Hendrik cleared his throat. “He’s interested in a second portrait.”
Something in his tone caused Alison to face him. She inhaled sharply at what she read in his eyes. “My mother’s portrait? You told him it wasn’t—”
“Of course, of course.” Hendrik gestured impatiently, then tucked Alison’s arm in his. “But we must tread carefully. Our future may depend on the goodwill of men like Count Theodor Scheidemann. You understand this?”
“What harm could he do us?”
“I only wish him to know we value his patronage.” A flicker of unease appeared in Hendrik’s eyes but disappeared so quickly, Alison wondered if she imagined it.
A curl of fear settled in her stomach. “What’s bothering you, Opa?”
“Only the future, mijn schatje, only the future.”
My little treasure. Hendrik had greeted Alison with his pet nickname for her the first time they met, enveloping the confused twelve-year-old in a comforting embrace. It was the only time she had seen tears fill his eyes.
He led Alison to the kitchen. As they entered, Brant stood and buttoned his jacket. “Shall I ready the car, sir?”
“We’ll leave in a moment.” Hendrik waved Brant back to his seat and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Tell us quickly what you learned, schatje. We don’t have much time.”
Alison perched on a stool, tucking her fears away till later. She focused her thoughts on her whirlwind trip, sparked by rumors of German aggression and fueled by Germany’s destruction of Spanish landmarks in the recent Spanish Civil War.
“Arrangements are being made, but very secretively. The most important paintings and sculptures in the Louvre will be hidden in chateaux south of Paris. I met with Monsieur Bertrand. He showed me the crates and packing materials. He is also stockpiling gasoline.”
“He fears war, then.” A trace of despair sounded in Hendrik’s voice.
“Definitely.”
“Did he say which chateaux?” asked Duret.
Alison shook her head. “He only told me as much as he did because of your letter of introduction.”
“What happened in Wales?” Hendrik joined them at the table.
“The museum officials took me to a slate quarry near Manod. You should have seen me, Opa. I wore coveralls and a hard hat with a lantern in it. We went deep into the cavern. I’ll show you.” She took an envelope from her bag, pulled out a sheaf of papers, and spread them out on the table. “This is a blueprint of how the cavern is divided into rooms. And here’s the technical diagram for the machinery that controls the air quality.”
Brant studied the schematics. “I know someone who can help us with this.”
“Someone who won’t ask questions?” asked Duret.
Brant glared, but didn’t bother answering.
“All we need is a place,” Alison said. “A deep and secret place where treasure can hide.”
CHAPTER SIX
As Alison savored the final bite of her scrumptious chocolate fudge cake, Brant entered the dining room, whispered in Hendrik’s ear, and departed. His discreet movements and silent footsteps gave the moment a surreal quality, as if a black-clothed apparition had suddenly appeared by Hendrik’s side, delivered its message, and disappeared again.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” said Hendrik. “Apparently my presence is needed elsewhere.”
“Nothing too serious, I hope,” said Theodor.
“No, no.” Hendrik stood. “A simple matter. I’ll join you soon.”
As he left through one door, Alison led Theodor through another into the parlor. Two wingback chairs, richly upholstered in russet damask, faced a matching sofa across a rosewood coffee table. A wall of shelves held leather-bound books interspersed with a tasteful variety of pottery and sculptures. Slender glass vases scattered around the room held yellow and pink tulips, their buds fully open.
Rain spattered on the trio of lead-paned windows that rose above a cushioned built-in seat. Alison glanced toward the windows as a streak of lightning lit up the night sky. Settling into one of the wingbacks, she wondered if rain fell on Kenniston Hall.
“Do you remember when we met?” Theodor stood beside the parlor hearth, framed by the fireplace’s stone and a mahogany pedestal displaying a bronze Arabian stallion, its front hooves pawing the air.
Despite Theodor’s relaxed stance, or perhaps because of it, Alison suspected his pose was deliberately designed to catch her eye. She imagined him wearing breeches and stockings, a waistcoat and broad-brimmed hat, a subject worthy of Rembrandt. She smiled to herself at the thought of the great master painting this twentieth-century man of the world.
“So you do remember.”
She blinked, realizing she had been staring at him. “Yes, of course. It was four years ago at the Boijmans Vermeer: Origins and Influences.” The museum, one of the oldest in the Netherlands, had showcased the influential seventeenth-century painter, famous for his domestic images of Dutch life and the rarity of his work, as the first exhibit in their new building. No more than three dozen Vermeers were known to exist.
“You were enchanted by Girl Interrupted at Her Music.”
“I was—I still am—intrigued by her expression.”
“I was more intrigued by yours.”
“I’m sure I looked very foolish.” She remembered standing before the painting, her fingers aching to sketch the young girl from that long-ago world. As if in a trance, Alison had raised her hand and mimicked Vermeer’s strokes. The museum faded away, leaving her in the master’s studio, where she could almost smell the oils of the paints, the pungent candles. Theodor had broken the spell by offering to buy her invisible painting. They had laughed and wandered through the rest of the exhibit together, playfully arguing over their different interpretations.
“You looked beautifully preoccupied. An artist of great talent,” Theodor said, bringing Alison back to the present just as he had on the day of the Vermeer exhibit.
“Not that great.”
“Better than you believe.” He sat on the sofa across from her, his voice weighting each word with meaning. “After all, you are a Van Schuyler. Sole heir to an artistic legacy. You only need to find your inspiration.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Images flashed before her. Young Josef and his violin. Ian at Minivers. The stone fountain in the park. Perhaps she already had.
Hendrik appeared in the doorway, waving his unlit pipe and spouting good-natured apologies for abandoning his guest. Another streak of lightning flashed outside the windows, and he closed the wooden shutters before settling into the other wingback.
“You concluded your business satisfactorily?” Theodor asked.
“Oh yes. As I said, a simple matter.” Hendrik retrieved a match from a nearby silver holder, taking his time lighting his pipe. Soon the familiar aroma of his tobacco overcame the sweet and unassuming fragrance of the tulips.
“I was about to compliment Alison on your fine painting.” Theodor nodded toward the immense gold-framed portrait above the fireplace. “A Frans Hals the Elder if I’m not mistaken.”
“One of his later works, yes.”
“And the gentleman in the portrait? A long-ago ancestor, I presume.”
“The founder of our gallery.”
“Three centuries.” Theodor shook his head, as if amazed, yet Alison detected something false behind the sophisticated warmth in his brilliant blue eyes. She dismissed her uneasiness, blaming her suspicions on the weariness descending upon her. Stifling a yawn, she stared at the portrait as if she had never seen it before. Johann Van Schuyler, hailed as the founder of the family dynasty and blamed for each heart-wrenching tragedy endured by his direct descendants.
“I imagine many secrets hide in this house,” Theodor said. “Old Masters tucked away in odd corners. Forgotten beneath the attic eaves.”
“Our personal collection is a fine one, of course.” Hendrik gripped the lapel of his jacket, a sure sign of his agitation. “However, I venture yo
u would be more likely to find lost works among your own vast holdings.”
“True, true.” Theodor’s superior smile grated on Alison’s nerves. “Still, there must be dozens, if not hundreds, of valuable paintings in this country, their owners totally oblivious to their true value.”
“Perhaps.” Hendrik shrugged. “But I assure you that is not true in our home. Is it, my dear?”
Alison smiled as engagingly as she could. “We keep a detailed inventory.”
“If only all stewards of art were as conscientious.” Theodor returned Alison’s smile and stood. “You must be tired after your long day of travel. And I fear I have overstayed my welcome.”
“Not at all,” Alison protested as both she and Hendrik rose from their seats. But an insistent yawn, only partially hidden behind her hand, gave the lie to her words. “Forgive me,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “But you are right. It has been a long day.”
“I trust you’ll be at the gallery tomorrow. Shall we say ten o’clock?”
Alison glanced at her grandfather, who gave a slight nod. “Yes. Ten o’clock will be fine.”
Theodor bowed slightly from the waist and Brant appeared to escort him out amid another round of good-nights. Alison and Hendrik waited, still as the Grecian statues on either side of the window seat, until they heard Brant closing and locking the front door.
Alison collapsed in her chair. “‘Stewards of art’? What in the world does that mean?”
“I don’t know, but the prices just went up on anything he purchases tomorrow. Add at least ten percent. Twenty.”
“He knows what he’s doing. If the prices are too high, he’ll go elsewhere.”
“Let him.”
“Are you no longer interested in eating?” she teased. Hendrik harrumphed and Alison plucked at the lacy overlay of her lavender evening gown. When she spoke, her voice felt small in the overstuffed room. “We could use the money.”
Hendrik stopped pacing and reached for Alison’s hand. “Yes, mijn schatje, it is true. But we are not desperate yet. Besides, I prefer Dutch kroners to anything belonging to that German. Even American dollars would be better.”
Alison grinned at him. His prejudice against anything American had become something of a family joke. The seeds of distaste were sown when his son, Alison’s father, had forsaken his native soil in favor of the seductive land of opportunity. Hendrik blamed that far-away country both for the brief success his son had found there and for the economic disaster now rippling throughout Europe.
“You are the only good thing to come from that upstart of a place.” Hendrik kissed her fingers with a loud smack. Alison squeezed his hand. It was what he always said after one of his rants.
He smiled at her, then took a deep breath, his mood becoming more somber. “Brant and I need to go out for a while.”
“Where?”
“It’s best you don’t know.”
“I want to help.”
“You already have. The blueprints and schematics will help us hide our national treasures.”
“I can do more.”
“Perhaps later. After the arrangements are made.” He held her gaze, his gray-blue eyes so like her father’s, like her own. “But for now, no.”
She frowned, too tired to argue and knowing his mind was made up.
“Off to bed with you,” he said, his voice tender. “You have an important appointment tomorrow with our friend the count.”
Alison kissed him good night and headed up the curved stairs to her bedroom at the back of the house. Pulling aside the chintz curtain, she peered out her rain-streaked window, but the well-tended garden that sloped to the turbulent canal was shrouded in shadows. Unseen stars hid behind ebony clouds, leaving the world wrapped in darkness.
Again her thoughts turned to the occupants of Kenniston Hall. How had Ian’s parents welcomed home their only son? What special foods had graced their supper table? Did he stare up into the night sky and dream of her?
The igniting of a car engine broke through the splattering rain. A moment later, parallel streams of yellow light arced and disappeared as Hendrik and Brant headed to their secret meeting.
Letting the curtain fall into place, Alison retrieved her bag from where she’d dropped it earlier and sank into a powder-blue armchair. She unpacked the miniature lighthouse and pressed the recessed button. As the music box played its poignant notes, she smoothed out the crumpled napkin and studied the sketch she had made of Ian that morning. Only a few hours ago, but to her heart, an eternity. She traced Ian’s features with her finger as the tinkling melody of “Greensleeves” brushed against the staccato notes of the drumming rain.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“She’s not for sale.” Alison crossed her arms. She and Theodor stood in front of The Girl in the Garden, prominently displayed as the gallery’s centerpiece. The dark-haired young woman in the painting, Alison’s mother, wore a simple dress in the blue favored by Vermeer. She stood beside a tall birch, one hand resting on the silvery bark, as if ready to slip behind the tree. Her deep-brown eyes, gazing from the canvas, extended a wordless invitation to a game of hide-and-seek. A riot of color surrounded her, a Monet-esque garden of light. Pieter Schuyler’s masterpiece. A mystical homage to an Old Master and a modern Impressionist.
“You look very much like her,” said Theodor. “Except for the color of your hair and eyes.”
“I have my father’s eyes, his coloring.”
“It’s just as well.”
Alison turned to him, puzzled. “What does that mean?”
“It means you have nothing to worry about.”
“What should I be worrying about?”
Theodor grasped her hands, his eyes softening as he held her gaze. “It has not been easy waiting for you to grow up.”
“You’ve been waiting—”
“Four very long years.” He smiled down at her, his fingers cool and strong against her skin. “Too young to know your heart. But now . . .”
Alison stepped back, but he held on to her hands and kept her close.
“I knew that first day,” he said, “standing in front of the Vermeer, that we belonged together. Our fates are intertwined. Surely you see this too.”
“Theodor,” she began. “I don’t . . . You must know that I can’t—”
“I am not afraid of the Van Schuyler curse.”
She pulled away, her eyes wide with surprise. “It’s not a curse. It’s . . . it’s just the way it is with us.”
“How does it go? Love that burns bright and fast is the love that cannot last. ’Tis the Van Schuyler tragic fate, that Death steps in, a heart to break.”
“How did you know that?” The cursed poem had been nibbling at her since she met Ian. Suddenly cold, she rubbed her arms. She had first heard her papa reciting it in a drunken singsong voice after her mother’s funeral. Later she had found its lines scrawled along the borders surrounding an old family tree. One with dates that gave proof to the words.
“I make it my business to know things.” Theodor laughed at her frozen expression. “I meant what I said, Alison. You’re old enough now to decide what you want from life. Whether you’re going to stay in this provincial country or participate in the renewal of an exciting future.”
“Renewal?”
“A golden future, governed by the superior race.” Theodor gave her a patronizing smile. “You and I, Alison. We are among the elite.”
She stared at him, wondering if she had somehow misunderstood what he’d said. But no. His eyes gleamed with certitude. She was opening her mouth, still unsure what to say, when a commotion came from the entryway. A rotund man, squeezed into a Luftwaffe uniform, stood in the arched entrance as if he himself were on display.
“Ah.” Theodor smiled and grasped Alison’s arm. “I want you to meet someone. Commander Hermann Göring.”
* * *
Theodor tugged at his pristine white cuffs, adjusting the square gold links so that the embossed monogra
m could be easily seen beneath the sleeves of his pinstriped jacket.
“This is a tremendous honor,” he said, leaning close to Alison. “Herr Göring’s patronage may garner the attention of the Führer himself. No doubt Herr Hitler would have been one of the greatest painters of his generation—the greatest—if the needs of his country had not called him to public service.”
“I didn’t know.”
“The Führer has many talents.” Theodor inwardly smiled at the wonder shining in Alison’s expressive eyes as he smoothed his silk tie and straightened the golden clasp. “His artistic vision will transform Europe. And the Van Schuyler Fine Arts Gallery can be a significant contributor to fulfilling his dreams.”
Alison’s eyes widened and Theodor clasped her elbow, pleased that his surprise had left her speechless. He wished to tell her more about the Führer’s plans, the secret behind his own visit to Rotterdam’s famous museums and galleries. But even his associates didn’t know that the inventories they were creating, with the help of the foolish curators, would later be used by the Führer to reclaim Germany’s cultural heritage. The lists would help identify every painting by a German artist, every sculpture stolen by that egomaniacal Napoleon Bonaparte, any art rightfully belonging to the German Volk. As well as any other remarkable works needing the protection of the Third Reich. Once the works were acquired, they would be properly displayed in the Führer’s planned architectural wonder, his Führermuseum.
All in good time, of course. Timing mattered for any worthwhile endeavor. And reward invariably came to a man with patience.
Theodor squared his shoulders as Alison shifted beside him. He admired her tense profile and, gratified by her nervousness, followed her gaze. “No need to fear,” he murmured. “Come. I will introduce you.”
He steered Alison toward Göring and the adjutant who accompanied him, then snapped his heels together and extended his arm. “Heil Hitler.”
The two officers returned the salute, their deep voices resonating through the quiet gallery. Out of the corner of his eye, Theodor saw Alison flinch, ever so slightly, and he placed his hand at the small of her back. His touch seemed to calm her, he noted with satisfaction.
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