Inamorata

by Megan Chance

  They were just words, a casual statement. Meaningless. But suddenly I was thinking of all the ways Sophie Hannigan might inspire me as if he’d deliberately planted such erotic visions in my head.

  It was my own desire, of course, my jealousy over the obvious strength of the bond between them. My own muse had been so fickle and inconstant. How nice it must be to have one tethered by blood and love.

  We had come into the dining room, and Whistler sat at the table, wearing his distinctive, wide-brimmed brown hat, the white streak in his otherwise curly and nearly black hair falling over one eye. He had a piece of paper before him, and he was sketching, quick, forceful lines that reminded me of that confidence I’d noticed when I’d first seen Hannigan.

  I leaned close to say, “Ah, there he is now, the venerable lion. You’ll have to kowtow just a bit. If he likes you, he’ll try to take you for a few francs here and there . . . it’s best just to give in and think of it as a gift. He’s a character, there’s no doubt, and he’s not above taking advantage of his eccentricity.”

  “Well, he has the right, doesn’t he? He’s a genius.”

  “And bankrupt after that lawsuit against Ruskin,” I said. “Charm him, Hannigan, and this whole society will be eating out of your hands.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Come, let me introduce you.” I led him across the room. Whistler looked up at our approach. When we reached the table, he took up the monocle falling below his narrow black ribbon tie, and held it to one eye. “Dane!” he called out. “I’ve been to the Rio Mendicanti twice. I’ve yet to see that colored water you’ve told me about.”

  “Perhaps the dyer is out of town,” I said easily. “I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine. Joseph Hannigan.”

  Whistler peered at him. “Hannigan? Any relation to the Boston Hannigans?”

  Hannigan said with a smile, “I’m a great admirer of yours, sir. And very pleased to know you.”

  “What are you? A poet like Dane here?”

  “Words aren’t my strong suit, no.”

  “He’s an artist. And a great talent,” I put in. “I met him at the Accademia.”

  “Drawing the Salute like the other hacks?” Whistler asked.

  Hannigan laughed. “I’m more interested in other views.” He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table as if we’d been invited, a bit of hubris that both startled and impressed me.

  Whistler frowned, though I thought he was impressed, too. “You don’t want the views of the lagoon or the sunset off the Riva?”

  “Well, they’re beautiful, aren’t they? But there’s something more here.” Hannigan looked as if he were searching for the right words. “Some . . . I don’t know . . . sadness, I suppose.”

  “Sadness? Why yes, yes.” Whistler said. “The melancholy is like nothing I’ve ever seen. The natives themselves—such want coupled with such beauty.”

  “Yes, I know exactly what you mean,” Hannigan said. “The other day I saw a courtyard off San Bartolomeo more splendid even than a Venetian sunset.”

  Whistler raised a brow. “San Bartolomeo? Flowers and such?”

  Hannigan shook his head. “Cracked paving with weeds between the stones. A simple wellhead. Stairs pitted by the weather, and a statue black with mildew in all the right places. I saw a woman there, one of those beadworkers. She had that reddish hair that Titian did so beautifully. And she wore one of those”—here, he gestured to his shoulders—“those old black shawls. The light was sublime. Everything decaying so prettily. Melancholy, as you said. Beautiful.”

  He’d been in Venice for two days, and I’d been with him for most of that. When had he had time to search out a courtyard off San Bartolomeo’s campo?

  Then I saw how he’d snared Whistler. Hannigan had said he had no skill with words, but, like his sister, he’d painted a picture as vivid as the one I’d seen in his sketchbook. Just as he’d done with me, I realized. That understanding, that perception . . . he had known exactly what would make Whistler pay attention.

  Whistler shoved the piece of paper he’d been drawing over toward Hannigan. “Show me.”

  It was a test, of course, but when Hannigan reached into his pocket and took out a stick of charcoal, I saw Whistler’s faint smile and knew Hannigan had passed at least one part of it. No real artist went anywhere without something to draw with, I supposed. Hannigan pulled the paper toward him, and in a few strokes he had the outline of the girl, the courtyard, the ruined paving stones. Whistler lifted a bushy eyebrow, obviously dazzled, as was I, all over again. I felt a warm pride and satisfaction that reminded me of why I’d brought him here. If Whistler was any indication—and he was—they were all going to love Joseph Hannigan, and that meant he would be a child of the salon, and kept busy enough that he would have no chance to happen upon Odilé.

  Whistler put his hand on Hannigan’s, stopping him mid-scrawl. Hannigan looked up.

  “What was your name again?” Whistler asked sharply.

  “Joseph Hannigan.”

  “Tell me where you come from,” Whistler said. “Where did you get your training?”

  Hannigan’s smile was quick and blinding. As I watched him wrap James Whistler around his finger, I wondered suddenly if he’d done the same to me, if I’d unwittingly fallen into some trap. Then I pushed the feeling away. I was too cynical by nature, as Giles often told me. And as I watched Hannigan bind Whistler ever more tightly with his charm—as alluring in his way as his sister was in hers—my curiosity about them grew stronger than ever.

  SOPHIE

  The Bronson salon was the reason we’d chosen Venice. When New York City became impossible, the Bronsons—and their influence and patronage—became our lodestone. They, more than anyone in New York, had the power to make something of Joseph’s talent. Now, to have everything we’d always wanted within our grasp, and so much more easily than I’d expected . . . it was somehow unreal. I hadn’t quite believed it when Joseph and I had stepped into the Alvisi.

  But when I saw the way people turned to look at my brother, the way his beauty and his charisma drew them to him, it no longer felt illusory, but instead all too familiar. It had been so long since I’d been at a salon or supper or any gathering of society that I’d forgotten the way Joseph attracted attention. The gazes of women and men alike slipped past me to look at him. And while I understood better than anyone his irresistible appeal, I sometimes wished that just once someone would look at me first. That I was not always in his shadow, that there was something in the world that could belong just to me. To truly be as special on my own terms as Joseph said I was—sometimes my yearning for it was so strong it took me by surprise.

  But then again, I knew that everything we wanted depended on Joseph and always had. His talent and beauty would make our fortune. We were special, bound together for a reason. We had survived for a reason. All I had to do was remind myself of that, and I could put such selfish wishes away.

  Just as I put them away now, as Mrs. Bronson smiled at me. I banished my nervousness and became the Sophie Hannigan we needed me to be. I told Mrs. Bronson and Mrs. Peabody the story of Mr. Stafford, embellishing, painting it as I liked, with romance and tragedy, along with just enough lurid detail to fascinate. Then I shuddered dramatically and told them how dreamlike it was, the discovery of the body and indeed of Venice itself.

  Mrs. Bronson looked enthralled. She touched my arm. “Oh, we all feel so, my dear. And it will get stronger the longer you stay, I promise. There are some who cannot tolerate it at all. I’m afraid despondency runs rampant among our countrymen if they stay too long.”

  It was what Mr. Dane had said as well. “But you’ve managed to escape it, I think.”

  “I adore the city,” she said. “I find such things interesting rather than enervating, though God save us all from the wretched scirocco. Come summer, it can sap your very will.”

  “And the mosquitos,” put in Mrs. Peabody.

  “Indeed.” Mrs. Bronson nodd
ed emphatically. “But the place is simply too hard to resist. The stories alone . . .”

  “Not everyone finds them as you do, my dear,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Most of us find the legends quite appalling.”

  “Legends?” I asked.

  Mrs. Bronson said eagerly, “Ghost stories, myths . . . most of them quite awful, actually. Tales of devils walking bridges and terrible bargains. There isn’t a gondolier in Venice who doesn’t know each one, and they wouldn’t hesitate to tell you if you asked. The Venetians are the most superstitious people in the world. ‘It’s bad luck to walk between the columns in the Piazzetta; a guest who crumples his napkin will never return to your table; if you see a humpback, you’ll have good fortune . . .’ There are a hundred other things. They don’t actually believe in anything, you understand, so much as they have the habit of believing.”

  “Except for ghosts. They do believe in ghosts,” added Mrs. Peabody.

  “Ghosts, yes.” Mrs. Bronson sighed. “And to be honest, I’m not certain they’re wrong. I would never have taken those rooms, my dear, and the tragedy for the padrona is that no one else will either.”

  “Unless they don’t know about poor Mr. Stafford,” Mrs. Peabody said.

  “How will they not? The Venetians are terrible gossips.”

  “That is true, I’m afraid.”

  Mrs. Bronson patted my hand reassuringly. “Never worry, my dear. We’ll find the perfect place for you and your brother. In fact, I could have sworn I’d seen rooms for rent near one of the traghettos—”

  “Oh no, you don’t want that! The gondoliers camp out there, and the noise will keep you up all night.” Mrs. Peabody shuddered expressively.

  “I would appreciate hearing of anything,” I told her with relief. “There was another lovely place off the Campo San Bartolomeo, but the landlady and I couldn’t reach an agreement on the price.”

  “You should take someone with you,” Mrs. Peabody suggested. “Someone who knows the city. Perhaps Mr. Dane—he knows his way about better than anyone.”

  “I hate to impose upon him more than I already have.”

  “Oh, but I’m certain he would be disappointed if you did not. He’s the most helpful man I know—don’t you think so, Anna?”

  Mrs. Peabody nodded so hard it looked as if her neck might snap. “So very helpful. Indispensable, I would say. And entertaining too. We all love him.”

  “He found Giacomo for the Loneghans, remember? Their gondolier,” she said to me. “Henry and Edith adore Mr. Dane. I believe their families are old friends. Do you know of the Loneghans, Miss Hannigan? Henry is quite the art collector. Mr. Dane is always looking for artists to present to him.”

  I tried very hard not to look as interested as I was. “Mr. Dane seems to know everyone in Venice.”

  “I don’t know how he does it, to be honest, but if you need anything at all, the first person to ask is Nicholas Dane. If he doesn’t know himself how to find it, he knows someone who does.”

  “He’s been here that long?”

  “Oh no, but I think he must make knowing everything his business—how else would he do it?” said Mrs. Peabody. “When did we first meet him, Katharine? Oh . . . it was at the theater, wasn’t it? That night at the Malibran.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mrs. Bronson, her expression mellowing in memory. “I remember a great deal of wine.”

  Mrs. Peabody’s eyes were shining as she told me, “Mr. Dane knew Giovanni Lotti, who’d played the lead that night. Such a sublime performance! The crowd was quite large, but once Mr. Dane discovered who we hoped to meet, he got us backstage. We spent the entire evening with them.”

  “It’s not the only debt we owe him. Especially after tonight, because he brought you into our midst, my dear.” Mrs. Bronson smiled at me. “He always seems to know just who will best suit.”

  Had I needed more evidence that Joseph was right—and that I should keep to our plan regarding Nicholas Dane—her comment provided it. “I hope my brother and I don’t disappoint you.”

  “Oh, never imagine so!” She glanced past me, then said in a low voice, “Here’s someone else who will be anxious to hear your news of Mr. Stafford. Mr. Curtis—have you met him, Miss Hannigan? He and his wife and son are particular favorites of mine. They’ve been in Venice some time. Let me introduce you.”

  The next hour or so went on like that, with new arrivals coming in, and Mrs. Bronson drawing me into conversation, until I’d told the story of finding Mr. Stafford a half-dozen times, and the whole room knew of my search for lodgings. But Katharine Bronson listened raptly every time, and asked new questions with every listener. I wondered how she did it, and whether such charm was something one could learn.

  Finally my throat was so dry I excused myself to get a glass of sherry. It was very good sherry, and I savored it as I looked toward the open balcony doors and beyond, to the impossible beauty of the Santa Maria della Salute across the Canal, the whole of it—golden angels with spears and horns and translucent white domes—struck pink and gold and blinding in the sunset. Again, it seemed impossible that I should be here, that we were so close. It only needed Henry Loneghan to make everything complete.

  I turned from the view and moved through the crowd, past the laughter and talk and out of the sala, through the smaller rooms filled with smoke and people, searching for my brother. At last, I saw him—sitting at the dining room table, laughing with a black-haired man in a hat and one other, neither of whom I recognized, and Nicholas Dane. My brother held a sketchbook—not his own—and he was drawing something as Mr. Dane leaned over his shoulder.

  Joseph looked happy. In his element. It reminded me of the time after our aunt had died, when Joseph had left school and taken up with the bohemians in New York City. You’ll love them, Soph. They’re our kind of people. And they were. The first time I’d seen him among them, I’d known it was where he belonged. I had never seen him laugh so easily except with me. Now I looked from my brother to Nicholas Dane, and was more resolved than ever to capture him for Joseph—and with him, Henry Loneghan.

  My brother glanced at me. He gave me a quick nod, and then turned to say something to Mr. Dane, who looked in my direction. Then Mr. Dane was pushing through the crowd toward me, saying, “Your brother’s sent me to fetch you. He’s made friends of Whistler and Frank Duveneck. Come and meet them.”

  As he turned to lead me back, I caught his arm. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “You won’t be intruding. In fact, you’ll only increase Whistler’s liking for your brother. He has an eye for attractive women.”

  “Does he?” I asked, and then, quietly, “Do you?”

  He stopped short, looking surprised. “Pardon?”

  I felt the heat rush into my face, but I pushed on. “I asked if you had an eye for attractive women. Or, I suppose . . . for women in general.”

  His expression became careful, wary. “Why do you wish to know?”

  “Perhaps because I’m interested.”

  “You’re interested in whether I have unnatural desires?”

  “That wasn’t really my question, but I suppose—”

  “What about you, Miss Hannigan? Do you like men in general? Or perhaps . . . you have a special liking for one in particular?” He glanced toward the table as he said it, to Joseph, and I went cold, thinking of gossip, of Edward, but then I thought, no, there is nothing in it. He had only casually glanced that way. He was merely asking if my feelings were otherwise engaged, and I supposed that was a good thing. My hand was still on his arm. I tightened my fingers and lowered my voice and said, “I am quite unattached, Mr. Dane. But I must admit I find you interesting. I suppose I’d hoped . . . you might find me interesting too.”

  I held my breath, wondering how he might answer, if I’d read him correctly. Some men did not like such directness, but he had not responded to subtlety at the Gardens.

  He glanced down at the glass I held in my other hand. “You look as if you could use another drink.�
��

  Too direct, then. I’d read him wrong, as I’d read him wrong nearly from the beginning. Nicholas Dane was not going to be so easy as Joseph had thought. He obviously wasn’t attracted to me. Perhaps it would be best just to leave him to my brother.

  I sighed, disappointed, frustrated, and released Mr. Dane’s arm, trying to smile. I held out my glass to him. “Yes, please. Sherry.”

  He took my glass and gestured to Joseph. “I’ll meet you there.” Then he pushed into the crowd.

  I watched him go, and then I went over to where my brother sat laughing with the others.

  It was after midnight when Joseph and I finally returned to the Danieli. My brother fell onto the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I’ve had too much to drink.”

  “No one would know it.” I lay on my stomach next to him. “You were brilliant.”

  “As were you, I think.” He pulled at one of my hairpins until a coil of hair tumbled to my shoulder. “I saw you with Dane earlier. He looked entranced.”

  “He’s not,” I told him miserably. “Do you know what he asked me tonight? He asked me if I had special feelings for any particular man.”

  Joseph pulled loose another pin. I shook my head a little, letting my hair fall. “He’s only asking if you’re taken. That means he’s interested.”

  “I thought he looked at you when he said it. I wondered if . . . if he’d heard—”

  “No one we know is in Venice, Soph,” he reassured me quietly. “And it was only rumors anyway. I have the sketches. No one saw them.”

  “Yes, I know, but—”

  “Did he admit to liking you?”

  “No. No, in fact, he quite pointedly ignored the question. I don’t think I’m going to get very far with him, Joseph. I think it might be better if you handle him. He wants to be your friend. He already likes you so much.”

  He curled a strand of my hair around his finger. “He’s fighting his desires. I don’t know why.”

  “He’s hard for me to read.”

  “But not hard for me.” He looked up at me with the full force of his dark blue gaze. “Trust me. He wants you. Keep trying. We’ll think of something he can’t ignore.”