by Amity Cross
“I must apologize for the other evening,” he said sheepishly, taking me by surprise. I had not expected an apology at all. “I took a chance knowing you were not interested and ended up taking advantage of your sorrow. I’m deeply sorry, Jane.”
“I never lied to you, Rivers,” I said carefully. “I’m not interested in romance, nor am I the kind of person who can easily give herself for pleasure. It is not who I am.”
He nodded, attempting to mask his disappointment but not succeeding.
“I’ve finished,” he declared, changing the subject. “That was why I was waiting for you tonight.”
“Finished what?” I frowned, wondering what he could be referring to.
He laughed and shook his head, bemused by my reaction. “Your portrait, of course.”
“I thought…” I allowed my words to trail off, not wanting to bring up the kiss and subsequent days of avoidance again. It seemed to have worked itself out, and dwelling would do no one any good.
“Will you see it, and give me your opinion?” he asked, nodding toward the rear of the studio. “It is only fitting you should be able to see the finished product.”
I didn’t see the harm in it now we were back in friendly territory, so I allowed him to lead me back to the scene of our awkward kiss. I glanced at the couch with narrowed eyes before moving to see the canvas. I had not laid eyes on it and was entirely unsure as to what I would find. Would it be abstract? Or a lifelike representation? Or a modern interpretation of his pointillism works? Perhaps it would be in the same style as his landscapes since he wanted the portrait to be part of the display.
Rivers swept his arm out wide as if he were unveiling a masterpiece and watched my reaction carefully as I beheld his work.
The canvas was as tall as I was, the vista so full of color and detail I knew he mustn’t have spent much time away from it. There I was, etched in blue, white, silver, and greens—ice in a field of green. I looked elegant and relaxed with my cheek turned to the side, my profile sharp. The background was wild with swirls of color, the studio discarded in favor of the moors he’d been painting all those months since the retreat. Was this how John Rivers saw me? A wild and elegant lady with nature as the only witness to her deepest thoughts?
“I was drawn to this image,” he said, studying the lines of his work. “Something inside me knew I had to complete it. It was quite a strange thing to experience. I’ve been known to go without sleep when I’m taken by my muse so completely, but never have I drawn it out so long.”
The air became thick with mounting tension, and I stared at the painting, torn between wanting to discourage him in the blunt manner he seemed to require and to placate him just enough to keep things civil between us. I feared he would lash out if I pressed the matter.
“Do you like it, Jane?”
I nodded, feeling quite overcome by the image despite my misgivings about his intentions.
“I shall be showing the landscapes at a gallery in Kensington from next week,” he declared. “I thought it would be a shame to have them sold and not appreciated, so I shopped them around, and Space Gallery snapped them up within moments of receiving the inquiry.”
“Is that unusual?” I asked.
He nodded. “Very. I told them if they wanted my paintings, then they had to show them within the week, or I would sell them direct to someone else. Dealers dislike when I threaten them so—they miss out on their commissions you see—but I do love to tease.”
“It’s a little cruel,” I retorted. “You mustn’t play with them so callously.”
“Perhaps not, but they thrive on wealth and numbers, none of which are healthy pursuits if you ask me. The catalog was rushed overnight,” he said, the pride shining in his eyes.
“You seem especially proud,” I mused, turning my gaze back to the portrait.
“I feel as if it is some of my best work to date. It is a testament to the retreat and the venue, none of which would have been possible without you, Jane.”
I ignored his endearment and asked, “And the portrait?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure what is to come of it, to be honest. The gallery does not know about this piece as I was unsure as to when I would have it completed. I may keep hold of it, or if you are uncomfortable, perhaps I will paint over it and turn the canvas into something else.”
“It’s wonderful,” I murmured, the image of myself haunting my very thoughts. “It would be a shame to paint over it.”
Rivers seemed to think upon this as we studied it further in silence. I mulled over many things in the following minutes, from his unrequited attraction to my current state of unrest to the anger Edward would no doubt exhibit if he ever laid eyes on the painting. It was a beautiful rendering, but all it did was cement the need for my departure. I knew I couldn’t stay here, and I would have to leave as soon as I was able. I’d been delaying far too long.
“I would love for you to attend the opening with me,” Rivers said, breaking through my fevered thoughts.
He was asking me on a date to his own opening, and I blushed, focusing on the painting.
“Think about it,” he went on. “There’s no rush, and if you do not wish to attend with me, you are welcome to come on your own. However you like.”
“Perhaps,” I murmured. “We shall see.”
Friday came, and I agreed to attend the opening with Rivers, making it clear I was not interested in it being a date. He’d begrudgingly accepted, and it was done.
I felt obligated to attend, knowing I was the muse for this latest collection and for the assistance he’d provided in offering me lodgings for the past two months. I’d overstayed my welcome, though he insisted I could stay as long as I needed to. He was glad for the company as he mostly lived on his own.
Knowing I would have to dress accordingly and without access to Alice’s cornucopia of fashion, I allowed Adele to take me shopping for a dress. She’d frowned when I told her about Rivers’s exhibition but had accompanied me without much complaint. I now wore a fitted navy dress that cascaded to my knees and the neckline demur to conceal my scars. It was simple and elegant and paired with a loose hairstyle and little makeup, I looked well enough. I was far from an image of perfection, not like the wealthy people who would be in attendance, but comfortable in myself.
Space Gallery was situated in an upmarket area of London, surrounded by designer boutiques and restaurants, the streets bejeweled with fine people and cars. We arrived early so he could show me the exhibition without buyers and critics blocking the experience, and not even the curators or caterers were allowed into the space until we were finished.
It was surreal seeing how well Rivers commanded their respect and attention. I’d known his work was well sought after in the art world, but I had one hundred percent misunderstood what it meant until now. These people fell over their own feet in their hasty attempts to please him, and when I saw the prices on the canvases closest to the entrance, I could see why. Their commissions would be fat and healthy, indeed!
Just inside the door was a long, white wall separating the gallery into three distinct sections, and upon this surface, there was nothing but some glossy black writing declaring the artist and the theme. I smiled as my eyes flew across the markings. Rivers had titled his exhibition as Icescapes: A Journey Under The Surface. A fine play on words, knowing what had inspired him.
“Do you like it?” Rivers asked as he stood beside me, looking dapper in his suit—sans tie and his collar open.
“Very clever,” I replied with a laugh.
“I thought so myself,” was his retort. “How about I leave you to view the pieces on your own, Jane? I feel as though I would crowd your experience and fall to my knees and beg for a good review. I wouldn’t like to put that kind of pressure on you.”
“Of course,” I said with a nod. “I could not have it on my conscience if I soured your mood with an unfavorable critique. I know nothing of art anyway, so it would be ill-informed.”
/> “Then let me take my leave.” His laughter was relieving, and the easy friendship we once shared resurfaced once more.
I began to feel at ease as he left me to walk the gallery alone, a solitary figure amongst the ambient lighting and the moors, which had never looked so colorful to my eyes. Even during winter, when the shrubs and craggy outcrops were covered in snow and the clouds hung low, it hadn’t looked as magical as the images before me.
I attempted to decipher the emotions behind each, as Rivers had told me they represented a facet he saw in me, but I could not understand them at all. I was a mystery even to myself more often than not, so an attempt by another to unravel my inner mechanics was even more confusing.
“How do you like them?” came Rivers’s voice. I raised my eyebrows, and he shrugged. “I could not help myself.”
“They look quite stunning hanging like this,” I replied.
“Have you seen the centerpiece yet?” His smile was wide, and I frowned, shaking my head. “Then you must come with me.”
With a flourish, he took my hand and led me through the gallery. I was so shocked at his touch I didn’t pull away and allowed him to take me wherever it was he wanted to go.
As we rounded the corner, my gaze hit the oversized canvas, and my mouth dropped open. It was my portrait.
“Do you like it?” Rivers asked, staring up at the painting. “It looks beautiful with the lighting, don’t you agree?”
I was struck completely dumb. I had no words to describe the sharp bolt of fear that twisted around my very being. How could I have been so naive?
Rivers had said it himself. The portrait was the crowning jewel in his collection, and it would mean nothing without the image of its muse at the center. The exhibition was about me, not the landscapes of the moor. He’d told me they were all representations of my emotions, so how could I not have seen this coming? You fool.
I didn’t want my likeness hanging in a gallery for all to see, but there was nothing I could do about it now, not without revealing more than I wanted to. So, I held my tongue and said nothing.
“Rivers, darling!” A female voice echoed through the gallery, and I glanced over my shoulder to see a tall, elegant woman approaching us.
Her heels clicked on the polished concrete flooring as she walked toward us, her black dress hugging her silhouette, her blonde hair pulled back into a severe ponytail, and her lips painted a deep crimson, making the pallor of her skin appear flawless. I studied her closely, watching how she embraced Rivers close. Her arms remained stiff, her back held straight, and even though she kissed him on the cheek, it was cold and abrupt. There was no love between them, only business.
Rivers gestured to me, his gaze leaving the woman’s to focus on me. “Jane, this is the curator of Space Gallery, Anastasia Clemens.”
“Oh, this is your muse?” She took my hands and turned me, her gaze studying my person as if I were a prop in a stage production. “Yes, I see the likeness. Beautiful! You must be very proud.”
I wasn’t sure to whom she was talking, so I smiled hesitantly and glanced at Rivers.
“She is also very shy,” he said. “I’m afraid I did not inform Miss Doe about her portrait being hung.”
“You mustn’t be displeased,” Anastasia exclaimed. “It is magnificent! You, darling, will be the talk of the art world by tomorrow morning.”
I swallowed my anxiety and nodded. They did not seem to notice my apprehension and chattered between themselves, my presence fading into the background.
“Rivers, you must get Jane a glass of champagne to celebrate your combined success.”
“Of course, how remiss of me.” He turned and informed me he would be back momentarily, and the two departed, leaving me to stare up at my likeness.
All at once, I felt a chill pass through me, the ghosts of my past rearing their ugly heads to torment me. Jane Doe was not formidable. She was so afraid of the world she could not follow her own convictions. She was self-righteous, and look where it had gotten her! She was even afraid of being a millionaire.
Glancing around the gallery, I felt terribly alone. Was I only invited to attend so I could be shown off to prospective buyers? I was a figurehead for a collection I knew nothing about, and I was painted for a portrait that I did not know would be hung so publicly. I assumed the image had appeared in the catalog the gallery had produced, so there was no way of knowing who had seen it and how far it had been spread. Had Edward seen it? Would he come tonight?
I was trapped. Would I remain once the doors opened and allow myself to be used as a tool to sell Rivers’s work? Or would I run once more?
I could not. Not without doing the same thing I had done to Edward. Not without proving myself right and being the coward once more.
I stood in the center of the gallery, watching the caterers as they made their final preparations for the evening. I was a fish out of water, my presence completely out of place in this alien landscape.
I’d run from one hopeless situation and fallen into another. What had I done?
10
I was alone in the sea of society.
The world I had never been part of was now fawning at my feet, praising John Rivers’s newest muse, comparing the real thing to the rendering on the wall. I was no longer a human being but part of the exhibition itself.
I watched Rivers talking to a cluster of three women across the room, working his charm as he spoke in detail about the painting before them. His smile was bright, and his hands touched their shoulders gently, urging them to look upon the landscape. After several minutes of laughter and flirting, he shook one of the women’s hand and gestured toward Anastasia. He’d made a sale and quite a successful one as all three women crowded the gallery curator in an attempt to procure another piece from the collection.
John Rivers was a smooth operator indeed!
As he moved along to another group and another painting, my gaze wandered the crowd. It was one of the greatest pleasures I had found in my solitary ways over the years—watching the unseen world move around me.
Through the crowd, my gaze caught a familiar form, and my breath caught. I would recognize her anywhere. Perfect Blanche Ingram in her designer dress and painted face. Her mask was well fitted tonight, the manipulative murderess nowhere to be found, but I knew the truth. The snake slithered just below the surface poised to strike at any moment.
I swallowed my fear and turned away before she could see my face. Why was she here? Was it to intimidate? Was she here to remind me she could finish me off whenever she felt like it?
She would have seen the portrait in the catalog and attended the opening knowing there was a chance I would be here. Or perhaps I was reading too much into it. Glancing back at the portrait, I frowned, hoping it was not true, and the image was not a perfect render of my likeness. Studying the painting again, it was most definitely me, and my shoulders sank. My own stupidity had brought me to this moment.
Turning, I attempted to spot Blanche so I could escape without making her aware of my presence, but it was far too late. She was approaching, a look of triumph on her immaculate face as our gazes met.
“Jane! I hoped I would see you here.” Glancing up at the portrait, she smiled in delight. “What a lovely rendering,” she exclaimed. “It’s a very good likeness, don’t you think?”
“If you please,” I said, keeping my features as plain as I could manage. “Cease with the fake pleasantries.”
“If you wish.” Her mask lifted, and her true face began to shine through. “You gave yourself away, dear, in quite a spectacular fashion.”
“I suppose you thought I was dead,” I replied. “Until now. I suppose it is quite a shock to see me here, rubbing shoulders with your society friends.”
She smiled, but the expression gave away nothing. “I think we need to have a discussion, you and I.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
She looked at me with a raised eyebrow
. “It was not a request.”
I stood fixed to the spot, not wanting to talk further nonsense, but I knew when Blanche Ingram wanted something, she would not let it rest until it was hers. It was why I feared her wrath in light of Edward breaking off their engagement.
With a bow of my head, I acquiesced, resigning myself to my fate. I was to hear her threats regardless if I wanted to or not.
She led me through the gallery, away from the guests, and forced me out into the storeroom. It was well lit but cold and empty with rows of crates for transporting canvases lined up against one wall. Blanche’s heels clicked on the concrete floor, her back to me. I had the opportunity to strike if I wanted to, but it was not in me to be violent, even when it had been done to me. I did not wholly agree with the notion of an eye for an eye.
Remembering how I followed her and Mary through Selfridges the other week, I understood how out of reach she was to someone as little as me. She was as untouchable as she was shallow if knowing it was a comfort.
I watched Blanche closely, my gaze following her every movement. I had not forgotten she intended to strike me dead the day she pushed me down the garden steps at Thornfield. Nor did my memory slip when I knew she had been the one to give Bertha the knife which had struck me. This was no tea party, this was a battle, and I had to ready myself for anything.
“The look of fear upon your face is quite pleasing to me,” Blanche mused, walking calmly around the storeroom, her gaze flowing from crate to crate as if she did not have a single care in the world. To her, I was only a plaything. She was the cat, and I was the mouse.
I remained silent, knowing nothing I had to say to her would be either welcome or worthwhile.
“How is Bertha?” she asked, turning to face me with a malicious smile pulling at her crimson lips. “She’s such a spirited creature, don’t you think?” Her gaze fell to my chest, and she laughed. “I hear she struck you twice!”