The Portrait (29 page)

"Goddammit, shut up!" The words spilled out before Jonas could stop them, he clamped his mouth shut and turned away, struggling to regain control. "I've explained it to you, Rico," he said, his voice dangerously shaky. "I've told you—"

"You've given me nothing but excuses." Childs shook his head. "If you don't love her, Jonas, why are you painting her? Why is it that canvas over there is fully sketched with her image? Your masterpiece, you said. She was to be your masterpiece."

Galatea to his Pygmalion
. The words came floating back, an echo of memory. Jonas took a deep breath. His masterpiece. Yes, she was that, but not a painted one. She had come to life beneath his hands, had given him something he'd thought was lost to him forever. Peace. Hope.

Love.

He dropped the brush, hearing it clatter to the floor, and covered his eyes with his hand. "My masterpiece," he murmured with a bitter laugh. "Tell me, Rico, who was more changed when Aphrodite turned Pygmalion's statue into a live woman? Pygmalion or Galatea?"

"Must it be one or the other?" Rico asked. "Couldn't it be that they were both changed? Life is not as simple as you make it, my love. Things are rarely black or white."

"Perhaps."

Rico leaned close. "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, because it's where you'll end up."

"A cheerful thought," Jonas managed.

"Yes, well, I'm known for my optimism," Rico said dryly, backing away. He clapped his hand on Jonas's shoulder, a reassuring touch, a connection that warmed him. "Now, come have a cognac with me, won't you,
mon ami
? Help me celebrate new horizons. I'm off after the National Academy showing." Rico's voice was deceptively bright. Jonas heard the strain of their conversation beneath it, and he knew Childs was deliberately trying to lighten things. Jonas thought about ignoring the attempt, punishing his friend with harsh silence, but the truth was he wanted the forgetfulness of cognac and the comfort of companionship. He wanted to talk about stupid, trivial things. He wanted oblivion.

He put aside his palette and his paints and followed Childs to the door. "You're going so soon?" he asked.

"I'd leave sooner," Rico said, "but I'm dying to see that masterpiece of yours." He grabbed Jonas's coat from the peg by door and threw the garment to him. "You still mean to finish it, don't you?"

"I'm not sure." Jonas fumbled with his coat. Clumsily he pulled it on, reaching inside to straighten the lining, halting when his hand knocked against a heaviness in the inside pocket. He'd left something in his coat again. With any luck it would be money. God knew he needed it. He reached inside, his fingers tangling in the torn lining before he felt inside the pocket, and knew the moment he touched it that it wasn't coin. It was covered in tissue, an awkward shape—

"Are you coming?" Rico stood at the door impatiently.

"Just a minute. There's something in my pocket . . ." Jonas wrapped his fingers around it, pulling it loose. "Christ," he muttered, looking at the heavily wrapped lump. "What the hell is this?"

With a frown Childs came over. "What's what?" he asked. He glanced at the package, and his frown gave way to a rueful smile. "Ah. I'd forgotten all about that," he said. He nudged Jonas's hand. "Go ahead, open it."

Hesitantly Jonas placed the package in his false hand, lodging it between two fingers for leverage. Then carefully, curiously, he unwrapped it. The paper unfolded awkwardly beneath his fingers, the white tissue easing away bit by bit, revealing the shine of gold filigree, sparkling amethysts.

A butterfly.

Jonas stared at it. The gold caught the light from the window and reflected it back into his eyes, for an instant making the piece look surreal and oddly alive. A shining, beautiful, delicate butterfly, one he could not crush in his clumsy fingers, one he could not harm.

Jonas stared at it, and the memory came trembling back. Red brocade and cards and the thin light of dawn. Walking with Rico up Park Row and onto Broadway. Little shops with their windows closed and their expensive wares shut up tight.

Except for one little shop, and a brooch that had cost him the last of his rent money. A butterfly. For Genie.

He closed his eyes. "Christ," he murmured. When he opened them again, Rico was staring at him, a resigned look on his face, a strange sadness in his eyes.

"Forget the cognac,
mon ami
," he said with a sigh. "Go paint your picture. Paint your masterpiece. Try to get her out of your mind—if you can."

And then he turned on his heel and headed for the door, disappearing into the growing darkness of the hall, leaving Jonas alone.

Chapter 25

      
I
t's absolutely invigorating!" Samuel Carter burst through the entryway of the parlor, bringing with him the smell of snow and a draft of cold winter air. "I tell you, there's nothing like New York. It's worth a visit for the Century alone." He peeled off his gloves, slapping them together in his palms before he shrugged out of his coat and held them out to Imogene, who sat by the fire. "Here, daughter, make yourself useful."

Slowly Imogene put aside her embroidery and rose, fighting a surge of resentment as she took her father's things. In spite of the rancor that had been between them this last week, she forced herself to speak with cool courtesy. "Did you enjoy the club, then?" she asked, folding the wet coat over her arm.

"Of course I did," he said. "I just said so, didn't I?"

From a chair on the other side of the fireplace, Thomas looked up from his book. "My letter of introduction served you well?"

"It was perfect." Samuel swept his hat off his head and set it on a side table, where droplets of melted snow slid to the polished wood. He grinned widely. "Ah, the clubs of New York! Nowhere else in the world are they as fine—except for London, perhaps."

"I thought you hated the clubs in London," Thomas said.

"It's not the clubs, it's the people I abhor," Samuel sank into a mohair-covered chair. "A bunch of foppish snobs is what they are. At least New York has intellectuals. True philosophers. And artists . . ." He leaned his head back with a sigh of delight. "London pales in comparison, and Nashville . . . God, Nashville. . . ."

"Well, there aren't many artists there, certainly," Thomas commented.

"Couldn't make a living if there were." Samuel smoothed his bulky mustache distractedly. "As it is there's nothing much to paint but a bunch of prize- winning cows, maybe a dour farmwife every now and then." He sighed again. "No, much as I wish it, Nashville isn't destined to be an artistic center. I can't patronize 'em all, you know."

"Yes, I know," Thomas said wryly.

"Still, I do what I can. Maybe one day." Samuel glanced up as if he'd only just realized Imogene was in the room. "What are you standing there for, girl? You make a damned bad coatrack."

Imogene flushed with angry humiliation, but she swallowed the retort that rose to her lips and clenched her jaw. There was no point in angering him, even if this last week and a half had been unbearable. Her father obviously wanted to punish her; he berated her constantly, he seemed to take joy in humiliating her. And she knew she wasn't imagining that secretive glint in his eyes. He was waiting for something, planning something, and with a growing sense of dread she wondered what it was.

Though she would find out soon enough, she was sure. In a way, it would be a relief to know—Lord knew she was ready for this all to be over. She wanted to return to Nashville, wanted back her safe, normal little life, with its tightly scheduled days, its long nights. She wanted to put this all behind her. To put Jonas behind her.

Jonas.
She closed her eyes, pushing the thought away, just as she'd been pushing it away since she'd left him. At least Nashville would help her forget him. At least there she wouldn't wonder if he was sitting by his windows watching the snow fall—or wonder who was watching it with him. At least Nashville didn't hold a hundred little things to remind her of him.

It doesn't matter. It's all over now. It's over
. Imogene forced the words into her mind as if they could comfort her. As if they could sweep away the hurt and kill the yearning. But as long as her father was here, she needed the words. If nothing else, they helped her pretend everything was fine, helped her keep a hold on her self-control, however tenuous. For now it was too dangerous to think of Jonas. For now it was easier to imagine it was some faraway dream, a fantasy. Later perhaps, when she was safe in Nashville again, she would let herself think of him. When she was far away from here and the temptation to fall on her knees and beg him to take her back had eased. If it ever did.

She sighed, hanging her father's coat on the hook behind the stairs, draping his gloves across the collar. Then she took a deep breath and returned to the parlor.

And immediately wished she hadn't. Her father swiveled in his chair, his dark gaze resting on her with an unsettling speculation, a scrutiny that made her feel suddenly cold. He was finally going to tell her what he was waiting for, she knew. What was that old saying? Be careful what you wish for. . . .

"There was a reason I went to the Century Club today," he said, and though his tone was nonchalant, she heard the calculation beneath it. He smiled—not a pleasant smile at all—and with a twinge of surprise she realized that once even that smile would have made her happy. She had always craved his attention so badly that even his anger was welcome. But now that same anger only left her feeling embittered and resentful. She wondered when that had changed. When had she started to notice the contempt in his expression? Had it always been there?

He tapped his fingers on the well-padded arm of the chair, not taking his eyes from hers. "I went looking for Whitaker."

The name seemed to drop into her heart. Imogene struggled to maintain her composure. "Oh?" she managed.

" 'Oh?' " he mimicked. "Is that all you have to say for yourself, girl? Don't you wonder why I went looking for him?"

"Wouldn't it be more direct to visit his studio?" Thomas asked.

Her father turned, thoughtfully shaking his head. "He's avoiding me. I thought I might run into him at the Century, take him by surprise, so to speak. You did say he was a member."

"Yes, but—"

"I've sent two notes already, asking for a meeting."

Imogene's stomach knotted. "You sent him notes?"

"Of course I sent him notes," Samuel snapped. "What kind of a father would I be if I didn't demand satisfaction? He despoiled my daughter, for God's sake. Your reputation is at stake."

"My reputation," she repeated disbelievingly. She laughed bitterly. "Since when have you ever cared about reputations? You're the one who sent me off to study with an artist to begin with. Wasn't that scandalous enough?"

"There's a difference between education and scandal, Imogene," he shot back. "You would have been perfectly safe studying under him if you acted like a lady instead of some . . . some trollop."

"That's enough, Samuel," Thomas said softly. "Tell me, what will you do if Whitaker agrees to a meeting? Demand marriage?"

Imogene stared at her godfather in horror. "Thomas, no—"

Samuel lifted a brow. He turned to look at her. "Well, Imogene," he said coldly. "Would he marry you?"

It was those words that hurt, far more than Thomas's suggestion that Whitaker be forced to marry her, far more than anything else her father could have said. Because he knew the answer to that question as well as she did. It was humiliatingly obvious. She looked down at her hands, hearing the rest of his talk through a heavy buzz in her ears.

"I know what he's doing," he said to Thomas. "Biding his time. No doubt he's waiting for the right opportunity."

"The right opportunity?" Thomas frowned. "To do what?"

"To make his demands, of course. Do you think he hasn't a reason for ruining my daughter? Certainly he does. He wants something, just you wait and see."

"Are you suggesting he would blackmail you?" Thomas asked, raising his brows in surprise. "Really, Samuel, 1 don't think Whitaker—"

"Well, he's not above being blackmailed, is he?" Her father asked, throwing Thomas a knowing look. "I'd think he'd jump at the chance to turn the tables."

She was slow to understand his meaning. She heard his words, one by one, drifting through her humiliation and pain, but finally it wasn't the words at all that she understood, but the way her father said them, the edge of accusation. Imogene looked up. She caught her godfather's helpless glance, and everything fell into place: the way Jonas had taken her on even though she obviously lacked the skill level or talent of his other students, his anger at the beginning, the way he tried to drive her away. Of course. She couldn't believe she hadn't known it before. Thomas and her father had forced Jonas to teach her. They'd made it impossible for him to refuse.

She waited for the hurt to penetrate. She expected to feel pain and betrayal. Instead, all she felt was anger, and for Jonas's sake, not her own. She had never thought Jonas Whitaker could be forced to do anything. The knowledge that he had been was anathema to her. Thomas and her father had trapped him, had forced him to sacrifice his integrity—God, the thought was so ugly. It was ugly the way a trained bear was ugly, a proud and beautiful animal baited to do tricks for a crowd. She hated the idea. Lord, she hated it.

She felt frozen as she turned to Thomas. "What was it you offered him?" she demanded. Her voice was so cold it sounded like a stranger's. "What was it he couldn't refuse?"

"Imogene." Her godfather opened his palms in supplication. "My dear, you must see I meant no harm. You wanted it so badly . . ."

"Tell me. Was it money? Or was it something else you threatened him with?"

"Calm down, girl," Samuel said. "You're overreacting. It was nothing more than a little judicious pressure."

"Judicious pressure?" she repeated. She threw a baleful look at her father. "I know what your definition of judicious pressure is, Papa. You used it on Chloe often enough. You've used it on me. But I don't imagine Jonas cared much about losing your love, so what was it you told him?"

His eyes blazed. "Don't you use that tone with me."

"I'm not a little girl anymore, Papa," she said evenly. "You can't just tell me to be quiet when you don't want to hear me. What you did was wrong." She turned away, to Thomas. "I can't believe you would be a part of this," she said to him. "I can't believe it. You knew how I felt—"

"I knew you wanted to be an artist," Thomas said quietly. "That's what I knew. I wanted to give you that. I could give you that. I didn't think about right or wrong." He paused, running a freckled hand through his white hair, looking at her with a sadness that seemed to sink into her soul. "I told him I would withdraw my patronage if he didn't take you on. It was enough at first. But you know him, my dear. You know that could only hold him for so long. If he didn't want you there, eventually it wouldn't have mattered what I said."

His words were oddly comforting. Perhaps it was only that she knew they were true.

"I wanted you to have the best, that's all," Thomas continued. "I have always wanted you to have the best."

"Good God, this is maudlin," her father broke in. "You shouldn't coddle her, Tom. She's got to face the truth sooner or later. Whitaker's an opportunist. He saw a chance and grabbed it. He's probably thinking of ways to strip me of my fortune as we speak."

"He's not like that," Imogene said.

Her father frowned. "I'm only trying to protect you, girl. You don't know the world like I do—"

"He's not like that," she repeated.

"He's a painter, for Christ's sake."

"He's an artist," she corrected angrily. "Listen to yourself, Papa. You've spent years telling me the difference between craft and art, and yet you can't even see it yourself. Jonas Whitaker is brilliant. He's the most brilliant man I've ever known."

"Brilliant enough to know what side his bread's buttered on, obviously," her father retorted. "Don't waste your breath defending him, Imogene. He was using you. If you had the sense God gave a goat you'd know better than to fall for the first man who tells you pretty lies."

"Papa," she protested. "You don't understand—"

"It's you who doesn't understand," he said. He lurched from his chair, stopping only inches away. "You want to see the truth, girl, you'll come with me tomorrow to the National Academy's exhibition. I'll show you. Whitaker won't answer my notes, but by God he'll answer me—and you'll see I'm right."

Imogene shook her head. Things were pressing in on her, too much, too fast. He was controlling her, just as he always had, and she felt a growing sense of desperation, of an anger she couldn't restrain. "I won't do it. I don't want to go."

"Dammit, girl, you'll do as I say, and don't you forget it," he said angrily, his face close to hers. "You will be there. If I have to carry you bodily into that hall, you'll be right beside me. I wonder if you'll still be singing your lover's praises when he tells me how much money he wants to keep quiet."

Imogene jerked away. "I'm not going."

"We'll see about that," he muttered, spinning on his heel. "We'll just see." He left the parlor so quickly she felt the breeze of his movement. The buzzing in her ears grew louder.

For moments she just stood there, trying to catch her breath, to quiet the noise in her head. She was aware of Thomas standing on the other side of the fireplace, watching her, one hand resting on the back of his chair. She felt his silent scrutiny, but it was minutes before she could look up at him, minutes before she spoke.

"He's so wrong," she said helplessly. "About everything."