Nathan was breathing deeply. Eudora could feel the heat radiating from his body, could sense the adoration that radiated from his fractured heart, and she did not like to think what kind of situation this sequence of events might lead to if allowed to continue unchecked.
She could not deny her own feelings of affection towards Nathan. Despite her secret yearnings for him since their school-days, she had been unwilling to make those feelings known for fear of betrayal, as her father had been betrayed by her mother, and then it was too late and she had felt rejected when he picked Isadora instead of her to be his lover. She had overcome her initial jealousy, and wanted nothing short of happiness for her sister. However, she had never once stopped loving him and had made no effort to quell those feelings for a man she knew could never be hers, even after he and Isadora had split up, because it was clear to everyone around them – if not to each other – that they still loved one another.
Eudora knew it was wrong. She knew she was most likely just a surrogate Isadora to Nathan’s fractured mind, filled as it was with tortured feelings of lost passion and remorse, reaching out for something that might remind him of his beloved. When he looked at her he saw a resemblance to Isadora, but Eudora was not her sister; if they started something, it would be a betrayal of Isadora’s memory – but she could not help herself.
Eudora knew it was wrong as she gently tilted Nathan’s head and kissed his lips gently, insistently, firmly; it was a kiss filled with longing and tenderness, passion and sadness.
It was a kiss unlike any Nathan had shared at any time with Isadora. The spell, if there had been one, was broken, and as he returned the kiss, he knew perfectly well that it was Eudora he was kissing, not Isadora, who was inexplicably fading from his memory like paint upon canvas, left to the ravages of time for hundreds of years.
In spite of the secret feelings he harboured for Eudora, he knew it was wrong; though they had effectively been single for six months, it was still a terrible betrayal of the love he had felt for Isadora, who had been dead less than a week.
As their lips parted and they stared into each other’s eyes, Nathan finally accepted the startling truth: it had always been Eudora whom he loved, and he had not acted upon those feelings because of the indifference she showed towards him after her mother had absconded with another man. When her father had died, so too had Eudora’s heart crumpled and died, shutting out any hope of restitution. Isadora had been more approachable, was infinitely more open and loving, and because she was an older image of her sister, Nathan had used her as a surrogate for his love, denying the fact so expertly to himself that only now, after Isadora’s death, did he realise the truth.
Before either of them could say anything, a loud female cough from the front of the gallery made them both jump. Neither had seen nor heard anyone enter the gallery, and as she rose to her feet, Eudora stared hard at the white haired old woman, whose face was so wrinkled that her features were all but lost in the craggy crevices, quite certain she had never seen her before. The longer she stared, though, the more Eudora became aware that there was something disturbingly familiar about the old woman. She met so many strangers just once in her line of work that it was possible she was mistaken, and Eudora put the feeling of familiarity down to the possibility that the woman had been a patron of the gallery at some point in the past.
Whether Nathan was merely being polite, or whether he recognised the woman, Eudora could not be certain, but he waved at her and smiled, and when the woman smiled in return, Eudora became uncomfortably aware that she had been irredeemably rude by staring at the woman.
‘Wait here, Nate, I shan’t be long.’
‘Take your time, Dora. I’ve got the whole afternoon at my disposal.’
As she crossed to the front of the gallery, Eudora’s discomfort became increasingly acute; there was more than a subtle twinge of familiarity about this old woman. She shook off the sensation of apprehension with a warm, professional smile. ‘Good afternoon, I’m so sorry to have kept you. May I be of assistance?’
For several long seconds that felt like they stretched into minutes, Dorothea Clayton remained silent, regarding Eudora in a most peculiar manner with eyes that belied her age; unlike her ancient, deeply lined face, her eyes sparkled with vitality, burning a vibrant amethyst with an inner fire. They were alert eyes, and Eudora knew she had seen them before.
Then she remembered where: in the mirror, every day; and many years ago, a long time in the past, before her mother had run away. The only thing Eudora could recall about her mother with any certain degree of reliability was her eyes – she was the only other person Eudora had ever known to have eyes of the same amethyst colour.
‘Mother?’ she whispered incredulously.
The old woman smiled sadly and shook her head, and spoke for the first time, her voice cracked with age, tinged with the remnants of a French accent. ‘I’m afraid not, duck.’
Eudora shook her head sharply to clear the fuzzy thoughts jumbled in her mind. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured apologetically. ‘Forgive me; I’ve not seen my mother in many years. Now, how may I help you?’
‘That’s quite all right, duck. I’m afraid I don’t see the painting I wish to view.’
‘All the paintings that are for sale are here on display. If you don’t see what you’re looking for then I’m afraid it’s either been sold, or we’ve not had it for sale here at the Donat Gallery.’
‘Oh, it won’t be for sale, duck,’ said Dorothea softly. ‘It’s Dion Taine’s Trinity!’
Eudora felt her blood run cold, and suddenly Nathan was by her side, as though he had sensed her increasing apprehension.
‘How… how do you know about the painting?’ Eudora managed to gasp.
‘Nola Clayton works here; she’s my granddaughter.’
‘Oh!’ That at least cleared up the mystery of the recognition. Now Eudora knew who this woman’s granddaughter was she could clearly picture the family resemblance.
‘She told me about the painting. I really would appreciate one last look at it before I pass on.’
‘One last look?’ gasped Eudora. ‘You’ve seen it before?’
Dorothea nodded. ‘Oh yes, but it was many years ago, in France, at the onset of the Second World War. The painting used to belong to my husband’s family.’
‘So you claim to be the rightful owner?’
Dorothea smiled and shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, duck, I have no desire to stake any claim on the painting. It caused me so much heartache when I was younger that I was glad when my husband hid it from the advancing Nazis!’
‘In the Château Clétiàn, just outside Paris?’
Dorothea nodded. ‘How do you know that?’
‘That’s the château where the painting was uncovered. Clearly, the Nazis never found it. Do you mean to tell me you’ve known about this painting all these years, and you never told anyone where it might still be hidden?’
Dorothea shook her head. ‘I just tried to forget all about it after all the pain and suffering it caused me, and I’d succeeded, until Nola told me about it.’
Eudora could not define the nature of her doubt, but somehow she did not believe the old woman’s entire story. ‘You want to view the painting again after all this time, even though it caused you a lot of pain and heartache?’
Dorothea nodded. ‘As I recall, it was a truly beautiful portrait. I merely wish to reassure myself that my memory of its beauty is not jaded.’
There was no doubting the sincerity of those words. No one who had viewed the portrait could describe it in any way other than truly beautiful, and after fifty years, Eudora felt it only fair to grant Nola’s grandmother her wish: she was, after all, hardly likely to hitch up her skirts and try to make off with the portrait. ‘It’s upstairs. Can you make it up the spiral staircase?’
‘Don’t be patronizing duck! I’m not an invalid.’
‘Sorry,’ Eudora muttered, thoroughly chastised, making a wide-eyed fa
ce at Nathan over her head.
‘And don’t make funny faces!’ snapped Dorothea.
Eudora’s mouth dropped open in disbelief; when she had made the face for Nathan’s benefit, the old woman had been facing the opposite direction.
As she climbed the staircase, trying hard not to allow dizziness to overwhelm her senses, Dorothea allowed herself a silent smile of satisfaction at Eudora’s mystification.
Nathan could not help smiling. ‘Come on,’ he said as he shepherded Eudora towards the stairs. ‘I’d rather like to see this mysterious painting as well.’
They followed Dorothea up the staircase, and Eudora was surprised at the ease with which the old woman made it. She was surprisingly sprightly and agile despite appearing to be in her nineties, and Eudora found herself hoping she would be as healthy and fit when she reached that age – there was no harm in wishing, though she somehow doubted her wish would be granted.
Dorothea waited impatiently for them at the top of the stairs, and Eudora led the pair into Gaia’s office.
Despite having known the Donat women for as long as he could remember, Nathan suddenly realised he had never seen the upstairs of the gallery. The decoration of the apartment and office showed no indication of either Isadora’s or Eudora’s taste, which meant that Gaia had probably decorated up here.
‘Your interior designer should be shot!’ muttered Dorothea, wrinkling her nose with disapproval. ‘White is so clinical and boring.’
Eudora agreed, but Gaia found white walls soothing, and since it was she who spent the most time in the upstairs office, neither Eudora nor Isadora criticised.
Dorothea walked into the office and immediately made her way over to where the portrait was still propped against the wall opposite the window. A sharp intake of breath whistled through her teeth and rattled down her throat as she took one look at the painting, and her shiver of anxiety did not pass unnoticed by Eudora. Clearly a mere glance at the portrait, even after so many years, sent shockwaves of recognition flooding through the old woman’s body as all the repressed memories came back to haunt her.
Nathan also caught his breath: the painting was too exquisite for words. As heterosexual as he was, just by looking at the handsome man in the centre of the portrait himself, Nathan knew exactly what thoughts must have been going through the minds of the two women by his side. Though he was neither a woman, nor gay, the Monk was so impossibly beautiful that Nathan felt the curious and quite disturbing sensation of desire as it slowly built within him. He blushed, and his relief that their attention jointly fixed upon the painting was palpable.
‘It is as beautiful as I remember,’ Dorothea whispered at last, feeling decidedly vulnerable as she finally managed to tear her gaze away from the work of art.
‘Do you know any of the portrait’s history, or who the men in it are?’ asked Eudora. ‘All I know is that it’s by Dion Taine, and one of the men is possibly the Byzantine Emperor, Constantine the Great.’
Dorothea pointed to the man in purple robes on the right of the painting. ‘That’s Constantine. The one on the left is another Emperor called Diocletian; the man in the middle is Spiridon. He was persecuted by Diocletian, but found a saviour in Constantine. And that’s all I know.’
Dorothea’s final sentence came out a little too quickly, and both Eudora and Nathan sensed it was blatantly untrue, but since neither was about to accuse the old woman of lying, they let the matter go unquestioned.
Then Dorothea was thanking Eudora for allowing her the chance to view the portrait one final time, and she was out on the landing and descending the stairs before Eudora realised she was going.
‘Where are you heading?’ asked Nathan as he followed her down the stairs, trailed by Eudora. ‘My car’s parked outside; I can give you a lift if you like?’
Already over by the door, Dorothea turned and smiled. ‘I’ve imposed on you both enough already. I wouldn’t dream of tearing you lovebirds away from each other for so much as five minutes. I can walk home from here; it isn’t far. Thank you for your kind offer though, duck.’ She turned, winking knowingly at Eudora. ‘I have the distinct impression that your young man was going to ask you a rather important question, Miss Donat. Goodbye, duck.’
She turned and was gone, and Eudora and Nathan were alone once more.
They sat down on the sofa beside the desk at the rear of the gallery. ‘Is that woman really Nola’s grandmother?’ asked Eudora.
‘Oh yes, most definitely,’ responded Nathan.
‘I get the impression you know her personally, Nathan?’
‘She’s my godmother, but I don’t really know her at all. There is madness in that side of the family, you see, and we never had much to do with them growing up. My mother and Nola’s mother were cousins, and Dorothea’s son was Nola’s father. I don’t know Nola at all really, and I only found out she was working here a few weeks ago, at the same time Izzy told me she was pregnant.’
‘I guess some families are closer than others. Gaia and Isadora were closer to each other as kids than they were to me when I came along. So what did Dorothea mean, about you having something important to ask me?’
Nathan frowned. ‘More to the point, how did she know?’
‘How did she know what, Nathan? Come on, stop being cryptic!’
Nathan pulled out the small square ring-box and opened it. Eudora’s heart almost stopped when she saw the amethyst ring on its velvet cushion. He removed the ring and handed it to Eudora, who took it from him with a trembling hand, allowing it to rest in the palm of her hand. The amethyst sparkled and gleamed brilliantly, the light refracting both the sunlight from outside and the soft glow from the overhead lights of the gallery.
‘Since we’ve established our feelings for each other, I thought you might like to wear this ring,’ Nathan said, taking the ring from Eudora’s hand and placing it on her wedding finger. ‘Will you marry me, Eudora?’
It was a perfect fit, almost as though made specifically for her, and as she looked at the ring, now at home on the third finger of her left hand, Eudora’s heart began beating faster and her breath caught in her throat. There was little doubt in her mind that this was the ring depicted in the painting, and she stared at in awe and a little fear. It cemented their love for one another, but also sealed Eudora’s fate as destiny rode up and said a swift hello
Curiously, the amethyst seemed to have become suddenly so dark it was almost black, and it seemed to crackle with an electric energy.
Now she was in possession of the amulet and the pendant, for one fleeting moment Eudora thought it was her imagination playing cruel tricks on her, fuelled by the anxiety she felt at coming into contact with the amethyst ring as depicted in the painting. Then Nathan exclaimed aloud as he too noticed the peculiar change that had come about the ring.
Eudora hastily removed it from her finger, and in a heartbeat, the amethyst reverted to its original lighter form. She replaced it on her finger once more, and in the blinking of their eyes, it transformed back into the almost black oval, sparkling with luminosity.
‘That’s the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen,’ gasped Nathan incredulously. ‘There has to be a rational explanation for it!’
As Eudora was about to respond, the door to the gallery opened and a tall young man with neat, pure white hair entered. ‘I’ll tell you something a bit later,’ she whispered. ‘Storm’s here to authenticate and value the portrait.’
Storm Delamare had gone prematurely white in the week before his twenty-fifth birthday. He never attempted to hide the white; he felt it made him appear distinguished, and his elegantly clipped, jet black moustache and goatee made him stand out from the crowd, which he liked, as he had always liked to be a little bit different.
Having worked for Christies for the past nine years, Storm was one of their top experts on pre-Seventeenth Century art, the field in which he specialised. It was said he could spot a forgery at a mere glance, and could verify the fact with the aid of a few i
tems he carried around in his large, black leather pilot’s case. Sceptics who had doubted his abilities had tested him – with and without his knowledge – on countless occasions, so numerous that everyone had lost count years ago. Even the cleverest forgeries had telltale marks – however small or insignificant – that set them apart from the originals, and Storm had never once been wrong in spotting which were originals and which were the fakes. Forgers hated him with begrudging admiration, but because everyone in the art world trusted him, Storm could charge a fortune for a private evaluation and verification of a painting’s authenticity.
In the case of the Donat Gallery, he made an exception. He and Eudora became friends at college, and she had ignited his initial interest in the art world. She never abused their friendship, only calling in a favour when she felt she had something so rare that it might be worth a monumental fortune – as in the case of da Vinci’s Carmine. The first couple of times she had asked his opinion, he exposed her acquisitions to be forgeries, which now hung – at great expense – upstairs in Gaia’s apartment. The da Vinci, a unique find indeed, had been all too real, and because most people who knew anything about the art world believed the painting to have been destroyed, none would believe it was the real deal – until Storm authenticated it as the original.
Now Eudora had called him for only the fifth time on a private basis he was eager and curious to see what she had unearthed this time. ‘Hello, Eudora,’ he greeted her with a gentle kiss to each cheek. ‘Hi, Nathan.’
‘Hi, Storm, how are you doing?’
Nathan had been Storm’s Best Man two years ago. It had been a marriage doomed from the start as Storm’s bride had been carrying on an affair with his younger brother for some months before the wedding. When Storm found the lovers in bed together just two weeks after the wedding, he had the marriage terminated and had actually come very close to terminating his wife and brother too. After their betrayal, he never found himself able to trust women who claimed to love him, and so he had been celibate ever since.
Portrait of Shade Page 7
