“Commander Göring,” he said. “I am honored that you accepted my invitation.”
“Count Scheidemann.” Göring gazed deliberately around the showroom, his eyes finally coming to rest on Alison. He stared at her with an appreciative leer. “The gallery is small, is it not?”
Theodor felt Alison bristle at the subtle insult in Göring’s tone. He would explain to her later that this was the way of powerful men. Authority must be asserted in even the smallest matters. He chuckled politely. “I prefer to think of it as intimate. May I present Miss Alison Schuyler? The gallery has been in her family since its founding in the late 1600s.”
Göring offered his hand and Alison hesitantly took it. He pulled, forcing her to take an awkward step toward him. “You will be my tour guide, yes? Of this—” he half-closed his eyes—“intimate gallery?”
Alison glanced at Theodor, her eyes betraying her discomfort, and he gave her an encouraging smile. With Göring as a favored patron, the gallery had the potential to become the premier establishment in Holland. Perhaps in Europe. An ambitious plan, but not improbable, given Theodor’s own aristocratic connections. Alison’s artistic genealogy, impeccable and lengthy, was an unusual dowry, but the perfect accompaniment to his own Prussian nobility. Their shared love of art would be a gift to their children, who would also inherit the artistic talent he coveted but did not possess.
“We specialize in Old Masters,” Alison said, her voice cordial. “Though we also have a few modern works, including a Picasso and a Degas.”
“Degenerate garbage,” Göring practically spat. “Such trash does not belong in a reputable establishment.”
“Our clientele might disagree with you.”
“Only the uneducated.”
“Herr Göring might like the Lievens landscape your grandfather showed me yesterday,” Theodor said before Alison could reply. “This way, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said. “An oil on panel.”
Theodor followed as Alison led Göring to the painting. It hung on a freestanding wall with several other seventeenth- and eighteenth-century landscapes.
Göring studied the display. “Who is this Lievens?”
Theodor exchanged a quick glance with Alison, who looked as stunned as he felt by the self-proclaimed art connoisseur’s question. “A contemporary of Rembrandt. They shared a studio for a time.”
“Of course, of course.” Göring made a show of examining the painting. “Now this, my dear, is art.”
He lumbered to the next display, giving the collection of medieval portraits scant attention before moving on. Theodor and Alison trailed behind until the commander stopped before a foot-high marble sculpture, Diana the Huntress, an alert hound at the goddess’s feet. He picked it up, hefting it in his hand. Only Theodor’s polished manners prevented him from gasping at the commander’s audacity. He purposefully ignored Alison, knowing she must be horrified at Göring’s cavalier handling of the antiquity.
Göring pointed Diana’s head at Theodor. “What painting interests you?”
“Not a painting, Commander.” He feigned embarrassed meekness as the lie flowed from his lips. “I am purchasing the Huntress. May I?” He held out his hand, his gaze unflinching before Göring’s suspicious stare.
“You were examining a painting when I arrived, Count.”
“True.” Theodor shrugged and touched the figurine’s base. “A painting of such value to the Van Schuylers, they refuse to part with it.”
Göring gave the sculpture to Theodor with as little care as if it were cheap pottery. “You must learn, Count, that everything has a price. For those willing to pay.”
“I assure you,” said Alison, “the painting is not for sale. At any price.”
“I have seen such a tactic before.” Göring waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Always the painting was mediocre, the artist of no talent.”
“The artist is my father.” Alison bristled, her hands forming fists at her side. “And the painting is exquisite.”
“I shall judge its worth.”
Theodor stepped between them, blocking Alison’s glare from Göring’s view. “This way, Commander.” He led them around the display walls to the gallery’s center, cradling the sculpture and swallowing his distaste of the commander’s boorish behavior. It was not what he expected from a member of the upper class. A long-ago memory stirred, a whispered rumor that Göring’s mother hailed from Bavarian peasantry. Theodor unconsciously sniffed and positioned his tie clasp.
Someday, he was sure of it, he and Alison would laugh as they recalled this day. But right now, he regretted that he had asked Göring to come to the gallery. He doubted Alison would politely ignore any criticism of her father’s painting, especially not by someone as ignorant of art as Göring was proving to be. Theodor refused to speculate on Alison’s response if Göring tried to bully her into naming a price.
Since they first met, Theodor had been intrigued by Alison’s forthright attitude. He found her refreshingly different from the polished sophistication of the young ladies in his social circle. But that independent spunk, sprung from her American roots, could endanger the relationship he hoped to foster with Göring.
Not that he held much regard for the Luftwaffe commander, especially not now. But he highly esteemed Göring’s access to Hitler, a privilege he sought for himself before Europe capitulated to German superiority. Nothing must upset his plans.
He held the marble Huntress protectively, its solid weight resting heavily within his palm, and swore to guard Alison against her own naive impulses. Smiling to himself, he brushed his finger along the cool surface of the sculpture.
* * *
Alison struggled to suppress her rising anger as she lagged behind Göring and Theodor, feeling uncomfortably like a tagalong child the grown-ups tolerated, but only if she obeyed their unspoken admonition to be seen and not heard. She grudgingly admitted that Theodor’s calm demeanor had defused a potential confrontation. Her inclination had been to grab the Huntress and bash Göring’s head with it.
She smiled to herself, knowing she wasn’t capable of such a deed. Van Schuylers did not deliberately damage priceless antiquities, though bodily harm to an enemy could be justified. After all, an eighteenth-century ancestor once fought a duel over the disputed ownership of a Vermeer. The family chronicles proclaimed him a hero. She stared at Göring’s broad back and wondered what had happened to that dueling pistol.
They stopped in front of The Girl in the Garden, Theodor standing so close to Alison that the masculine notes of his cologne teased her nose. She mentally stepped back and envisioned the tableau in front of the painting, how she and Theodor, shoulders practically touching, angled to its left. Göring stood to the right, but too close for a proper perspective of the artistic intricacies within the frame.
His massive bulk leaned forward, and Alison’s throat constricted as she imagined her mother being smothered by the sheer weight of Göring’s presence. Fighting to breathe, she unconsciously tucked her hand into the crook of Theodor’s arm, trapping her fingers between the warmth of his jacket and the unyielding marble of the sculpture.
“It lacks a certain—” Göring paused, his hand twirling as if to pluck the proper word out of the air—“sophistication, does it not? The woman is lovely, yes, but not a lady.” He turned his head to stare at Alison, a dare shining in his piercing eyes. “Am I right?”
Though Alison had often charmed the most pompous and arrogant of the Dutch art world with her poise, Göring’s sinister gaze rankled her stomach with loathing. Her frozen face refused to smile. She gripped Theodor’s arm, digging her nails into the soft fabric, and drew resolve from his demeanor. He didn’t exhibit any sign of discomposure. Neither would she.
“She is my mother.” Alison met the gaze of the young woman in the painting, and pride thawed her lips into an upward curve. “An American.”
“Ah. An American.” Göring chuckled. “That explains so much, does it not?”
“You don’t think much of Americans?”
“They think highly enough of themselves.”
“They are worthy allies in a fight,” Alison retorted, then inwardly cringed at the pronoun that had slipped from her mouth. She hadn’t meant to separate herself from her mother’s heritage. She jutted out her chin to hide her embarrassment. “We are worthy allies.”
Göring’s round face turned crimson and Theodor stiffened beside her. The veiled allusion to Germany’s merciless defeat in the Great War, like a stone from a slingshot, had sunk deep into its mark. Emboldened by her victory, Alison slid her hand from Theodor’s arm and stepped closer to the painting. She imagined the girl watched her, approval in her loving gaze.
“Allies.” Göring spat out the word, his face turning an impossible shade of red. “I will show you what I think of Americans.”
His arm jerked down and back up again, metallic black gleaming from his fingers. Alison spread her arms across her father’s masterpiece and sensed Theodor grabbing for her. A blinding flash roared through the gallery and Alison felt herself falling, slowly, gently, toward the parquet floor as someone frantically called out her name.
She rested her cheek on the floor’s polished surface and blinked. Diana the Huntress lay beside her, her vacant eyes paralyzed and cold. Alison slowly turned her head toward The Girl in the Garden, pushing her way through the wrenching pain that pressed against her skull. She clenched her teeth and raised her eyes toward the painting. A ragged wound ripped across the silver birch and slashed her mother’s cheek.
“No,” she groaned, her voice barely audible. She stretched her fingers to the injured Girl, scarcely able to lift her arm from the floor. A shadow fell across her and she stared into Theodor’s eyes, brilliant with agony, before her eyelids fluttered and she descended into darkness.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ian dove from the overhanging cliff into the deep waters of the Bristol Channel. He surfaced and swam with powerful strokes toward the rocky promontory that rose from the seabed like a giant’s hand, palm facing the sky. Reaching the graveled cove formed by the space between the giant’s thumb and index finger, Ian waded ashore and followed the steep, winding path across the palm to its northwestern side. A natural bench, carved from the stone by centuries of wind and waves, provided a sheltered lookout where a young boy could dream of do-or-die adventures in faraway lands. Or a man could dream of the future.
The heat of the August morning sun dried Ian’s clipped hair as he settled onto the bench and searched the far horizon. Wales lay across the channel, but the Atlantic stretched to the west. And beyond those deep ocean waters, an immense land that he’d given little thought to before meeting Alison. Chicago—that’s where she said she was born. He knew of the city, of course, but only as a name. He’d have trouble pointing it out on a map. Somewhere in the middle, he mused, stretching his bare foot into the foaming tide.
Alison. She may have left him at the station yesterday morning, but she hadn’t left his thoughts. Or his heart. Somehow everything he did, everything he thought, led him back to her. He wondered what she was doing this morning, if her feelings were as tangled as his. Out here by himself, alone with the sky and the sea, he imagined strolling into her grandfather’s gallery. In his daydream, she froze in surprise, then ran into his arms, tears of joy streaming down her lovely face.
“There you are!”
Startled, Ian turned and nearly slid off the wet ledge. He shaded his eyes against the sun that backlit a dark silhouette.
“Trish.” He shook his head in exasperation “What are you doing here?”
His sister, clad in a turquoise swimsuit, clambered down the rock to sit beside him. She tugged the rubber bathing cap off her head, freeing a mass of auburn curls. “What do you think Mark would say if I told him I snuck up on you?”
“What would he say if I told him you were swimming in the channel by yourself? You broke the family rule.”
“So did you.”
“That’s different.”
She playfully smacked his leg with her cap.
“Ow!” He rubbed the reddening spot, felt the grit of sand against his skin. “I should have left you in London.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.” Trish closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the sea air. “It’s good to be home. Especially with you here.”
“Why don’t you move home? Until all this is over?”
She appeared thoughtful, then shook her head. “Thursday night it was you who showed up at my door unannounced. Someday it will be Mark. He’ll only have a day, maybe two. Just enough time to get to London before returning to his command. And when he gets that day, I’ll be there.”
“I’m sorry it was me instead of him this time.”
“Me too.” She grinned at him and a spark of mischief shone in her eyes. “Except then you wouldn’t have met the girl on the train.”
Her words sunk into Ian’s stomach like a stone. He thought of his earlier daydream and wondered how different the reality might be. He couldn’t be sure that Alison would be overjoyed to see him if he showed up at her door. “Some dreams just can’t come true,” she had said. But she wouldn’t, or couldn’t, give him a reason why not.
“You’ll see her again, Ian.” Trish hooked one arm through his and laid her head on his shoulder. “If it’s God’s will, you’ll see her again.”
He brushed his lips against her windblown hair and felt a chill as an ominous cloud dimmed the sky. “A storm is brewing. We better go.”
They climbed to the top of the path and followed it back across the giant’s palm. Before descending to the cove, Ian stopped and stared eastward. Alison lived beyond that horizon, as tied to her family’s gallery as he was to the estate. And to that odd superstition. Thunder cracked overhead, and a strange foreboding gripped him. His legs shook, and he groaned as he clenched his chest. Trish turned, worry pinching her mouth, and rushed to him.
“Are you all right?” She grabbed him and he leaned against her. “What happened?”
The dark clouds parted and a slender beam of light slanted toward the giant’s thumb. The wave of anxiety faded and Ian took a deep breath. “I’m not sure. Maybe a touch of vertigo or something.”
Trish stared at him, her brow furrowed with worry. “I don’t think you should swim.”
“It’s not that far.” He faked a smile in an attempt to alleviate her concern. “I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ll be at the gazebo before you,” he said, challenging her with their childhood race. Across this narrow width of the Channel to the white sandy beach, up the wooden steps to the lower garden of Kenniston Hall, a final sprint over the clipped lawn to where the arched gazebo offered its occupants a breathless view of the sea.
She frowned, her head tilted to one side as she studied his face. Then her expression shifted, and she tagged him before running pell-mell into the waves.
Ian ran after her but stopped at the water’s edge and stared east again. “Protect her, Father,” he breathed. “Whatever is happening, please protect her.”
* * *
Theodor stared into the empty fireplace in the canal house, finding it difficult to believe that only two nights before he had stood in this exact spot, content in the afterglow of a simple but hearty meal and an extraordinarily fine wine. He glanced at Alison’s chair, remembering how the lightning from the evening storm, streaking past the unshuttered window, had illuminated the golden highlights in her hair. Her translucent skin, glowing with vitality, tormented him. So inviting, but not yet his.
He sprawled on the couch and rubbed his forehead in a futile attempt to escape his last memory of Alison before that French lackey Duret had forced him from the gallery. Göring’s harsh threat resounded between Theodor’s ears. “I will show you what I think of Americans.”
Unbelieving, stunned into stillness, Theodor had watched as Göring drew the revolver. He flushed again with shame that Alison had responded first, protectively—foolishly—rush
ing in front of the painting. Her movement broke his frozen spell and he grabbed her as she crumpled to his feet. The dropped Huntress smacked the gallery floor, the sound joining with the reverberating echo of the pistol shot, creating a cacophony of ear-splitting noise.
Kneeling beside Alison, Theodor had stared up at Göring, shock mingled with anger, only to be met with a withering gaze. Without a word, the Luftwaffe commander calmly walked away, his heavy footsteps pounding a regular beat in Theodor’s head. From the rear of the gallery had come the sound of softer footsteps, voices rushing toward him. He had turned back to Alison, whispered her name, pressed his linen handkerchief to the blood streaking her temple as her pale eyelids fluttered against bloodless cheeks.
Startled from his thoughts by the opening of the parlor door, Theodor stood as Hendrik entered, his face grave and still. He glared at Theodor, and when he spoke, his voice held no trace of its usual mild deference. “Why have you come?”
“I only want to see her.” Hearing the quiver in his words, Theodor stood straighter. “To express my . . . my regret.”
Hendrik emitted a harsh chuckle. “Your regret will not heal her.”
Theodor glanced around the room, seeing nothing. Seldom did he need to ask permission of anyone to do as he wished. Only his father, with control of the purse strings, had insisted on that courtesy. He took a deep breath and faced Hendrik again. “Please, sir.”
Hendrik moved to the window and pulled his pipe from his jacket. He stared at it a moment, then looked at Theodor. “Do you know where Commander Göring is now, Count?”
“No, sir.”
“Neither do I.” Hendrik paused, his breath labored. “But I will tell you where he is not.” He waved his pipe stem at Theodor, punctuating his words. “He is not in a jail cell. This . . . this monster comes into my gallery, shoots my granddaughter, and he . . . he receives no punishment. Nothing is done to him while my Alison, mijn schatje . . .” His voice broke and he turned his back on Theodor.
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