“It was rude of you not to wait for me,” she said, her mouth set in an angry line and her face flushed. The clerk, seeing that it was a matter that did not concern him, put the ledger back into the bookcase and retired to his desk, where he became immediately engrossed in cataloging a set of ceramic tiles.
William walked over to where Ella Abrams stood, realizing that he wanted desperately to regain her good opinion. “I thought it might be best to get here early,” he explained apologetically, “though of course I intended to wait for you. I hope you can still spare me a moment of your time.”
She gave a sigh, turned, and walked into the shop, where she settled into one of the armchairs and motioned for him to take the other. She did not speak for a moment; then, having regained her composure and abandoned both her anger and her furtiveness, spoke bluntly. “My father says you have a deep understanding of people.”
“And how does he know that?”
“He is something of a psychologist himself, you know. Indeed, he has many talents, though, unfortunately, he must apply them all to one end—that of making money in order to prove that he is as good as other English gentlemen. Of course, by concentrating on that task, he succeeds only in proving that he’s not. It’s a paradox that it will take another generation or two to overcome. Then we will have the luxury to appreciate art and philosophy as you do.”
“You seem to appreciate art and philosophy.”
“I have an interest,” agreed Ella. “But what is that? A woman can take an interest in things, but she cannot do them. You must understand that, having a sister…and a wife. And as a Jew, I am handicapped further, though I suppose it gives me a perspective on things. John Sargent says that women and Jews are the great observers of culture. I, being both, observe quite a bit, you see.”
“You are dissatisfied with your life?” William asked, discerning the bitterness in her voice.
“Dissatisfied?” mused Ella. “I suppose I am. I wish to represent myself in some way in the world.”
“John Sargent has painted you.”
“Yes, he finds me exotic and is taken with the play of light on my hair. Others have delved deeper. But inspiring art is not the same as creating it.” There was a pause. “I gave the De Quincey set to a friend.”
William sat very still for a moment. “I have reason to want to speak to the owner of the set,” he finally said quietly. “Could you put me in touch with him?”
“We are no longer in touch, but you can contact him on your own. He has, I believe, a rising reputation in the art world; his name is Walter Sickert.”
William felt his throat tighten, and for a moment he thought he would faint. His distress must have shown on his face, for Ella spoke sharply. “You are shocked that I had an intimate relationship with a man…and a gentile at that? I am an independent woman. I will no doubt marry a Jewish banker of whom my father approves, but until then, I do as I please. As I said, I do not have the resources that you have to accomplish anything of significance, so I resort to attaching myself to accomplished men.”
William recalled the other items that had been marked in the ledger, all tokens of affection from Ella Abrams to Walter Sickert, he thought. “You were…in love…with this Sickert?” His voice sounded muffled to his own ears.
“Whatever I felt is over,” said Ella, looking at him with calm directness. The sun streaming through the window had burnished her skin so that it looked like polished bronze. The dark, shiny hair; the chiseled face; the bright, intelligent eyes all seemed to be set off by a radiant cloud of light. He was reminded of Sargent’s portrait, but as she had implied, the picture was a superficial appreciation; it made her into a sensual surface rather than the complex, restless being he saw before him.
He couldn’t stop looking at her, gulping down the smooth planes of her face and the lights in her hair. He was staring, he knew, but he couldn’t help it, though he also felt inhibited, constrained in ways he had not felt before.
“I have no doubt that the person I mentioned will be helpful with regard to assembling the completed set,” she said softly. “I have no idea how the single volume may have become unattached.”
“Why did you stop seeing him?” William had forgotten about the volume; he was thinking only about the relationship that had been revealed to him between Ella Abrams and Walter Sickert. The idea of such a relationship made him feel sick.
Ella paused to fully consider her answer. “I misjudged his character,” she finally said.
He knew that he should ask her what she meant, interrogate her as to the nature of the man with whom she had been intimate, but he could not. The idea of speaking about Sickert now repelled him. He would have to see to her again when he was calmer and more prepared to probe the subject. Perhaps the desire to see her again was what prevented him from asking questions now.
She had risen from her chair, and he did the same. They stood opposite each other, close, though not so close as to touch, and yet he felt the presence of her body, in its suppressed energy, and imagined it pressing against his. He had an almost irresistible urge to give himself up to his feelings and knew that if he did, she would respond. He could feel her desire for him radiating back at him. He did nothing, though, merely continued to hold his gaze on her face. When she finally put out her hand, he looked down and took it, grasping the soft palm in his. He did not know how long he held it, but it was a long time before he finally mumbled farewell and hurried out the door into the bustling streets.
Chapter 34
I don’t think you should go through with this,” said William, as he, Alice, and Henry sat together in her bedroom. She had, he saw to his consternation, already gone to some trouble to prepare for Sickert’s visit. She had had Sally purchase her a new cap, and she had changed the coverlet on her bed to the lace one that had belonged to their mother and that she generally kept in storage. She had also made Archie move the armoire so that there would be room for Sickert’s easel and paints.
The idea that she was looking forward to the visit upset William considerably. Ella Abrams had succumbed, and now his sister, of all people, was showing herself to be susceptible. What was it with this man Sickert, and more to the point, with the women who found him alluring?
He had tried his best to explain to Alice why Sickert’s ownership of the De Quincey volumes strongly supported his guilt, but she stubbornly refused to be convinced.
“I agree that it’s a coincidence,” she said, “but we remain unsure of so many things: whether the photograph was planted in the book and whether the owner might not simply have notated it without any intention to kill. It’s a popular essay, and someone who finds it of interest isn’t necessarily a murderer.”
“But the initials!” insisted William.
“Who’s to say that they refer to ‘pupil of Whistler’? It’s an ingenious but unsubstantiated assumption. They could mean anything. And”—she spoke with a certain knowing emphasis here—“perhaps they were put in the book before the set was given to Sickert by your young lady. We don’t know how the volume became separated from the set.”
She was making excuses on his behalf, thought William angrily; she was engaging in the sort of rationalizations one heard from an infatuated woman. As much as he might deny it, he had always found secret comfort in the fact that she had never seemed to care for men. Her friendship with Katherine had pleased him in this respect, alleviating any need to be jealous in a conventional sense. But now he was both jealous and afraid.
“I insist on being present during the sitting,” he asserted vehemently. “There’s no telling what that maniac might do alone with you in your bedroom.”