by Ella Carey
“He said that your father had terrible rages and that the way you dealt with them was to shut yourself off. He worried that you withdrew into your own little shell and didn’t talk about things.”
“I suppose, in some ways, it sounds as if I were weak, putting up with his temper for so long. But it was impossible to rationalize with him when he was in a rage. Reason would not work, and I could not appeal to his heart while he was in a state, so I shut myself off. I withdrew. It sounds dreadful, I know, but I could only escape and start a new life once he was dead because I had no means of supporting myself or Freya while he was alive. If I’d had my own income, I would have left, because sadly, sometimes, the only thing you can do is walk away when other people’s behavior is never going to change. I am determined, always, to be able to support myself.”
The colors in the garden seemed to merge into one misty fog.
Patrick leaned closer and started to speak, but just as he did, the sound of horses’ hooves crushed his words. Women’s voices rang loud and confident over the rattle of carriage wheels on gravel.
Patrick closed his sketchbook and stood up at the same time as Emma did. He rested his hand on her shoulder for a brief moment. Emma felt her whole body react as if it were on fire. And told herself that he was probably only being brotherly.
She stepped down toward the welcome and yet unwelcome interruption. Emma knew now that she could spend the rest of the day—of her life—talking with Patrick.
The open carriage stopped in line with the front steps to the house. Patrick indicated that Emma go ahead of him to greet the two women who sat in the velvet seats.
“Dearest Patrick! We saw the pony trap and thought you’d either sent your manservant to apologize, which simply would not do, or you’d forgotten altogether and we had some dull visitor instead of you, at which point, we’d have to hide in the hydrangeas. Oh!” The woman who spoke stepped down onto the gravel driveway and peered up at Emma. “Who is this? What an interesting outfit! You do collect such wonderful people, Patrick. Vous êtes Française?” the tall woman asked Emma in loud French.
“No, I’m not French. I’m Emma Temple, of London.” Emma reached out a hand to the dark, angular woman, who met Emma squarely eye to eye. Her outfit was made of what looked like Japanese silk—wildly fashionable given the ongoing fascination with Japonaiserie that still crazed the wealthy sets. She looked to be in her midforties and had that certain confidence women of that age often bore.
“The infamous Emma Temple.”
Emma tilted her head to one side.
Before Emma could respond to Beatrice, a shorter woman alighted from the carriage, wearing a loose caramel-colored frock that draped her curvaceous body. Pearls wafted from her neck down to her chest. “I’m Thea,” she said. Emma noticed the beads of sweat that lined her forehead.
She shook both women’s hands.
“Patrick’s talent astounds us. Took the opportunity to grab him while he is here. We want something unusual and striking to decorate our front entrance hall,” Thea said.
A manservant appeared and opened the front door. As Emma wandered into the cool interior, she noticed that Patrick was right. Everything was, indeed, immaculate. A bowl of flowers sat on a perfectly placed walnut table, and the books that were next to the vase in turn were stacked one on top of the other with military precision. The foyer was decorated with a swirling staircase, the banisters full of gold embellishments and curlicues. So these two had not abandoned wealth. They clearly held different values from those of the Circle. How varying and complex rebellion could be . . .
“I’ve been wondering about the ancient Greeks—their open ideas toward love in the classical world. I admit, at first, I wanted to lighten up the tone in here with some of my favorite male circus acrobats, but I think timeless love would be perhaps a more enduring and appropriate theme in these surroundings than frivolity,” Patrick said, marching into the middle of the entrance hall and gazing at the wall that ran down next to the stairs.
Emma eyed him. He seemed to have switched out of the intimate mode he’d adopted with her to take on the demeanor of the professional artist he was without batting an eyelid. That was utterly compelling, too, she had to admit.
“I’ve been thinking about a masked ball to reveal the murals,” Beatrice said, her voice high-pitched, as if holding a sense of excitement.
Patrick regarded the woman a moment. “Good idea, but I’d like to consult Emma and ask her opinion before I discuss my final proposal with you, if I might?”
“Oh, I see,” Beatrice said, eyeing Emma with something that looked like respect. “We shall leave you both to consult.”
Emma wandered closer to the pale, smooth wall. She reached out her hand, touching the wonderful blankness of it. The idea of working alongside Patrick to shape, condense, and order her own sensations into the permanence of art was entrancing. It was one thing to work by oneself, but to collaborate with someone who felt the same way as she did, well, that was something wonderful.
CHAPTER NINE
London, 1980
Two days later, Laura sat in the train with Jasper, holding Emma’s rebuttal in that day’s Times. Jasper pulled a cigarette out and placed it between his lips, leaving it hanging there unlit as the train approached Highgate Station.
“Bit desperate, isn’t it?” Laura shot a sideswipe at him and, in spite of herself, laughed.
“Nope.” He pulled the cigarette out and waved it around. “Forward planning”—he threw an arm around Laura’s shoulder—“always reduces future stress.”
A chill slipped through Laura’s system as they stepped off the train onto the platform. People rushed by in the evening crowd. They were all intent on going on their own trajectories. A woman sighed with annoyance as Laura stopped in the middle of the platform, wishing she knew which direction her life was going to take.
Her nerves swooped like kites as she started moving toward High Street. She half listened to Jasper’s chatter, but no matter how hard she tried to plan what to say to Ivan, she ended up going around in circles. If Ivan wouldn’t accept Emma’s opinion that the painting was Patrick’s—seriously, what then?
Her next step could be an auction house, but as Emma pointed out, Ewan had worked in just such a place, so how would the bank decide who was right and who was wrong, even if another appraiser came to a different conclusion than Ewan had done? Surely the woman who was the subject of the portrait and the intimate friend and onetime lover of Patrick Adams would have credibility when it came to verifying his work.
Today’s Times felt like a sixty-four-thousand-dollar question rather than the answer she’d hoped it would be. While Emma had lashed back at Ewan, making bold statements about the portrait that would leave only the most die-hard cynic with any doubt that it was Patrick’s work, the bank was firm about the fact that any doubt was a problem.
“Yikes, Laura!” Jasper’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Promise me you won’t end up like that!” A young woman heaved past them pushing a stroller laden with two babies. “She looks exhausted, darling. Promise me . . .”
“Oh, it’s exactly how I’ll end up. Pushing prams around all day with a smoke hanging out of my mouth—a convenient marriage is one way out of this mess.”
“Won’t let it happen.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the ground.
They stopped outside the glass walls of the bank. Laura heaved the front door open and gathered herself inside on the orange carpet a moment. Jasper moved over to a stand of brochures, looking absurdly out of place in the bland environs of the bank. His jeans were torn at the knee, and his pointed shoes would be at home on a vaudeville stage. Today, he wore a fedora.
When Ivan came out of an office, Jasper wandered back toward her and placed his hat on her head.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. She handed the hat back.
Jasper squeezed her hand. “I’ll window-shop while you do your stuff. Will keep an eye on the bank for you to come o
ut.”
Laura shot him a panicked look. “If the bank won’t budge—”
“Just stay focused. On you and Em.”
Laura nodded, her whole body shuddering now, and went toward Ivan’s office. When he indicated that she should come in, Laura handed her copy of the Times to him and sat down.
He scanned it and sighed.
“Laura,” he said, “we’ve seen the article, but I’m afraid I can’t give you good news. The fact is our area manager was skeptical about your loan when we signed it up. The only reason he agreed to it was because your grandmother has been a long-standing client. But it has always been clear that any doubt thrown on the value of the painting turns everything on its head for us.” Ivan leaned forward on his desk. “There’s no easy way to tell you this. The bank is going to have to entirely rescind the loan. You can have two weeks, but I’m sorry, there is absolutely nothing more we can do.”
Laura eyeballed the wall behind him. Two ugly paintings were the only thing that decorated it, if one could use that word. A filing cabinet sat, dull and gray.
She leaned back, slowly, in her seat, her hands gripping the armrests.
“I’m sorry, Laura,” he said.
She looked up. Such a bandage of a word.
“I suggest, in this case, that you talk to your parents. See if they can help you finish your studies.”
“They don’t have the funds to do so.”
Ivan tapped his pen on the desk. “I’m sorry, Laura. But you have to see that in our position, we can’t—”
“I want to ask you to give me four weeks. Four weeks to prove Ewan Buchanan wrong.”
“Laura—”
But she leaned forward in her seat. “I’ve never missed one repayment yet; I’m working a part-time job, teaching violin students; and when I graduate and finally get a position in an orchestra, I’ll start paying back the principal. But in the meantime, tell me what exact proof you need.”
“We’d need Ewan Buchanan to retract his statement to clear up any controversy. Let me put it this way: if the Tate relied on Mr. Buchanan’s opinion before allowing the piece to be exhibited there, then the bank would also be confident that if Mr. Buchanan changed his mind and convinced the Tate to exhibit it after all, we could continue with the terms of your loan. You could seek another opinion, but at this point, we’d need the museum to be confident that the portrait is an Adams. At the moment they are not. They chose their expert, and they are following his advice, just as they should do.”
Laura rose up taller in her seat. “But shouldn’t the possibility that the work is Patrick’s be given a fair chance to be investigated? Two weeks is hardly a reasonable amount of time.”
Ivan tented his hands under his chin.
Laura pulled her hands out from underneath herself, realizing she’d been sitting on them.
“I can see your point, Laura,” he said finally. “But I have my answer.”
“I need time to get to the bottom of this.”
He waited. “I will ask, one more time.”
Laura shook his outstretched hand. She managed to walk out the door, stepping into the late-afternoon sunshine and shading her eyes from the sudden glare to spot Jasper leaning on a park bench like an Adonis.
He leaped up and moved over to her.
“Well?” he asked intently.
“I’m going straight to confront Ewan now,” she muttered, starting to walk. “No time to waste. They won’t take Emma’s word as testimony. While it’s tempting to get another opinion, it’s very clear to me that I need to cut this off at the source. And that’s Ewan Buchanan. I’m trying to get the bank to give me four weeks, but at the moment, I only have two. And very little, if any, possibility they’ll extend that at all.”
Jasper kept pace alongside her. “Do not let Ewan fob you off again.”
The chuckle Laura let out was dry. “Oh, don’t you worry. Never, Jasper, could I be accused of doing that.”
Half an hour later, Laura stalked her way up New Bond Street alone, determination fueling her along as she approached Ewan Buchanan’s gallery. But then, she stopped. Laura felt in her handbag for the business card he’d handed to her last time. She turned the corner to Brook Street in order to find a phone box. When she spotted one, she slipped inside, pulled out a few coins, and cleared her throat, dialing the direct number listed.
“Ewan, it’s Laura.”
“Hi.”
She forced herself not to focus on the pair of women in expensive dresses who waited outside the phone box. It would not do to take out her irritation on them. “I’m not going to beat around the bush,” she said. “Are you free? Now. I have to talk to you.”
The sound of him flicking through papers seemed to ring down the phone line.
Laura closed her eyes. Rational. That was what Emma would be. Laura clung to her tendency to channel what Emma would do when faced with awkward situations.
The two women outside the phone box gave Laura pointed looks.
Laura rested her forehead on the phone.
“Laura, I’m not in a position to say anything other than what I’ve already told you—”
“You are not in a position to say what? I need more information from you, at the very least. You owe us that.” Laura measured each word as if drawing out the lengthiest possible notes on her violin.
“You do have to understand that I’m not able to talk about this, Laura. I never wanted to do you or Emma any harm. But I had to tell the truth. I’m sorry.”
Laura stayed quiet.
“Where are you at the moment?” He sounded strangely close now. It was almost as if they were having some quiet conversation on an old sofa in an intimate café, rather than between a phone box on a crowded London street and an office in an art gallery.
“Around the corner from your gallery.”
“Look.” She heard his sigh as if it, too, were right next to her. “Do you want to come in here? There’s not much I can do. I’m honestly sorry.”
“Not in there.” She fought panic. His gallery was the last place she wanted to be.
He sounded urgent, almost fervent now. “Go back up Brook Street toward New Bond Street. Turn left and then take a right up Dering Street. There’s a little pub on the corner called the Duke of York. You won’t miss it. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
Laura hung up the phone. Her hands clenched into two tight fists.
She pushed open the door, registering in some dim way that the two women who were waiting for the phone box stepped to the side, eyeing her as if she were an oddity from a faraway place. Laura made her way back up the street, her brow furrowed and her head down against the gathering breeze. Gray clouds hung low over the buildings, laced with strange streaks of yellow and black. Laura forced her swirling thoughts to focus on the one thing that mattered, but it was getting harder and harder to put it all into one concrete plan. It seemed impossible to separate the need to protect Emma from the invidious implications for her own career and from the grim prospect of moving Emma out of her beloved home. And then there was Summerfield to lose.
Multipaned windows ran along the facade of the Duke of York. Window boxes filled with colorful petunias swayed in the bilious weather, bright against the kaleidoscopic sky. Laura pushed open the double front doors and made her way past a group of elderly men sitting at the bar. The place was otherwise empty. At least Ewan had chosen somewhere they could talk in peace. She ordered a glass of wine, sat down at a table by the window, and focused on the wildness outside.
When Ewan swept in, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his blond hair disheveled from the gathering wind, he seemed too well dressed, an out-of-place, striking presence alongside the drab old men who propped up the bar. Laura sat a little taller and wished all of a sudden that she’d worn kitten heels instead of her scuffed brown boots.
He strode over to her table, holding out a hand. The sense that he was an anomaly here seemed even stronger now. It was as if he was following some old
boy’s code. Nevertheless, Laura held out her hand to shake his. She was determined to play this professionally. She would not give in to the swell of emotion that was rising deep inside her. But her heart thumped in her chest and bile rose up into her throat, making it impossible to breathe easily while she watched as he went back to the bar to order a beer.
“I’m hoping that you’ll take the opinion of the woman who lived with Patrick Adams seriously.” She put the newspaper article down on the table once he was back, as if she were placing down chips, a bet in a gambling den.
He looked dismissive. “Nothing is going to make any difference, Laura.”
“You have to see the truth,” she whispered.
His head shot up for a moment, and he caught her eye for a brief split second before turning away sharply. “I said I’m sorry. No matter how I might want it not to be this way, it just is.”
Laura leaned, her fingers pressing into the table. “This is the last thing I want to share with you—”
“What is it?” he asked, his eyes hitting hers.
An involuntary stab shot through Laura’s system at the way she was sensing his sudden shifts. She couldn’t help but think that his movements were like those of a fox caught on the edge of a rabbit hole.
“It’s not just about Patrick’s reputation.” She punched out every word. “The painting is being used as collateral for my loan to study at the Royal College of Music. I only have one year left of my master’s degree, but without that loan, I can’t afford the tuition. I worked my heart out to get into the college, and I have performance exams in a couple of weeks. This is more than important, Ewan—every step I’m taking leads me closer to my dream of playing in one of London’s best orchestras, traveling even as a soloist in Europe, doing what I love for a living every day. But without that bank loan, I will have no choice but to drop out and finish for good. Playing the violin is the only thing I’m good at. It’s my passion. I have no hope that you’ll ever understand. But I swear, I’m banking on the hope that there is at least a shred of humanity inside the heart of a person who deals in the commercial side of art.”