to his own devices.

She'd meant to go. She'd meant to make him breakfast and run away before she could change her mind, before he changed it for her. But the moment he said,
"They always leave,"
it was too late. She'd seen something . . . fear, despair, something . . . behind his gruff and cynical facade, a pain that seared into her very soul, that pinned her there like a caught butterfly.

It only made it worse to see the scar on his wrist. Then she knew she could no longer simply walk away. Imogene sighed, staring at his shadow, listening to the strong and steady rhythm of his breathing, the rustle of his movements. The sounds were reassuring in the darkness, more comforting than she wanted them to be. They meant he was alive. As long as he was breathing, as long as he moved, he was alive—funny, how important that seemed now. She couldn't stop thinking of that scar on his wrist, and she couldn't help wondering why he'd wanted to kill himself, what sorrow had been black enough, bitter enough, to make him want to end his life.

She told herself not to care. She told herself all the reasons she shouldn't: He wouldn't stay with her, she couldn't survive him, he didn't truly see her. But that contrary rhythm in her heart, that singular beat, made it impossible to turn away. In the end, there was only one reason to stay, and it had nothing to do with logic or good sense. It had nothing to do with her own survival.

He needed her.

Three simple words, yet they held more power than any of her arguments for leaving. He needed her and she had never been needed before. She had never been important to anyone. It was such a strange feeling, one too startling, too alluring, to deny. She didn't care if he needed her only to make his dinner or to keep the fire going. It didn't matter why. The only thing that mattered was that he did, and she couldn't turn her back on that, not yet. She would wait until he was stronger, until that despair was not so dark and pitiless in his eyes. She would stay as long as he needed her. It was not much of a sacrifice.

Except it was a sacrifice, and she knew it. Staying here would cost her her reputation. Her godfather's position was strong enough to withstand the scandal, but Imogene knew hers was not. The gossip would follow her all the way back to Nashville. She would no longer be considered respectable. She would no longer be accepted in polite society.

And suddenly she wondered if being ostracized might free her in a way she'd never been free before.

She thought of Jonas's questions today and about her answers. About schedules that filled days but never fulfilled them. About churning away at watercolors that didn't inspire and only made her feel more useless and untalented than ever.

Imogene looked again at the man on the bed before her and thought of her childhood, of all those hours spent alone in her sickroom, listlessly watching life pass by the windows. So lonely she had even welcomed the visits of the doctor, with his uncomfortable prodding and poking and his vile nostrums.

That loneliness had lasted even when the illnesses grew less frequent, even after she could leave her sickroom. She had haunted the halls of her father's house, afraid to make friends, preferring to stay in the background and live vicariously through her sister. She had been afraid to do more, afraid that if she tried people would look at her the way her mother did, with that thinly veiled revulsion, that rejection, in their eyes.

That loneliness had never left her. Until now.

Imogene took a deep breath, hearing the rhythm of Jonas's breathing mingle with her own, a companionable, reassuring sound. She thought of the last few days, the last week. Of the salon and the night on the roof. Of Jonas's caresses and his mouth on hers.

And she knew, suddenly and completely, that if redemption meant giving up this last week with Jonas Whitaker, if it meant giving up the world he had shown her, then she would rather be damned.

Jonas Whitaker had helped her touch the world she had always been on the outside of, one in which she had never belonged. And if that was all she ever had, it would be enough. For it, she was willing to pay the price of scandal. He had made her feel alive, and she had no other way to thank him than to stay, no other choice but to give some of that life back to him now. She owed it to him.

She owed it to herself.

Imogene rose, feeling comforted suddenly, as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her anxiety faded, along with her uncertainty. Her life was changing, but she would be ready for it. She would—

The knock on the door startled her. Imogene frowned, her thoughts scattering in sudden apprehension. It was late; who would go out visiting at this time of night? The answer came to her quickly. Rico, probably, she realized with a surge of relief. No doubt he was stopping by to check on them.

She hurried through the drapery covering the bedroom entrance, calling "I'll be right there," as she went to the door. She flung it open, a greeting ready on her lips.

It wasn't Rico.

It was Thomas.

He stood there, holding his hat and wearing a forbidding expression. His face was heavily lined with weariness and worry, along with a stark disapproval that froze and numbed her heart. She had expected condemnation, but not this soon, and not . . . not this way. But when she looked at Thomas's face she knew all her worst imaginings had come true—and that she had not really thought they would. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had expected Thomas to understand. In her imagination this discussion would be like the one they'd had the morning after the salon. Compassionate, sympathetic.

But she had forgotten Thomas's warnings then, and she knew by the expression on his face that she shouldn't have. The realization made her heart sink into her stomach. She felt suddenly ill.

Imogene struggled to hide her discomposure. "Thomas," she said softly. "I didn't expect you."

"Of course not," he said stiffly. His sarcasm was so heavy it seemed to deepen his voice. "Why should you? You send a messenger to the house carrying a note written in someone else's hand, telling me not to worry, that you're with Whitaker for a few days. Of course I'll understand. How absurd that I wouldn't."

"Thomas, I—"

"What did you think? That you could spend the night—two, from the looks of it—in the home of the most notorious womanizer in the city and no one would care? Could you possibly be that naive?"

His words reverberated down the hall, too loud, too condemning. Nervously Imogene swallowed, backing into the studio, motioning him inside. "Perhaps we should talk about it in here."

Thomas stiffened. "Where the hell is he?"

"He's—he's sleeping."

Thomas's eyes turned to ice. "Sleeping."

"It's not what you think."

"No, of course not."

Imogene bit her lip. "Thomas, please listen to me for a moment."

"I think not." He stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind him. "I think it's time you listened to me, Imogene. I have, I think, been very understanding. I have tried hard to be. But this behavior is . . . it's beyond reasonable. I'm afraid I have no choice but to insist you return home with me. There may still be time to minimize the damage." He motioned to her mantle. "Come along."

She had never seen Thomas look so forbidding, never so angry. But the worst of it was that she'd hurt him. She saw the ache in his eyes, and she knew he regarded her behavior as a betrayal. He was right, it was. She had led him to believe she would follow his suggestions. She had taken advantage of his love and his Support, of his understanding.

But she'd had no choice. She remembered Jonas screaming her name in the hallway, collapsing against her. How did she have a choice?

She moved behind a chair, grasping the back of it so tightly the blood left her fingers. "I'm sorry I've hurt you, Thomas," she said carefully. "It was the last thing I wanted to do. You have to believe that."

His lips compressed; the skin around his nostrils turned white.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "But I . . . can't leave. And it's not what you think. He needs me right now. There's no one else—"

"He has friends."

She thought of the salon. She thought of the artists gathered on the landing. She thought of Rico, and Paris. "No," she said quietly. "He doesn't."

"Let him find some then, instead of corrupting you."

"He's not corrupting me," Imogene said. She stepped around the chair, toward him. "Do you remember when I was telling you what Peter McBride said? That Jonas was mad? Do you remember what you told me?"

He regarded her warily.

"You asked me if I was afraid of it. You told me you had the feeling it tortured him. Well, I've discovered something, Thomas. I am afraid of it, and I know it does torture him." She swallowed. "I'm not just afraid for myself, Thomas. I'm afraid for him."

His face didn't soften. "Let him find his way on his own," he said slowly. "I don't want to sacrifice my goddaughter to him."

"It's not your choice," she said stubbornly.

"Imogene, I can't believe you've thought about this." He frowned. "I heard about the scene in Delmonico's—did you think I wouldn't? I told everyone it couldn't be you. And when I got the message you sent, I told myself you would see reason, that you would come home. I wanted to come right away, but I gave you time. You've always been such a reasonable girl–“

"Hello, Gosney."

Both Imogene and her godfather whirled around at the sound of Jonas's voice. It was low and tired, barely audible, but it seemed to cut through the tension like a knife. He was leaning against the door frame of his bedroom, the tapestry draping over his shoulder, his deformed arm hidden. He looked terrible; tired and drawn, his hair tangled and unkempt, the beard- shadow heavy on his jaw in the dim lamplight.

She heard Thomas's intake of breath. She saw the shock in his eyes, the surprise.

"Good God, Whitaker," he said softly. "You look wretched."

Jonas's gaze flickered over him. "I suppose so," he said dully. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting visitors."

Thomas's mouth tightened. Imogene saw her godfather struggle to compose himself. Then he nodded toward her.

"I'm not here to visit," he said. "I'm here to take her home."

She thought she saw Jonas flinch, thought she saw despair flit through his eyes, but it was soon gone, leaving in its place a resigned detachment.

He shrugged. "Take her then."

"No." Imogene shook her head. "I'm not going."

Thomas didn't shift his gaze from Jonas. "What have you done to her?" he asked. His voice was too calm, too controlled. "What have you done, you bastard?"

At the words, life glinted in Jonas's eyes. He gave Thomas an insolent stare. "Afraid I'll ravish her, Gosney? Don't worry. I already have."

Her godfather's gaze richocheted to her. Imogene felt the heat of a blush move up her throat, over her cheeks.

"Well?" Thomas asked. "Has he?"

She licked her lips. "You don't understand—"

"You bastard." Thomas whirled back to Jonas, spitting the words. "You goddamned bastard. I trusted you. I asked you not to . . . you bastard."

Jonas's face tightened. "Just living up to my reputation," he said heavily.

Thomas lunged.

Imogene rushed forward, grabbing her godfather's arm, pulling him back. "Thomas, please," she begged. "It's all right, really. Please."

Anger made his body rigid and his features sharp, but he stopped, his fist clenched at his side, his breathing harsh. He jerked away from her. "I can't believe you would defend him," he said raggedly. His disappointment was a palpable, horrible thing. "I want you to come home with me," he said.