Inamorata (17 page)

He’d laid his head in my lap while I ran my fingers through his hair where it curled against his collar. I told him,
Remember what you said? That we were marked for something special? Now we can be what we were meant to be, Joseph. Now that she’s gone, we can do everything we’ve dreamed of.

I had blinked the memory away that day, listening to the door close behind Joseph as he left. I had told myself it was better not to think of those things, to never remember, though the sting of what she’d done to us was still so sharp it was sometimes hard to do.

I’d left the nursery and waited for Joseph to come home, knowing that the yearning that had made him go would be allayed when he returned. He was so much luckier than I when it came to finding appeasement. But then again, he was a man, and such things were easy for them. When he came back—hours later, smelling of cheap perfume—he was himself again, and I had been relieved.

“I’m sorry,” he said to me, smiling, playing. “I know you worry.”

I knew he had no wish to talk about it. Neither of us did.

So I said, “Tea is at four o’clock tomorrow. Don’t forget it and disappear.”

I had no real hope that he would remember; he was never dependable. He’d be out walking and see a scene he liked, or a detail he’d missed before, and lose himself in sketching or painting. Hours would pass before he remembered the time. But he surprised me. At three thirty the next day, he was washed and shaved and presentable, though he never lost that slightly disheveled aesthetic that marked him as the artist he was.

When Joseph and I arrived at Mrs. Ballast’s tea, Edward Roberts was waiting. His face lit when he saw us. He came forward to kiss my cheek and shook Joseph’s hand perhaps a bit too long and enthusiastically. Joseph excused himself to speak to Mrs. Ballast’s daughter, Angelica, and Edward drew me into the shade of a climbing rose. “Your brother doesn’t like me,” he complained.

I pressed my hand against his vested chest. “Don’t be absurd. Of course he likes you. He’s just . . . well, he’s distracted. Something’s always catching his eye.”

Edward frowned. “A woman, you mean?”

I shook my head. “Something new to paint. My guess is that when he saw you he was already noticing the way the sun hit the yew, or something like that. He can’t help himself. But I know he likes you, Edward. Why, he said something about it just this morning.”

“He did?”

“He said”—I struggled to think of something—“he said you had a way with words.”

Edward looked pleased. “My father says the same thing.”

“You see?” I smiled. “I think you have a way with other things too.”

His gaze darkened. He brought his hands around my waist, pulled me close, and kissed me. And it was no chaste kiss, either. For the first time, he kissed me until I was breathless, until I felt the stirrings of desire, until I thought
maybe.

He drew away. His pale face was flushed. He said, “I’ve been thinking it’s time I introduced you to my father. Your brother too. I think he would like you both,” and I felt a flush of victory that made me kiss him again.

Joseph said to me later, “Now that we’re to meet his father, you don’t need to take this any further.”

I didn’t know how to explain to him that I wanted to. That I felt the kind of desire for Edward Roberts that I’d despaired of feeling, that I thought I might be in love at last. What had started as a way to help Joseph had turned into something else, something just for me. The way Edward looked at me, that gaze that reminded me of my brother’s, made me begin to believe that perhaps Edward was not like the others, that he saw something special in me apart from Joseph. The day Joseph and I arrived at Edward’s father’s house for dinner, and my brother impressed the old man into offering him a commission—a portrait of his wife—I knew I had fallen in love.

Joseph’s excitement and triumph only made me want Edward more. I could hardly sleep that night, tossing and turning restlessly until Joseph woke and said, “What ails you, Soph?” and I got up to wander about the house.

The next morning Edward and I had scheduled a carriage ride; when he arrived I drew him inside and up the stairs. I was trembling when I kissed him. We went into my bedroom, but I didn’t want to stay—it felt odd and uncomfortable to have him there—and the nursery was worse. So I took him down the hall, to my brother’s room, unlocked it, and pulled him inside. The room still held some of Joseph’s things, old boots and shoes, books, sketches he’d pinned to the wallpaper. Edward pulled away, frowning, saying, “This isn’t your room.” When I told him it was my brother’s, Edward seemed in a frenzy. He wrenched at my buttons as if he wanted to tear the gown from my body, and I fell into the familiar darkness of surrender without thought or resistance.

Afterward he looked at me with this expression I couldn’t read and said, “You aren’t like most women.” I thought it meant he loved me. I thought I had what I longed for at last.

When Joseph came home that afternoon, his face was hard. Though Edward had left hours before, I knew Joseph understood what had happened between us. “You’d best watch yourself,” he’d warned. “You don’t want to get with child and have to marry him.”

I’d flushed. “I think I love him.”

Joseph sat down beside me. He took my hand and pressed it to his mouth. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking it, Soph.”

“He wants me,” I said angrily. “He
sees
me.”

My brother gave me a tormented look and released my hand. He rose, turning to leave, and I felt suddenly guilty and afraid.

I said, a little desperately, wanting to call him back, “I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful, I promise. Shall I pose?”

He didn’t turn around or pause or look over his shoulder. “Not like this. He’s all over you.”

And that made me angry enough to forget my guilt. Joseph was only jealous. He wanted to keep me too close. He didn’t want me to find something of my own. I brought Edward home again and again, always to Joseph’s bedroom, because he seemed to like it, and one day, when I lay sleepily in his arms as he gazed about the room, he said, “These sketches are beautiful.”

“They aren’t even his best. Most of these he drew when he was young. He’s much better now.”

“It’s hard to believe he hasn’t had any training. That one of you over there, with your chin upon your hand. How old were you when he did that?”

I glanced at the sketch he spoke of. It was one of so many; I hardly remembered the day Joseph had drawn it. My hair was tied up with a pink ribbon; his pastels pinked my cheeks and made my eyes bluer than they were as the girl I’d been stared dreamily into space. “About twelve, I think. Perhaps thirteen.”

“He does you so well. That one over there too—it’s beautiful. He’s captured you entirely.”

“He’s had enough practice,” I said with a smile. “There must be hundreds of sketches of me.”

“Where are they? I’d love to see them.”

“Oh, everywhere,” I said, wanting to please, taking his interest in my world as evidence of his love. “But I know there’s one portfolio in here.”

I went to my brother’s desk, never used now, and pulled out the case I knew was behind it. I took it to the bed, laying it on the crumpled blankets, and Edward scooted out of the way so I could open it. This portfolio held only a small fraction of the work Joseph had done—there were similar folders everywhere—but when I opened it, hundreds of drawings threatened to pour out. I eased out several, sifting charcoal dust over the coverlet, graying my fingers. Some of them I put surreptitiously aside—the ones Miss Coring had made me pose for. Joseph had never been able to bring himself to throw away anything he’d drawn, even these, and I was not surprised to find them shoved away here, but I could not bear for anyone else to see them. I could not bear to remember. The others I drew out one after another to show Edward, sketches of me dancing in a thin shift, my hair flying, another where I peeled a peach while juice dripped down my fingers, a third where I sat on a chair, wearing one of Joseph’s shirts, my knees pulled to my breasts.

Edward took in a hard breath, and I knew he found them beautiful too. I wanted him to love my brother’s talent as I did, and so I took out more, some of my favorites now: an odalisque of me on a settee, arching in a stretch, my hair falling over the side, nearly to the floor; another where I looked over my shoulder, my eyes dark and haunting; another sprawled in bed, looking ravished and sated, hair tangled, sheets crumpled between my legs.

I handed Edward one I particularly loved, where I lay on the floor in a pool of sunlight that dappled my skin, saying, “This was always one of my favorites.”

He didn’t take it. He was clutching the one of me on the bed almost convulsively. When I looked at him in surprise, he said, “You’re posing . . . from life. In almost every one.”

“Yes, of course.”

“But—”

“But what?” I frowned, confused.

Edward only gave me a long, slow look, very contemplative, an expression that made me nervous for no reason I could say.

“What is it?” I asked. “Why do you look at me that way?”

He shook his head and handed me back the drawing. “You’re right. They’re all very beautiful.”

I put the drawings away. I thought no more about it. I was naive, I suppose—no, more than that, stupid. It never occurred to me to think the sketches were anything but sublime. I loved how Joseph captured yearning and desire and love with every stroke. I was not quite me in them, but at the same time I was more me than anyone could know. I believed Edward had seen that as well.

It wasn’t until two days later that I realized what Edward had really seen.

He had arrived in the afternoon, which was odd—he usually visited me in the morning, after Joseph had gone off on one of his excursions. I hadn’t been expecting him, but I was glad, as always, to see him. As he drew me upstairs to Joseph’s room, he seemed possessed by some strange fever. He undressed me with such slow care I didn’t understand it—he’d never been anything but hurried before, impatient. And though he was slow and thorough, he seemed oddly anxious, as if he were waiting for something. As he unlaced my chemise, he said, “Let’s take our time, darling, shall we? We’ve all afternoon.”

But we didn’t, I knew. We were coming to the time when Joseph would be home, and I knew he would not like to come upon Edward and me like this. And then, just as I had the thought, I heard the front door open and close; I heard my brother call, “Soph? I’m home. Where are you?”

I panicked. I started for the door. Edward held me tightly in place. “You don’t understand,” I told him desperately. “He’ll hate this—”

“Will he?” Edward asked, and there was a blandness in his tone that made me stop to look at him.

“Sophie!” Joseph was coming up the stairs.

I said again, “You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” Edward asked, and there was an excitement in his eyes that startled me, a vibration that told me he’d been waiting just for this, that he’d come at this time deliberately, meaning to confront my brother. But I had no idea why. I didn’t understand at all.

And then I heard Joseph reach the top floor. I heard his step stall as he noticed the cracked door of the bedroom that was always kept closed. “Sophie?”

I heard the strain in his voice, and just as I wondered how I would explain this to him, what I could possibly say, he pushed open the door. He paused, taking in me with my hair down, clad only in a chemise falling from my bared shoulders, and Edward without a shirt.

Joseph said, “What the hell are you doing in
here
?”

I tried to push away from Edward’s hold, but his hands squeezed almost painfully tight, holding me in place. I said, “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Oh, no—it’s exactly what it looks like,” Edward said to my horror, a satisfied look in his eyes. “It’s not as if he doesn’t know what’s been going on, darling. You do know, don’t you, Hannigan, that I’ve been fucking your sister?”

“Edward,” I breathed.

My brother didn’t even blink. He only stood there like a statue, pale and chiseled and beautiful, with a look in his eyes that made me want to be sick. “I know,” he said softly.

Edward said, “We were just getting ready to commence. So why don’t you—”

“Edward, please,” I managed.

“—join us?” Edward proposed.

I gasped, turning to him in surprise.

Edward looked at me almost contemptuously. “Come now, don’t act so shocked. Don’t tell me you haven’t played this game before.”

Joseph said in a strained voice, “I think you should go.”

Edward released me. His muscles were clenched; he leaned toward Joseph as if he were pulled. “Join us.” His voice fell to a whisper, a plea. “Please God, join us.” The urgency in it alarmed me. He crossed the room in two steps, moving before I knew he’d done so. He was not taller nor bigger than Joseph, but he pushed my brother up against the wall easily, pressing himself to him the way he’d once pressed himself to me. He grabbed Joseph by the back of the head, thrusting his fingers into my brother’s hair, and Joseph let him, doing nothing as Edward Roberts jerked him down to kiss, hard and thoroughly, as if he might swallow him whole. I could only watch in shock as Joseph surrendered to it. It was as if Miss Coring were in the room again. There was no point in resistance—how well she’d taught us that. How well I understood.

Edward pulled feverishly at Joseph’s shirt, pulling it from his trousers, his hands beneath it, running up my brother’s bare chest. “Christ, I want you,” he was whispering—I think he had forgotten I was even in the room. “I have wanted you since I first laid eyes on you.”

And then I knew. I knew what it was Edward Roberts meant to have from us, and it wasn’t me. It had never been me. I had never been special to him. It was Joseph, always, and suddenly every strangeness I’d noted about Edward’s desire, every little thing I’d found odd and dismissed, the way Joseph’s presence excited Edward even in his absence, made sense. I cried out, putting my hand to my mouth almost immediately to stop it, too late, and it was that sound that seemed to galvanize my brother. He looked at me—I saw the misery in his eyes, that haunted look again—and then he pushed Edward hard, so hard that Edward stumbled back. Before Edward gained his feet, Joseph hit him. The cracking thud of the blow resounded. Edward went flying, sprawling on the floor at my feet, hitting his head on the bedpost. A bruise was already forming on his eye.