Portrait of a Lover

by Julianne MacLean

  He pulled off his gloves and tossed them onto the table, then sauntered across the gallery to address Whitby, who approached him from the other side.

  They stopped in the center of the room and stood in silence facing each other, but after a very short time, Magnus grew tired of the bravado. He had no interest in this sort of thing, which was rather astounding. At one time he had lived for it—especially during the five years after his summer with Annabelle. His bitterness over that loss had simmered and raged inside him for a long time afterward, and his resentment toward Whitby had reached its peak.

  Thank God he left for America when he had.

  “I was expecting you today,” he finally said to his cousin.

  “Were you indeed?” Whitby replied.

  “Yes. I suspected you’d want to discuss our contract. And I knew you would wish to have a word with me about Annabelle.”

  Whitby glared at him briefly before turning and wandering around the gallery, looking with a critical eye at the new wiring in the ceiling, the fresh paint on the walls…

  “I will always be looking out for Annabelle,” Whitby said, “as she is my sister.”

  “Not by blood,” Magnus replied curtly, realizing it was a point he’d often revisited with a sense of relief—the fact that Annabelle was not born of the same ilk as Whitby and John and their insufferable father. Their grandfather, too. He could certainly not forget to include him.

  Whitby merely glanced at Magnus, and ignored the comment. He walked to the front window and watched a few people walk by, then spoke with cool detachment. “A gallery. How out of the ordinary. You certainly chose a promising location.”

  “I always do.”

  Magnus watched his cousin saunter leisurely to the other side of the room, and recognized his intent to demonstrate how relaxed and confident he was—as if Whitby considered him a mere nuisance, nothing more.

  Yet he had come all the way to London without wasting a moment, hadn’t he? Perhaps Whitby was not as impervious as he pretended to be.

  Not that it mattered, Magnus reminded himself. His cousin could leap off the back of a steamship, for all he cared. All he wanted to do right now was get back to his work.

  Magnus glanced impatiently down at the sander, which was sitting idle on the table…

  “Look,” he said, taking a step forward, “I’ve got things to do, so let us get through this, shall we? Yes, I’ve returned to England, and by doing so I have broken our contract, so why don’t we render it void as of three weeks ago, the day I stepped off the ship? Feel free to have your solicitor draw up papers for me to sign.”

  Whitby faced him. “Just like that, you’re going to give up ten thousand a year? I hope the visit was worth it.”

  “It was,” Magnus replied with absolute honesty.

  Whitby frowned. “Why? What could possibly be worth that much money?”

  “Why I returned to England is none of your affair,” Magnus replied.

  “It’s my affair when you break an agreement with me.”

  Magnus struggled to keep his impatience under control, for this conversation was going in circles when he just wanted to be done with it. “I told you I don’t want your money anymore. In fact, I would like to repay all of it. I don’t need anything from you.”

  “Except for Annabelle,” Whitby said flatly.

  All at once the tension in the gallery shot up to the ceiling.

  Magnus felt the muscles in his forearms tighten beneath his sleeves, and when he spoke, his tone was distinctly firm. “But she doesn’t belong to you, does she?”

  Whitby’s expression clouded over with a grave, stony warning. “She is my sister and therefore under my protection.”

  “But she can have no thoughts or conversations of her own? She’s a woman now, Whitby. She can do as she pleases.”

  Whitby made no reply, but Magnus could see the displeasure in his eyes.

  Oh, he was getting tired of this. He didn’t come to England to fight with Whitby. He came for Annabelle, and that was all that mattered.

  “Whitby,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “is there anything else you wish to say to me? Because I have things to do.”

  Whitby’s shoulders rose and fell as he pondered the question. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. I will have you know, Magnus, that my sister is off limits to you, and if you lay one hand on her or hurt her in any way, I will hunt you down and kill you. Do you understand?”

  Magnus stiffened and swallowed hard over the bile rising up in his throat. God, he had thought things were going so well, but this was most assuredly out of line.

  Evidently his cousin had not changed over the years. Not in the slightest.

  “Do not attempt,” Magnus said clearly and succinctly, “to tell me what I can and cannot do, Whitby. You do not control me, nor are you above me.”

  “Maybe not according to the American way, but in England I am very much above you.”

  Magnus clenched his hands into fists. He could barely comprehend how quickly his hatred toward Whitby awakened and shot to the surface.

  But he would not be dragged back into the fight. That was behind him. He was here for Annabelle.

  “If you will excuse me…” he firmly said.

  Whitby walked to the door. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  Bloody hell, that was it. He had tried to be civil, but there were limits to his forbearance, and he couldn’t take this insufferable arrogance. Not anymore. Not on his own property.

  He strode forward. “You still love to have the last word, don’t you?”

  Whitby raised a triumphant eyebrow at him and walked out, but as Magnus watched him go, he realized with a most disturbing uneasiness that where Whitby was concerned, he still loved to have it, too.

  “What happened?” Annabelle asked, hurrying to meet her brother at the door the second he stepped inside the house.

  Whitby smiled reassuringly. “Nothing of consequence. Magnus and I reached an agreement regarding our contract and his financial expectations.”

  Whitby handed his coat and hat over to the butler.

  “That’s it?” Annabelle asked, knowing there had to be more. She’d been waiting all day for the details, praying he was not going to return and tell her they had ended up in the street, rolling in the mud. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t happened before, or so she’d been told.

  “You really want to hear it?” Whitby asked.

  “Yes.”

  Was he daft? Of course she did.

  Taking her by the arm, he escorted her through the entrance hall to the stairs. “As it happened, your name did come up, and I took the opportunity to inform Magnus that if he ever hurt you again in any way, he would have to answer to me.”

  Annabelle stopped on the stairs. “You didn’t.”

  He stopped also, seeming surprised. “You didn’t think I would fail to mention it, did you?”

  Annabelle lowered her gaze. She understood why he felt compelled to speak to Magnus; they had their own issues. But she did not need Whitby to fight her battles anymore, and now she was worried that Magnus was going to change his mind about showing her paintings.

  If any of them arrived on her doorstep in the next day or two, she would be extremely disappointed.

  “I’m a woman now, Whitby,” she said. “I told you I can take care of myself, and any connection I have with Magnus involves my paintings and his gallery and nothing more. You didn’t have to tell him that.”

  Her brother looked taken aback. “And here I thought I was being your hero.”

  “I don’t need a hero,” she said irritably, then regretted her sudden moodiness. But ever since yesterday she’d been feeling anxious and edgy, as if the floor were going to collapse under her feet.

  Whitby stood facing her on the stairs, one hand on the railing. “Well, I suppose I have nothing to worry about then.”

  “No, you don’t,” she said, despite her uncertain mood. “Except for your youngest so
n, who seems to have discovered what’s inside the sugar bowl.”

  “Sugar,” Whitby said matter-of-factly.

  “Yes. All over his face and down between the sofa cushions.”

  Whitby gave her an affectionate look that suggested they exonerate each other, before he smiled and hurried up the stairs.

  Annabelle went in the opposite direction, however, because she couldn’t very well be around other people when her nerves were so disturbingly frayed.

  For a full week Annabelle heard nothing from Magnus regarding the exhibition—not a single word—but neither did her paintings come hurling back at her, so she could only assume that no news was good news and everything was going ahead as planned.

  She spent most of her time in her studio, working on a new painting—a waterfall surrounded by moss-covered rocks. She had sketched it a few months ago and was only now beginning the actual painting, though she was having some trouble with the water. It did not look real to her, and she could not help but recall her aunt Millicent criticizing her work once for not being more like a photograph.

  “You painters are simply going to have to work harder,” she had said, “or you might as well study how to use a camera. It’s certainly quicker.”

  Annabelle nevertheless continued blocking in the colors of the waterfall.

  At the start of the second week, while on her way downstairs for tea one afternoon, she met a footman carrying a silver salver with a letter upon it. It was from the Regent Street Gallery, and the mere sight of the address gave her heart palpitations, for this was all so much more complicated than just the gallery exhibition.

  “Thank you,” she replied, working hard to sound blasé, before turning back in the direction of her rooms to read the letter in private. She was turning the doorknob when she began to read:

  Dear Miss Lawson,

  It’s been one week since our meeting, and I felt compelled to write and thank you for the opportunity to show your paintings in the gallery, and to inform you of my progress.

  I have met with three other London artists who have agreed to be a part of the exhibition, and as of this morning, I now have in my careful possession all of the various works.

  Tomorrow I will be speaking to a gentleman from the Times, who will write something about the opening, so I am hard at work on the final details.

  I’ve enclosed an invitation for the opening on the evening of the twenty-seventh, and I hope you will choose to attend. All of the other English artists will be there.

  Sincerely,

  M. Wallis

  A shiver of apprehension rippled through Annabelle’s veins as she examined the invitation—an ivory card with a paintbrush done in watercolor in the top right-hand corner, and all the information printed in fine gold script just below.

  She flipped it over, and on the back saw a list of all the artists. George Wright was named at the top, of course, and below in alphabetical order were the rest. Her name was in the middle.

  She was ashamed to admit that despite all her fears and reservations about working with Magnus, she couldn’t deny the fact that it was a thrill to see her name listed with so many fine artists.

  But should she attend? she wondered uncertainly. If she did, she would have to see Magnus, when she did not want to see him ever again, not when she was so confused by the fact that he still affected her so intensely.

  Annabelle sat down at her desk and reminded herself that this was a dream come true. How many years had she imagined her work being included in an actual London art show? And hadn’t she already decided that she would not let her personal feelings hold her back?

  All of a sudden the answer seemed clear. She should go. There would likely be a crowd anyway, and Magnus would be busy as the host. That would make it easy to avoid him.

  But what would she wear? Good Lord, she had nothing, she thought, looking toward her dressing room. What did one wear to a gallery opening? A ball gown? Would it be that formal? No, surely not.

  She checked the date again. At least she had time to acquire something. It was three weeks away. Plenty of time.

  She breathed deeply and laid her open hand upon her chest. Three weeks. In three weeks her paintings were going to be exhibited in a London gallery.

  Still barely able to believe it, she crossed to the window, not really seeing anything beyond the glass. She was too distracted.

  Then it occurred to her that she should reply and let Magnus know she would be attending. Yes, that was the proper thing to do.

  So she sat down at her desk and withdrew her personalized stationery from the top drawer, dipped her pen in ink, and began to write:

  Dear Mr. Wallis,

  I was pleased to hear of your progress with the gallery, and thank you for the invitation to the opening. I would be delighted to attend.

  Sincerely,

  Annabelle Lawson

  She set down her pen and blew upon the ink, rereading what she had written.

  …delighted to attend.

  She sat back in her chair. Delighted? Pleased to hear of your progress?

  She closed her eyes and blinked, as if that would bring reality back to her brain. This was Magnus she was writing to. In all her excitement, she had forgotten that rather sticky fact.

  She felt her brow furrow with confusion.

  Annabelle looked down at her reply again, and remembered their meeting one week ago at the gallery. She had been hostile toward him, aloof at best. Perhaps she should rewrite the note and try to convey that tone instead.

  For a long time she considered it, then shook her head, wondering why she was giving this letter so much importance. It was a reply to an invitation, nothing more. If she were truly indifferent, she would not be analyzing it so carefully.

  So with that, it was decided. No more doubts and uncertainties. She would send the trifling letter as it was.

  Three days later Magnus sat down at his desk in the gallery office and read Annabelle’s reply. She was coming. No. Even better, she would be delighted to come.

  He leaned back in his chair until the front legs came clear off the floor and stretched his arms high over his head.

  After his meeting with Whitby, he was sure he had been hung out to dry. He’d imagined himself the topic of many heated conversations in the Whitby household—most of which would involve his misdeeds and flaws and general overall offensiveness. He’d even expected Annabelle to change her mind about letting him show her paintings. Every day, whenever a knock had sounded upon the gallery door, he’d expected it to be a footman, come to ask for them back.

  But no footman had come, only this letter. This very satisfying letter.

  He sat forward, the chair legs landing hard upon the oak floor. There were still so many things left to be done—one of which was the printing of the exhibition labels, and since the paintings were being offered for sale, he did need to understand Annabelle’s expectations regarding price.

  He supposed he could have asked her that in the last letter, but now he was glad he had not, for it gave him another excuse to write to her.

  Dear Miss Lawson,

  I will be placing exhibition labels on the walls next to each painting, and we must determine an asking price for each. It is my recommendation that you ask £200 for each of the three paintings you brought when you came to the gallery, and £300 for The Fisherman. Would that be acceptable to you? My commission is ten percent.

  M. Wallis

  As soon as Annabelle read the letter, she dropped it onto her desk. Three hundred pounds? Surely he wasn’t serious. She was no one special. She’d never sold a single painting in her entire life. She couldn’t possibly ask that much.

  She picked up her pen…

  Dear Mr. Wallis,

  While I am flattered by your confidence in my work, I wonder if a more modest price would be more appropriate. Perhaps £25 each, and £30 for The Fisherman?

  A. Lawson

  Magnus read her note and smiled. Dear, sweet Annabelle
. She was modest, and completely oblivious to her talent as an artist. How could she not know?

  Not that he was complaining. He was more than pleased that he would be the one to help her see it.

  Yes, one brick at a time, carefully laid…

  Dear Miss Lawson,

  I received your reply in regards to the asking prices of your paintings, but I must plead your indulgence to trust me in this regard. I have seen many paintings come and go through my New York galleries, and I can assure you, these amounts are not unrealistic for works as exquisite as yours. If anything, I would like to ask more.

  I am honored to be the one to show them for the first time, as I believe you have a rare talent. The gentleman from the Times was most impressed with your work, and singled you out among the others, and I was not at all surprised.

  So please, I ask you, let me print those prices? Anything less would be unthinkable.

  M. Wallis

  Annabelle was sitting on the edge of her bed when she read the letter, and as soon as she finished it, she flopped backward, sinking into the soft feather mattress. Staring up at the ceiling, she wondered if she should pinch herself.

  Were the paintings really that good? She had no idea. She felt totally incapable of judging her own work. All she felt when she looked at them was a frustration over the things she wanted to change. She was never completely satisfied with any of her paintings and felt them nothing special at all, even after she was long finished with them.

  Except perhaps for The Fisherman. She had not wanted to change a thing on that one—which had been a novel experience for her.

  But still…£300? Could she possibly allow Magnus to ask that much?

  She supposed he had an interest. He wouldn’t want to ask something insignificant because he had a commission to earn. But nor would he want to ask anything outrageous, because if the paintings did not sell, he wouldn’t earn a farthing.

  But surely, if he was as wealthy as he appeared, his commissions were of no consequence. He had called his galleries labors of love, hadn’t he? Yes, he had, and he had a great deal of experience.