Vere was suddenly tired. It always came, this bone-deep weariness at the end of a case. But it seemed even more draining this time. Perhaps because above him his wife was literally jumping for joy, the impact of her landings reverberating through the ceiling.
Her purposes for this marriage had been served: She was safe and she was free, as was her aunt. He would let some more time elapse—for Douglas to be tried and convicted—and then he would demand an annulment.
It was still possible, or so he liked to think, to repair the damages she had wrought. When he’d had time and distance enough from her, her face and her smile would cease to intrude into his fantasies of tranquillity and peacefulness. Then, when he wanted simple companionship, he would have simple companionship, and all the easy comfort that came with it.
The emotions Lady Vere invoked were too dark, too sharp, too unnerving. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want the frustration, the lust, or the dangerous longings she incited. He wanted only for things to go back as they were, before their paths collided: an inner life that was soothing, consoling, placating, thickly buffered from the realities of his life.
Rather like Mrs. Douglas with her laudanum.
He poured himself two fingers of whiskey and downed it in a single gulp.
Upstairs she jumped again. No doubt she was laughing and crying at the same time, weightless with happiness and relief, her nightmare at last coming to an end.
His nightmares would just have to go on.
“Allow me to read you a passage from my diary, dated twelve April 1884,” said Angelica. She cleared her throat dramatically. “‘On the bank of the trout stream, I read and Freddie drew. Penny struck up a conversation with the vicar, who was out on a walk—something about the Gnostics and the Council of Nicaea.’”
She looked up. “My goodness, remember how learned Penny used to be?”
“I remember,” said Freddie.
But he never remembered it without an echo of sadness.
“At least he’s happily married now. His wife seems to find him nothing short of miraculous.”
“That does make me happy. I like the way she looks at him: There is so much that’s good and admirable in Penny.”
Angelica slid her finger along the edge of her leather-bound diary. “But?” she prompted him.
He smiled. She knew him too well. “I’ll admit I am a little envious. I used to think that if I ended up an old bachelor, at least I’d have Penny for company.”
“You can always have my company,” she said. “It would be like being children all over again, except with fewer teeth.”
He suddenly recalled an instance of fewer teeth. “Do you remember the time I accidentally broke my father’s favorite pair of spectacles?”
“Was that the time when I stole my mother’s specs to replace them and we were hoping he wouldn’t find out?”
“Yes, that was it. My mother and Penny were both away somewhere and I was scared out of my wits. And you suggested that we pull your loose teeth to keep my mind off the specs.”
“Really?” She chuckled. “I don’t remember that part at all.”
“Your new teeth had come out already. And your old teeth were so loose they were flapping about like a line of washing in the wind. Everyone was after you to get rid of the old teeth, but you were adamant that no one come near them.”
“My goodness. Now I remember a little. I used to sleep with a scarf over my mouth, so that my governess couldn’t have at them.”
“I was so surprised that you’d let me, I forgot all about the specs. We pulled out four of your teeth that afternoon.”
She bent over laughing.
“Listen, it gets better: My father dropped your mother’s specs and stepped on them before he could put them on and realize they were the wrong ones. It had to be one of the few times when my clumsiness didn’t get someone into trouble. The relief, my God.”
“Well, one thing is certain: I will not let you pull out any of my teeth when I’m a crone.”
He raised his coffee cup to her in salute. “Understood. All the same, I’d be thrilled to have your company when I’m a dotard.”
She returned his salute, her eyes sparkling, and he suddenly realized, for the very first time, how privileged he was to have known her his entire life. Sometimes one took the best things in one’s life for granted. He never fully understood how much he had wholeheartedly depended on Penny before Penny’s accident changed everything. And he’d never considered the central role Angelica’s friendship had played in his life, especially in those difficult, vulnerable years under his father—until now, when he was full of feelings that threatened to imperil that very friendship.
“Now, where were we?” She set down her coffee cup and found her place in the diary. “Here we go. ‘The old dear, evidently delighted with the discussion, invited all of us to the vicarage for tea.’”
“We were at Lyndhurst Hall, weren’t we?” he asked, beginning to have some recollection himself. “For the duchess’s Easter house party?”
“Precisely. Now listen to this: ‘The tea was very nice, as was Mrs. Vicar, but what caught my attention was the painting in the parlor of the vicarage. A beautiful angel, taking up most of the canvas, hovered above a man who was clearly in a state of worshipful ecstasy. The name of the painting was The Adoration of the Angel. I asked Mrs. Vicar the name of the artist—he had signed only his initials, G. C. Mrs. Vicar did not know, but she said that they had bought the painting from the London art dealer Cipriani.’”
“Cipriani? The one who never forgets anything that passes through his hands?”
“That’s the one,” she said, closing her diary with much satisfaction. “He’s retired now. But I wrote to him this morning. Who knows? He might welcome us to call on him.”
“You are a marvel,” he said, meaning every word.
“Of course I am,” said Angelica, her black skirts rustling as she rose. “So you see, I’ve been upholding my end of the bargain. Now it’s your turn.”
His hands perspired. He dreaded seeing her naked again, even as he couldn’t wait to walk into the studio and have her beautiful form spread like a feast before him—a feast for a man who must fast.
He had been working on the painting, his head overrun with carnal thoughts even as he analyzed color, texture, and composition. His dreams, full of erotic interludes ever since she’d broached the subject of the portrait, had by now taken on a disturbing vividness.
He cleared his throat rather ineffectually—and cleared his throat again. “I suppose you want to go up to the studio then?”
Freddie had set the studio ablaze with light—too much light, in Angelica’s opinion. Her skin would gleam unbearably bright under such lighting, and she always preferred the flesh tones in her paintings to look more natural.
There was a camera—not Freddie’s No. 4 Kodak, which she had seen before, but a much more elaborate studio camera on a wooden tripod, with bellows for focusing and a black cloth draped behind. There was also a flashlamp, a screen of cheesecloth, and several white screens set at various angles.
“What is the camera for?” she asked, once he’d reentered the studio, after she’d disrobed and lain down.
“It must be a chore for you to pose for so long—and I’m not a fast painter. But once I have the photographs, I can work from them and you won’t need to shiver in the cold.”
“It’s not cold.” A fire had been laid in the grate and he’d supplied several braziers. He must be warm.
“Still.”
“But photographs do not convey color!”
“Perhaps not, but they do convey shading and contrast, and I already know the exact hue of your skin,” he said, disappearing behind the black cloth.