Inamorata

by Megan Chance

  She leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed out toward the lagoon. “Such a beautiful day, isn’t it? It seems impossible to believe there could be anything but days such as this here.”

  “Thus far I haven’t seen a bad one,” I said. “But I’ve only been here the summer.”

  “The lagoon is magical,” Miss Hannigan went on dreamily. “Before we came, I read so much about it. Everyone spoke of the first sight of Venice from the lagoon. But that was before the train bridge was built. I suppose no one first comes upon it that way anymore.”

  “No, probably not,” I agreed. “But even coming from the train station, Venice has its charm. Especially after Mestre.”

  Joseph Hannigan laughed.

  Giles said, “Such a dismal, dusty town.”

  “It has its moments.” Hannigan turned to his sister. “Tell them, Soph. Tell them what we saw in Mestre.”

  She smiled, that dreaminess in her eyes becoming more pronounced, impossible to turn away from. “We had an hour wait, and we were sitting there on the bench outside the station when a train came in. One of the cars had a carriage strapped to it. It shone even in the dust. It had a gold emblem painted upon the door, and its windows glittered in the sun like diamonds.” Her voice took on a lovely vibrance, a storyteller’s opulence, transitioning us into a fairy tale before I’d realized it.

  “The train stopped so suddenly that the carriage jerked and the straps holding it broke. It rolled onto one wheel and hung there long enough that I thought it might stay that way, suspended. But then it crashed to the ground. The trunks on its roof broke open, and jars and bottles and wooden boxes rolled everywhere, cracking apart as if the violence of the world had been cast upon them, releasing butterflies and moths and bugs. The air shivered with shining, vibrant wings and the ground shimmered with all the colors of the rainbow. It was so beautiful we could not look away.

  “The man and woman whose carriage it was ran about, trying to gather them up again, desperate to keep them safe. Because you see, they weren’t really insects waiting to be dried and pinned to mats in museum exhibits, but fairies who had been transformed by a wicked demon and locked in a mummy’s tomb. They had spent hundreds of years in darkness, and that man and woman had rescued them, and meant to return them to the ancient gardens of Rome, where they belonged.

  “But now the fairies were bathed in sunlight, and laughing because they would never be in darkness again. They would not go back into those bottles and boxes. We could feel their joy and hear them singing. The man and the woman let them go—what else could they do? They could protect them no longer. They could only hope that the fairies would find their own way to the gardens. Some of them have made it there already, I know. And the rest will as soon as they find the path the others have left for them to follow. I shall never forget the magic of Mestre.”

  Her voice trailed off, but the vision she’d conjured for us lingered, impossible to forget. I had heard singers who could charm the world with their voices, and actors whose sonorous tones left one in weeping awe, but Sophie Hannigan’s skill with a story left me staring at her in wonder. It wasn’t just her words, it was her way of putting them together, the voice that seemed to gain power with each one, so that my head had been filled with images so magically vibrant it was as if I had seen them with my own eyes. She changed the world into something fine. She made one believe.

  We were all dumbstruck, but Hannigan . . . Hannigan’s gaze was so full of love and yearning—such a fatal and somehow wrong combination—that I was momentarily distracted. I had no idea what to make of it.

  “Did that really happen?” Giles asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over all of us. “The bugs and the butterflies? I mean, they were going to a museum for display, of course?”

  Sophie Hannigan’s smile faltered—for a moment a darkness came into her eyes that only confused me more, and I wanted to throttle Giles for asking the question, for marring the magic of the tale, but it was Joseph Hannigan who said gently, “Sophie’s is the story I want to believe, don’t you?”

  The shadows left her eyes. She gave her brother a grateful smile.

  The moment held, lingering between them in a way so private I felt as if I were intruding, and I had to look away. But then Hannigan sighed, and I looked up again to see him rising. “Come along, Martin. Perhaps we should try drawing the view instead of simply talking about it.”

  Giles frowned. He looked ready to protest, but then he rose reluctantly and followed, glancing back at Miss Hannigan as he did so, obviously loathe to leave her.

  “That was quite a story,” I said when they were gone.

  “Did you like it?”

  “You’ve a way with words. And quite an imagination. Have you written it down?”

  “Me? Oh no, I’m no poet. I like telling stories, but I’m not very good at writing them. You can have it if you like. Write it for me. I shall sit back and quietly admire the view while you do so.”

  I looked away, up into the leafy canopy, and heard myself say, quite unexpectedly, “‘For she was beautiful—her beauty made the bright world dim and everything beside seemed like the floating image of a shade.’”

  “Why, that is lovely,” she said with a smile. “A pity it’s not yours, but Shelley’s.”

  That she knew it surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. She was obviously educated, and she and her brother had either come from money and fallen on hard times, or had been at the lower echelons of society. Or perhaps her parents had disowned her artist brother and she had followed him. There could have been many reasons why the gown she wore—good quality silk, unless I missed my guess—was not quite the current fashion. Or why I’d seen it twice now. Last night at Florian’s, and today, though she wore a different hat and shawl as if to disguise the fact. I found myself wondering about her history, her relationship with her brother, and where she’d learned to tell stories. I fiercely quashed the urge to ask her. I did not want to be so involved, I reminded myself.

  She said, “Tell me one of your poems. Joseph said you’d published, though I confess I didn’t recognize your name. But there are so many writers we don’t know in America. I suppose you must be famous in London.”

  I took a sip of wine, ignoring the resentment—very old now, and very familiar—I felt at her words. “I think even London doesn’t know me. At least not most of it. There’s nothing like publishing to humble a man.” Or to show the extent of his insignificance.

  “Well, I expect Venice to do her best by you, whatever you think. Perhaps it’s as Mr. Martin says, and one day you’ll discover inspiration standing right in front of you.”

  She was still leaning her chin upon her hand. Her eyes were bright, and fastened on me as if she found me fascinating. It was heady, I had to admit. “Perhaps. But thus far I haven’t been as lucky in my inspirations as your brother.”

  I said it deliberately, hoping to tell something from her reaction, but she only blinked and said lightly, “You never know what the future will bring.”

  “You’re another optimist, I see.”

  “Another?”

  “Well, Giles is one too. Or he’s mad—I can’t tell which. Is it optimism or madness that keeps one forging ahead despite failure after failure?”

  “Faith, I think.”

  “Oh? Faith in what?”

  “I don’t know. God. Or fate.”

  “Or symmetry,” I said unthinkingly.

  Sophie Hannigan’s forehead furrowed. “Symmetry?”

  “It was something an old . . . friend . . . used to say. That the world liked balance. Symmetry.”

  “Oh.” She looked puzzled. “Well, I suppose that’s like fate. Everything works out for the best, doesn’t it?”

  “Does it? You saw Nelson Stafford in that courtyard. There are plenty of horrors out there fighting for one’s soul, Miss Hannigan. Sometimes they win. Is that best? For whom?”

  The brightness in her eyes dimmed, replaced by the shadows I’d seen
before—and for a moment these were so dark and haunting that I was taken aback; I realized suddenly that whatever was the story in Sophie Hannigan’s past, it was much different than the one I’d imagined for her.

  But then she glanced away, out toward the lagoon, to her brother, and that expression disappeared, leaving me uncertain of what I’d seen.

  “I think beauty has more power than horror, don’t you?” she asked softly.

  “Like your story of Mestre.”

  She nodded. “I’d rather have the magic. I want to see the world the way Joseph does—he sees so much beauty in everything.”

  “He’s fortunate to have the talent to show that vision to the world. I suppose we’re all luckier for it.”

  “Yes. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  “From the looks of it, he feels the same about you. He seems quite devoted.”

  “We’re devoted to each other,” she told me frankly. “We’ve no other family.”

  That didn’t surprise me. “Your parents—?”

  “Died in a carriage accident when we were very young.”

  Here it was, I thought, the reason for the haunting shadows in her eyes. “How tragic. Who raised you?”

  “Our aunt was our guardian. Have you any family, Mr. Dane?”

  I was too good at this myself not to notice her deflection. “A full one, I’m afraid. No unfortunate deaths or illnesses to blight it. My mother and father are well on their way to a distinguished old age. My brother and sister are both married. My sister has proved to be excellent at breeding, which removed from me and my brother the need of providing grandchildren, though I suppose he could have obliged by now. It’s been some time since I visited, so I don’t really know.”

  “You don’t? How strange.”

  “Not really,” I said. “We’ve no real interest in each other. And my father and I don’t get along. He had other aspirations for me.”

  “He doesn’t like your being a poet?”

  “He thought I should pick a profession that might actually make me a living. I suppose he wasn’t wrong.”

  Again, that smile. “Well, I have great hopes for you, Mr. Dane.” She leaned forward; the movement sent her perfume wafting—violets, I thought, and desire rose unbidden, unfettered and intense.

  Just as it had with Odilé.

  The moment I had the thought, Giles called, as if the universe had put him in place to save me, “You shouldn’t monopolize Miss Hannigan that way, Nick! You’ll bore her to death with your cynicism. Come over here a moment, Miss Hannigan. Tell me if I’ve truly captured the color of that rose.”

  She hesitated; I thought I saw disappointment, and I was struck by the realization that she had wanted to be alone with me, which made me a little too glad. Deliberately I summoned control, which brought a chill to my voice I didn’t quite mean when I said, “Please don’t let me keep you.”

  It took her aback, I saw. She colored and rose, going over to Giles, and I watched in interest as he stood back to show her whatever it was he was painting, trying to imagine what words she might find to compliment Giles’s true lack of talent for landscape. Whatever it was she said, it was the right thing, because he exclaimed with pleasure.

  He pointed to the balustrade, and as she wandered over to it, I realized that he was asking her to pose for him. I felt a stab of annoyance. It was too late in the afternoon for it; he would have her standing there for hours, and I would be caught up in it, and I’d had enough of the day. There were still things I must do before the sun set. I rose, wandering over to them, saying as I approached, “For God’s sake, Giles, don’t burden her with posing.”

  Sophie Hannigan tendered a hesitant smile. “Oh, I don’t mind it. I’m used to it.”

  “What else have we to do?” Giles asked.

  His words reminded me of the reason I had come to the Gardens today. To keep Joseph Hannigan in my sights, too busy in my world to wander about in Odilé’s. There was a poetry reading at Katharine Bronson’s salon, and Giles and I had promised to attend.

  I said to Giles, “We’re supposed to be at Katharine’s tonight, or have you forgotten?”

  Giles winced. “Oh yes, I did forget. Well, it won’t matter if we’re late, will it? It’s only Johnson’s verses.”

  “Oh no, please, not on our account,” Miss Hannigan said, and there was a stillness to her now, disappointment or restraint. “Neither Joseph nor I would keep you from an appointment.”

  I said, a trifle disingenuously, “It’s not an appointment, not really. More of a longstanding engagement. Katharine Bronson’s salon at the Alvisi. You know, you and your brother should come. Yes, you absolutely should. I think the two of you would enjoy it.”

  “Whistler was there the other night,” Giles said. “And Frank Duveneck.”

  “Oh it sounds wonderful. But I shall have to ask Joseph—”

  Giles shouted, “Hannigan! Come here!”

  Hannigan jerked as if he’d just awakened from a reverie. He closed the sketchbook, rose from where he sat against a nearby tree, and came over to us. I said, “You’ve no plans for tonight, have you?”

  He glanced at his sister, who said, “Mr. Dane has just invited us to Katharine Bronson’s salon.”

  “A salon?” He seemed barely waking from his distraction.

  “It’s not so boring as it sounds,” Giles said. “At least not usually.”

  I said, “No indeed. They’ll love the two of you. Fresh blood, as it were.”

  Giles laughed. “The only requirement is that you be entertaining. They put a great store on that. If you can’t be entertaining, you must at least be a good audience.”

  “I am the best of audiences,” Sophie Hannigan said. “Isn’t that so, Joseph?”

  “But you’re already destined for entertainment, Miss Hannigan,” Giles said. “You’ll never get away with being in the audience tonight.”

  She frowned. “Why is that?”

  I expected Giles to prattle some compliment about her loveliness or something equally inane, but he said, “By tonight, Stafford will be all the gossip. They’ll want to hear your story.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I’m not certain I’ll want to talk about it.”

  “They won’t forgive you for withholding,” I said quickly. “You’ll be the guest du jour, after all. I give you fair warning: you’ll make no friends with reticence. Not in this crowd. And you should embellish too. They love detail. They expect lies. You’ll be very good at it, if your tale of Mestre is any indication.”

  Sophie Hannigan’s smile caught me unexpecting; I had no defense.

  She said, “Of course. I shall tell them anything they want to hear.”

  SOPHIE

  We went back to the room to dress before Mr. Dane and Mr. Martin were to fetch us at six. We were no sooner through the door than Joseph turned to me, taking my face in his hands, kissing me hard. “Mrs. Bronson and the Alvisi, Soph!” he said, ebullient. “I told you, didn’t I? I knew he had the connection.”

  I wrapped my arms around him, holding him tight. “You were right, as always.”

  “And now, thanks to you, we’re in.”

  “Thanks to me? Oh, I don’t think it’s thanks to me at all. It’s more thanks to you.”

  “To me?”

  “He’s taken with you. I don’t think he’s attracted to me at all.”

  Joseph sobered and frowned. He stepped away and went restlessly to the window. “No. He’s interested in you. The sketch and . . . yes, I know he is. I saw it.”

  “Well he didn’t seem so today.”

  “When I left you alone—”

  “He seemed quite immune.”

  “What did you speak of?”

  “I hardly remember. God, I think. Or fate. His lack of inspiration. He was envious of yours, though. He asked about our family.”

  Joseph turned, ghosts in his eyes. I felt the ragged edges he worked so carefully to hide calling to mine. “What did you tell him?”
>
  Quickly, I said, “Enough to show him it wasn’t very interesting. Dead parents, raised by an aunt, nothing more.”

  I was relieved when his ghosts fled. My own settled in response. Joseph sighed. “Did he touch you? Your hand or your arm?”

  “Not once.”

  “Did he smile? Or laugh?”

  “Yes, but not as you mean. Perhaps you’re right and he is interested, but if that’s so, it’s obvious he means to do nothing about it. I can tell.”

  “Martin said he had no other girl. You just need to flirt with him a bit more. Remember what I taught you?”

  “Yes of course. I tried. Truly I did. He hardly looked at me.”

  “Give him time,” Joseph said dismissively. “He’s cautious is all. He liked the story as much as I did. It was . . .” he trailed off. I saw the memory of it in his eyes, the world I’d made for him that we both wished to live in, where nothing hurt and no one troubled us. And I saw the desire it raised too, that mirrored my own, that made me feel powerful and miserable and helpless. He blinked it away and said a bit roughly, “Believe me, he wants you as much as Martin does.”

  I drew off my tight gloves, wiggling loose one finger at a time. I remembered the bitterness in Nicholas Dane’s voice, my thought that he’d been hurt before and meant not to be hurt again. “Perhaps. Though he’s drawn to you too. He couldn’t stop watching you.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Why does it matter now? Why should either of us keep trying? We’re to go to the Bronsons’. What more do we need him for?”

  “We’ll need his support a while longer, at least until we establish ourselves there. And there’s still Henry Loneghan.”

  “Yes,” I said on a sigh, setting aside my gloves, pulling out my hat pin. “Loneghan.”

  “You know his reputation. People listen to him. They follow his lead.”

  “I know.” I lifted my hat, shaking loose the strands of my hair that clung to the veil before I threw it to the chair.

  “Dane won’t be able to resist you for long, even if he wants to. Trust me. You’re irresistible.”

  I only looked at him.