The Portrait

by Megan Chance

  She had been to exhibitions before, of course. Her family had gone whenever one was held in Nashville. Her father especially had loved those exhibitions. He had lived for the opportunity to socialize with neighbors and enter into long and intricate conversations about "art" and its "value." But Imogene had the feeling he liked this one more, and for different reasons. Samuel looked expectant. Readying for a fight.

  Her heart sank. She moved away from her father, following Thomas and Katherine up the low stairs that led to the first of the six galleries. It was a large room, its high ceilings leading to skylights that opened the space and lit it during the day. But as open and large as the room was, people nearly filled it, and the scent of the many gaslights mixed suffocatingly with those of perfume, wet wool, and warm bodies. It was hard to breathe, hard to even hear oneself over the excited buzz of talk, and it was so crowded that they were forced to move with the throng, circling slowly past the many paintings paneling the walls, forced to linger agonizingly by each one.

  Imogene scanned the room, wanting to see him, afraid to see him. She didn't know whether to feel relief or disappointment when she saw only the backs of heads and feathered hats and voluminous cloaks. With a stab of dismay she realized she would come upon him suddenly, without time to prepare herself, to compose herself. There were simply too many people to see beyond the next bend, or even the next painting.

  "Where is he?" her father demanded impatiently from beside her. "Show me where he is."

  Thomas tried to smile. "Patience, Sam. We'll come upon him in time." He pointed to a large landscape that took up a good portion of a wall, bounded on either side by smaller canvases showing a similar scene. "What do you think of that one? I think he's a promising young artist."

  Samuel gave the painting a cursory look. "Fine, if you like that sort of thing." He grabbed Imogene's arm, holding her tightly against him, as if he were afraid she would run off. He leaned down to whisper in her ear. "I want no nonsense from you, daughter, do you hear? When you see Whitaker, you point him out to me. Let me take care of it."

  She slanted him a glance, pulling away from his grip. "Of course, Papa," she said stiffly.

  They moved from painting to painting, following the crowd from one gallery into another, and then to a third. She heard the talk around her distractedly. "Oh, Jeffrey, I love it! Such fine colors ..." "Luminism is evident in every brushstroke, my love. Mark my words, this man will go far ..." "I don't see it. I simply don't understand what all the fuss is about ..." The voices pounded in her head. The paintings wavered before her, each one blurring into the next, a mix of style and color as confusing as the feelings crowding her heart. Anticipation, fear . . . She wasn't sure what she should be feeling, was afraid of what she would see in Jonas's eyes when finally she saw him. She tugged at the collar of her mantle, feeling too hot where before she'd been cold. She undid the frogged fastenings, but even that didn't help. Her lungs felt tight, her throat swollen. She could not silence the question chanting in her head. Where is he? Where is he?

  "This is lovely," Katherine observed, stopping before a still life of peaches and grapes. "Oh, Imogene, look! This is by that friend of yours, that Mr. Childs."

  The name startled Imogene. She had not expected to hear it. Already Rico seemed to come from a past so long ago it was almost forever. Imogene stared at the painting, her heart racing. She'd thought maybe he'd gone back to Paris. Obviously not.

  Katherine grabbed her husband's arm. "He brought a message to the house a few weeks ago. darling. I thought I might commission him . . ."

  Her godmother's words trailed off, blending into the sea of voices. Anxiously, nervously, Imogene looked around, trying to see through the faces. Rico was never far from Jonas. She wondered where Childs had been, where he was now. Was he taking care of Jonas? Was anyone—

  "Good heavens, it's her. Gerald, look, it's her."

  The hushed sentence was close by her ear. Frowning, Imogene looked over—into the narrowed eyes of an older woman in pale apricot silk.

  The woman was staring, but when Imogene caught her gaze, she flushed and turned away, pulling her startled husband with her through the crowd.

  How odd. Imogene glanced back at Katherine, but she and Thomas were still bent over Childs's painting, her father close beside them. Impatiently Imogene stepped back, but the crowd jostled her, and she drew back farther, looking up just in time to see a man in a tall beaver hat staring at her. He tipped it to her, smiling a smile she found vaguely disturbing. Not just friendly, but . . . but too friendly.

  Flustered, Imogene looked away. When she glanced back, he was gone, but there was another group, a woman who looked at her with sharp, beady little eyes before she leaned over and nudged the woman walking beside her, whispering into her ear. The other woman glanced up, and her fine features drew into a tight little mask; she turned to her friend with words whose harshness carried over the noise, even if what she said didn't. The two of them bustled away.

  Self-consciously Imogene checked her gown. Her bodice was buttoned tight against her throat; she was hardly indecent. And surely the dress wasn't all that dated. She adjusted her bonnet. Only a few loose hairs escaped her chignon, nothing more.

  Disturbed, she moved to where the others stood. "Katherine," she said quietly. "Do I have something on my face?"

  Her godmother turned from the painting. "No," she said. "You look fine."

  "People are staring at me."

  Her father frowned. "You're imagining things."

  "No, I—"

  "Nervous, are you, girl?" He grunted in satisfaction and took her arm, giving a cursory nod to Thomas. "Let's get on then, shall we? We can come back to look at these if you like."

  He tugged on her arm, pulling her with him. Imogene scanned the faces they passed, telling herself that the stares she received were only in her imagination, as her father said. Certainly the whispers weren't about her, they couldn't be. But still her cheeks burned. She gripped her father's arm more tightly, feeling more and more flustered with every step they took.

  She heard the giggles first. Nervous, embarrassed laughter, scandalized half words. A murmur of talk with a slightly hysterical edge. It was just ahead of them, and she knew without looking what it signified; she'd been to enough art shows to know.

  She glanced at her father, who lifted his brow and smiled. "Ah, there's something scandalous ahead," he noted, interpreting the hushed talk as she had. "What shall it be this time, I wonder? Which artist?"

  Imogene's heart raced. Which artist? The whispers pounded against her ears; she heard everything, each word was too loud, too distinct. "Shocking!" "Who is she?" "How dare he?" "My dear, it's obscene. Isn't it obscene?"

  She knew who it was before they came upon him, before the crowd parted slightly to reveal a huge canvas painted with the figure of a woman. She barely glanced at it. Instead, her gaze went unerringly to the man beside it.

  Jonas.

  He stood back, leaning negligently against some small still life, his shoulder nudging the frame, angling it so the painted pheasant within looked ready to roll off its table. His dark hair was loose, falling over his shoulders in defiance of fashion, seeming black-black against the blue coat he wore. He was talking to Rico, who stood beside him, the perfect blond foil to Jonas's darkness, and Imogene was reminded of the first time she'd seen him. He'd been so vibrant then, a dark sun, a mysterious, frightening man. He was not so mysterious now, and not at all frightening, but the vibrance was still there, emanating from him so strongly she wondered why everyone was staring at the painting instead of him, since he was far more stunning.

  "Sweet Christ." Her father's voice was a harsh whisper in her ear. "Jesus Christ, what the hell have you done?"

  Startled, she tore her gaze away from Jonas. Her father was glaring at the painting before them, his face tight, his nostrils pinched with anger. She glanced at the portrait.

  Her heart stopped. Imogene gasped. The painting glistened in front of
her with a delicate luminosity, all shades of white except for the background, which was shadowed and dark, nearly black. It was a woman reclining on a stack of white pillows, her pale skin vibrant and alive, the lines of her nude body obscured and yet somehow made more clear by a diaphanous white scarf. She was a mystery of shapes: small breasts, rounded hips, a triangular hint of shadow at the juncture of her thighs. Her hair was a soft golden brown, falling over her shoulders, strands curling against her cheek. It was a shocking portrait. Too alive, too erotic, too beautiful. But those things weren't what made it shocking. What made it shocking was something else, something far more elemental.

  It was a portrait of her.

  Imogene felt as if the floor had tilted beneath her. It was her, and though she tried hard to deny it, she couldn't. It was her face—those were her eyes looking dispassionately at the crowd, that was her chin. And that tiny mole just below her mouth was hers too. All her. Good Lord, it was her. Except for one thing. The woman in the painting was alluring and beautiful. She was everything Imogene was not, everything she'd ever wanted to be. Vibrant. Exotic. Sensual.

  Her father's fingers dug into her arm; Imogene heard him say something, heard the rage in his voice. But it barely registered. She could not look away from the painting, not until she heard her name, not until she heard Jonas's voice cutting through the gleeful murmurs of the crowd.

  "Genie."

  That was all, just her name, a hush of sound, a rush of breath. She glanced up, catching his gaze, and his eyes seemed impossibly bright, impossibly green. His face tightened; he clenched Rico's arm as if the motion gave him strength. But he didn't move. He just stared at her, and it seemed his features were more finely etched than she'd ever seen them, taut with something, some emotion . . . despair?

  "Jonas," she breathed. She stepped toward him, but her father's grip held her tight, pulling her back. She turned to her father. "Let me go," she said, trying to wrench free. "Papa, please. . . ."

  She trailed off when she saw her father's face. It was white with anger, his brown eyes flashed with it. His fingers bit more deeply into her arm, so painful she cried out.

  "Are you mad?" he asked in a harsh whisper, shaking her so hard her head snapped back. "What did you think you were doing, posing for him this way? Wasn't it enough that you blackened my good name by sleeping with him, you had to advertise it as well?"

  She heard the gasps around her, the sudden tittering. Imogene swallowed. She caught a woman's avid stare and Imogene turned away, keeping her voice low. "Papa, no," she said, trying to soothe him. "You don't understand. Please, let's talk about this somewhere else."

  "Goddammit, we'll talk about it now!" He shook her again, his voice rising steadily until even those yards away turned to stare. "You didn't seem to mind the attention when you posed for this . . . this filth! You wanted to show your nakedness to the world, so be it! Let them hear this too!"

  He flung her away so violently Imogene went sprawling. She fell painfully to the ground, sliding against a woman's skirts, jamming her elbow on a man's leg. Stunned, she tried to rise, tried to grab her father's arm. "Papa, please—"

  He shook her off, sending her falling again. "Get out of my sight. You're no better than a whore, and no daughter of mine!"

  The rest happened so quickly Imogene saw it in a blur. She heard a curse, heard: "Damn you, that's enough!" and then she saw someone—Jonas—rushing her father, she heard the crack of a fist on a jaw, the loud shout of pain. She gasped, and she saw Jonas turn, saw him look at her and shout, "Get her the hell out of here!" and then hands were on her, pulling her to her feet, surrounding her, closing in on her. She thought she saw Rico in the crowd, and Thomas, thought she heard the sound of a struggle, but it was so confusing, and she couldn't see. Her head was spinning; she tasted blood on her lip from the fall. She tried to push past, but the crowd held fast, mad for the fight. She heard running footsteps, and she turned to see men in black coats dodging the crowd, racing toward the commotion.

  "Jonas!" she shouted, trying to move closer. "Jonas!"

  But he didn't hear her. No one heard her, she couldn't get close, she couldn't see. Desperately Imogene pushed through the crowd; it eased just enough so she wedged herself between two men, just enough so she could see Rico grabbing for someone, his blond hair falling into his face, a red mark on his cheekbone.

  "Rico!" She cried. "Jonas!" And then she heard his voice, a hoarse shout, a desperate cry.

  "Get her out of here! Dammit, I told you to get her the fuck out of here!"

  And suddenly there were arms around her, pulling her back, wrenching her away.

  "No." She struggled against them, fighting to stay, to get to Jonas, to stop her father. "No!"

  But they were stronger than she was. And the voice, the weary, anxious voice, was stronger too.

  "It's all right, Imogene. Imogene, please, my dear. Come with me."

  It was Thomas. Thomas looking harried and worn and dispirited. "The authorities will intervene. There's nothing we can do. Come with me."

  She didn't want to go. She tried not to go. But the crowd was yelling now, and the men in black coats were forcing their way through, trying to quiet the mob. Thomas was right. There was nothing they could do. Nothing at all.

  She looked up at her godfather, seeing Katherine just behind, a kind and sympathetic look on her face. And in her mind, Imogene heard Jonas's desperate words again, called through a crowd. "Get her out of here!"

  She surrendered, letting Thomas and Katherine guide her from the hall, into the cold winter night. And when Thomas helped them both into the carriage and told the driver to take them home, Imogene said nothing, leaning her head on Katherine's comforting shoulder, hearing the jeering of the crowd echo in her ears as the carriage jerked forward, skidding through the icy streets of New York City, taking her away.

  Chapter 27

  Jonas shoved his hand deep in the pocket of his overcoat. The cold air stung the cuts on his face, the tender bruise on his jaw. A quiet breeze blew his hair into his face; the strands caught on the roughness of dried blood marking his cheekbone and his eye. He shook his head, closing his eyes against the glowing gaslights and the bright reflection of the gallery windows shining on the snow.

  He had wanted one day. One more day to think about her, to stare at her portrait and wish she were beside him. One day, and it had shown him more irrevocably than ever what a danger he was. He had lost control, had lunged at Samuel Carter without a thought as to who he was or where, had been mindless and aching, wanting only to punish the man for the things he'd said to her, wanting to kill him for the things he'd said. If Jonas needed any more proof that he should be locked away forever, tonight had given it to him. He'd been an animal. A madman. He was everything his father had called him that long-ago day in Cincinnati.

  But the worst thing was not the fight. The worst thing was that he had been so caught up in his obsession with Genie that he hadn't stopped to think about what it would do to her. He'd painted that portrait and known it was a masterpiece, but he had not expected the crowd's reaction to it, or hers.

  He had turned her into a pariah. The good people of New York City might have accepted her as his mistress, but as his model—his nude model—she was labeled no better than a whore. It was ludicrous and hypocritical, but it was the way things were, and he should have known. She would be shunned by the very circle that paid his bills, that purchased his paintings. They would buy the portrait, they would stare at her naked body hanging from their walls, but they would revile the woman who had posed for it.

  It didn't matter that she hadn't posed. It didn't matter that he'd painted her from memory. He had ruined her.

  Christ, he'd ruined her.

  Jonas opened his eyes, staring blankly around him, hearing the rattle of carriages on Broadway, the muffled talk from those leaving the gallery. Truthfully, he had not expected her to come to the exhibition, though he knew her father was in town. He had not expected to see he
r ever again. He had told himself he wanted it that way. But the moment he'd seen her, he'd known he was lying to himself. She was so beautiful in that bronze gown, with the rich color accenting her hair and eyes, and the sight of her brought such a pure, all- encompassing joy, such a overwhelming gratitude, it was all he could do to keep from running toward her. He would have, he thought. He would have crushed her to him and never let her go if she hadn't looked

  away from the portrait at just that moment. If he hadn't seen the stunned expression on her face and the unshed tears in her eyes. Those things had stopped him dead, had left him feeling bereft and uncertain. They were feelings he hated, and so when he heard her father's condemnation, he had gratefully turned to the safer emotion of anger, had let it overtake him.

  And had ruined himself as thoughtlessly as he'd ruined her.

  Jonas raked his hand through his hair, taking such a deep breath of the frigid air it burned his lungs. Ah, what a mistake he'd made. What a terrible mistake. He belonged in Bedlam, belonged with the other lunatics, the dream-crazed creatures who couldn't be trusted to not do damage to themselves or to others. He belonged in solitude, where his uncontrolled rages and rabid joys would be witnessed only by silence and darkness, where he could let his despair give in to madness and no one would care. He deserved it. He needed it.

  He told himself he wanted it.

  But what he really wanted was her.

  In the near distance a woman's laughter sparkled over the snow, along with the clack of bootheels and an answering baritone chuckle. And for just a moment Jonas allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to have her. What it would be like to have a normal life, to do normal, everyday things. To go to an exhibition on a cold and snowy night and see the gaslights reflected in the snow and the jewels glittering on the ears and throats of every woman there. To walk arm in arm and laugh breathlessly together, whispering secrets and exchanging small flirtations. To go home with her and pull her laughing up the stairs, to take her in his arms and kiss her and know she was his forever, that together they could survive this madness, that with her he could withstand his pain and temper his joys.