With a start, Meg stared at the girl’s expressive brown eyes. They seemed to be staring back at her, soft with gratitude. She blinked, giving a slight shake of her head, and looked at the girl again. But the sensation was gone. A trick of lighting, Meg decided, stabbing her needle into the cloth while casting sidelong glances at the portrait.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A week had passed since the “Göring outrage,” Hendrik’s favored term for the shooting, but Pieter’s whereabouts were still unknown. The only letter addressed to Alison in Saturday’s mail delivery was from Theodor, written shortly after he returned to his Prussian estate. He told her how much he regretted the “incident at the gallery” and promised to return to Holland as soon as his duties permitted.
Tossing the letter on her desk, she paced from her bed to the window and back again, unable to shed the restlessness that gripped her. She owed Theodor the courtesy of a reply, she supposed, if for no other reason than to thank him for the bouquets of flowers that still freshened her room with their late-summer fragrance.
Plucking a drooping daisy from her favorite arrangement of purple and yellow wildflowers, she brushed the fragile petals with her fingertip. The idea of a third path into her future, at first so unsettlingly frail, refused to be ignored. It didn’t lead to heart-pounding love, but neither did it lead to lonely regret.
She wanted to trust God for her future. But how could she when the days ahead held no joy? Not for her. Perhaps contentment was the most life could offer her without crushing her spirit. Perhaps Theodor could give her that.
She dropped the limp daisy on top of Theodor’s letter and sat at her desk to write to him. A sharp ache jabbed her head wound and she glanced at her watch—4:23 p.m. Too soon to take more aspirin. Closing her eyes, she willed the pain to subside.
Once the throbbing lessened, she took her pen from its holder and felt her fingers tingle. Her father’s face, obliterated by black lines, flashed through her mind. If she redid the sketch, perhaps he’d return home.
Alison admonished herself for the silly thought, but couldn’t shake it. Grabbing her drawing materials, she headed outside to the poplar tree.
* * *
Alison barely noticed the slight breeze that troubled the canal’s water as she sketched the abandoned rowboat with broad, confident lines, reclaiming it from years of neglect. Drawing her father wasn’t as easy. She closed her eyes, recalling another boat that Papa had rowed off the shores of Lake Michigan during a long-ago Fourth of July celebration. He handled the oars with ease, pretending it was an accident when he occasionally splashed her.
The glorious day ended with colorful fireworks shooting high into the night sky, the reflection glowing upon the water. “You’re a lucky girl, Alison,” he had said. “The first American Schuyler.” His laughter, a rare but glorious sound, bounced across the waves. Across the years.
Holding on to that image, Alison tentatively penciled his silhouette and filled in the details. As she drew, the restless tension that had hounded her the past few days eased. She felt its absence in her fingers, in her shoulders. Even the constant dull ache in her head dissipated while she concentrated on her work.
With a frown, she erased the mouth and tried again, rounding the bottom lip to smiling fullness. Pleased with her progress, she tapped the end of the pencil against her chin. The sketch resembled the photograph in her room, except the boy was now a man. And someone she missed very much.
Soft footsteps, rustling through the grass, came from the house and she felt a twinge of guilt over her brattish behavior to Tante Meg over the past few days. Mentally preparing an apology, she added a few touches to the sketch while she waited for her aunt to sit beside her.
“I hoped you were drawing me.”
Alison’s head snapped toward the masculine voice, and her sketch pad slid from her lap.
Ian chuckled as he stooped to pick up the pad. “Who is he?”
“My father.”
He nodded; then Alison registered the swift flash of anger in his eyes when he spotted her bandage. He gently touched it, his fingers lingering in her hair. An icy stone, a coldness she didn’t know existed within her until this moment, melted at his touch.
“Your grandfather told me what happened. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.” She laughed at his skeptical look. “Truly, I am.”
“Your friend, that count or whatever he is, should have done something.”
“I think he tried. It’s all a bit of a blur, but I know he dropped the Huntress.”
“The Huntress?”
“A statue he was holding. Fortunately, it wasn’t damaged.” Unlike Papa’s painting. Still, Theodor should have been more careful.
“Fortunate indeed,” Ian said sarcastically, his face grim.
“Oh, Ian.” She smiled at him, amused by his jealousy and touched by his concern. “What are you doing here?”
“Your aunt invited me.” Settling his long frame into the chair beside her, Ian explained about the telegram and his diplomatic assignment to The Hague. “I couldn’t pass up the chance to see you again. You’re not mad, are you?”
“I’m too surprised to be mad.” She gazed into his eyes, afraid that if she looked away he might disappear. “When do you have to go back?”
“My flight returns to the base tomorrow afternoon.”
“Will you stay with us?” Her cheeks flushed at how eager she sounded. She shook her head to cover her embarrassment. “I mean, we have a guest room. If you’d like to stay.”
“Sure you don’t mind?”
Alison’s eyes dropped to her sketch, seeking an answer in her father’s laughing eyes. Perhaps she was fated to follow in Papa’s footsteps, her path into the future no longer hers to choose. A bird squawked and Alison looked up to see a snowy egret circling above the canal. It swooped, then landed with a nonchalant air on the edge of the rowboat. She envied the bird its freedom to bask in the dying rays of the setting sun with no thought for tomorrow.
Determined to embrace that same freedom, if only for a few hours, she faced Ian with a shy smile. “I want you to stay.”
He grinned and a mischievous gleam lit his eyes. “Good,” he said, taking her hand. “Because ‘Tante Meg’ stowed my gear in the guest room and Mrs. Brant set another place at the table. I’m to tell you it’s time for dinner.”
“And I suppose Opa offered you his pipe and slippers?”
Ian chuckled. “Nope. Only his Bentley, in case we wanted to take a drive in the morning.”
“You seem to have cast a spell on my entire household.”
“It’s the Devlin charm.” He gave an innocent shrug, then pulled her to her feet. “Come on. I’m starving.”
* * *
In the dining room, lit by a crystal chandelier and ivory candles, Gerta Brant served roasted lamb with port wine sauce, potato medallions, brussels sprouts, and a ragout of mushroom and peppers. By unspoken agreement, and much to Alison’s relief, the dinner conversation avoided the tumultuous events in Europe. She didn’t want to think about what would happen to Ian if the British government honored its commitment to Poland. This evening, she only wished to enjoy the company of the handsome young lieutenant who had captured her heart when he befriended a young German refugee.
When Ian first arrived at the house, Hendrik had viewed him with suspicion. But Meg had explained about the telegrams and Ian had filled in the details of how he and Alison had met. Throughout the meal, the elder Van Schuylers peppered Ian with questions about his family and life in Somerset. They discussed art and history, the museums of Paris, and the medieval ruins of Scotland.
Amid much congenial gaiety, Hendrik and Ian outdid each other recounting the outrageous deeds of their ancestors. By the time Mrs. Brant served a selection of cheeses and fruit, Alison had learned that Ian was almost as well-traveled as she and could speak passable French and German.
“Come to the library, my boy,” Hendrik said, rising from
the table. “I challenge you to a backgammon match. You do play, don’t you?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Ian.
“Good. Odds are in my favor then.”
“Hendrik!” Meg gave her brother a meaningful stare. “Ask Brant to play that silly game with you. Alison and her young man want to spend some time together. Without you.”
Alison blushed, then glanced at Ian. His expression told her that he hadn’t minded Meg’s referring to him as Alison’s young man. Or being the subject of a family spat. Her cheeks plumped as she stifled a giggle.
“It’s only one match,” Hendrik retorted. “Alison can watch us if she’d like.”
“I don’t mind if they play.” Alison patted Meg’s arm and caught her gaze. “Let’s go upstairs for a few minutes.”
Meg nodded her understanding, just as Alison expected she would, before turning back to Hendrik. “Enjoy your game, gentlemen,” Meg said. “We’ll join you soon.”
Alison flashed a smile at Ian before Hendrik herded him toward the library. “One of the oldest board games in the world, backgammon.”
“Is that so?”
The dining room door closed behind them and Alison cradled her head in her hands. Meg pressed a cool hand against her forehead. “Do you need to lie down?”
“No. It only hurts a little.”
“Where’s your pain medication?”
“I don’t want to take it. Not tonight. It makes me so drowsy.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I thought if I could freshen up. Put on a different dress.” Alison flicked her skirt, a yellow dotted swiss that was fine for everyday, but not for entertaining guests. Especially not a guest as special as Ian.
The corners of Meg’s mouth turned up in a sweet smile. “A new dress always makes me feel better.”
Alison gently clasped Meg’s hand. “I’m sorry for . . . how I’ve been the last few days.”
“There’s no need—”
“Yes, there is. I’ve behaved abominably.” She sighed and bit her lip. “I feel so . . . lost. And afraid.”
“We live in fearful times.” Meg brushed Alison’s bandage with her fingertips. “I’m only thankful we didn’t lose you. Even if it means putting up with your moodiness.”
“You’ve always been so good to me.”
“We Van Schuyler ladies have to look out for one another.” The teasing lilt in Meg’s voice lessened the bittersweet poignancy of her next words. “There are only the two of us.”
Alison nodded sad agreement and slowly rose from her chair, sighing from the effort. Linking arms with her aunt, they headed upstairs. When they reached the top landing, Alison spontaneously kissed her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For Ian.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After losing the backgammon match, two games to one, Ian followed Hendrik into the parlor. His heart did a backflip at the sight of Alison perched on the window seat, wearing a sapphire-colored dress that deepened the blue sparkle of her eyes. A narrow silk scarf, arranged as a headband, hid most of the bandage.
Before Hendrik could relax in his favorite chair, Meg intercepted him. “I must speak with you. In private.”
“Now? But what about our guest?”
Meg gave him an unladylike jab. “Hendrik, you promised.”
“So I did.” He waved his pipe stem at Ian. “If you get bored with Alison’s company, come to the kitchen and we’ll raid Mrs. Brant’s pantry.”
“I’ll do that.” Ian chuckled as Meg rolled her eyes. Without Alison, the last hour had been torture. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed playing backgammon with her grandfather. After the convivial dinner and quiet game, Ian believed he had passed a test devised by the older gentleman. “I can’t thank you enough for allowing me to stay the night.”
“We’re very glad to have you with us.” Meg smiled at him. “We’ll say good night now.”
“Thank you,” said Ian. “Good night.”
Hendrik crossed to Alison and kissed her forehead. “You look lovely, mijn schatje.”
“Good night, Opa.”
“Hendrik!”
“Coming, coming.” He winked at Ian before taking his sister’s arm and escorting her from the room. As they disappeared into the hall, Hendrik’s booming voice rang out. “Better a Brit than a Prussian,” followed by a loud shhh from Meg.
Ian glanced at Alison and couldn’t help laughing at the mortified look on her face.
“They aren’t very subtle,” she said apologetically.
“Wait until you meet my family. I’m sure they’ll find ways to embarrass me.”
A shadow crossed Alison’s face. “Shall I meet your family?”
“I hope so. Someday.”
“Someday.” She stared out the window a moment before turning to him. “Let’s not talk of the future. Not tonight.”
The pleading look in her eyes pressed against Ian’s heart. Squatting in front of her, he took her hands in his and gained courage when she didn’t pull away. “I know why you’re afraid.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“You mean the Van Schuyler fate?” At her surprised expression, he hurried on. “Your aunt told me when I asked about the painting.” He nodded toward the damaged Girl in the Garden, still propped on the easel in a corner.
She stared at the painting and Ian watched her closely as a confusing array of emotions settled into sad resignation. “We don’t usually talk about it.”
Ian searched for the right words to free Alison from this strange superstition that held her so strongly in its grip. He had tried, ever since she waved good-bye to him in London, to come up with a logical explanation for her misgivings. But Tante Meg’s revelation had defied anything he could have imagined. He wished Alison could dismiss it all as nonsense, though he understood why she could not. After all, she had endured the sting of losing her mother and being abandoned by her father.
Still holding her hands, he squeezed beside her on the narrow seat and followed her gaze to the painting. “Your parents must have loved each other very much. You can see it in her eyes.”
“They did.”
“What happened to her?”
“Appendicitis. The doctors operated, but it was too late.” She clutched his fingers. “I had just turned five. I remember she made this beautiful cake for my party. It had pink icing with strawberries and chocolate curls. And five pink candles. We were all so happy.”
Silence filled the room for a moment as Ian chose his words with care.
“I don’t think she would have traded a few years with you and your father for a long life without that kind of happiness.” He tried to see her face, to gauge her reaction, but her head was bent. “Neither would I.”
She looked at him then, and as he gazed into her eyes, he descended into a frightening depth of longing for this woman, feeling the same exhilaration as when he dove off a high seaside cliff into a tumbling surf. He inhaled and cupped her chin between his fingers. “We belong together, Alison. No matter what.”
* * *
“Another piece of pie?” Alison offered. They had migrated to the kitchen when Ian’s stomach unromantically grumbled.
“No.” Ian patted his stomach. “Two were plenty.”
Alison started to gather up their used plates, but he stopped her. “Let me do that.”
“No, I’ll do it.”
His eyes narrowed and she laughed at his attempt to look stern. “I insist,” he said. “You look tired.”
“I guess I am.” She hated admitting it, but her eyelids felt heavy and the pain in her head had grown from a dull throb into a sharp, persistent ache.
“How’s your head?”
“Fine.”
“Liar.”
She shrugged and gave him a grim smile. “Guilty.”
“Are you taking anything for the pain?”
“Dr. Meijer left something. But it makes me sleepy so I didn’t take it.”
She smiled up at him as he stacked the dishes and gathered the silver. “I don’t want to miss a minute with you.”
“Nor I with you.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost midnight.”
“When do you have to leave?”
“The time zones work in my favor. The flight leaves at 15:20 Holland time and arrives at the base at 15:05 British time.” Ian carried the dishes to the sink and Alison yawned while his back was turned.
“I almost forgot.” Ian returned to the table and touched her shoulder. “I have something for you. Wait here.”
Alison watched him disappear through the swinging door. While she waited for him to return, she pinched her cheeks, willing herself to stay awake awhile longer.
Ian returned and handed her a slender package.
“A present?” She looked at him questioningly as he sat diagonally from her.
“I got a letter from Abraham Talbert, Josef’s uncle. He asked me to give this to you.”
Alison unwrapped the package. “How is Josef?”
“Seems to be doing fine. He framed your sketch and hung it on his wall.” Ian pulled a folded envelope from his shirt pocket and laid it on the table. “Here’s the letter if you’d like to read it.”
She opened the box and found a silver Montblanc fountain pen inside. Her initials were engraved near the base in an elegant script. “What a generous gift.”
“I have one too.” Ian held up his own gold monogrammed pen. “We can use them to write to each other.”
A shiver raced up Alison’s spine, a fear or foreboding that made her voice quiver. “Will you write me?”
“You know I will, Alison.” A promise shone in his eyes. “Every chance I get.”
Without a word, Alison slipped her pen in his shirt pocket and placed his pen in her box. “Someday we’ll trade back again.”
The corners of Ian’s mouth lifted in the mischievous grin that never failed to tilt her heart. “Wanna bet?”
* * *
The next morning, Alison awoke with Ian’s departure time looming before her like a dark beast. She longed to give him a tour of Rotterdam’s historic center and her family’s gallery. Not only the displayed paintings, but also her studio with its bright watercolors. To share her private world with him. But that would have to wait till later, after church and Sunday dinner with Opa and Tante Meg.
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