The Portrait (28 page)

"She's my daughter, Gosney," Samuel retorted. "I'll talk to her however I damn well please."

"Not while you're in my home."

At the end of the table, Katherine rose and put her hand on her husband's arm. "Darling," she said softly. She gave Imogene a sympathetic glance, a glance that helped soothe her humiliation, and then Katherine looked back to Thomas. "Perhaps we should leave Samuel and Imogene to discuss this alone."

Thomas frowned. "I don't—"

"It's all right, Thomas," Imogene said quietly, wishing it were true. She saw her godfather's embarrassment and regret, but the thought of him further witnessing her humiliation was too much to bear. "I'm fine."

Samuel gestured impatiently. "Yes, leave us, won't you?"

Imogene backed against the wall, feeling the smooth yellow silk wallcovering beneath her hands, taking strength from its reassuring solidity. She heard her father's harsh breathing, knew he was struggling to keep his temper under control while Thomas and Katherine left the table and moved to the door. Just before he stepped out, Thomas stopped, touching her arm with a gentle concern that hurt as much as it reassured.

"My dear," he began.

Imogene cut him off with a shake of her head. "I'm fine," she said shortly, seeing the regret in his eyes. She wanted to say more, wanted to punish him, to be angry with him for bringing her father here, but she couldn't. Thomas had only been worried, she knew. He'd wanted to protect her. She could not condemn him for that.

When he and Katherine left the dining room, pulling the heavy brocade curtains across the doorway to give them privacy, Imogene only felt more alone than ever. Thomas's presence had given her support, if nothing else. Now she was alone with her father, and she knew his tirades too well to believe she would be all right. He wouldn't hurt her—not physically, anyway—but emotionally. . . .

She licked her lips and turned back to face him, steeling herself. "Papa," she said, "I—"

"Don't you dare speak to me," he said, glaring at her. "Not until I'm finished with you."

She swallowed and pressed harder against the wall.

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath before he looked up at her again. "Do you realize," he said slowly-, "what a scandal this will cause? No, of course you don't. Just as you didn't even wonder what the hell it was Whitaker wanted from you. Why did you suppose he would he even look twice at you? Hmmm? Did you think it was your looks he was after?"

She shook her head, forcing back the tears, feeling his verbal blows clear into her soul. "No," she whispered. "Of course not."

Her father paced the room. "Well, at least you're that intelligent. Dammit, no doubt I'll get a message from him in a few days, demanding money or something. And he'll get it too, because if Nashville hears about this we'll never get you married off."

Imogene swallowed. "He won't do that," she said. "And I—I don't want to be married off."

"I don't give a damn what you want." Samuel jerked to a stop. "I had hoped that, given enough education, you might develop some of your sister's better points, but to my disappointment, that hasn't happened. It's clear you don't have talent to give the world. The best you can do is find a husband somewhere and hope you stay well long enough to give him children."

The harshness of his words paralyzed her. She felt skewered to the wall, pierced through with his bitterness. "I haven't . . . been ill . . . for a long time," she managed.

He didn't seem to hear her. He put his hands to his head, running them through his bushy gray hair, pressing on his skull as if the motion could somehow calm him. He stopped pacing, lumbered heavily to the table and sagged into a chair. "Well, there's no help for it," he said on a sigh. "I'll meet with Whitaker and see what he wants. But then—" He turned to her, his eyes shooting sparks. "Then we're going back to Nashville, and once we're there you'll do exactly what I say. Is that clear?"

Imogene's fingers curled into fists. With effort, she nodded. There was no point in disagreeing, after all. She had no other choice. "Yes, Papa. I understand."

"Good." He took a deep breath and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "Oh God," he murmured. "God, why not you?"

He spoke under his breath, but Imogene heard the murmured words as clearly as if he'd screamed them. Words she'd heard a hundred times before. And even though he hadn't said them, she heard the words that followed, too, the ones she knew were in his mind.
"Why didn't God take you instead?"

Why not you?

She had no answer for him, because she wondered that herself, had wondered it since the day the cholera took Chloe. And just as she had since the day her sister died, Imogene felt guilty that she had lived. She should have traded places with Chloe somehow; she should have been the one to die.

She wondered if her father would have loved her any better if she had.

The thought knotted her stomach. Deep inside she knew even that wouldn't have made a difference, and it bothered her that she cared so much, that her father's love was so important. He'd never done anything but hurt her. He'd never looked at her. He didn't really see her at all.

Like Jonas, she thought, but the words didn't ring true any longer; she didn't quite believe them. Maybe once that had been the case, but things had changed. She remembered this afternoon, heard again the melody of Jonas's soft words, saw the tenderness in his eyes.
"Ah, Genie. ..."
His whispers came winging back, tender and haunting.
"Genie, my love. ..."

She grabbed on to the memory, holding it like a bulwark against the world, against her father's hurtful words, against his disappointment and his illusions. In it, she found strength—enough strength to walk away from her father, to escape through the heavy curtains into the hallway and pass by Thomas, who waited anxiously at the foot of the stairs. She clung to it as she climbed the stairs to the safety of her room, where the reassuring scent of her almond soap awaited her, where the armoire welcomed her with its scores of pastel dresses. She could bear this, she told herself. She could bear it all, if only she could keep hold of the memory of those precious nights with Jonas. If only she didn't forget the things he'd taught her.

But then she saw the sketch hanging on the wall, the crumpled and smudged drawing of a half-dressed woman with a mysterious smile. A beautiful woman. A woman who was not her at all, and her father's voice came back to torment her, a truth she couldn't run away from no matter how hard she tried.

"Why would he even look twice at you? Did you think it was your looks he was after? Hmmm?"

The good memories melted away. Imogene collapsed on the bed and cried.

Chapter 24

H
e missed her so terribly he couldn't sleep. Not that he'd been sleeping well anyway, but that first night without her was interminable. He watched the seconds tick by, watched the shadows grow and change on the studio walls, and told himself it would be all right. The longing would ease, and in a few days he would be fine. Things would be fine. When dawn finally came, he forced himself to set out his paints, to grind colors. The day-to-day routine eased him somewhat—at least he was doing something. But he couldn't banish her face from his mind, not her compassionate brown eyes or her delighted smile or her soft vulnerability. And the restlessness her presence banished was back again with a vengeance.

Jonas cursed as he prepared his pallet and began to paint. She'd barely lived here a week; it should be easy enough to erase her from the studio. It was only a matter of time until he forgot her. In a few days the smell of her perfume would waft away; the long golden- brown hairs he found in his bed would vanish. One morning he would wake up without even thinking of her. One morning soon. Soon, he knew it.

He wanted to believe it. He
had
to believe it. Jonas tightened his fingers around the brush, swirled a pool of lead white into one of ultramarine. He'd never thought so much about a woman, never felt so . . . so dependent on one. But Genie—ah, she was hard to forget. Hard enough that he found he was constantly reminding himself why he had to let her go.
You did the right thing
, he told himself.
For once, you did the selfless thing.

Now if only he could make himself believe it.

The knock on the door startled him—it had been so long since he'd had a visitor. He felt a swift surge of relief and pleasure, the unreasoning hope that it might be her. He forced himself to calm down, to think. It wasn't her. It couldn't be her. Still, he couldn't banish the thought. He tried to keep his voice as steady as he could.

"Come in."

The door opened the second he said the words. He saw the top of a blond head, and his heart raced in the split second before he realized it was Rico. Rico, back from the dead, or wherever the hell he'd gone.

Childs dodged inside, a wide grin splitting his features as he closed the door behind him. "
Bonjour, mon ami
," he said amiably. "I've missed you."

Jonas snorted. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Here and there." Rico shrugged. "I had a little business to take care of in Bridgeport. Besides, I wanted to give you some time alone with your little butterfly." His gaze scanned the room. "Where is she, anyway?"

Jonas ignored the stab of pain that seared through him. He tried to speak as tonelessly as he could. "Gone."

"Gone?" Rico raised a brow. "You're developing a real talent for obscurity, my love. What do you mean, gone? Is she out for a walk? Gone to market?" From the table he grabbed the pink bonnet she'd left behind, dangling it from its strings. "She didn't go far, apparently."

"Far enough," Jonas said. He focused his attention on his pallet. "She's not coming back."

"No?" Childs sat on the edge of the table, spinning the bonnet in his hands. His voice was mild, nonchalant, but Jonas heard the question beneath it, the sharp curiosity—and something else he couldn't identify. Concern, maybe. Or ... or sadness.

"No," he repeated firmly. "She left two days ago."

"Hmmm." Rico stared at the hat thoughtfully. "And you let her go?"

Jonas dabbed paint forcefully on the canvas. "I didn't have a choice."

"Which I take to mean that you asked her to leave," Rico said.

Jonas clenched his jaw. He focused on the painting, smudged a shadow here, and here, smoothed a line. Perhaps if he ignored Rico long enough, he would leave. But then he heard Childs sigh, and Jonas's chest tightened. He took refuge in anger. "Spare me the lecture," he said between clenched teeth.

"No lecture." Childs rose from the table, setting the bonnet aside, and strode with languorous ease to where Jonas stood. "I'm just surprised, that's all."

"She's an innocent," Jonas said. "The most naive woman I've ever known."

Childs said nothing.

Jonas flashed him a glance. "Christ, Rico, you saw her. You know. All I had to do was look at her and she crumbled."

"That's not what I remember," Rico said calmly. "And I don't think you believe it either."

"You weren't here," Jonas said. He clutched the brush hard in his hand. "You didn't see."

Rico leaned against a stool, crossing his arms over his chest. His pale blue gaze was too cool, too measuring. "Don't lie to me, Jonas," he said softly. "Did you think I would leave her with you if I thought she couldn't handle it? Did you think I would have simply abandoned you?"

Childs's words cut into Jonas's heart, along with guilt. He closed his eyes, struggling for breath, for words that pushed away, that protected. "You've done it before," he said.

"Never when you were like that," Rico reminded him—a little insistently. "Never when I knew you needed help. Afterward, yes. After."

Jonas said nothing. He couldn't force the words, and he didn't know what to say anyway. There was no way he could tell Rico the truth: that he hadn't missed him during these last days, that Genie's presence had been enough to distract him. It would only hurt Childs if he knew, and there was enough pain in this room already. Jonas let the silence grow.

Childs sighed. "You're right, of course," he admitted finally, his words heavy with regret. "I have not always been here for you. I'm afraid I am not as . . . altruistic ... as I'd like to be." He laughed self- deprecatingly. "I have not always been the best of friends to you,
mon ami
."

Jonas took a deep breath. There was something so sorrowful in Rico's words, an admission Jonas wasn't sure he wanted to hear, a guilt he wanted to ignore. He took a deep breath, wanting to offer comfort, but the words that came out were painfully inadequate. "I understand," he said.

Rico gave him a wry look. "Do you?" he asked. He glanced away, to the frost covered window and the snow that fell outside. "I'm going away for a while," he said. "A few months, probably."

Jonas tried to banish the dread that rose with Rico's words. He worked to keep his voice light. "Back to Paris?"

Childs shook his head. "No. Paris has lost its charm for me." He smiled ruefully. "Perhaps south somewhere. Maybe even California—the land of gold and wickedness. I imagine I'd enjoy that." He shrugged. "Somewhere that isn't cold."

"I'll miss you," Jonas said, forcing nonchalance. His heart felt heavy. Genie was gone, and now Rico. Already he felt too damned alone.

Rico straightened. "You flatter me," he said. "But I doubt you'll be lonely."

Jonas gave him a weak smile. "I'll be heartbroken."

"You are heartbroken, my love," Rico noted gently. "But not over me."

Jonas's smile died. He turned back to the painting. "Don't be absurd."

Childs shook his head. "You know, when I first saw her, I thought she was one of those nameless debutantes who had a
tendre
for painters. She was irresistible; so shy and helpless, with those big doe eyes." He chuckled at the memory. "I could not help myself. She was ripe for teasing. I expected her to run screaming from the room, and I believe she wanted to do just that."

He looked at Jonas with a soft smile. "But she didn't run,
mon ami
. She was so serious, but she didn't run, and she didn't play those silly games women play with fans and eyelashes. I was half in love with her myself at that moment."

"So I remember." Jonas wanted the words to be wry, but his throat was too tight, and they came out sounding strained and hoarse instead.

Rico continued as if he hadn't heard. "When she was there a second day, and a third . . . well, it became clear she was not at all what I'd imagined."

"No," Jonas whispered. "She wasn't."

There was silence. Jonas stared down at his palette, but instead of seeing ultramarine and vermillion, he saw her face. Her face the way she looked when she walked out the door. He saw the sadness in her eyes, the loss, the determination. Christ, the determination. The intensity of it almost made him weep.

"Why are you afraid of her, Jonas?" Rico asked quietly. "What makes you want to push her away?"

Jonas squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm not afraid of her," he said, but he knew it was a lie. He was afraid of her. Afraid that her strength was an illusion, that he would crush it as easily as he'd crushed so many others, that he would see it crumble around her. He was afraid of her because the thought of her pain made him weak, and he knew if she stayed with him he would see too much of pain. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't stand to watch her tranquility fade, or her trust. It was as selfish a reason as any, but he couldn't run from it, couldn't deny it.

And in the end, he couldn't admit it either. "She's not that strong," he lied.

"She's the strongest woman I've ever known."

"It's not enough."

Rico let out a harsh sound. "Nothing's ever enough for you, is it, Jonas?
Mon dieu
, I've seen you throw away things before, but never anything this good. Never anything that could help you so much. Jesus, do you think my leaving was an accident?" He shook his head. "Don't be a fool, Jonas. I left because she is so much better for you than I. She is the only woman I've ever been jealous of, because in only a few days she calmed you the way I never could. And unless I miss my guess, she's in love with you—which is damned convenient, given that you're in love with her as well."

Jonas couldn't help it; he felt the plunge of desperation at Rico's words, as if he were poised over a paper net, ready to fall through it to the ground. Nothing was safe.
"You're in love with her as well."
The words spun back to him, a demon truth, and he wanted to deny them, to protest with every breath, long and loudly.
No, I'm not. No, I'm not. No, I'm not
.

Except he was. He was, and he hated it. Hated the desperate way it made him feel, hated his vulnerability. Loving her didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the madness and what it would make him do to her. A week was nothing; it was the months that would destroy her, the days, the hours. Living with him, loving him. . . . Christ, it was a curse he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, and certainly not the woman he loved.

The woman he loved
. Ah God, not that. Anything but that.

He swallowed and turned away. "I don't love her, Rico," he said, forcing a detachment he didn't feel, could never feel. "I would . . . destroy her."

Rico looked at him with compassionate eyes. "I think she might surprise you."

Jonas shook his head. "You don't understand. I . . ." He inhaled deeply. "You don't know. You've never seen . . . that look."

"What look?"

Jonas closed his eyes, remembering. Remembering pity and wariness and fear. Remembering his brother's expression when he'd left the asylum, that blankness, the dearth of emotion. "Can I even describe it to you?" he asked softly. He paused, trying to find the words. "When I—when I left the asylum, my brother came to see me. Like a fool I thought he wanted to know what I'd been through. And I ... I wanted to talk about it. I . . . needed to. But he didn't want to listen. He pretended it hadn't even happened, that I hadn't been locked up in that hellhole for four months. And he wasn't the only one." Jonas opened his eyes, staring helplessly at his friend. "A conspiracy of silence. It got so I wondered if I'd even been there. There were times when I thought it was just another illusion, just a bad dream."

"Jonas—"

Jonas silenced him with a shake of his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Rico. I don't know if I'll ever escape it. I don't know what I would do if I did. All I know for sure is that I can't condemn her to this life. Don't you understand? I can't do it."

Rico held his gaze. "It's not your choice. It's hers."

Jonas let out a bitter laugh. "Well, she's made it then. She's gone."

"It would take only a word to bring her back."

"I don't want her back." Jonas fought for composure, for wryness and sarcasm and simple denial. He gestured with his brush. "Leave me to myself, Rico. All I want are my paints and a canvas. Given enough time, I'll forget all about her. I'm halfway there already."

"Oh?" Rico smiled, a crooked, ironic smile. "Then why is that her face I see on your canvas,
mon ami
?" He came around, peering over Jonas's shoulder. "Ah, I see you're right. You've forgotten her quite well. That scar on her lip was never there before, was it? Or that mole on her jaw. Yes, I do believe you're suffering the throes of amnesia even as we speak."

Jonas shrugged away in irritation. "Damn you, Rico. Leave me be."

"Certainly." Rico leaned back against the wall. His expression was knowingly smug. "I'll be happy to, as soon as you admit what a damned fool you are."

"Rico—"

"She won't wait forever, you know," Childs said, gently needling. "She'll go away and marry someone else. Someone who isn't you. She'll be kissing someone else, Jonas. Having someone else's children—"