The Portrait (30 page)

Thomas nodded. "He just wants the best for you, my dear."

She snorted softly in disbelief.

He smiled. "He does, in his way. Just as we all do. The question is, what will you do about it?"

She frowned. "What can I do? He's my father."

"Yes." Thomas looked down at his fingers as he traced the patterns on the brocade upholstery. "But you're not a little girl anymore, Imogene. You're a grown woman. Perhaps it's time you think about what you want out of your life, instead of what your father wants." He paused. "Have you . . . have you given any thought to going back to Jonas?"

Her heart caught. Imogene laughed shortly. "It's all I've thought about," she said. "But it doesn't matter. He doesn't want me."

"Oh?" Thomas looked up. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she said. "You know him, Thomas. You . . . you know what he's like. He needs someone who can charm him. Someone like . . ."

"Like Chloe?" he put in.

Her throat tightened. She shook her head. "I don't belong with him. I don't belong in that crowd. I'm as out of place as a moth among butterflies."

"You're a pretty little moth," Thomas teased gently. Then, when she didn't smile, he said, "I think you undervalue yourself, Imogene. Where is the woman who turned me away from the studio a week and a half ago? Have you forgotten her already?"

She looked away. "I haven't forgotten. But Jonas needed me then. He doesn't need me now."

"I see."

His voice was so thoughtful she glanced at him again. "He asked me to leave," she said.

He nodded, but that thoughtful look didn't leave his eyes. "I think you should go to the exhibition with your father," he said.

She stared at him in surprise. "Why?"

"Because, my dear," he said gently. "If you don't go you'll always regret it. You'll always wonder if you should have." He smiled, a soft, encouraging smile, the smile she'd loved since she was a little girl alone in a sickroom. "Go to the show, Imogene," he urged. "If not for yourself, then for me. Go for me."

H
e couldn't avoid it forever, he knew. Jonas stared at the note hanging from his fingers, at the fine ivory stock embossed heavily with the letters
SGC.
Samuel G. Carter
. Genie's father. Without unfolding the sheet Jonas knew what it said. He had it memorized. Carter wanted a meeting, and Jonas knew exactly why. In the back of his mind he wondered why he hadn't expected it. He had ruined her, after all, and the whole world would expect him to pay the price.
Marry her,
the voice inside him said.
Do what her father wants. Marry her
.

And in a way he wanted that. Wanted to be forced into marrying her, into loving her. Wanted no decisions and no sacrifices. Wanted to be able to say
"I tried to save you. God knows, I tried, but your father forced my hand. ..."

Yes, that was exactly what he wanted. An excuse to keep her beside him. An excuse to love her. Ah, God, he wanted it.

But he couldn't have it. He couldn't have her.

He stared at the butterfly glittering on the table beside him, at the gold that shimmered in the cold winter light. The only light in his darkness, just as Genie had been. And without her the darkness was creeping closer now. Without her it would overtake him. He knew that. He knew it more certainly than he'd ever known anything in his life.

Over the last two weeks he'd made a valiant attempt to forget her. He'd done what Rico suggested; he'd thrown himself into painting her. And now the painting was done and hanging in the gallery, ready for the exhibition tomorrow. He'd been right, it was a masterpiece. His masterpiece.

But it didn't help him forget her. It didn't ease the pain of being without her.

He struggled to keep his mind clear. Struggled to remember why he could not have her, what he would do to her. He picked up the jeweled butterfly and tried to crush it in his hand the way he would crush her. But the gold only bent slightly, held in place by amethyst and solder. Things that would not break, would not bend. Not like flesh and blood, not like tender feelings and gentle souls. How easily they were broken. How little it took to destroy them forever.

No, he could not marry her, and he knew in his heart there were only two things that could keep her father from forcing the issue. Two things.

Jonas stared at his wrist, at the fine scar. He closed his eyes and thought of what it had felt like, that first cut so long ago. The quick pain and then the throbbing ache, the numbness. He thought of how his fingers had trembled when he'd cut the other wrist, the way he could barely hold the razor through the blood on his fingers. The clumsiness of it, the lack of grace or beauty. In the end, suicide was just a lack of courage, he knew that now. Genie had taught him that, just as she had taught him that there was hope in the world— something he'd given up on long ago. Hope. Such a small word, but how strong it was. How much it sustained him now.

And because of that, death was no longer a choice. But the other. . . .

He thought of what Rico said, the words that had been spinning in his mind for days.
"You can't protect people from hurt, Jonas. You can't protect yourself. If you try, you might as well commit yourself to Bloomingdale now."

Bloomingdale. He thought of it, and he thought of what was waiting for him without her. Nights without end. Blackness that would advance day by day. There was no point in fighting it. In the asylum he wouldn't have to. It was the best place for him now, the only place. He would go mad without her anyway. It was his gift for protecting her. His reward. Madness for her safety.

It seemed a fair bargain.

He stared at the window, at the falling snow. And he thought of how she'd looked standing in it, of snowflakes melting on her skin, sparkling in her hair.

After tomorrow, he promised himself. Just give me tomorrow, and I'll go. Back to where they would make sure he didn't break his promises. Back to where they could keep him safe from himself.

Chapter 26

      
S
he dressed for the occasion. It took her hours to go through her armoire, to dismiss one gown after another. She had a rainbow of pastels, yet when she held each one to her body and looked into the mirror, she realized Jonas had been right. Pastels did not become her. Pastels were colors for true blonds with blue eyes. Chloe's colors, not hers.

But she had nothing else. Finally she'd gone to Katherine, who had searched her own wardrobe, picking out a gown that was too small for her but perfect for Imogene. It was three years old, and slightly unfashionable, but Imogene could forgive that, because it suited her so well. It was simple and beautiful, with an open caraco bodice of bronze velvet and a flounced skirt of matching brocade. When she put it on, the color warmed her skin and brought out the highlights in her hair, made her eyes seem a mysterious golden brown instead of the muddy color she knew they were.

She looked attractive in the dress, if not beautiful, and Imogene took care with the rest of her toilette, pinning up her hair with two golden combs and clasping on earrings of gold filigree to dangle against her cheeks. She wanted to look beautiful. She wanted something to help her be strong, because the little bit of courage she'd shown her father yesterday had faded, and she knew it was because of Jonas, because she would soon be seeing him, and she was afraid of herself. Afraid she would lose her dignity and her self- respect completely. Afraid she would beg him to take her back.

She told herself there were a hundred good reasons to stay away from him: He was as mad as they said. She would never survive him. She didn't belong in his crowd. They were the right reasons for leaving him, the practical reasons. She could pick any one and feel she'd made the right decision, just one would allow her to keep her dignity.

Imogene squeezed her eyes shut. She heard the front door open downstairs, heard the bustle in the foyer, and she knew it was time to go. Time to brave the crowds at the gallery, to pretend nonchalance and composure when inside her heart was breaking. She did not know if she could look at him again. She did not know if she could survive seeing that regret in his eyes—or worse, seeing nothing at all. She wondered if she would even be able to walk away once she'd seen him.

Slowly she went to the door. Her hands were trembling, and she forced herself to calm before she turned the knob and stepped out into the hallway. They were waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs: her father, Thomas, Katherine. She saw them turn worried eyes upon her—except for her father, who only looked at her with contempt and turned away again. She wondered why that didn't hurt. It should have. It always had before.

"You look lovely, my dear," Thomas said.

Imogene gave him a weak smile.

Her father was holding her mantle for her. She came down the stairs and took it from him, putting it on, buttoning the wool collar tightly about her throat and then tying the ribbons of her hat, pulling on gloves. The movements were mechanical, and though she heard the others talking as they readied to go, Imogene felt too detached to answer.

It was so cold outside it nearly took her breath away. Though it had stopped snowing, the sky was still heavy with clouds, the streets frozen with hard-packed mud and ice. It would be better to stay home, she thought, and wished her father and Thomas would look at the road and agree, but they didn't, and Henry was already waiting at the curb with the carriage.

"It'll be 'ard goin' today," he warned as he opened the door. "We'll take it nice 'n' slow."

Thomas smiled and stood back to help Katherine inside. "Good enough," he told Henry. "We're in no hurry."

Imogene climbed in beside Katherine, echoing Thomas's sentiments with relief. They were in no hurry. There was plenty of time to arrange her thoughts. Plenty of time to decide just how she would greet him when she saw him again. Calmly. Coolly. With just a touch of disdain.
"Why hello, Jonas. How nice to see you again. Have you met my fath—"

Good Lord. Her father. She glanced at Samuel from the corner of her eye, noting his serious expression, the thin lips beneath his mustache. She had forgotten her father's reasons for going. She had forgotten about his desire for retribution, his notes to Jonas.

She sat back in the seat, closing her eyes, wishing she could fade into the leather. This was going to be a nightmare. She listened to the carriage wheels slipping and sliding on the icy streets, and she wished a rim would catch, or the horses would balk—anything to keep them from arriving at the National Academy Gallery.

But nothing happened, and before long the carriage was pulling up in front of the building that housed New York City's finest art school.

"Crowded tonight," Thomas noted, looking out the window. "Though it always is, I suppose."

He was right. The National Academy of Design's yearly exhibition was a well-attended event. There were people everywhere, clogging the walks, thronging the stairs, casting shadows against the lighted windows lining the front of the building. They had to wait their turn at the curb, and once they were out of the carriage, they joined those huddled against the cold. It took a long time to get in, and a brisk breeze only made the wait more uncomfortable, but once they were inside, Imogene wished she were still on the walk, still battling the cold.

She had been to exhibitions before, of course. Her family had gone whenever one was held in Nashville. Her father especially had loved those exhibitions. He had lived for the opportunity to socialize with neighbors and enter into long and intricate conversations about "art" and its "value." But Imogene had the feeling he liked this one more, and for different reasons. Samuel looked expectant. Readying for a fight.

Her heart sank. She moved away from her father, following Thomas and Katherine up the low stairs that led to the first of the six galleries. It was a large room, its high ceilings leading to skylights that opened the space and lit it during the day. But as open and large as the room was, people nearly filled it, and the scent of the many gaslights mixed suffocatingly with those of perfume, wet wool, and warm bodies. It was hard to breathe, hard to even hear oneself over the excited buzz of talk, and it was so crowded that they were forced to move with the throng, circling slowly past the many paintings paneling the walls, forced to linger agonizingly by each one.

Imogene scanned the room, wanting to see him, afraid to see him. She didn't know whether to feel relief or disappointment when she saw only the backs of heads and feathered hats and voluminous cloaks. With a stab of dismay she realized she would come upon him suddenly, without time to prepare herself, to compose herself. There were simply too many people to see beyond the next bend, or even the next painting.

"Where is he?" her father demanded impatiently from beside her. "Show me where he is."

Thomas tried to smile. "Patience, Sam. We'll come upon him in time." He pointed to a large landscape that took up a good portion of a wall, bounded on either side by smaller canvases showing a similar scene. "What do you think of that one? I think he's a promising young artist."

Samuel gave the painting a cursory look. "Fine, if you like that sort of thing." He grabbed Imogene's arm, holding her tightly against him, as if he were afraid she would run off. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I want no nonsense from you, daughter, do you hear? When you see Whitaker, you point him out to me. Let me take care of it."

She slanted him a glance, pulling away from his grip. "Of course, Papa," she said stiffly.

They moved from painting to painting, following the crowd from one gallery into another, and then to a third. She heard the talk around her distractedly.
"Oh, Jeffrey, I love it! Such fine colors ..." "Luminism is evident in every brushstroke, my love. Mark my words, this man will go far ..." "I don't see it. I simply don't understand what all the fuss is about ..."
The voices pounded in her head. The paintings wavered before her, each one blurring into the next, a mix of style and color as confusing as the feelings crowding her heart. Anticipation, fear . . . She wasn't sure what she should be feeling, was afraid of what she would see in Jonas's eyes when finally she saw him. She tugged at the collar of her mantle, feeling too hot where before she'd been cold. She undid the frogged fastenings, but even that didn't help. Her lungs felt tight, her throat swollen. She could not silence the question chanting in her head.
Where is he? Where is he?

"This is lovely," Katherine observed, stopping before a still life of peaches and grapes. "Oh, Imogene, look! This is by that friend of yours, that Mr. Childs."

The name startled Imogene. She had not expected to hear it. Already Rico seemed to come from a past so long ago it was almost forever. Imogene stared at the painting, her heart racing. She'd thought maybe he'd gone back to Paris. Obviously not.

Katherine grabbed her husband's arm. "He brought a message to the house a few weeks ago. darling. I thought I might commission him . . ."

Her godmother's words trailed off, blending into the sea of voices. Anxiously, nervously, Imogene looked around, trying to see through the faces. Rico was never far from Jonas. She wondered where Childs had been, where he was now. Was he taking care of Jonas? Was anyone—

"Good heavens, it's her. Gerald, look, it's her."

The hushed sentence was close by her ear. Frowning, Imogene looked over—into the narrowed eyes of an older woman in pale apricot silk.

The woman was staring, but when Imogene caught her gaze, she flushed and turned away, pulling her startled husband with her through the crowd.

How odd. Imogene glanced back at Katherine, but she and Thomas were still bent over Childs's painting, her father close beside them. Impatiently Imogene stepped back, but the crowd jostled her, and she drew back farther, looking up just in time to see a man in a tall beaver hat staring at her. He tipped it to her, smiling a smile she found vaguely disturbing. Not just friendly, but . . . but
too
friendly.

Flustered, Imogene looked away. When she glanced back, he was gone, but there was another group, a woman who looked at her with sharp, beady little eyes before she leaned over and nudged the woman walking beside her, whispering into her ear. The other woman glanced up, and her fine features drew into a tight little mask; she turned to her friend with words whose harshness carried over the noise, even if what she said didn't. The two of them bustled away.

Self-consciously Imogene checked her gown. Her bodice was buttoned tight against her throat; she was hardly indecent. And surely the dress wasn't all that dated. She adjusted her bonnet. Only a few loose hairs escaped her chignon, nothing more.

Disturbed, she moved to where the others stood. "Katherine," she said quietly. "Do I have something on my face?"

Her godmother turned from the painting. "No," she said. "You look fine."

"People are staring at me."

Her father frowned. "You're imagining things."

"No, I—"

"Nervous, are you, girl?" He grunted in satisfaction and took her arm, giving a cursory nod to Thomas. "Let's get on then, shall we? We can come back to look at these if you like."

He tugged on her arm, pulling her with him. Imogene scanned the faces they passed, telling herself that the stares she received were only in her imagination, as her father said. Certainly the whispers weren't about her, they couldn't be. But still her cheeks burned. She gripped her father's arm more tightly, feeling more and more flustered with every step they took.

She heard the giggles first. Nervous, embarrassed laughter, scandalized half words. A murmur of talk with a slightly hysterical edge. It was just ahead of them, and she knew without looking what it signified; she'd been to enough art shows to know.

She glanced at her father, who lifted his brow and smiled. "Ah, there's something scandalous ahead," he noted, interpreting the hushed talk as she had. "What shall it be this time, I wonder? Which artist?"

Imogene's heart raced.
Which artist?
The whispers pounded against her ears; she heard everything, each word was too loud, too distinct.
"Shocking!" "Who is she?" "How dare he?" "My dear, it's obscene. Isn't it obscene?"

She knew who it was before they came upon him, before the crowd parted slightly to reveal a huge canvas painted with the figure of a woman. She barely glanced at it. Instead, her gaze went unerringly to the man beside it.

Jonas.

He stood back, leaning negligently against some small still life, his shoulder nudging the frame, angling it so the painted pheasant within looked ready to roll off its table. His dark hair was loose, falling over his shoulders in defiance of fashion, seeming black-black against the blue coat he wore. He was talking to Rico, who stood beside him, the perfect blond foil to Jonas's darkness, and Imogene was reminded of the first time she'd seen him. He'd been so vibrant then, a dark sun, a mysterious, frightening man. He was not so mysterious now, and not at all frightening, but the vibrance was still there, emanating from him so strongly she wondered why everyone was staring at the painting instead of him, since he was far more stunning.