Steering Troy toward a staircase, Miranda said, “The art department is upstairs.”
They found Mrs. Wellesley in her office. With her round cheeks and sunny smile, she looked as if she’d been sitting here ever since Miranda had left all those years ago. Older, perhaps, but just as familiar. And her office was a lot more cluttered with students’ artwork from a staggering variety of media.
Miranda would bet that some of her own work—especially the ceramic tile that she’d painted as a Christmas gift for her favorite art teacher—was still tucked away somewhere on those shelves.
Mrs. Wellesley rose from behind her desk. “Miranda Ford, what a pleasure after all these years.”
Miranda gave her a hug then introduced Troy, feeling a tingle of pride when she showed off her handsome husband.
It was a feeling she remembered from long ago, one she hadn’t felt for a while. Not because she wasn’t proud of the man she’d married, but because the feeling had the ability to make her feel out of balance, pressured, as if he didn’t have as much to be proud of in her.
She’d missed this feeling, the almost giddy sense of excitement when she looked at him, so wildly gorgeous, so devoted and loving.
It was a feeling she wouldn’t give away so lightly again.
Holding her head high, she said, “Troy and I are in town—”
“I know all about why you’re here.” She laughed. “I’ve been keeping up with your sister’s columns. You’re the featured honeymoon couple. Sounds like you’ve been having fun.”
Troy flashed her one of his charming smiles. “A once in a lifetime experience.”
They chatted for a few minutes, filling in the blanks on a lot of years. Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Wellesley knew much about Miranda. Around here, anyone who read the local paper could usually find some mention of the names Prescott and Ford.
“So what is it you wanted me to take a look at, dear?” she asked, and Miranda removed from her purse a printed copy of the Jean-Luc Roussell’s painting she’d tossed into an envelope. She explained they were interested in identifying the mark beneath the signature and understanding what it meant.
Mrs. Wellesley, true to form, didn’t require any additional clarification and just fitted on the reading glasses dangling from a chain around her neck, pulled a magnifying glass from her desk drawer and took a closer look.
“Why, that’s this artist’s signature, dear.”
“And the symbol?”
“Also part of his signature. Many artists simply sign their work, but some create their own mark, a device of self-expression, as it were. This one appears heraldic in design. See the way he uses only his initials transposed over this device? The lion certainly fits.”
So why would her grandfather be walking around with a cane for more decades than she’d been alive with a familial device belonging to the Roussell family?
She hadn’t been mistaken about her grandmother’s name change, and Troy shot her a look that told her his thoughts headed down a similar path.
Mrs. Wellesley squinted down at the image. “Such a pity to have lost track of such a talent.”
“We were surprised by that ourselves, Mrs. Wellesley,” Troy admitted. “We couldn’t find anything on this artist.”
She nodded sadly. “If all his art was destroyed, then there would be no reason to register him. He wouldn’t even have an entry in the Directories of Neglected Artists.”
“Who are they?”
“Very obscure artists that only offbeat collectors and art sleuths are interested in.”
Miranda stared down at the copied image of the sole remaining painting that she could only assume was of a landscape from somewhere around the artist’s home. Art was not her area of expertise, but the colors were so vibrant, a neat trick of light and technique she assumed, because the whole look was somehow soft-edged and pretty. “It is a pity. This is such a magnificent painting. And I don’t know why, but it’s somehow familiar.”
Mrs. Wellesley chuckled. “You don’t know why it looks familiar?”
“No, should I?”
She gazed over the rim of her glasses and nodded. “Care to take a walk? I could do with getting out of this office, and I have a few minutes before my next class.”
“Certainly.” Troy took the lead, and moving to the door, he held it wide while Miranda followed Mrs. Wellesley from the office.
To Miranda’s surprise, she led them outside and across the campus, where she inhaled deeply and held her face up to the bright late-afternoon sun.
“What a glorious day,” she exclaimed. “I need to make it a point to get outside more often when the weather permits.”
“After being in San Diego, I think Miranda must have forgotten what a real winter feels like,” Troy said pleasantly as they crossed the summer lush quad and Miranda realized that Mrs. Wellesley was leading them back to her old dorm.
Marceaux House had been the newest building on campus up until the recent addition of a performing arts center the alumni had financed a few years back. The dorm house had been erected with an endowment from the late Mireille Marceaux, who’d bequeathed Westfalls Academy her estate that, to Miranda’s knowledge, still generated income.
As they stepped inside the grand foyer, Miranda remembered the pride she’d once felt to be a part of this house. Prestigious houses like Bradstreet and Stanton had long held impressive status because of the women they commemorated, but they paled in light of the secrecy surrounding the endowment from the mysterious artist.
She also remembered how unhappy she’d been that Laura had been a part of that glory, too. They’d been in the same year and it had been enough to share classes and activities, but sharing Marceaux House had always felt like a nasty joke.
But perhaps it had only been a missed opportunity.
They entered the foyer, a formal reception area where the housemistress could greet guests. A huge stone fireplace dominated the room, which Miranda knew was kept lit throughout the winter with the mantel decorations changed to reflect the various holidays. There was a mudroom tucked discreetly to the side, and she knew from personal experience that there’d be hell to pay for any student who tracked snow over the pristine floor.
She’d been a quick study though, and had only been forced to scrub the foyer’s massive wooden floor once before she made a trip into that mudroom every time she walked in the door.
Above the fireplace, in a display case that looked remarkably like the one in Laura’s Wedding Wing, was the first and grandest of the dozen Mireille Marceaux landscapes adorning the walls of Marceaux House.
The painting was titled Dawn Splendor and depicted a scene of a sunrise breaking over a ridge in violent shades of lavender and crimson, not unlike the ridge where Troy had taken her to hike and fish. Mireille Marceaux had a gift for painting the nuances of nature, and the striking colors combined with the dramatic use of light and shadow created a scene that seemed glorious, almost living.
“Do you see it now?” Mrs. Wellesley asked never taking her gaze from the painting with an almost loving expression.
“You’re right,” Troy said. “I don’t know a thing about art, but I can see similarities. The way it all comes together, the colors…I don’t know.”
“The composition, dear.” She turned to Miranda. “Don’t you agree?”
After living in this house and looking at Mireille Marceaux’s art for nine years… “It’s incredible. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize the similarities sooner.”
“The styles are the closest I’ve seen, as a matter of fact.” Mrs. Wellesley smiled. “Who knows? Maybe our local legend and this unknown French painter studied beneath the same master. They’re both French and lived during the middle of the last century. It’s possible.”
She and Troy exchanged glances, and Miranda could tell that he was as surprised as she. A connection between these two artists hadn’t even been a consideration.
Miranda glanced down at her copy of Roussell’s pa
inting, at the unusual signature. She stared at that symbol, the way the monogram had been artistically crafted over that familiar device…and then comprehension dawned.
“Mireille Marceaux never signed her work, either,” she whispered more to herself than to her companions.
Then another similarity hit her.
“Ohmigosh! How on earth did I miss this? M. M. Melts in your mouth not—”
She stopped before blurting out the rest of the slogan that students in her years had used to joke about the Mireille Marceaux erotic paintings hidden somewhere on the campus. Horrified, she turned to stare at Mrs. Wellesley, who stared back with a raised brow.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I was remembering an old saying from my school days.”
“I’m well aware of the saying, dear.”
Miranda remembered that tone from long ago, too.
“You think Mireille Marceaux and this artist used initials to sign their work because they had the same teacher, too?” Troy stepped in with the question to give her a chance to recover.
Her hero.
Mrs. Wellesley nodded. “It’s certainly plausible.” She chuckled. “All these years of mystery surrounding our local legend and you might have added another piece to the puzzle. But you couldn’t find anything about this artist?”
Troy moved closer, slipping his arm around Miranda’s waist, a perfectly timed move as her knees were turning to jelly.
“No, I’m afraid,” Miranda said, not sure at all what to make of this connection and not wanting to reveal any more information until she was.
Mrs. Wellesley fell silent and stared at the copy of the painting that raised so many questions. “Have you tried the museum directories?”
“I’m not familiar with them,” Miranda replied. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be. Not when her head was spinning with all the implications of this conversation.
“Your artist could have a biographical entry in the system. Even with one piece on display. It all depends on the size and nature of the museum.”
“Can we access this directory on the Internet?” Troy asked.
She shrugged. “I’m not sure if you can, but I have access through one of my art organizations. If you’d like, you’re welcome to take a look under my access information. You can use my office while I’m in my class.”
Miranda reached out to take the older woman’s hands. “Thank you. You’ve been so helpful.”
“The pleasure’s mine, dear. I love seeing my students keeping up their interest in art.”
She might not be so pleased if she knew Miranda’s interest had nothing to do with the art and everything to do with the artists. Miranda couldn’t even process that thought yet, and by the way Troy was hanging on to her as they walked back across the campus, he knew it, too.
Fortunately Mrs. Wellesley’s students began gathering soon after they returned to her office so they were spared from sharing any more surprises when she logged on to her account, gave Miranda a hug, then headed off to class.
Troy didn’t say a word as he leaned over her and she searched through database after database looking for the French museum that housed Jean-Luc Roussell’s only existing painting.
Nothing.
Apparently the museum displaying his piece was an institution with only works of local interest and didn’t participate in any loan programs with their collections.
“Get out of here and on to the Internet,” Troy said.
“Why?”
“I want to check for information about the town. Most towns have area attraction guides. Maybe there’ll be something there. It’s the only place we haven’t tried yet.”
“Good idea.”
Miranda keyed in the name of the town into a search engine and pulled up the town’s official Web site. Sure enough there was a link to the museum, and her heart began to race as she navigated her way through the site structure to the work on display. Her hands shook when she keyed in her artist’s name. She hit the enter key…
Two short paragraphs appeared. The first a description of the painting; the second a biography of the artist.
Troy’s grip tightened on her shoulder as they read the brief synopsis of the artist’s life. There was summary of his death and the destruction of his art almost identical to the one reported in the news article, and there was mention of his only surviving family. One sentence that turned out to contain all the information they needed.
Jean-Luc Roussell had one daughter, another talented painter who’d studied under him. This young woman joined the French Resistance to avenge her father’s death and never returned to her home after the war.
There it was, the connection she needed live on the Internet for the whole world to view. If anyone knew enough to look. She suspected none did.
Except for one man.
Miranda guessed why Laure Roussell had never returned to her hometown…because she’d met up with William Marshall Prescott, married him, changed her name to Laura and relocated to the United States.
THIS UNEXPECTED TURN of events provided Troy with another chance to drive home how he intended to stand beside Miranda for better or worse. Unfortunately, he agreed with her opinion that this situation didn’t qualify as better.
“You couldn’t have foreseen this, Miranda.” He steered the car down the tree-lined driveway leading away from Westfalls Academy.
“No, I couldn’t have, which was precisely my argument in the first place. Grandfather had a reason for keeping his secrets. No question. And I walked right into it. This isn’t happening.” She exhaled a sigh of utter desperation and lowered her face into her hands.
Had he not known she was genuinely upset, he might have enjoyed this rare moment of melodrama. Miranda rarely, if ever, let her emotions get the better of her.
Except in bed. There, she became putty in his hands.
“We walked right into it,” he corrected. “The senator could have asked you to stop searching and trust him that any secrets were best left in the past.”
Miranda groaned and he shifted his gaze off the road long enough to catch her shudder. “He didn’t need to. I said that the instant Victoria and Laura told us their plan. Just because he lied didn’t change that, or give us carte blanche to start digging up the past.”
Troy couldn’t argue. “But should haves or could haves can’t help us now. We’re in the middle of a situation we didn’t expect and need to figure out what to do about it.”
“Should I say anything to Mrs. Wellesley, do you think? Ask her not to mention that we’d come by?”
“Who’s she going to mention it to?” He frowned. “Miranda, you can’t ask her not to be curious, and if you try to cover your tracks you’ll only make her wonder why you want her to. Leave it alone. She doesn’t have a clue why you were interested in an artist with the initials J.L.R. Even if she pursues the connection to your local legend, she has no way to connect him to your family.”
Miranda finally glanced up, and her stricken expression eased somewhat. “I know you’re right.”
“But it’s not making you feel any better?”
She gave a dry laugh. “I’m sailing in uncharted waters, that’s all. Snooping is Victoria’s department. She can obviously handle the stress.”
He suspected his sister-in-law thought the stress was an adrenaline rush. “I wouldn’t stress too much because we can’t confirm any of this. From what you’ve told me, people have been speculating about your local legend for years. The only choice you have to make now is whether to forget what we’ve learned or go to the senator and negotiate some sort of truce. Victoria and Laura have set their weddings up as a place where your mothers can hook up again. Your job is figuring out how to get the senator not to take away that chance.”
“You know, Troy, I’m not sure that we can’t confirm all this ourselves. You told me the BELs were sent in to mobilize the rebel forces. From what I remember about the French Resistance, they were infamous for hit-and-run attacks that thwar
ted the enemy.
“And Victoria mentioned my grandfather and some sort of transportation bombing. I wouldn’t have remembered.”
Troy nodded. “So what do you want to do?”
“As much as I don’t want to, I need to see my grandfather. Before Victoria’s column comes out. Things need to be out on the table and he needs to know that all we want is a chance for our mothers to make peace. Without his blessing, I think Laura’s right—this won’t happen.” She shook her head and let her eyes flutter shut. “And here I was afraid Victoria would be the one to give him a heart attack. You were right, too, Troy, this is blackmail.”
“It’s negotiation.” He turned the car in the direction of the family mansion, and hoped like hell he was right.
15
MIRANDA WAITED UNTIL Troy opened her car door, taking the opportunity to steel her nerves. To her surprise, it wasn’t facing her grandfather that troubled her. It was facing him alone. And she would have to, no matter how much she wanted Troy with her. Respect demanded that she not air this situation in front of anyone—not even her husband. Not if she wanted any hope of getting her grandfather to cooperate.
Her chances were slim enough already.
But she’d promised to play things straight with Troy and had been taking steps to open up. It struck her how much she wanted to continue doing that, how much she wanted him by her side as she faced what was sure to be a difficult confrontation. But proximity didn’t necessarily mean togetherness. Sharing feelings did. She just now understood the difference.
And how the very same reasoning might apply when Troy was deployed, too.
When Troy appeared at her side of the car, she smiled up at him and said, “I hate to ask this, Troy, but—”
“You need to talk with the senator alone.”
“Would you mind terribly?”
“I know the drill. I’ll go run interference with your parents and buy you all the time you need. Sound good?”
Rising to her feet, she swayed forward, coming flush up against him. “I love you, Lieutenant Commander.”
Pillow Chase Page 17