Second Sight

by Amanda Quick

“I congratulate you on your knowledge of Society gossip,” he said when Harrow eventually wound down.

  “One hears things at one’s club.” Harrow took another swallow of champagne. “You know how it is.”

  “I have been out of town for some time,” Gabriel reminded him. “I fear I am out of touch.”

  That much was true enough, he thought. Almost no one in the reclusive Jones family took an interest in Society. That fact served him well now because he could move through the Polite World with very little risk of being recognized.

  “Yes, of course,” Harrow said. “And then there was that dreadful case of amnesia that you suffered after your accident. It can’t have helped your memory.”

  Gabriel realized that he had pushed the questioning a little too far. Harrow was starting to grow curious. That was not good.

  “No,” he agreed.

  “When did you first recall that you had a wife?” Harrow asked.

  “I believe the memory came to me one morning when I was sitting down to breakfast in a hotel in San Francisco,” Gabriel said, improvising. “It suddenly dawned on me that there was no wife around to pour my tea. It seemed to me that there ought to be one about somewhere. I got to wondering if I had misplaced her. And then it all came back to me in a blinding flash of memory.”

  Harrow’s brows rose. “It would have taken a very severe blow to the head to make a man forget Mrs. Jones.”

  “Indeed,” Gabriel said. “Plunging headfirst into a canyon will have that effect, I’m sorry to say.”

  He looked across the room to where Venetia stood in the center of a knot of people. Her Dreaming Girl, the newest picture in the Dreams series, hung on the wall behind her.

  The photograph was a moody, atmospheric picture of a sleeping girl gowned in billowing, diaphanous white. Earlier Gabriel had taken a closer look and recognized Amelia as the model. A first-place ribbon dangled from a pin next to the picture.

  Harrow followed his gaze. “I cannot help but notice that Mrs. Jones is still wearing black, in spite of your return to the land of the living.”

  “She mentioned something about not having any fashionable gowns in other colors,” Gabriel said. “There was no time to purchase a new dress for tonight’s event.”

  “She will no doubt look forward to replacing all that mourning with more colorful gowns.”

  Gabriel let that remark pass without comment. He had a hunch that Venetia was not going to rush out straightaway to a dressmaker to celebrate his return.

  At that moment one of the men in the crowd around Venetia leaned in a bit closer to her and murmured something in her ear that made her smile.

  Gabriel had a sudden urge to cross the room, seize the man by the throat and toss him out into the street.

  Harrow glanced at him. “You must have been vastly disappointed to discover that Mrs. Jones had a prior engagement planned for this evening.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Gabriel said absently, his attention still on the man who was leaning so close to Venetia.

  “I doubt very much that any husband who had been parted from his bride for such a lengthy period of time would have looked forward to spending his first night home enduring an exhibition of photographs.”

  Harrow was turning the tables, Gabriel thought. The younger man was now the one asking the questions.

  “Fortunately for me, my wife’s photographs are stunning,” Gabriel said.

  “Indeed. Pity the same cannot be said for most of the other pictures on display here tonight.” Harrow turned back to the photograph on the wall. “Mrs. Jones’s work exerts a certain, subtle power over the viewer, doesn’t it? Her pictures compel one to look deeper into the scene.”

  Gabriel studied the photograph that Harrow was admiring. It had been entered in the Architecture category. Unlike the other pictures hanging next to it, there was a human figure in the scene. A woman—Amelia again, her hat clutched in one gloved hand—stood in the vaulted stone entrance to an ancient church. The scene evoked a haunting effect.

  “It is as though the lady we are viewing is a ghost who has chosen to make her presence known to us,” Harrow observed. “She enhances the eerie gothic quality of the architecture, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, she does,” Gabriel said, turning away from the picture to watch Willows head toward the front door.

  “Mrs. Jones manages to endow all of her photographs with some indefinable sensibility,” Harrow continued. “Do you know, I have looked at her work hundreds of times and I still cannot identify the aspect that captivates me. I once asked her how she achieves her deeply emotional effect upon the viewer.”

  Willows disappeared. Gabriel turned back to Harrow.

  “What did she say?” he asked.

  “Only that it has something to do with the lighting,” Harrow said.

  “A reasonable answer.” Gabriel shrugged. “The art of the photographer is about the business of capturing light and shadow and preserving them on paper.”

  Harrow’s fine mouth twisted wryly. “Every photographer will tell you that, and I will admit there is a great deal of truth to the statement. I comprehend that lighting is an extremely difficult and complex task, requiring intuition and an artistic eye. But in the case of Mrs. Jones’s work I am inclined to believe that there is some other talent involved.”

  “What sort of talent?” Gabriel asked, suddenly intrigued.

  Harrow regarded the photograph of the ghostly lady. “It is as if she first sees something unique in her subjects, something that is not at all obvious. She then employs every aspect of the science and art of photography to hint at that quality in the finished picture.”

  Gabriel took another look at the picture of Amelia in the church doorway.

  “Her pictures are about secrets,” he said.

  Harrow gave him a veiled look. “I beg your pardon?”

  Gabriel thought about the photographs Venetia had taken at Arcane House—how she had captured some element of the mystery of each artifact, even while she had created a detailed pictorial record.

  “My wife’s pictures reveal even as they conceal,” he said. It was astonishing how easily the words my wife came to his lips. “That is what draws the eye. People, after all, are always most intrigued by what they have been forbidden to know.”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” Harrow said softly. “The lure of the forbidden. There is nothing more interesting than a closely guarded secret, is there?”

  “No.”

  Harrow inclined his head in a thoughtful manner. “That is it, precisely. I should have hit upon it sooner. Your wife photographs secrets.”

  Gabriel took another look at the photograph and shrugged. “I thought it was obvious.”

  “On the contrary. You need only read some of the reviews written by the critics to discover that words fail time and again when it comes to describing the appeal of your wife’s photographs. In fact, she has been criticized in the press precisely because her themes are not painfully clear.”

  “She has critics?”

  Harrow laughed. “You sound quite annoyed. You may as well save your time and energy. Where there is art, it follows that there will be critics. It is the nature of things.” He glanced across the room. “There is an example of the breed over there by the buffet table.”

  Gabriel followed his gaze. “Ah, yes, Mr. Otford of the Flying Intelligencer. We have met.”

  “Yes, he did that inspiring story of your startling return in the morning paper, didn’t he? You will be able to read his overwrought review of Mrs. Jones’s work in tomorrow’s edition, I’m sure.”

  “I shall look forward to reading his observations,” Gabriel said.

  “Bah.” Harrow’s disgust was clear. “Do not waste your time. I assure you that you possess more insight in your little finger than that man does in his entire brain. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you have more artistic intuition than most of the collectors I know.” He paused a beat. “To say nothing of the vast maj
ority of husbands.”

  “Thank you, but I have the impression that I am missing your point.”

  “My point, sir, is that most gentlemen in your position who returned home to discover that their wives had set themselves up in business would be less than pleased.”

  It was true, Gabriel thought. Venetia, Beatrice and Amelia were walking a very fine line with their gallery. The world had changed considerably in the past fifty years but some things were slower to change than others. There were still very few professions open to women. Operating a business was not considered appropriate for a lady who had been reared in polite, respectable circles. And there was no doubt but that Venetia and her family had come from such circles.

  “My wife is an artist,” he said.

  Harrow stiffened. “I say, there is no need to threaten me, sir. No offense intended, I assure you. I am a great admirer of your wife’s art.”

  Gabriel drank some of the champagne from the glass in his hand and said nothing.

  “Please believe me when I tell you that I am sincere, sir.” Harrow moved cautiously closer again. “Indeed, I am struck by your modern notions. So few husbands are as advanced in their thinking as you are.”

  “I do like to consider myself a man of the modern age,” Gabriel said.

  13

  VENETIA CAUGHT another glimpse of Harold Burton just as she excused herself from the group of amateur photographers that had gathered around her.

  She tried to follow his progress through the crowd. It wasn’t easy. She lost track of him for a moment and then spotted him again. He was on the far side of the exhibition hall, near a side door.

  She saw him glance furtively around two or three times before scuttling out the door.

  Oh, no you don’t, Venetia thought. You’re not going to escape me this time, you annoying little man.

  She whisked up a handful of her black skirts and prepared to make her way as unobtrusively as possible to the door through which Burton had just disappeared.

  Agatha Chilcott materialized in her path. She was enveloped in pink. The heavy folds of several layers of tied-back pink skirts cascaded from a bustle that was broad enough to hold a vase of flowers. A massive necklace of pink stones filled in the expanse of bosom exposed by the neckline of the dress.

  The color of the elaborately coiled braid that sat like a crown atop Agatha’s head was a much darker shade of brown than the rest of her graying hair. The false piece was firmly anchored with a number of gem-set hairpins.

  Agatha was a wealthy and well-connected woman with a great deal of time on her hands. She whiled away the hours collecting and dispensing the juicier tidbits of gossip that floated around in London’s better circles.

  Venetia felt a great deal of gratitude toward her. Agatha had been one of her first important clients. The lady had been so impressed with the portrait of herself as Cleopatra that Venetia had created that she had happily recommended her to her friends.

  “My dear Mrs. Jones, I read the astonishing news of your husband’s return in the morning papers.” Agatha came to a halt in front of Venetia, effectively barring her path. “You must have been quite overcome with an excess of emotion when you learned that Mr. Jones was alive.”

  “It was an extremely startling incident, to be sure,” Venetia said, trying to edge politely around Agatha.

  “I am positively amazed that you felt able to attend the exhibition this evening,” Agatha continued with an air of grave concern.

  “Why on earth would I miss it? I am in excellent health.” Venetia went up on her toes, trying to peer above the heads of the crowd to see if Burton had returned to the room. “There was never any doubt but that I would be able to attend.”

  “Indeed?” Agatha cleared her throat in a meaningful manner. “One would have thought that after sustaining such a shock to the nerves as you did today that one would feel the need to take to one’s bed for a day or two in order to recover.”

  “Nonsense, Mrs. Chilcott.” Venetia snapped her black silk fan a couple of times and tried to keep an eye on the side door. “One certainly cannot allow a case of shattered nerves to keep one from fulfilling one’s commitments.”

  Agatha glanced across the hall to where Gabriel stood talking to white-haired, bespectacled Christopher Farley, the sponsor of the exhibition.

  “I admire your fortitude, my dear,” Agatha said.

  “Thank you. One does what one must. I hope you will excuse me, Mrs. Chilcott.”

  Agatha’s heavily drawn brows rose. “But even if you did feel strong enough to carry on with your appointments, one would have thought that Mr. Jones might have had other notions concerning how to pass this evening.”

  Venetia paused, baffled by the remark. There was no way that Agatha could possibly be aware of Gabriel’s plans to track down a thief.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said cautiously. “Why would Mr. Jones have other ideas?”

  “One would have expected that such an obviously healthy, evidently virile gentleman who had been forced to forgo the natural affections of a loving spouse for an extended period of time would have experienced a strong desire to spend his first evening here in London at home.”

  “At home?”

  “In the bosom of his family, so to speak.” Agatha clasped her gloved hands together in front of her own impressive bosom. “Renewing his intimate connection with his wife.”

  Understanding finally struck Venetia with the force of a jolt of electricity. She could feel the sudden heat in her cheeks. Dread lanced through her. Was everyone in the room speculating on the status of her intimate connection with Gabriel and wondering why they were not spending the evening together in bed?

  She had been concentrating so intently on the many and varied difficulties that confronted her that she had not even considered the possibility that people would be fascinated by the romantic implications of her situation.

  “No need to worry on that account, Mrs. Chilcott.” She summoned up the same bright, reassuring smile that she had bestowed on Agatha when she had assured the lady that the large mole on her chin would not appear in the finished Cleopatra portrait. “Mr. Jones and I had a lovely chat earlier today. We caught up on all the news.”

  “A chat? But my dear, the account in the Flying Intelligencer indicated that Mr. Jones was looking forward to being reunited with you with the most fervent enthusiasm.”

  “Come now, Mrs. Chilcott. You are a woman of the world. I’m sure you are aware that even the most fervently enthusiastic reunions need not consume a great deal of one’s time.”

  “Be that as it may, Mrs. Jones, I couldn’t help but notice that Mr.Jones has spent most of the evening on the other side of this hall.”

  “What of it?”

  “One would have thought that he would have been reluctant to leave your side tonight.”

  “I assure you, Mr. Jones is quite capable of keeping himself occupied.”

  Agatha gave her a steely look. “Indeed?” Abruptly her expression softened. “Ah, I think I understand the problem.”

  “There is no problem, Mrs. Chilcott.”

  “Nonsense, my dear. No need to be shy. It is perfectly reasonable to expect that a certain natural awkwardness might exist between married persons who have been forced apart for so long.”

  “Yes, of course.” Venetia seized on the explanation. “Very awkward.”

  “Especially under the circumstances,” Agatha added delicately.

  “Circumstances?”

  “I seem to recall hearing that Mr. Jones disappeared on your honeymoon.”

  “Quite right,” Venetia said. “Disappeared without any notice, mind you. Walked off a cliff. Fell into a deep canyon. Raging river. Body never found. Presumed dead. Very tragic but these things happen, you know. Especially in places like the Wild West.”

  “Which means that you had very little opportunity to become accustomed to your marital duties, my dear.”

  Venetia’s mouth went dry. “My marita
l duties?”

  Agatha patted her gloved hand. “You are no doubt quite tense and anxious this evening.”

  “You have no idea, Mrs. Chilcott.”

  “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover that you are experiencing some of the same trepidation that you no doubt felt on your honeymoon.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Venetia summoned up her brightest smile. “Fortunately, Mr. Jones is very respectful of my delicate sensibilities.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that, Mrs. Jones. Nevertheless, I hope you will take some advice from an older and perhaps wiser woman.”

  “I don’t think the situation calls for advice, thank you very much.”

  “I assure you, my dear, a healthy, virile gentleman who has been reunited with his bride after a lengthy absence will have certain natural urges.”

  Venetia stared at her, thunderstruck. “Urges?”

  Agatha leaned in very close and lowered her voice. “I advise you to attend to those entirely natural urges without delay, my dear. You would not want Mr. Jones to seek relief elsewhere.”

  “Good heavens.” Venetia felt her brain go quite blank.

  “I can see from the expression on your face that you did not have much of an opportunity to become accustomed to your marital duties before Mr. Jones suffered that dreadful fall.” Agatha tapped Venetia’s wrist with her fan. “You must trust me when I tell you that a wife’s conjugal obligations are not nearly as objectionable as some would have you believe.” She winked. “Not when her husband is as healthy and virile as Mr. Jones appears to be.”

  Smiling benignly, Agatha turned and swept off into the throng.

  Venetia finally managed to get her mouth closed. With an effort of will she pulled herself together and continued toward her objective.

  But she was now very conscious of the veiled glances and curious stares aimed in her direction. People were, indeed, speculating about the intimate aspects of her relationship with Gabriel, she thought. Her face burned.

  The irony of her predicament was enough to make her grind her teeth. She could not bear to contemplate the many long, lonely, sleepless nights she had spent reliving the memory of her one night in the arms of her fantasy lover and quietly mourning the loss of what might have been.