The Shadow Portrait (10 page)

Seeing the young men enter, Oliver Lanier strode toward them to offer his hand.

“Welcome to our home, Mr. Winslow.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Lanier.”

“Have you met everyone?”

“I think so, but,” Phil nodded, running his eyes around the family, “things were a little hectic the last time I was here, so I might not get everyone’s name right.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir,” Oliver said, drawing Phil toward the family group. “Well, let me name them again. Cara, Mary Ann, Benjamin, Elizabeth, and Robert. Now, let us all sit down, and we’ll hear what you have to say about the great adventure you and Clinton had.” Lanier stepped over to hold out his wife’s chair while the young men assisted their sisters.

Phil took his place at the table and watched appreciatively as the first course, a delicate carrot soup, was carried in by neatly dressed servants. The main course soon followed—roasted
beef tenderloin, mashed potatoes, fresh green beans, and corn oysters, and following the main course, a French salad, then imported cheeses and fresh fruit. Finally, a special treat—ice cream snowballs. Phil ate hungrily, but only as he was able while telling the story of how the ruffians had tried to rob them and answering the family’s questions. Through it all, he made little of his own part.

“That’s the worst storytelling I ever heard!” Clinton exclaimed. “Here you demolished three thugs with your bare hands, or your feet I might say, and you act as if it were nothing.”

“I’ve already spoken to Clinton,” Oliver said, leaning forward and placing his large hands on the table, “about his part in it. He showed very bad judgment going down to that part of town after dark.”

“Well, I live there, so I don’t have much choice,” Phil shrugged.

“Ah,” Oliver said. “And just what is it you do for a living?”

“I’m an artist, sir.”

Cara had said almost nothing and was as pale as always, but she was truly enjoying herself. The family rarely had dinner guests, and even more rarely did she attend. Her father usually had her meals served in her room. For this special occasion, she had worn a burgundy velvet with a high-necked, loose-fitting bodice trimmed with gold braid and a narrow flared skirt decorated around the bottom with an undulating pattern of matching braid resembling the waves of the ocean.

Now Cara’s eyes lighted up. “How exciting to have a real artist in our house!” she said eagerly.

“Are you successful, sir?” Oliver asked pointedly.

Phil suddenly grinned. “You mean, have I sold a lot of paintings? No, sir. I suppose you might say I’m just a student. I’ve been studying in Europe for the past three years. And now I’m a student at the American Institute of Art.”

“Oh, I’d love to hear all about it! Did you go to Paris?” Cara asked.

“Yes. I spent a year there. Most of the time in the Louvre. It’s a little bit discouraging, Miss Cara. You see all the great paintings by the great artists, and you feel like you’re doing nothing but dabbling.”

“Tell me a little bit about the paintings you saw.”

“My daughter,” Oliver interrupted, “is an accomplished artist herself. She has sold quite a few of her paintings.”

Phil did not miss the note of pride in Lanier’s voice, nor how his large, square face changed as he looked at Cara.
She must be his pet,
Phil thought.
He doesn’t look that way at any of his other children.

“It must not be very difficult to sell paintings if my daughter can do it from her sickbed.”

Phil was quiet. He sensed Oliver Lanier’s displeasure and could tell that the big man thought little of a grown person who spent his time dabbling with paints. Oliver was a man of practical impulses, the kind Phil had often met, and the idea of making a living, or even of being an artist, was repugnant to him. Now Phil shrugged, saying, “I suppose that may be true, Mr. Lanier. Most painters never make a living.” A flash of contempt leaped into Oliver’s eyes then, and at that moment, Phil knew there was no hope that this successful businessman would ever stoop to include a lowly artist in his social circle. He thought it strange as he glanced at Cara, whose delicate features and sensitive attitude were so different. There was something different also, he decided, in Clinton, and even in all the rest of the Lanier sons and daughters.
They must get their gentleness from their mother. They certainly didn’t get it from their father.

The meal finally ended with a tense but controlled altercation between Clinton and his father. Phil had mentioned the
Jolie Blonde
and his cousin Peter Winslow, who intended to be a race car driver, and at once Oliver’s face had flushed.

“Nonsense! All nonsense!” he growled.

“You mean racing, Mr. Lanier?” Phil inquired.

“I mean the whole nonsense of automobiles! They’ll never amount to anything!”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you about that, Mr. Lanier,” Phil said easily. “I admit they’re an innovation, and I grew up with nothing but horses, but when you look around now, you can see that they’re the coming thing.”

“They’re loud and they stink up the air!”

“I’ll admit that’s true. Still, many new inventions aren’t particularly pleasant at first.”

“Can you imagine what will happen,” Lanier stated flatly, “if they ever go as fast as the prophets say they will? Why, they’d kill more people than all the wars in history.” At that point Clinton tried to make a defense, but his father gave him a harsh look and a stern rebuke. “Clinton, we’ve discussed this before, and here’s my final word! Automobiles will have no part in your life! You have plenty to do to learn the business without wasting your time on all this newfangled nonsense!”

An embarrassed silence fell over the room, and Phil felt very bad for Clinton, whose face had grown red, his lips tightly closed. Shifting his glance, Phil saw that Cara, too, was humiliated and angered by her father’s harshness. She lifted her eyes to her father and seemed to plead with him to have some understanding.

“I’d like to see some of your paintings, Miss Cara,” Phil spoke up suddenly, hoping to alleviate the unbearable tension.

Relieved, Cara stood to her feet. “If you all will excuse us, I will show Mr. Winslow some of the things I’ve done.”

“You take him right along,” Alice said. “Bring him back down to the drawing room afterward.”

“That will be too much for her to do, Alice. She’s had too much excitement already. See how pale her cheeks are?” Oliver rose and came over to his daughter. He stood towering over her and looked down. “You may show our guest a few of your paintings, and then I want you to drink your ale, take all your medicines, and go straight to bed.”

“But I feel fine, Father.”

Oliver shook his head. “I’m afraid I must insist, my dear. Go along now.” Turning to Phil, he issued one final warning. “I trust you will not overtire my daughter, sir.”

Recognizing the warning, Phil nodded. “Of course. I won’t be long.”

The two left the dining room, and Cara led Phil along the hallway to the stairs. Holding on to the railing, she ascended slowly. Phil modified his steps to stay with her.

She turned to him and said, “I’m sure it must be annoying for you to have to put up with an invalid, Mr. Winslow.”

“Not at all, and I wish you’d call me Phil.”

Color flushed in Cara’s cheeks, and she said, “That would be nice, and please call me Cara.”

When they reached the top of the stairs, Phil said, “I don’t want to be impertinent, but you’re not really an invalid, are you?”

“I had a severe illness ten years ago. I’ve never really recovered from it, and the doctors are quite mystified.” Then, as if shutting the door on the subject, she lifted her head and said, “Come, I’ll show you what I’ve done. But I warn you, they’re not like what you’ve seen in Europe.”

“Some of it was pretty bad,” Phil said. “I don’t know how some of them ever got into the museums.”

When they stepped inside the room, he swept it with a quick glance. Instantly he recognized that this was the tower in which Cara Lanier hid herself from the world. He took in all of the treasures of her childhood and the pictures of the family. The furniture itself was comfortable, and the room was large and spacious—but a prison, he quickly grasped, all the same.

“Now that I’m here,” Cara said, turning around, “I . . . I don’t think I want you to see my work.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not—well, I’ve never had anyone except my agent look at it.”

“You never go to the shows where your pieces are shown?”

“Oh, never! Father would never permit it!”

“That’s a shame, but please allow me to see them. I insist.”

He smiled at her, and at that moment Cara thought he looked very masculine and that he exuded health. She studied the tanned planes of his face, then said quietly, “All right. If you insist.”

Moving across the room, she opened a large wardrobe that obviously had been made to hold her paintings. She took out two of them, set them on a table, leaning them against the wall, then removed two more and placed them beside the others. “There,” she said and stepped back to watch his reaction.

Phil instantly made a judgment. He was disappointed in her work, but it was not that they were bad. Rather, they were . . . bland. All four paintings were flower arrangements of roses, tulips, marigolds, and daisies. The technical aspects of them were good indeed, and it was on this quality that he began to speak. “I admire your brushwork in this one,” he said. “It must’ve been very hard to do the centers of these daisies as exactly as you have.” It looked almost like a photograph, except for the colors.

“It is slow, but then . . .” Cara smiled, “I have plenty of time.”

As Phil studied the paintings, commenting on the various artistic techniques she had used, he found himself more and more intrigued by this woman. He had found out from Clinton that she was thirty years old. By that age most women were married and raising families. The story of her sickness and of her poor health, of course, could account for her not marrying. But there was something about her that puzzled him. The paleness of her skin could be accounted for simply by being indoors, but he had no sense of the weakness that one usually associates with an invalid. He had the impression that beneath all of the trappings of illness was a strong, vigorous woman. He had no reason for believing this, but he had learned long ago to trust his impressions.

Her paintings all lacked that spark of inspiration one looks
for in true art. It was as if she had painted only from the surface of her mind and talent. Nevertheless, her work did have some special qualities. Somehow, especially in the painting of the daisies, she had managed to capture a picture of vibrant health and strength. The vivid colors seemed to leap off the canvas. It was obviously a scene from the front yard, as were the other three, but she had caught the blue sky, and the sun was magnificent.

“When I was in Holland, I saw a great deal of the Flemish masters,” he said finally. He stepped closer and peered at the picture of the daisies. “They are most famous for the way they are able to capture sunlight. It’s amazing. You feel like you can almost touch it and your hand would grow warm. Miss Cara,” he said, “you’ve got something of that in this painting here called
Daisies in the Morning.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen light treated any better.”

Cara’s face flushed at his compliment and her eyes grew warm. “How kind of you to say that.”

“I don’t think it’s kind. I could make some comments that aren’t quite as amiable.” Phil smiled rather crookedly. “But I’m a guest in your house, so I’d better withhold them.”

Cara was nonplussed. She stared at him, for she had been guarded from adverse comments. She had no life, except with her family and her painting, and now this tall man had suddenly said there were things wrong with them. She straightened up, and her eyes lost their warmth. “What do you mean, not quite as amiable?” she demanded.

“Oh, nothing about the technical aspects.” Phil recognized that Cara was not accustomed to bold critiques of her paintings, but he wanted to stir her up to see what lay beneath the fine veneer of manners and careful composure that she showed the world. “Technically these are fine. The brushwork, the proportion, the symmetry, and especially the colors. You have a real flair for that.”

“Well, what else is there?” she asked coolly.

Phil hesitated, then shrugged. “There’s more to life than flowers, Cara.”

“I’m well aware of that!” she answered rather defensively.

Well, I touched her that time,
Phil thought. He considered changing the subject, but he was interested in the woman. She did not have the life and the vitality that he admired in most women, but still, without any evidence, he believed it lay somewhere deep inside, longing to burst forth. He felt about her as he did about a painting that he was just starting. Somewhere in the paint and in the canvas was a masterpiece. He felt all he had to do was make it come together. Of course, as an artist, he could bring paint to the canvas. But how does one stir up a woman who is wealthy and has never known life except as a carefully protected individual, almost as if she were sealed in a cocoon?

Cara saw his hesitation. “Of course there’s more than flowers, but someone has to paint flowers.”

“No argument there. Some of the finest paintings I’ve seen in Europe, and in this country too, are of flowers. But my theory of art is that an artist should put things on a canvas that move people, that stir them, that make them angry even. A painting should at least make some sort of statement about the world in which we live.”

“But . . . these flowers are a part of our world.”

Phil had a flash of intuition. “Let me see some of your paintings that aren’t of flowers,” he said and watched her face. He saw it change and knew he had hit a nerve.

“I . . . I don’t have any.”

“You see? You love flowers, which is very commendable, but as I said, life is a lot more than flowers.”

Cara stared at him and felt intimidated by the health and zest for life that radiated from him. She saw a strength in him that she admired. It was not like the strength of her father, for his was no more than indomitable control and harshness. No, this man standing before her was strong, but his strength lay under an amiable exterior, even a fine-looking one. She
had had a few sweethearts before her illness, but that had been years ago. Long, long ago she had given up any hope of romance and courtship and marriage. But now, as she looked at Phil Winslow, something stirred within her heart. It was so faint that she was not even fully conscious of it. All she knew was that he was a man who had brought something into her castle that had not been there before. She had been content and satisfied about her painting, confident that it was good, and that she had one small accomplishment to smile about in her confined world. Now this man had come in and challenged the one possession she had. Anger flared up in her, and she said, “I don’t think it behooves you, an artist who has never sold a painting, to bring charges against me!”