Sylvie Sommerfield - Noah's Woman

by Unknown

"You think you'll be happy then?"

  "I know I will. Just watch me."

  Amiee kept her counsel to herself.

  That first trip to Jason's was one of many, for Charity and Jason became fast friends. Each time she came to visit, she seemed prettier to him. Each time, he begged her to pose for him . . . and each time she refused.

  It was over six months before Beth decided to go along, but she soon learned to enjoy Jason's company, too. He was entertaining, filled with wit and stories of how the wealthy lived.

  But as fascinating as Charity found his tales, she was not so distracted that she failed to notice Beth's frequent silences or the way Jason looked at her friend.

  The two girls had taken to visiting him several times a week, but on this morning Charity set out alone. She needed a sympathetic shoulder to lean on, and she didn't want to worry Beth. Beth had never really been good at thievery, so Charity carried the burden of providing for them, and now she wondered how they would manage.

  "Charity," Jason welcomed her when she arrived at his doorstep. "Come in. You look like a stormy day."

  "I feel like one," she said. She walked inside and then saw the canvas Jason was working on. When she moved around in front of it, she stood for a moment in shock. Then she spoke quietly. "Jason, it's beauti-

  ful. And . . . you finished it. What a lovely gown. Beth looks like a grand lady."

  "She looks every inch the grandest lady. I've not painted anyone more perfect, and I'm rather proud of it. Would you believe that I've not only finished another painting, but sold it as well?"

  "Well, at least one of us has some money," Charity replied as she tossed her cloak across a chair.

  "I'll share some of it with you."

  "Why would you want to do that?" she asked suspiciously. "I don't need anyone to give me money. There are always strings attached."

  "There are strings on this too."

  "I should have known. Forget it. I'll find a pigeon with a full purse today.

  "Not that kind of string."

  "What then?"

  "Pose for me. Let me paint you and I'll give you whatever you would have taken on the streets. It will only take a few afternoons. Come on, Charity, pose for me."

  "In these rags? Do you think I want a picture of myself dressed like this? No, Jason, when I can afford a pretty new gown I'll do it. But not like this."

  "I have dresses here. What do you think Beth wore when she posed for me? I have a selection for my models to wear. There just might be one in your size."

  "But"

  "Charity, I promise I'll do a portrait you'll be proud of."

  "All right, all right. Where are these gowns?"

  ''In the next room. I'll set up over by the big window while you change."

  "I don't know what to do with my hair. I certainly won't look like a lady like this."

  Charity's hair hung loose to her waist, the front tied carelessly up with a ribbon. It was a riot of gold and silver, with curls framing her face.

  "You'll look enchanting. Every lady wears her hair in one complicated arrangement or another. You will look so different that anyone who sees this portrait will fall in love with you."

  "Good Lord, I don't want that. I'm doing this for a few coins and for you. Promise me you won't display it." She was terrified that if someone bought it and hung it, Charles Brentwood might see it. He might track down Jason . . . and ultimately her.

  "All right. I'd rather keep it anyway. Go and change."

  With an exasperated sigh, Charity went to the next room. Closing the door between her and Jason, she began to look for the gowns. To her surprise there was a closet full of them.

  She found three close to her size. One dress was white with pink roses embroidered on it. But it was too white for her pale hair. The second was a pale, shimmering lavender, and the third was emerald green.

  She chose the lavender one and changed quickly. When she walked back into the room, Jason stood immobile and watched her walk toward him. It was as if when she donned the dress she donned an aura of gentility, for she looked every inch the sophisti-

  cated lady. The gown revealed her shoulders and the softness of her breasts and was cut much lower then she wanted, but the emerald had been worse.

  "Charity, you are beautiful."

  "Thank you, Jason, but we'd better work as fast as we can. If I sit here all day, Amiee is not going to be too happy."

  Jason had placed a chair close to the window and draped it with silk flowers. When Charity sat down they made a perfect background against which her skin seemed to glow and her hair to sparkle with life.

  He moved her this way and that until he found a pose that pleased him. She sat slightly turned from him, as if she had suddenly seen something that drew her attention. One arm rested on the arm of the chair, and one hand held a single, perfect pink rose. Pleased, Jason went to the canvas he had set up and began to paint.

  After two hours Charity became stiff and restless.

  "Hold still," Jason commanded brusquely.

  "Jason, I'm tired. I've got to move."

  Jason sighed, put down his palette and brush, and took up a cloth to hang over the painting.

  "Why are you covering it up? I want to see it."

  "No. It's bad luck to see a painting before it's finished."

  "That's not true." Charity smiled.

  "It is so. Ask any artist."

  "Do you really believe that?"

  "Yes." Jason grinned. "So don't try to peek. Come on, I'll give you a glass of wine and you can rest for a while."

  "No, thank you," Charity said abruptly. "I . . . I don't drink spirits." She remembered too well what had almost happened to her resistance the last time she drank. She had no intention of such a thing occurring again.

  "Are you hungry?"

  "I'm always hungry, it seems. But I have to go."

  "Here are the coins I promised. You won't have to go hungry."

  "Thank you, Jason," she said softly.

  "Charity, would you be angry if I asked you to take a few more of these coins . . . for Beth?" he added hastily. "I . . . I know she's no good at . . . her chosen profession. I don't want to see her get caught." His words were said almost reluctantly, as if he didn't want her to question him.

  "All right, for Beth."

  "Thank you."

  "I'd best go now."

  "You'll be back tomorrow?"

  "Yes."

  "And the day after?"

  "Jason, you know I'll only be able to pose as long as your money holds out. When it's gone we'll have to fit this into whatever time I can spare. Beth and I need to bring in money to the Round, at least until we can find our way out of here."

  "You're dreaming, Charity."

  "Why?"

  "I've seen a lot of people end up on the streets. I've never seen anyone find a way out."

  "Well then, there has to be a first time, doesn't

  there? Beth and I are not going to spend the rest of our lives grubbing for food. One day, one way or another, we'll get out of here."

  He looked down into her eyes and after a while he smiled. "Funny, but all of a sudden I have no doubts. I'll expect you tomorrow."

  There were several tomorrows, for Jason was putting his heart and soul into this painting. The portrait was near completion, and Charity was relieved. Another day or two and she would be finished sitting. But first, she wanted to see what Jason had achieved.

  She sat still, allowing her mind to drift, dreaming of her future, while Jason worked in silence. He had never felt so pleased with anything in his life as he was with the portraits he'd done of Beth and Charity. For the first time in a long while he felt the sense of redemption his painting had originally given him.

  Neither he nor Charity was aware that a man had climbed the stairs and walked into Jason's studio. He stood watching both the painter and the remarkably beautiful woman he was painting.

  Charity sensed him first, but refused to speak or even ac
knowledge his presence. After a while Jason became aware of the stranger, too, and stopped working to turn and face him.

  "I'm sorry." His voice was cultured, warm and very masculine. "The door was open and I took the liberty. I am looking for Jason Desmond. I've come to discuss the painting you did for Lady Chatterson."

  Without an invitation he came to stand by Jason,

  studying the painting. He gazed at it for so long that Jason grew tense.

  "Remarkable, both the lady and the painting. You are a master, sir. Is it commissioned?"

  "It's mine," Jason replied. He knew Charity was growing a bit nervous.

  "I should like to purchase it."

  Charity made an involuntary movement, then turned her frigid gaze away.

  "I'm sorry, it's not for sale."

  "Even for a hundred pounds?"

  Both Charity and Jason were shocked to silence; then Charity gave an imperceptible shake of her head.

  "There is no price, sir. It's not for sale," Jason said firmly.

  "I see. Let me leave my card. I like your work. I will return." He bowed slightly toward Jason and Charity; then he left. Jason and Charity simply looked at each other in shock.

  "A hundred pounds," Jason whispered.

  "Jason, you promised."

  "It's not for sale"he grinned"but you don't mind if I gloat over the offer."

  "No," she said, smiling. "Now, I really have to go."

  Charity changed her clothes and left Jason's quite unaware of the man who sat in his carriage across the street and gazed at her with surprise. He had expected a lady to come down and a street urchin had appeared. Gregory Hamilton smiled to himself. This mystery bore some looking into.

  Chapter Four

  Charity came to Jason's the next day, but cautiously. She wanted no confrontation with wealthy patrons. She was certain it could only lead to another episode like Charles Brentwood. The wealthy were always certain their money could buy everythingeven people. She was not denying the reality that money was a means to power, but she wanted to be free of those who felt they had the right to subject her to their will.

  She saw no fine carriages nor anyone lingering about who looked suspicious, only a penniless beggar who stood with his hand out for coins.

  But she should have paid him much more attention, for begging was not his true station in life. He was an employee of Gregory Hamilton. He knew his orders and obeyed them. Waiting until Charity had left, he followed her to the Round.

  Later that week he carried all his information to Gregory.

  Charity was pleased that the portrait Jason was doing was nearly complete. Ever since he had begun it, she had had an uncomfortable, even portentous feeling.

  Today, Jason told her, it would be done. He had told her laughingly that he was afraid finishing the portrait might keep her from coming to visit as often.

  But despite their genuine pleasure in each other's company, Charity realized that Jason's real interest was in Beth. Most of his quiet questions were of Beth. Charity instinctively knew that Beth had been here often without her. This, combined with the fact that Beth's portrait was the first one Jason had ever finished, made his feelings clear. Jason was head over heels in love with Beth.

  But Beth had the same questionable background as she did. Where could a relationship like this go? Jason had little . . . often nothing. If they were to marry, how would they live? With only the uncertain income from the sale of Jason's paintings, they could not afford to raise a family.

  She was shaken, but she held herself in check. It could be that Jason was the only one in love . . . it could be that Beth didn't even know of his feelings. She needed to talk to her friend.

  She was so involved in these thoughts that Charity never realized the moment Jason stepped back from the painting and gazed at it with a look of satisfaction on his face.

  "By God, I think I've caught you, Charity. Come and see."

  Charity rose, stiff from the hours of remaining still, but so anxious to see the finished portrait that she moved as swiftly as she could.

  When she stood before it she gazed at it in a kind of wondering admiration.

  "Is that really me?" she whispered.

  "It's you as I see you."

  "Thank you, Jason," she said softly. "You are kind."

  "It's not kindness, Charity. I don't think you realize how . . . beautiful you are."

  The portrait had a misty, dreamlike quality. The girl in the painting had a delicate beauty. Her hair, tumbling about her, seemed lit from some brightness in the distance into which she gazed. He had caught a look in her eyes that spoke of emotions for which words did not exist. She looked like a woman with the first kiss of love on her soft lips, and a haunting awakening in her eyes.

  "You have a magnificent talent, Jason. I can't understand why patrons are not beating a path to your door."

  "Perhaps," he said thoughtfully, "because the door has been locked until . . . until now."

  She turned her eyes to him and caught a fleeting look of melancholy before he quickly hid it.

  "And where did you find the key?" she asked softly.

  Jason looked at her, then back at the painting. He struggled to keep any emotions from showing. Charity was more astute than he had bargained for.

  "I suppose where all keys hide, in the depths of

  one's own self," he replied. Then he turned from her and busied himself gathering brushes. "I'm very pleased with this, Charity. I'm glad you like it. I should probably offer to give it to you, but I think I'll stick to our original agreement and keep it here."

  "I don't care what you do with it," she laughed, "as long as you don't sell it to some rich person who'll hang it for everyone to see. The lady in the portrait is a fraud, and she . . . she's not me."

  "Maybe she's more you than you will admit. What lies behind your locked doors, Charity, and where have you hidden the key?"

  "I don't know. Maybe when I find my key I'll come and buy the painting from you myself." She left him and went into the next room to take off the beautiful gown she would never wear again. When she was dressed in her own clothes again she returned and picked up her cloak from a chair. "For now I have to get back to my life."

  "Come back soon. Charity, what about you . . . and Beth having dinner with me one night? To sort of celebrate the completion of the portrait?"

  "Sure. One of these nights we'll be here."

  Jason nodded and watched her leave. A subtle fear filled him. Charity and Beth were closer than most sisters, and he had no doubt that Charity was the stronger and more ambitious of the two. He knew she sensed his deepest emotions, just as he knew she was the one with the power to whisk Beth from his world. He couldn't let that happen.

  Charity walked down the three steps to the street and started to walk back to the Round. She was so

  caught up in her own thoughts that she was unaware of the carriage that slowed as it came up beside her.

  "Hello, Miss Gilbert." The voice was deep, and Charity turned in surprise to face the man who had come to Jason's studio and tried to purchase the half-finished portrait of her.

  He smiled at her, and she was aware of even more. Of how handsome he was . . . and how obviously rich. For a second a calculating look reached her eyes, and Gregory almost laughed. For it was exactly the look he wanted to see.

  "May I give you a ride home?" he asked pleasantly.

  Charity was already wondering how he knew her name. She knew Jason had not said it. She was curious about why this stranger would take the time to talk to her when it was now obvious that he knew just who and what she was.

  "I'm in no mood for games. The girls you're looking for are on Delancy Street. You can afford your choice."

  "You have mistaken my intentions. I have no other motive than to drive you home," he protested amiably.

  Charity stopped and looked directly at him. "Why?"

  "Because it is a long walk."

  "Who are you?"

  "M
y name is Gregory Hamilton." He smiled. "And I promise I shall not lay hand on you or try to abduct you. My carriage is recognizable. Attacking you in broad daylight would cause some consternation among onlookers." He laughed. ''Consider my reputation."

  Charity had to laugh at the way he had turned the tables on her. His ready wit made her feel a bit more confident . . . and besides, she wouldn't mind seeing everyone's faces when she came home in a carriage that shouted wealth.

  Gregory extended his hand, and she was sure his look was challenging. She put her hand in his, stepped up into the carriage, and sat opposite him.

  "Drive through the park, Maxwell. Miss Gilbert and I have something to discuss. Then on to the Round, where we can deliver our passenger safely home."

  The carriage began to move and Charity felt delicious. She intended to enjoy herself. As they rode through the park, she savored the comfort of the carriage and the almost sensual pleasure she felt as a soft breeze touched her skin and ruffled her hair. Her arrival home was satisfying, and when Gregory helped her disembark, she heard him say what she had least expected.

  "Miss Gilbert, I would like very much to see you again. Would you join me for dinner tomorrow night?"

  Charity felt a moment of discomfort, remembering Charles and his "dinner" invitation. But now she had friends, and she knew better than to drink.

  "Yes, I would like that."

  Gregory smiled, kissed her hand lightly, and then he was gone.

  The night of the dinner passed pleasantly, and the invitation was repeated. They went to the theater, for rides, and to visit museums and art galleries. Charity

  had never enjoyed herself more . . . and Gregory seemed to appreciate her company.

  He watched her with a pleased smile when he thought she wasn't looking.

  She had a fine-boned and delicate beauty, but that was not all Gregory was looking for. He found much more satisfaction in the aura of sophistication and quality that seemed part of her. She was a chameleon, he thought with satisfaction. One who, if thrown into a drawing room with kings and queens, would become one. A perfect mimic whose ability to study and imitate made her capable of assuming different characters as easily as he might change his shirt.