“Why aren’t you going?” Elizabeth asked Trudy.
“I cannot stand that gormless face of his, and I don’t hide it well. I have a feeling that no matter what you think of him, your training will prevent you from physically recoiling from him, as I do.”
“Well, my training has failed me in the past.” She shrugged, thinking about the disastrous interview that had led to her new world order. She tried to imagine what an impolite Trudy might look like. Perhaps she’d only kiss Martin on one cheek, or she’d forget to say Thank you when he held the door for her. “Is he really that bad?”
“Oh yes,” Trudy said, nodding. “He thinks he’s the bad boy of the art world, and that Rowan’s paintings are too old-fashioned. He only likes shocking art. Beautiful landscapes just won’t do when you could have paintings made with used syringes.”
“And without Faye there to keep him in check . . .” Elizabeth trailed off.
Trudy pursed her lips and busied herself with the kettle. “One for the road, dear?”
Elizabeth held out her cup for Trudy to fill and gulped it down. “This is going to be quite a day. You’re okay to watch Georgina?”
“Glad to.” They both looked at the canine scrum. Georgina was on top of Major, biting his cheek and rearing back.
“She’s such a monster,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head. “I don’t know how he tolerates her.”
“Bess,” Trudy said quietly. “Help Rowan today. This isn’t going to be easy for him. Martin is . . . well, you’ll see.”
“Is there something I should know?”
“Faye said nothing was going to change when she left, but Martin is already making waves. He’s quite eager to see her gone. You’d never know they were mother and son.”
“Oh, you’re kidding, I had no idea they’re related. This is going to be a nightmare.” Elizabeth mentally prepared to go to battle with Martin Woolard.
“Take this,” Trudy said, holding out a silk scarf.
Elizabeth looked at her questioningly.
“He wants to drive the toy. His Austin-Healey. It’ll be top down if he has anything to say about it, and this will protect your hair.”
Elizabeth recognized the bridle pattern immediately. Hermès. Sometimes she forgot that her wellie-wearing aunt and uncle were also incredibly posh. She leaned down to pet Georgina and Major and hurried out the door.
Rowan was waiting for her in front of the house, leaning against a beautiful car Elizabeth had never seen before and staring off into the distance. He was dressed up in a blazer and pressed slacks.
“This car is incredible,” Elizabeth exclaimed. The low-slung convertible was a steely blue-gray and looked like something out of a 1960s spy movie. It was small enough to feel playful, with a front grille that resembled a cheeky smile, while at the same time sleekly elegant.
“My pride and joy,” Rowan said. “Ready?”
He didn’t say much as they made their way out of Fargrove and eased onto the busier roads on the way to London. Elizabeth peeked at her phone, still watching Rowan out of the corner of her eye. Being in work clothes made her feel one step closer to her old life. She had service, and the tantalizing notification icons stretched all the way down the screen, but it felt wrong to focus on her phone with Rowan stewing right beside her. She was sure she could steal away to check in at some point during the day.
“How do you feel about the retrospective?” Elizabeth asked. She wanted to get Rowan talking so he’d stop frowning.
“It’s awakening the ghosts. Dredging up memories. And you here at the same time? It’s fate.”
“Why do you say that?” Elizabeth asked.
“A retrospective is a life’s story, told in art. Every painting is a memory. And some of the memories I carry are difficult to bear. But with you here, well, perhaps I can silence some of them.”
“Are you talking about my father?”
“Your father, yes, and others.”
Elizabeth waited for him to continue, but he turned on the radio and adjusted the volume so big band battled the breeze whooshing in the convertible. She adjusted the scarf on her head and worried that her crazy-woman hair would throw her off her game for the Martin Woolard confrontation.
Rowan eased the car through the streets of London as if he did it every day. Being back in a city after the time in Fargrove made Elizabeth’s pulse race. London was a true city: beautiful, busy, vibrant.
Almost too much so.
They parked in a tiny hidden lot near the museum and walked to the main entrance side by side. Rowan looked so nervous that Elizabeth spontaneously linked her arm through his as they walked toward the entrance.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back. You haven’t seen me in business mode.”
“What you’re doing to me in the barn every day isn’t business mode? Oh, I pity Martin.” Rowan chuckled and shook his head.
Two women with white hair and white shoes approached them tentatively as they got closer to the museum. “Sorry, excuse me? We’re so sorry to disturb you but aren’t you . . . ?” The woman trailed off and pointed toward the museum. Elizabeth looked at the front of the castlelike building and was thrilled to see a giant banner with a slice of Sunset over Blenheim blown up, overlaid with the words Rowan Barnes: Shifting Landscapes.
“Yes, you’ve caught me at the scene of the crime,” Rowan replied, bowing his head and smiling.
Both women started gushing at once. “Brilliant! May we take a photo with you? Would you mind terribly?”
“Of course, I’d be honored.”
The shorter of the two women thrust a phone into Elizabeth’s hands, and she dutifully snapped several photos of the trio. Rowan looked sheepish and pleased at the same time.
Elizabeth stared at him slack-jawed as they walked away from the women. “You’re a celebrity!”
“It only happens when there’s been news. My face has been in the papers to promote the show, that’s all. When we hit the pub afterward, I’ll be as invisible as the town drunk, trust me.”
Faye met them at the door leaning on a brightly colored cane.
“Quick, before more people recognize you,” she said with a laugh. “That’s why we scheduled this tour before the museum opens.”
Elizabeth fell in step behind them, still in shock over the scope of the retrospective. She had barely even taken in the grand building when a young woman in a black dress and distracting earrings rushed up to them.
“Rowan, welcome! Lovely to see you again, we are so thrilled that you’re finally here to see the show.”
Rowan introduced Elizabeth to Charlotte Ainsworth, the curator and driving force behind the exhibition, and the four of them stood in the lobby making awkward small talk while a room full of Rowan’s works beckoned from beyond the oversized doorway. After holding the studies that gave birth to Sunset over Blenheim in her gloved hands, she couldn’t wait to see the real thing in person—though in this setting, Rowan’s work belonged to the world, not just the two of them.
It was clear they were waiting for Martin Woolard, which made Elizabeth immediately dislike him. Cecelia was also prone to late entrances peppered with faux apologies. Arriving late reinforced the idea that nothing could happen until she was in the room.
Elizabeth heard clicking footsteps and a voice echoing through the empty museum before she saw the man who had to be Martin Woolard. “I’m well aware that he’s hard to reach, that’s why I’m asking you to do it. Lightbender. By the end of today.”
He entered the room with the posture of a well-trained butler, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders squared. Based on Trudy’s comments Elizabeth was prepared for a strung-out man-child, but Martin was the picture of British propriety in a fitted high-buttoned suit with a vest just peeking out from underneath.
Martin walked toward the group with his hand out, sm
iling in a way that Elizabeth recognized. Practiced, not genuine. “Rowan. The man of the hour.”
Rowan smiled warily and shook Martin’s hand. “And the clock is striking midnight. Please meet my niece, Elizabeth.”
Hearing him call her by her full name was as obvious as if Rowan had screamed Mayday. But Elizabeth was ten steps ahead of him, already profiling Martin and preparing for war. His expensive Italian shoes had a heel on them, which meant he was sensitive about his height. His head was bare on top but there were wisps of hair straining forward from the base of his skull, which meant that he wasn’t bowing to baldness without a fight. His nails were buffed to a glossy sheen, which meant he was vain. He stood in the center of the group, directly in front of Faye. He was desperate to come out from under his mother’s shadow.
Martin turned his attention to Elizabeth. “The American. Welcome to London.” He nodded in her direction, then turned away, but Elizabeth took a step closer to him and held out her hand defiantly so that he had no choice but to shake it. In an instant Elizabeth could tell exactly why Trudy hated him. If she took one thing with her from Duchess, it was that no man would ever treat her like her hand was unworthy of shaking.
Martin had no idea what was in store for him.
“Let’s head in, shall we?” Charlotte the curator said as they walked into the cavernous room. “So far the show has gotten wonderful feedback. People are still so inspired by your work, Rowan.” She gestured to a huge painting dominating the entrance to the exhibition. “Now, you’ll notice that the first painting we encounter is Nightfall, and I must admit that I pulled rank and placed it here because it’s my favorite. It’s a significant work because of its size, of course, but also because it’s your only painting depicting complete darkness. May I ask what inspired it, Rowan?”
Martin began speaking before Rowan could even open his mouth, peering at the group over the top of his glasses. “This came right after Rowan’s Twilight series, so it was a natural progression from the encroaching darkness in that series to the full black in Nightfall.”
“Actually, Nightfall came before Twilight,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Two years before, in fact. And Rowan painted his Jardin series in between, which, as I’m sure you know, Martin, was an explosion of color. Am I right about that, Rowan?” She knew that she was.
“Indeed you are, Elizabeth.”
The name again.
Charlotte led the group around the exhibition with a mix of nerves and enthusiasm. She knew Rowan’s work inside and out, but Elizabeth knew more. She’d seen the pencil sketches and hastily painted studies of the famous works hanging in the bright white room. She knew that a fight with Trudy had inspired Storm Clouds. That he hated The Bend and had happily sold it to a collector so he’d never have to see it again, though it hung along with the others, on loan for the show. And most importantly, she knew that he had a secret collection of portraits that would knock the art world on its collective ass.
Elizabeth could see Rowan’s masterpiece at the far end of the room. Charlotte had set the room perfectly, forcing people to walk through his entire career before arriving at the work they were all there to see.
“Ah, my old friend,” Rowan said quietly when they finally stopped in front of Sunset over Blenheim. “So good to see you again.”
He moved in close to his canvas, studying his own painting as if it were the first time he was seeing it. Elizabeth hung back, mentally framing the image of the master in front of his famous work. But the slump in his shoulders made it clear that it wasn’t a joyful moment for him. Elizabeth walked over and stood next to Rowan, a human shield between him and Martin.
“Remind me to tell you about the stars someday,” he whispered to her, pointing to three bright points of light in the sky.
“Just one more to see, over here, please,” Charlotte said, moving the group to the painting directly across from Blenheim. Martin trailed the group, tapping on his phone. Elizabeth wanted to kick him for his disrespect. The very man the museum was celebrating, Martin’s own client, was in the room with them and he was acting like he was a bored high schooler on a group tour.
“Martin, did you know that Elizabeth is a painter as well?” Faye asked him, trying to get her son to rejoin the group.
“Pardon?” He looked up from his phone with an annoyed expression.
“My niece paints too,” Rowan said. “She’s quite the talent.”
“Isn’t that nice?” Martin turned to Elizabeth and gave her a patronizing smile. “I’m so happy you have a little hobby. Paint by number, I presume?”
Elizabeth was so caught off guard by his rudeness that she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Her face got hot and she clenched her fists until she could feel her fingernails leaving marks in her palms.
Charlotte stopped in front of Cumulus, the giant cloud painting that was one of Elizabeth’s favorites, and pointed to a minuscule black shadow in a tree. “Rowan, I think this is the only living creature in your entire catalog. A raven. Why didn’t you paint more animals?”
“Rowan paints what he knows, locked away on that farm of his. Trees, sky, river, plants, no people, no animals,” Martin said in a singsong voice, as if he weren’t delivering a string of insults. “You prefer the company of landscapes over living things, yes? Slightly hermitlike, I’d say. I’m surprised we even got you here, my friend.”
It was the last slight she’d stand for. Elizabeth blurted before she could censor herself, just like at the disastrous interview, “Is that what you think, little man?” Martin’s face looked like she’d slapped him. “Rowan Barnes might have a few secrets up his sleeve. Have you ever been in the Operculum? No? Well, I have, and I know every inch of what’s in it. Just you wait and see what’s coming. You’re going to lose . . . your . . . shit.”
Faye gasped and Charlotte looked half amazed and half horrified. Elizabeth realized what she’d just done and turned to see Rowan’s reaction.
He stood a few feet away from the group with his eyes squinted and his hands pressed to his mouth. For a moment it looked like he was crying, and Elizabeth wanted to run over to hug him and apologize. She took a step toward him and realized that he was holding back giggles and tears of joy.
chapter thirty-three
Trudy clutched her bad arm as if the stress of the situation made her bones ache. She hadn’t stopped asking Rowan and Elizabeth questions since they’d arrived home from the museum. They were gathered on the patio in the fading summer light, a candle casting a glow on the trio.
“Everything is fine for now, please stop fretting,” Rowan said, leaning back in his chair. Major sidled up to him and filled in the space between his feet. “Unless Bess’s ‘little man’ comment pushed him over the brink.”
“I have a blurting problem in high-pressure situations,” Elizabeth said. “I’m so sorry, I cannot believe I said that.”
“It was poetry, my dear. And well deserved,” Rowan answered.
“Bess, what do you think is going to happen?” Trudy was fixated on figuring out their next steps, so they could be rid of Martin and Woolard Gallery as quickly as possible.
Elizabeth weighed her words before opening her mouth, watching Georgina stalk a spider that was making its way across the bricks. They all knew the truth, but it was up to her to make it real, to say what no one wanted to say.
“Martin is going to work his way through the Woolard Gallery like a tornado. He wants to erase every bit of his mother’s legacy, and that means getting rid of Rowan. He has no respect for his career. It’s an unbelievably stupid move, but after meeting Martin I’m not surprised.”
Trudy made an exasperated noise. “I knew it! Isn’t he horrid?”
“The absolute worst. I know exactly why you hate him,” Elizabeth replied.
They sat in silence. Georgina lowered herself into a deep crouch, paused, and then leapt on top of the spider.
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br /> “What happens now?” Elizabeth asked. “What should we do? I mean, what should you do?”
“I have a gallery in mind. They’ve been courting me since the beginning of my career. And they’ll do my portraits justice.”
“Tempus Gallery?” Trudy asked.
Rowan nodded and stared into the distance, exhausted by the late-stage drama he was facing.
“What did you call him again, Bess? Wee man?”
“Little man,” she corrected. “It was horrifying.”
“Oh, I wish I could have been there,” Trudy said with her eyes shining.
“Speaking of being there, I’m going to excuse myself. I need to go down to the Operculum for a bit. My little show is coming up fast, and after seeing all of Rowan’s stuff I’m feeling inspired,” Elizabeth said.
“It’s a lovely symmetry, isn’t it? My career is in its twilight and yours is just unfolding,” Rowan said.
“Stop it. You are nowhere near twilight. Your stamina puts mine to shame. And painting is hardly my career.”
Trudy reached out to grasp Elizabeth’s hand as she stood up to leave. “You may have no choice in the matter, my dear.”
Elizabeth gave Trudy’s hand a squeeze and called Georgina to her. The pair walked down the lane side by side, and Elizabeth’s thoughts shifted to the turmoil Rowan was facing. It didn’t seem fair that he was being forced to make such major changes at his age.
She pulled the screeching Operculum door open and reflexively looked down at Georgina. The little dog took a half step backward but held her ground as the door wailed along the track. “Good girl,” she said. “Brave girl.”
To her, the barn smelled as delicious as a cinnamon roll. Every time she walked in she felt tingly and invigorated. She was excited to put the finishing touches on the painting of Porter and Amber before her show, since it was going to be a central piece. James had no idea that she’d set up a photo shoot with the dogs one morning when he was in the shower.
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