After Innocence

by Brenda Joyce

She felt sheer panic then. She also stood. “No!”

  His smile was twisted. “Then when? The day after? Another week? There is no sense waiting.” His gaze pinned her, daring her to commit treachery—daring her to even try to back out now.

  She gulped air, filling both lungs. “H-How about after my solo exhibition?”

  “When the hell is that?”

  “It’s only another two weeks,” she whispered, her voice unrecognizable.

  He nodded abruptly.

  Sofie could not hold back another moment, and she burst into tears.

  Edward stared.

  “I’m s-sorry,” she choked, covering her face with her hands. Wasn’t a marriage, any kind of marriage, as impossible as their current living arrangement? “I don’t know how we will manage.”

  Suddenly Edward was standing before her and he pulled her hands from her face. “We will manage,” he gritted, his eyes blazing.

  Sofie recoiled.

  Edward turned and stalked from the room. A moment later the front door slammed, sounding like thunder before the onslaught of the storm.

  Rachelle had not come back yet. Sofie picked up a pen she often used when she did ink and washes. Her hand moved of its own volition. She sketched Edward quickly, his head, his neck and shoulders, just hinting at the power in his broad frame, then she began to detail his face. When his bold gaze looked up at her from the page, she dropped the pen and covered her face with her hands.

  Oh, God, she was more in love with him than ever—and it hurt more than ever before, too.

  Sofie stared at the rough sketch. She had done some sketches during the transatlantic crossing, but they had not been very good and she had torn them up. In truth, she had not worked since the day Edward had found her in Zut with her friends celebrating the fact that Paul Durand-Ruel intended a solo exhibition for her in New York.

  But what did it matter if she drew him now? Soon they would be married. Soon she might even be able to ask him to model for her. Despite her distress, Sofie’s heart fluttered a little at the thought.

  It had been so long. How she needed to work, losing herself to her passion and love of work.

  Abruptly Sofie picked up the pen and gave in. She began to sketch Edward in earnest as she had seen him last night. Her strokes were bolder man usual, and hard and fast and long. As she could not resist temptation, as he had always been her favorite subject, once again she would do him in oils. Perhaps if she concentrated on the professional aspects of portraying him, it would help her distress. Both Vollard and Durand-Ruel liked her canvases of Edward best. Her exhibition was in ten days. Perhaps she would have this canvas done by then. As her works of Edward so far had all been exemplary, and as she had completed each and every one in a matter of a few frenzied, and therefore exhausting, days, it was probable. If this work was up to par, Jacques Durand-Ruel was going to be thrilled.

  With a few more tense strokes, she added the impression of power to his body. Edward lounged against the wall, but he appeared tense and explosive. As tense and explosive as she herself was feeling. How was she going to go through with this? How could she not?

  Sighing, Sofie laid down the pen. She stared at the sketch of Edward as he had been last night at Lisa’s ball. Superbly elegant, superbly male. Last night. It hardly seemed possible that after all the time that had elapsed since she had run away from New York to Paris, Edward had found her only last night. Not only had he found her last night, but within the space of twenty-four hours he had put an engagement ring on her finger.

  Sofie told herself that it was for the best. It was best for Edana; there was no question about that. Edana was going to grow up loved and cherished by her father. Sofie could recall how much her own father had loved her before circumstance had forced him to flee New York, and vividly she remembered all the years growing up wishing Jake were still alive, wishing that she had a father to love her as the other little girls did. It had been selfish of Sofie to run away from Edward after his second proposal, even though it had been an act of sheer self-preservation. Edana deserved a father, and now she was going to have one.

  And if her own panic over the impending marriage threatened to get out of control, Sofie was going to think about Edana’s relationship with Edward, not her own.

  Sofie had been so caught up in her own turmoil that she had not spared Henry Marten a single thought. Dismay filled her. Henry was in love with her. Henry was waiting for her answer regarding his proposal. Oh, God. Sofie did not want to hurt him, but there was not going to be any avoiding it.

  Sofie realized that she must not delay. First thing tomorrow, she must go and tell him of her engagement to Edward Delanza.

  Sofie hid her hands in her lap, so he would not see the eight-carat diamond ring. Henry held her arms, peering into her face. They stood just inside the door of his office. “God, Sofie, are you all right? Has he hurt you?”

  Sofie swallowed. “No.”

  “I heard that you left the ball with him. I told myself that you had no choice. You didn’t have a choice, did you?”

  “No. Edward insisted upon seeing Edana immediately.”

  Henry’s jaw was tight. “And did he also insist upon giving you his suite at the Savoy?”

  Sofie lost some of her rosy color. “News travels fast, I see.”

  “Yes.”

  Sofie inhaled. “He insisted that I take his suite as none other were available.” She squared her shoulders, met Henry’s eyes. “I have agreed to marry him, Henry.”

  “Oh, God, I knew it!” Henry cried in open anguish.

  Sofie touched his arm. “Oh, please, I am so sorry.”

  He turned to stare at her, looking as close to tears as possible for a man who was determined not to cry. “You love him, don’t you? And you always have. From the moment he began pursuing you at your parents’ home in Newport Beach that summer.”

  “Yes.”

  Henry ducked his head. “I think he loves you, too.”

  Sofie started. She knew better, knew it wasn’t true, but hope crashed over her. Oh, God—if only it were true!

  The day before the exhibition, Sofie was sick. She had always been scared by the thought of facing the critics and public alone, but when the exhibition date had been far in the future, it had been easy not to dwell on her fear. Now that very justifiable fear was compounded by the fact that the day after tomorrow, she and Edward were going before a judge to get married. She was so ill that she retched up the single piece of toast she had for breakfast, and remained queasy throughout the day.

  Their relationship had not improved. Henry was wrong. Edward did not love her and he never had—the very idea was absurd.

  Edward used his key to enter the suite at will to visit Edana several times a day. He was unfailingly polite to Sofie as he would be to any stranger. The explosive tension riddling him, which she had captured in the new oil she was doing, somewhat secretively, remained very visible. In fact, the moment Edward entered the suite, the air between them changed. It became thick and hot, a seething foglike monster, ready to strike flames.

  Sofie tried to pretend she was indifferent to his presence, just as she pretended that she did not notice the way he looked at her as if she were some piece of candy he craved. But when his back was turned, she looked at him in the exact same manner, and she knew it. She had never been ashamed of her lust before and could not be ashamed of it now. But at all costs, she would hide it.

  Sofie walked the few blocks downtown on Fifth Avenue so she might review the exhibition with Jacques Durand-Ruel privately before the public would on the morrow. She was sorry for setting such a foolish date for their wedding. The solo exhibition should have been the most important event of her life. But it was taking a backseat now to a loveless marriage to a man who felt obliged to give her daughter his name. But Sofie knew she did not dare even speak of postponing the nuptials.

  Jacques was expecting her, and he saw her the moment she entered the gallery’s front door. “Dearest S
ofie,” he cried, hurrying to her. He embraced her, then kissed her on both cheeks. “Ma chère, you are pale. I suspect you are afraid?”

  “Terrified,” Sofie said, honestly.

  Jacques guided her into the gallery, his arm around her. “Do not be afraid. As a rule, the critics in America are far more friendly than those in Paris. Too, we have played up the fact that you live abroad, which the Americans, both critic and buyer, just adore. I have a feeling, dear Sofie, a feeling that tomorrow will exceed all of our expectations.”

  “I hope you are right,” Sofie said as they walked into the huge room where all of her work was displayed.

  At a glance, she knew it was right. She had thirty-three works in all: twelve oils, twelve studies in charcoal or ink upon which the oils had been based, a half dozen pastels, and three watercolors. There were two still lives, but all the rest of her canvases were figural subjects, and eight of them were of Edward. Seeing him everywhere she turned, even if only on canvas or paper, so masculine and beautiful, took her breath away. As always, she was afflicted with the odd combination of joy and pain.

  Then Sofie froze. Two workers were lifting a large canvas onto the last remaining empty spot on the far wall at the other end of the gallery. It was the nude she had done of him in Montmartre.

  Jacques saw where she gazed, and smiled. “La pièce de résistance.”

  “No!” Sofie cried, mortified.

  “Ma chère?”

  Sofie rushed forward to face the canvas, which measured four feet by five and was now hanging on the wall, dominating all of the art around it. Edward stared at her and Jacques, unsmiling. One of his shoulders rested against a wall with peeling paint; behind him was a window, and through it the windmills of Montmartre were just visible. His near leg was bent at the knee, all of his weight on his far leg, so the posture was as modest as possible considering the fact that he was nude. No shocking part of male anatomy was revealed.

  In the lower right corner of the canvas, the rumpled edge of a bed was clearly visible. The room was drenched in sunlight, yet Sofie had used a very blue palette, and had kept the background airy and unfocused. For Edward she had used strong, warm, vibrant tones, and the corner of the bed boasted a crimson blanket. As Edward had been portrayed with almost classical attention to detail, he dominated the canvas, appeared larger than life.

  His eyes were gleaming. It was obvious what he was thinking about. Sofie had forgotten just how good this work was.

  Jacques ambled up behind her. “Your finest work. Stunning, powerful. This will make your career, Sofie.”

  Sofie turned to Jacques. “We cannot show it.”

  “We must!”

  Sofie’s heart beat hard and fast. “Jacques, I did not have Mr. Delanza’s permission to do this—much less to show it.”

  Jacques’s eyes widened. “He did not model for you?”

  “No. He modeled for the first canvas, which you sold long ago, and he modeled for Delmonico’s”

  “Yes, I remember A Gentleman at Newport Beach. And Mademoiselle Cassatt has so kindly lent us Delmonico’s for the showing.”

  “That is wonderful,” Sofie said. “But, Jacques, really, we cannot show the nude.”

  “Sofie, why do you not simply ask your fiancé if he minds if you show this work?”

  Sofie could not tell Jacques that she and Edward were hardly on speaking terms—unless it was to discuss the weather. She was aware that most of New York knew she lived at the Savoy in Edward’s suite with a child—and surely the gossips were having a field day with that—and that they were now engaged. Benjamin had come to offer his congratulations and best wishes. As Lisa was still missing, he had been gaunt and weary. Suzanne had tried to see Sofie as well, but Sofie had refused to admit her. As far as Sofie was concerned, the day her mother had tried to separate her from Edana was the day Suzanne had stopped being her mother.

  “Can you not ask him?” Jacques smiled. “Chérie, it is so romantic, la bohème and Monsieur Delanza, the diamond king! The critics already love your story—and they will love this. Ask Monsieur if he minds showing the nude. How could he? He has modeled for you before. He knows the business. And he is shrewd. He will understand what a coup this work will be for you.”

  Sofie could not imagine approaching Edward and asking him if he had an objection to her showing a nude portrait of him, not under the current circumstances. In fact, Sofie did not want Edward to come to the exhibition at all, and if he knew she had a nude of him there, she was quite certain that he would come. She did not want him to see how often she had returned to him as an inspiration. If he did, he would immediately discern that she loved him.

  “I cannot ask him,” Sofie finally said. “And please, do not ask me why.”

  “You must show the nude, Sofie,” Jacques argued. “This work will make you, chérie! Nudes are controversial anyway, but this one! C’est vraiment intime! A nude of your lover—and you a woman—oh là là! It could not be better! You desperately need the publicity!”

  Sofie knew she could not show it without Edward’s permission, no matter how beneficial it might be to her career. “No. I am sorry. Please, Jacques, have it taken down.”

  Jacques stared at her in dismay.

  And Sofie could not help feeling regret. She glanced up at the nude. It was magnificent, stunning and powerful, and disturbingly intimate, as if the public were being allowed a glimpse into Edward’s bedroom. Undoubtedly it was her best work. Edward was magnificent. He was everything a man should be. She knew that her dearest friends, Braque, Picasso, Georges Fraggard, and Paul Verault, would have urged her to change her mind and show it. But she could not. “I will see you tomorrow,” she said.

  Sighing, Jacques nodded. “But I may show it privately?”

  “Yes,” Sofie said. “But only to a serious buyer, Jacques.”

  Jacques smiled. “That is better than nothing, then. One last thing, chérie. You have not titled the canvas.”

  Sofie did not hesitate, looking into Edward’s brilliant blue eyes. “After Innocence,” she said softly.

  29

  Edward was tense. He drove his Daimler more aggressively than usual down Fifth Avenue, angry with Sofie yet again. But this time he was angry with her for going without him to her exhibition. He had intended to escort her. He was her fiancé. It was his obligation to be by her side at this event. But most of all, he wanted to be beside her to support her and to share in her triumph.

  It was almost incredible to think about her having such an exhibition now at the foremost gallery in the city in juxtaposition to the past. It didn’t seem like very long ago that Edward had first met Sofie, a small, frightened girl afraid of life, hiding behind her limp and her art. Very much the way a butterfly emerges from its cocoon, in less than two years Sofie had blossomed into an extraordinary woman. An extraordinary woman who would soon be his wife.

  And who was damn unhappy about it.

  Every time Edward walked into the same room with her, he saw her unhappiness, her grief.

  But he was determined. Determined not just to marry her and give Edana his name. One day, dammit, Sofie would be happy with her choice. He had vowed it to both of them, even if she did not know it. Tomorrow they would be married in Judge Heller’s chambers in the municipal courthouse downtown. And Edward would begin to show her that marriage to him was not so bad—that it had more than a few fine moments.

  Edward shoved the thought of their marriage aside. He slowed the Daimler. The tricolored flag of France had come into view, waving beside the red, white, and blue stars and stripes of the American flag. Both sides of Fifth Avenue in front of the Gallery Durand-Ruel were lined in quadruple rows with vehicles, mostly carriages and curricles, grooms and coachmen in white breeches clustered on the sidewalk, but also a few motorcars. Edward had to drive another block in order to double-park. But he was fiercely glad. Obviously there was a huge turnout for Sofie’s very first exhibition in New York.

  His heart was lodged in h
is throat as he swung out of the Daimler. He knew how important this show must be for her. He remembered as if it were only yesterday how afraid she had been to let Jacques Durand-Ruel view her art in the seclusion of her own studio. Today she must be close to hysteria and stricken with nerves.

  As Edward walked up the block, he watched a well-dressed couple leave the gallery, the woman speaking fast and low, the man nodding. As he passed them he heard the matron say, “Shocking! Shocking! To be portraying that man so openly … I will never, ever view Sofie O’Neil’s art again!”

  Edward’s heart seemed to stop. And he was very glad he had come now. Sofie needed him. He only hoped that this woman’s reaction to the showing was not a universal one.

  He entered the two large front doors and walked towards the showroom where the crowd had gathered, searching for Sofie but failing to find her. It was crowded but not noisy; people were speaking in hushed voices. His heart beat double time. He paused just outside the exhibit, his way blocked by a distinguished lady in gray stripes and a gentleman in a three-piece suit. They were in the midst of an intense conversation and did not realize they barred his way. Edward was about to shove past them when he heard the woman, flushed with excitement, say, “Harry, we must buy it! Thank God Jacques showed it to us! We must buy it even if only to hang it in our closet! We cannot let that magnificent work leave the country—we cannot—and you know it as well as I do!”

  “Louisine,” the gentleman said, “we already have that equally magnificent and equally shocking Courbet in our closet.”

  “Please,” the lady begged, clinging to his arm. “We must have that painting even if we dare not display it in our home!”

  “I will think about it,” Harry promised.

  They moved out of earshot, back into the exhibit.

  Edward stared after them, wondering which work they had been speaking of, thrilled the lady had wanted to purchase it so badly. Women usually ruled the roost, and he imagined that Sofie was going to make at least one sale that day.

  Edward moved past several gentlemen, entering the exhibit. The first thing he saw was several canvases hanging on the wall—and two were of him.