Wolf Moon Rising (52 page)

have often wondered how you had remained so young. But I

thought . . . I guess I didn’t really think. I simply believed that you were so handsome . . .” Elizabeth rose and reached up to

Quentin’s face. She stroked the deep wrinkles with her fi nger-

tips. Th

en her eyes took a faraway look. “Eternal youth. One

could wish for that.”

He took her hand. “I did wish for it. I was vain, and longed

to remain young. But the paint er’s bargain was not my bargain.

You must be careful what you wish for because there are powers

ready to pounce, willing to fashion your fantasies to your heart’s

desire, but not for free. Oh no, there is always a price.”

She said simply, “Yes, I know that all too well.”

Quentin became animated. “Tate desired nothing less than

immortality! He wanted his paintings to hang in the Louvre, in

the British Museum, in the Prado, and he slaved away day and

night for perfection. At fi rst I thought the portrait was a mi-

raculous gift. But I was wrong; its beauty was a curse.”

“A curse? What a strange word. How can you say that when

it preserved your youth? Even if—”

“I will tell you why. When I fi rst met you, you were a beauti-

ful, pampered child.” Elizabeth lowered her eyes. “As you grew,

I remained the same, and every day you became more lovely.

My God, I was so smitten.” Again, he grasped her hands. “I

adored you, your willowy body in those sheer dresses, your

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charming laugh! When we became lovers— yes, the tenderest of

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lovers— we seemed close to the same age, but I was already

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much older, and I knew as soon as I fell in love with you that I

would never be able to keep you.”

He searched her face for sympathy, but he could see, as if

for the fi rst time, from these close quarters, time’s caress, the

fi ne lines around her eyes, the softening jowls. He dropped his

head and kissed her hands.

“Oh my dear Quentin,” she said, “if only . . .” But her voice

trailed off as he blundered on.

“Oh, I know I have a reputation for breaking hearts, and

there have been many lovely girls, their names and faces like

water swirling down a drain. I searched the world for my be-

loved before I met you, and, after I possessed you, you were the

one I longed to fi nd in all the rest. You ruined me. You were

the only one woman I ever truly loved.”

Elizabeth was silent, her head bowed, her fi ngers twitch-

ing, lacing in and out. When she looked up at Quentin, her eyes

were fl ooding.

“But . . . what happened to us?”

“Th

e portrait became my fl esh and blood, growing old in

my place, absorbing and, yes, revealing all my sins. But when I

saw the magic at work, I wanted something else. If I could not

have you for a lifetime, I wanted one year with you, one year

when you would be mine alone. You remember . . . we decided

to run away— to France, to Provence, to live in a country

house.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Of course I remember.” She smiled

faintly. “In a château surrounded by fi elds of lavender.”

Quentin took her hands again and, falling to his knees,

kissed them over and over, turning up the palms and kissing

again. His tears fl owed freely as he placed his head in her lap

and held her thighs. She could not resist running her fi ngers

through his dark hair, and she spoke softly.

“How did you make that happen?”

“It was Tate. He had chosen the Dev il’s side, you see. He

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lived in the world of the unexplained because he had sold his

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soul. He knew of a gypsy woman called Magda who cast spells,

and he took me to meet her.”

“Magda! Th

e gypsy!” And her face grew dark. “But I knew

Magda!”

“She gave me a potion that I was to feed to you in a glass of

wine. Afterwards, you would be willing to follow me anywhere.”

“Yes, I remember now. But I never drank it. Th

ere was no

need. I was ready to go with you. And what did Magda want in

return? I do not think she would have helped you for nothing.”

Her eyes clouded as though she was revisiting a painful memory.

“Magda asked for my promise to marry her sister, Jenny,

when the year was out.”

“What? To marry someone else?”

“I was besotted, you see, too much in love to know my own

mind. Th

ere was no bargain I would not have made. I told my-

self I would live with you for one year, and it would be the hap-

piest of my life. After that year, I hoped that things would

change, that I wouldn’t be forced to keep my bargain—”

Elizabeth shook her head and said in a bewildered voice,

“But why then did we not spend that year together? You disap-

peared so suddenly, and my world was shattered.”

Quentin sighed deeply. “It was your father. Th

e night before

we were to leave he accosted me in the foyer. He told me that a

marriage— or even a love aff air— with his daughter was out of

the question. You see, he had known me when he was but a boy

and I already a grown man, and so he always knew my secret. He

pointed out to me the one obstacle I had never considered.”

“What?” Elizabeth gripped Quentin’s arm. “What did he

tell you?”

“Th

at you and I were both Collinses. Th

at we were related.

Th

at, in fact, we were wickedly close. You were my niece.”

Elizabeth sucked in her breath and shook her head. “But

what did that matter? Cousins often marry. We had already . . .

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we were already under enchantment.”

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“He thought, if there were a child—”

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Rising from the bed, Elizabeth paced, holding herself and

shivering. “Fate is so cruel. We did not deserve any of this. We

loved each other.” She stopped and turned to Quentin. “And

did you marry Magda’s sister?”

Quentin sighed miserably and turned away so that she could

not see his face. “Yes, but my life became a disaster. It became

obvious that Jenny was insane; she was violent and unpredict-

able. She was hysterically jealous, and she had raving tantrums.

Being with her after my time with you . . . I couldn’t bear her

crass ways compared to your gentle ones. It became necessary to

lock her up, and when Jenny died, Magda knew I had killed her.

In grief and fury, she put me under a second curse. A werewolf

curse.”

“A what . . . ? A werewolf? No! How— She possessed that

kind of power?”

“Powers both potent and lethal. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?

I thought she was only a gypsy, a peasant, her spells primitive,

even a joke. I never worried because I had become complacent.

And the painting protected me. It assumed the werewolf ‘s na-

ture like all the others, and I was left unharmed.”

“Th

is is unbelievable. I can’t understand it. And why are you

so anxious to perform the séance?”

“Th

e portrait has disappeared. Can you believe that? I have

been searching everywhere for a month in vain. It has vanished.

Th

e full moon hovers at the horizon. In a few hours I will be-

come a monster. Th

e only way I know to escape is though the

séance.”

Shaking her head slowly, Elizabeth stared at him, her dark

eyes swimming in tears. “Not a werewolf . . . I cannot believe

that. Quentin, you are confused, delirious . . .”

Slowly, with eff ort, he stood and drew her to him. “Come,

Elizabeth, there is no more time. Let us go down to the library.

You know you long to live it all again. Escape this mundane

life— the guilt— and all these morbid incriminations. Return to

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the past, recapture passion— both of us so desperately in love—”

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“Quentin, I—”

“Don’t speak. Don’t turn your back on such a chance, even

if it is only for one night. Close your eyes and imagine it. We’ll

ride in that gorgeous car to the edge of the cliff , and there we’ll watch the moon rise over the water. Our hearts full, we’ll be

young, our bodies . . . aching with desire. I’ll make love to

you— in all the ways we dreamed. I’ll worship you, caress you,

remove your clothes one piece at a time, and then I’ll kiss you

until you cry out as you did when you were a girl. Say yes!” And

he clasped her hands. “Oh, please, I’m so frightened, Elizabeth.

Say you will come.”

He reached around her waist and pulled her close to him,

looking down at her. With tenderness he kissed her softly, but

she pulled away. “Don’t, Quentin, we are not young anymore, I

am old now, you mustn’t, please . . . stop . . .”

But he would not listen. He slid his fi ngers into her hair, and

turning up her face, he kissed her more passionately, bending her

body against his. Rapturously he lifted her off her feet and, her

toes barely touching the fl oor, he kissed her again and again.

For long moments she responded, limp and melting in his arms,

and then she sighed and pulled away. Reaching up, she stroked

Quentin’s hair, his cheek. Her whole body was quivering, and

when he looked into her face, searching for her response, she said,

“Oh, I want to come. You know how much I want to. I was hap-

piest with you. You knew me as no one else did.”

Quentin’s heart lifted.

“Yes, we were so alike,” she said, her words coming in bursts.

“We

were reckless, foolish— nothing frightened us. I always

thought, even today, if I could have chosen to spend my life with

one man, it would have been you.”

Overjoyed, Quentin pressed her to him, felt her warm body

as she spoke, her damp face against his chest. “Even with all my

fame, I have not had a happy life,” she murmured. “It has been so

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much pretense, keeping up a good front. Fate robbed me of my

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dreams, and even though I achieved success, and I was admired,

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I have never known love— not like the love I knew with you.”

She looked into his eyes and caught her breath, then burst out:

“Oh, I’m so glad that I can tell you this. I have always wanted to

tell you. My days with you were the happiest of my life.”

His spirits soaring, Quentin led her toward the door.

“Th

en come. We’ll escape to our youth. We deserve to live

it all once more.”

But her eyes grew dark. She stopped, pulled back, and

shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice breaking into sobs.

Her cheeks were wet. “I cannot. It’s too many years. We can’t go

back. We had our happiness, but don’t you see? It was over long

ago.”

“But, my darling—”

“Please don’t ask me to go through it all again. Th

e shock.

Th

e sacrifi ce. I— I haven’t the courage.” She choked and cov-

ered her mouth with her hand.

“Just the beginning,” he insisted. “We won’t relive it all.”

But she shook her head, her hand quivering, her eyes fl ood-

ing. “Please, please forgive me.”

Quentin backed away, his throat tight, a dead feeling in his

chest. “Th

en I will go alone,” he muttered. “I will fi nd you

there, and I will love you. And I will never return.” Th

en, with

head lowered and not looking back, he walked unsteadily to the

door and silently closed it behind him.

Jackie was saving the eyes until the last. She had patched the

portrait from behind with a piece of canvas torn from one of

her own paintings, and fi xed it with pig glue, then fearful of

puckering, weighed it down with heavy books until it dried.

Now she was working on the trim of the waistcoat, and after that

the medals, both requiring rose madder and cerulean blue. Man-

ganese and ivory black had served for the velvet jacket, which

now appeared soft and sleek to the touch, refl ecting the light in

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such a way that it revealed the muscles of Quentin’s chest. It had

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taken several tries with the lace jabot until she had fi nally settled on titanium white to highlight the intricate pattern.

She had carried the painting up to her room where she

could work in private, surrounded by her charcoal drawings and

watercolors hanging on the walls. Her many renditions of David

in his various moods looked down upon her with aff ection and

gave her courage. Barnabas, too, stared out at her with his mys-

terious gaze. Many times she had sketched or painted them

both, just fi nishing one before she had felt compelled to begin