by Ella Carey
“Why are you certain that it was I who went to the Times?”
Laura gasped. “Please do not say anything more to the media unless it’s a retraction of your statement, which has no basis. My grandmother is considering suing you for damages.” Laura closed her eyes. Let’s hope he knew nothing about the Circle’s philosophies . . . pacifism, acceptance of others, respect, tolerance. And the fact that neither Emma nor she could afford to sue anybody, let alone a dealer in Mayfair.
“Emma is a modernist,” he said. “You and I both know that she won’t sue. She will try to approach this with reason. Did that trait escape you?”
Laura pressed her lips into a hard line. He knew more than she thought. “Exploiting an old woman and damaging the reputation of a dead artist is no decent thing to do.”
“Believe me, it’s the last thing I’d do, Laura.” He loosened his tie.
She looked at him.
He pushed his teacup away. “You said you know a thing or two about the commercial side of art, but you have no idea how far exploitation and falsehood can go. It’s not an Adams. I can’t sit here and tell you it is.”
“But you went straight to the Times—how is that not disrespectful and exploitative toward Emma?”
Ewan ran a hand over his chin, his slight stubble catching in the old-fashioned lights that hung over the golden-framed mirrors. “I’ve told you, it’s not what I’ve done.”
“How can that be?”
“My appraisal of the work was released to the Times because the Tate can’t exhibit the piece. The portrait had already been included in the catalog, but it’s been removed. People were expecting to see it, so the news was reported to the media, but not by me. The Things We Don’t Say was a drawcard for the Tate’s exhibition on homosexuality in art, partly because it’s been stored at Summerfield privately forever and obviously because Patrick was gay. His relationship with Emma intrigues people; it’s Patrick’s and Emma’s devotion to one another throughout their adult lives that draws people even more to the Circle. Without their extraordinary love story that crossed every boundary we know as a society, the painting wouldn’t have held such allure. I’m sorry you’ve taken this entirely the wrong way. I want to make sure that Patrick’s memory isn’t exploited, not the other way around. I don’t know what happened or how it happened, but the painting that’s hanging at Summerfield was not done by Patrick Adams.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Ewan tented his hands on the table between them. “It’s a dead certainty that the painting is not his work. I know it for sure. I’m sorry. That’s all I can say.”
“No. It is absolutely his work, Ewan.”
Ewan looked over to the side, seeming to catch, for a brief moment, a glimpse of himself in the mirror before turning sharply away.
The sting of it for Laura was this: The only person who could authenticate the painting, who had the real authority to put this entire matter to rest, was dead. Professor Rivers, a Cambridge don whose parents had been outside members of the Circle, had produced a biography of Patrick that was recognized as definitive. He’d devoted his entire academic career to early twentieth-century British art, with a focus on the Circle. His word was so respected that Laura knew even Ewan would have to back down. But without the professor’s backup, if the Tate had withdrawn the painting and would not exhibit it, and with no real argument except Emma’s word, the only person Laura had to rely on was herself. Engaging a lawyer was out of the question, and time was her enemy. With crucial second-year performance exams looming, which would determine the place she’d get in the college’s orchestras and ensembles in her final year of study, Laura knew she was stuck.
Ewan looked uncomfortable.
Laura frowned at her empty coffee cup.
“It’s not something that I wanted to happen. I’m not trying to exploit anyone, and I’m certainly not out to make a quick ‘buck.’”
Laura eyed his Savile Row suit, the way his polished cuff links sat just so on the white cuffs of his pressed shirt. “Why are you so adamant?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just sure. The painting is a spectacular imitation of his style, I grant you that. I was as stunned as you are when I realized it was not his work. It was the last thing I was expecting, believe me, but there is something that tells me without doubt that the painting is not a Patrick Adams.”
“You can’t just say that.” Laura almost whispered the words. “You and I both know it. Brushstrokes? The age of the canvas? A lack of Patrick’s trademark ingenuity? What exactly did you see? Because it strikes me as extremely odd that Emma slept with the painting above her bed for decades and noticed none of this. She’s got a pretty good eye for a piece of art, and Patrick lived at Summerfield for decades with that painting right in the house . . .”
Ewan took in a shaky breath. “The first thing we look for is the name of the artist on the canvas. The work is not signed.”
Laura waited.
He leaned against the table a moment. “Following the artist’s name, there’s quality. It’s not something I can reduce to words; it’s instinctive.”
Laura sensed herself frowning.
“It’s as if, when I’m called out to authenticate a piece of art, I’m looking for that overall something that makes the work an Adams. Then, there’s no definitive documentation to prove that the portrait is by Adams: no certificate, no exhibition or gallery sticker attached to it. The portrait has never been bought or sold. We can’t rely on supposition. As a professional, I cannot in good faith verify the authenticity of the painting.”
“You need to tell me what makes you so sure,” she said, her words sounding as if they came from another person. “It’s all too vague.”
“It’s exactly the same as it is with a piece of music,” Ewan said suddenly.
Laura’s gaze sharpened.
“Authenticity is paramount in all art.”
Laura was silent a moment. When she looked up, he’d already pushed back his chair.
“I have to go,” he said. “I’m sorry. I have a meeting now. I can’t do anything to help. All I can tell you is that the painting is not the work of Patrick Adams. There’s nothing else to say.”
“Ewan—”
But he’d gone. Swept out of the coffee shop in a flurry of chic designer suits and slicked-back blond hair.
“That’s not quite the end of it, if you don’t mind,” Laura murmured as she placed another pound down on the table. Ewan was clearly rattled. He’d forgotten to pay for his tea.
Round one to whom? All she knew was that she had to bring on round two and fast.
CHAPTER SIX
Provence, 1913
Emma reveled in the soft feel of brush against canvas, the way the morning light warmed her shoulders. The tactile nature of her work was comforting. As she detailed the slight cracks in the wicker on a chair in her painting, she kept her eyes focused on the ruptures and splits in the wood. And was aware, completely, utterly, of Patrick standing in the middle of the room waiting for her response.
“Why me?” she asked him. “Why would you want to paint my portrait when you don’t paint anyone else?”
She kept going, allowing herself to be drawn in by the almost pearlescent colors in the wood.
“Because you understand it, Emma. You understand what it means to have to paint. Painting, for me, is the need to capture something that captivates me, to hold the very essence of something for one moment from the fleeting nature of time. You and I both know that with art, we at least have some way of expressing our feelings, to glimpse beauty. I see something in you as a person that I not only recognize in myself but that I want to express. That I have to express. It’s all I can say.”
Emma laid her brush back down. She rested her hand next to her on her stool. Her painting had become a blur in front of her eyes.
“What I see in you is the same thing that yearns to be expressed in myself,” he said. “Painting you would be my way of capturing that e
ssence that I saw in you straightaway and, in a small way, turning you into something eternal. I don’t know. All I do know is that I have to paint you, if you will allow me to do so. I don’t ask it lightly. The reason that I don’t, as a rule, paint those people I know well is for that very reason—I know them. But with you, I feel that I know you, but while we are both artists, I also sense there is something about your character that remains elusive, that I respect and seek and will never fully understand. But I still want to try to capture it on canvas, to express it, because I find it beautiful.”
Emma shifted her gaze out the window. She remained silent. The boat with the two red poppies on it still floated in front of her eyes.
“Very well,” she said.
She closed her eyes when she heard his intake of breath. “Thank you. I promise I will not let you down. If you don’t like it—”
She laughed; the tension broke.
The little boat started moving faster across the surface of the sea.
“The two women who own the little boat have commissioned me to paint the entrance hall in their chateau. Would you take a look at it with me tomorrow? I’d value your thoughts.”
Emma stayed quiet.
“I’ve seen your portrait of Lady Somerville. Your use of color is breathtaking,” Patrick said.
She looked critically at her work in progress.
“Frederick told me what you’d done at home in Gordon Square,” he went on, sounding genuinely enthusiastic. “I heard about your decorative abilities, which is one of the reasons, I confess, I snuck up here to look at your work. And I’m sorry, I know you have things in your past that are . . . Well, Frederick did share with me some of the difficulties you had with your father. I hope you’ll forgive my candor, but I did know Frederick well in London.”
The sudden thought crossed Emma’s mind that Frederick could have been in love with Patrick as well. Oh, dear God, she had to halt her feelings and thoughts sometime. She looked at him.
His focus was down at the floor, his exquisite profile thrown into perfect relief. His beauty was extraordinary. The more she watched, the more she felt the desire to paint him, in turn. Patrick’s eyes were warm when he brought them up again to look at her. His character was clearly so complex. He had moved through three stages in the last few minutes—intensely emotive, to earnest, to warm and genuinely brotherlike. His clear warmth toward Frederick made her feel even closer to him again.
“I could pick you up in the early afternoon at, say, two. That way you could get in a morning session of work, then another one after we return. I won’t keep you too long.”
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
“I could meet you out front if that suited you?”
“Yes.”
“It will be good to have your ideas. Lady Thea and her companion, Beatrice, are an interesting pair. But I think you’ll like them very much. No, I’m sure of it.”
He lingered a moment in the room before turning and walking out the door.
London, 1980
Jasper and Laura were the first to arrive at chamber group rehearsal in the Royal College of Music late that afternoon. Spring sunshine bathed the Amaryllis Fleming Concert Hall with light. Laura had already spent an hour wrangling with one of the pieces they were rehearsing—Mozart’s Divertimento in B Flat Major. Stuck in a rehearsal room, she’d had to force herself to focus on achieving delicacy in the fast runs that the violin solo required, its brilliance lying in the need for complete accuracy and a lightness of bowing that her hands just did not want to execute today. Her mind was too busy trying to grasp on to a plan for approaching the bank next . . . unless they called her first to rescind their loan for her college fees, which was highly likely at this point.
“Have you read the Evening Standard?” Jasper sat down with a thump in the empty seat next to Laura in the first violin section.
“Please don’t tell me you read that.” Laura leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Oh, darling, you have to stop the whole thing. I have every faith that you can.” He moved closer, scanning the stage as other members of the orchestra started appearing. Jasper lowered his voice. “Tell you what, the Scotsman’s gorgeous—the evening paper had a photo, no holds barred and all that—heavenly dimple, cheeky smile, amazing skin tones. Can’t you seduce him or marry what has to be his fabulous bank balance and force him to retract his claim?”
In spite of everything, Laura felt a smile play around her lips.
The room went quiet. The conductor stepped up on the dais.
Jasper rested a hand on her shoulder before standing to move back to the viola section. “Call on me. Whatever you need, I’ll help.”
Laura lifted her bow, her heart hammering in her chest. Rachmaninoff would suit her feelings far better than Mozart right now unless someone gave her the option to wring Ewan Buchanan’s neck.
Her private lesson, directly after the rehearsal, was a disaster: she’d not gotten past the first bar of the Bartók Solo Violin Sonata that she was performing at the end of term. After three-quarters of an hour wrangling with the fiendishly difficult counterpoint and the left hand’s pizzicato while the right hand required sublime legato in order to make anything work, her teacher called it quits early, sending her home. Laura’s steps were heavy as she moved down the stairs outside the grand redbrick building that housed the music school. Instead of a head full of inspiration, Laura had a gut full of worry. And three violin students lined up to teach after supper this evening.
She made her way along Prince Consort Road before turning up Exhibition Road toward the Tube station. She’d rung Lydia at lunchtime, asking her to promise to protect Emma at all costs. One thing was for certain—Laura could trust Lydia to keep the media at bay. But for now, she needed to catch the bank manager before closing time. Laura had to know the extent of what they’d do to recoup their loan, if anything at this stage, and then she’d put the pressure on Ewan far more specifically to get him to retract his ridiculous statement and fast.
Once she was on the train home, sandwiched among five people and wedged under someone’s armpit, Laura stared out at the black tunnels until they reached Russell Square. She strode up the road to her flat on Bernard Street, right around the corner from Gordon Square, where Emma still lived. The sense of the Circle living on in Bloomsbury seemed to hang about in the streets and the old garden squares, and now, being back here lent Laura at least some sense of security, having come away from the pretensions of Piccadilly’s and Kensington’s innate grandeur.
She made her way into her basement room at the bottom of the dingy house that, nevertheless, held a few failed attempts at politeness. The woman on the second floor had installed heavy chintz curtains in an effort to make the place look a little smarter than it really was. An old fan light decorated the main entrance on street level, but Laura had to go down a flight of steep, rutted, old cement steps to reach her basement studio, and no matter how much she swept the ground outside her front door, loose bits of rubbish and detritus always fluttered down from the street. She lived only a few steps from the Tube station, which rendered her street worlds away from Bloomsbury’s elegant squares and Emma’s and Patrick’s artistic past.
Still, all these factors meant the rent was a million times cheaper than anything else in the area, and she could be near Gran. Laura dropped her key on the small table by her front door, turning on lamps as she made her way into the single room that she called home, a sense of overwhelming protectiveness engulfing her at the sight of her bed with its quilt designed by her grandmother and the cheap, old wooden table they’d found together at a flea market years ago, brought to life by Emma and Patrick, decorated with Emma’s particular painted circles and Patrick’s fluid human figures. These charming touches lent a whimsical air to the otherwise dull and cramped space. How dare anyone threaten it! Laura slumped down on her sofa.
Up until now, the biggest obstacle in her career had been her mother’s antipathy toward Laura
’s chosen life path. Emma’s daughter, Clover, had broken away from her own mother, rejecting Emma’s bohemian lifestyle and setting up a small, quiet life in a village. Laura’s mother worked in the local library, while spending the rest of her time keeping an immaculate house. And yet, Laura knew that as a child, Clover had been talented. Emma had encouraged her daughter as much as she later encouraged her granddaughter. Clover had once played the violin, decorated ceramics, and made up volumes of sketchbooks that Emma had shown Laura when she was small.
But in the end, Clover had rejected everything about the Circle and fled her artistic heritage. Marriage and stability meant everything to Clover—a practical means to an end.
When her phone rang, Laura half wondered if it would be her mother checking in on her during one of her rare, random phone calls. Clover must have read the Times article, unless the newspaper had not reached the depths of the countryside.
“Miss Taylor.”
Laura took in a sharp breath. Not many people knew the sound of their bank manager’s voice by heart. She did.
“Ivan,” she said. Heaven help her if he read the Evening Standard as well.
“I know this is short notice, but do you happen to be free to come in this evening to talk?”
So. He’d gotten to her first.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, running a hand over her brow, “I was going to come and see you.” She said goodbye and stood up again, grabbed her light coat, and threw it over her shoulder.
Half an hour later, she sat opposite Ivan Mansell in the bank in Highgate’s Euston Road. Laura gazed out through the slim gaps in the venetian blinds to the wide street, where men and women dressed in smart business attire moved with purpose up and down the sidewalks.
“I’m afraid,” Ivan said, “that if the painting’s provenance has been called into question and the Tate will not include it in their exhibition, then under the terms of our agreement, we will require a portion of the loan to be repaid immediately.”
