by J. R. Ward
When Grace and Ross were seated in the kitchen, having a drink while Thomas and Nate cooked, Callie found the shouts of laughter and private jokes a little hard to bear.
Making a quick excuse, she slipped upstairs to her room, promising to return when the meal was on the table.
Jack parked his mother’s Jaguar in its bay, turned off the ignition, and stared at the back wall of the garage. He was suddenly exhausted, but didn’t want to close his eyes because he’d only replay scenes from the synagogue and the graveyard. He couldn’t get the image of that small coffin out of his mind, no matter what practicalities he tried to distract himself with.
When he finally walked over to the house, he saw Grace and his brother through the windows, laughing while one poured dressing on a salad and the other tossed. Standing in the pitch dark, looking at two of the people he loved most in the world, he was grateful to be home. Grateful that his loved ones had not suffered as the family of that little girl had. As she herself had.
He opened the door and frowned when he didn’t see Callie.
“There he is!” Grace exclaimed, rushing to him. She pulled up short when she got a load of the cast. “I heard all about your accident. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“And all the better for seeing you.”
He gave her a quick hug and a kiss, but when he pulled back, she held on to his good arm.
“Hey, how are you really doing?” she whispered as she gave him a shrewd stare. “I also heard about you and Blair. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” Jack smiled and nodded across to the big, silent man in the corner. “John Smith, right?”
“My fiancé’s name is Ross,” Grace interjected.
Jack cocked an eyebrow at the name change and the announcement.
“Well, congratulations,” he said, meaning it. As he shook hands with his friend’s fiancé, he approved of the way Smith put his arm around Grace and brought her close to him.
“Hey, brother, go get Callie, will you?” Nate said from the stove. “We’re ten minutes out. She went upstairs.”
Jack put down his briefcase and went up to her bedroom. When he knocked on the door, she answered softly.
When he walked in, he saw her sitting on the big bed, a pillow in her lap. She smiled. “I was hoping it was you.”
He closed the door just as a wave of laughter drifted upstairs. “I don’t blame you for wanting some quiet. It’s pretty rowdy down there.”
He sat beside her and the feel of her hand covering his was like a balm.
“How did today go?” she asked.
“The service was beautiful and incredibly sad. Afterward I went to the hospice center and gave them a check.”
“They must have been very grateful.”
“Yes, they were.” He put her hand on his thigh and began to smooth the skin of her palm.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.
“I’ve been talking to Gray.” He could feel the tension come into her fingers. “It’s time for me to declare what my plans are for the election.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
He looked into her eyes, as if that would help her understand what he had to say.
“You know, walking through the hospice facility today, I remembered exactly why I want to run.” He shook his head. “I’m not saying I had some mystical experience. Actually, it was all very practical. I ended up in the executive director’s office poring over P and L spreadsheets. In the process of going through their numbers, I could see where they could improve their operations so they would have more cash. I knew what needed to be changed. I understood how I could help.”
She listened to him with quiet intensity, but there was heartbreak in her eyes.
“My vision for this state is starting to take shape, Callie. My head’s been spinning with ways to balance spending and drive revenue. I know where things need to be done differently. I won’t be able to accomplish everything I want to. I won’t be able to fund every program or save every center or shelter. But I can sure as hell try to help some of them. And I want to try. This is important to me.” Her eyes went down to their hands and he intertwined his fingers with hers. “I want to put my hat in the ring because that’s the only way to get where I want to go. So I can make a difference.”
“I’m happy for you,” she said, though she looked dejected. “I truly am.”
“And I talked to Gray about your situation.”
“You told him everything?” she asked, clearly horrified.
“I had to get his perspective.”
“But what I said to you was private. Between you and me.” She brushed her hair back from her face impatiently. Nervously, he thought.
“He won’t say anything.”
“That’s not the point. I never expected you to tell him. Or anybody else.”
Jack frowned, feeling frustrated.
“Who are you protecting?” When she didn’t answer him, he squeezed her hand. “Who? Tell me.”
“The only family I have left,” she said urgently. “And I’m not at all comfortable with having private conversations broadcast to everyone else on the planet.”
“Gray is hardly a stranger.”
“Maybe to you, he’s not.”
Jack steadied himself, trying to get past her defensiveness. He chose his words carefully. “I also told Gray that I might not run.”
Shock widened her eyes. “You did?”
He nodded slowly. “Even though I want to be governor, I would walk away from the election in an instant. For you.”
Callie hesitated, as if she couldn’t believe it was true, and then threw her arms around him. “Oh, Jack—”
He held her back.
“I would give up anything for you, even a shot at leading this state. But I’m not going to do it unless I know the whole truth. I’m not going to turn away from this thing I’ve spent years preparing for unless you can be real with me. A relationship with only part of you is not worth the sacrifice to me.”
She closed her eyes and dropped her hands. “I understand. I totally understand. I just need some time, a little time. I need to . . . talk with someone.”
“My exploratory committee is meeting in secret at my offices this weekend. I want to be able to commit to them one way or the other on Saturday afternoon.” Jack stood up, not encouraged by the fact she wasn’t meeting his eyes. “Talk to whoever you want to and let me know what you decide. But I have to say this. If you can’t trust me, I can’t be with you. No matter how much I love you.”
She nodded without lifting her head.
He paused. “Nate wanted you to know that dinner’s ready. Do you want to come down?”
“Tell them I was asleep.”
When he closed the door behind him, he felt hollow and spent.
Not wanting to deal with anyone, he changed into running shorts, made his excuses to the people in the kitchen, and hit the gym.
21
THE NEXT day, the prospect of Gerard Beauvais’s arrival was all that got Callie motivated to go up to the garage. As she looked at Jack’s ancestor, assessing and reassessing the mess she’d made, she was convinced nothing in her life was ever going to be right again.
And she was not looking forward to talking with Grace.
But it seemed like the only choice she had. Grace had a right to know what was happening with Jack and what he wanted to know.
Callie would have preferred getting the conversation over with as soon as possible. But when she’d gone down to the kitchen that morning, intent on getting her half sister alone, she’d learned that Grace and Ross were gone for the day on a tour of private Early American art collections. With the party tonight, Callie was going to have to catch Grace the moment she returned.
To pass the time before Beauvais arrived, Callie decided to sort through the final box of documents, but she found herself walking from window to window, as if one of them might, against all odds, show her a view that gave
her some peace of mind.
At nine o’clock sharp, Beauvais walked up the stairs.
“Thank God,” she breathed.
They barely exchanged pleasantries before leaning over the painting and discussing various options. Finally, Gerard took off his reading glasses, sucked on one of the earpieces, and regarded her with his bright little eyes.
“It has to come off. The top layer of paint at the mirror must be totally removed.”
Callie sat in her chair. She wasn’t surprised by the conclusion but it hit her like a ton of bricks anyway. “Okay.”
“At least we will find out what is under there.” Beauvais smiled. “Which is something I have wanted to know for quite a while.”
“You saw the imperfection in the mirror’s surface when you examined it for the Blankenbakers, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “I advised them that the portrait should be cleaned and they promised to follow through. Alas, they did not.”
Callie looked down at the Copley. “I have to tell Jack.”
“Tell me about what?”
She looked across the studio in surprise. Jack’s expression was cool as he approached them. He was dressed in a suit, the sleeve of the jacket hanging loosely on the side of his cast.
“So that’s your car, Gerard,” he said. “I was wondering why there was a silver Audi in my driveway. How are you?”
The men shook hands.
“What brings you to Wellesley?” The question was more pointed than polite.
Callie looked at Beauvais, who inclined his head toward her ever so slightly.
“I’ve made a mistake,” she blurted.
Jack’s eyes narrowed on her and then moved to the painting. “What kind of mistake?”
She told him quickly and pointed out the area on the portrait. Jack’s expression gave nothing away as he studied the damage.
“And what are you proposing to do now?”
“We’ve decided that removing the top layer of paint is the best course of action. We will make a further assessment once that is done, but a repaint is probably in order.”
“How does this affect the value of the portrait?” Jack directed the question to Beauvais and the man tilted his head at an angle, now working the earpiece of his glasses with his teeth.
“It depends on what is revealed.” When Jack frowned, the conservationist went on to explain, “There is an image under the paint that is rather curious.”
Jack bent down closer to the canvas. “That dark shape might be something?”
“Indeed.”
“And if it isn’t?” he demanded.
Beauvais cleared his throat. “After restoration, I don’t believe there will be any serious decrease in worth. It is such an important painting, the loss will be relatively small compared to its overall value.”
“How small?”
“I would say one hundred to two hundred thousand dollars.”
Callie felt the floor underneath her feet heave. If Jack came after her for restitution, that would wipe out the nest egg she’d planned on socking away after the project was done. Most conservationists were insured, but she hadn’t bothered with the precaution. Couldn’t have afforded it until Jack paid her, anyway.
“How much time will it take until you know what’s under there?” Jack asked her.
“A couple of hours.”
“I’ll be back then. And thank you for coming by,” Jack said, extending his hand to Beauvais. “Callie, we’ll talk.”
It was only in the wake of his departure that she realized he’d hardly looked at her at all. Caught up in her thoughts, she was surprised when Beauvais took off his tweed jacket.
“Shall we begin?” he said cheerfully, eyeing her tools and supplies.
Beauvais left four hours later. He’d volunteered to stick around until Jack came back to look at the painting, but she’d declined his offer. It was her project and she needed to be the one who talked with the owner about the future of the portrait.
Callie stared down at the work she’d done with Beauvais. What had been revealed was extraordinary.
In the flat plane of the mirror, there was a miniature portrait of a dark-haired woman. Both she and Beauvais had agreed that the depiction was undoubtedly Copley’s work. First of all, the brushwork was obviously in the master’s style. And secondly, following the stripping process, it became clear that the lower paint layer was made of precisely the same kind of elements as the rest of the portrait’s oils.
What was likewise interesting was that the paint that had bubbled up and been removed appeared under the microscope to also be of the same composition and age as everything else. The appropriate inference to be made, therefore, was that Copley had painted the image and someone, probably him, had covered it up relatively contemporaneously.
Beauvais had been delighted by the discovery. Tickled pink, as he’d put it.
Callie was enthralled because she knew about the letters and was tempted to find a connection between the mystery woman and the love affair that had been hinted at in the old pieces of correspondence. The date on the portrait was 1775, so it could have been painted while Nathaniel was consorting with the beautiful Mrs. Rowe, because the Battle of Concord was waged that year. All it would take to establish whether the woman was in fact the general’s wife would be a comparison between the depiction in the mirror and an existing portrait of her.
As for the rest of the conservation project, Jack needed to see the woman’s face and consider whether he wanted the mirror’s image covered up once again. He might well decide to preserve his ancestor’s untarnished reputation, and Callie would support him in whatever he chose to do. The urge to hide a family’s immoral past was something she was very familiar with. Given her own commitment and sacrifices to protect her father, she couldn’t very well fault Jack if he chose a similar path.
While waiting, she looked outside. Trucks and vans had been pulling up to the back door all day long as food for the party was delivered. She’d assumed there were going to be a lot of people coming, but there seemed to be enough supplies to feed an army going into Thomas’s kitchen.
After checking her watch, she walked over to the second bin of documents and decided to get to work. She was about halfway done with what was left in the Rub-bermaid container. If she wanted to finish the sorting before she left, she had to get going on it because she was almost done with the portrait.
It was hard to believe, but a small part of Nathaniel’s hand was all she had left to clean. Depending on what Jack decided to do about the woman’s face, she might be finished as quickly as tomorrow or the day after. If there was no repainting to be done, the final step of the conservation would just be the application of a fresh coat of varnish, and that would not take long.
Sitting down on the couch, she began to methodically sort, page by page, the remaining documents. She was scanning a letter of credit from 1929 when Jack and Grace both came up the stairs. She put down what she was reading and rose to her feet.
“So what have we got?” Jack asked briskly.
He was still in his suit, but had taken off the jacket and the tie. The pale pink button-down he was wearing made his hair and his eyes look especially dramatic.
“See for yourself,” she said softly, nodding to the painting.
As they looked over the portrait, Grace gasped. “Oh, my God. It’s a woman’s face.”
Callie measured Jack’s reaction. His brows dropped low over his eyes as he studied the canvas, but she couldn’t tell whether he was upset or intrigued.
“Well, that’s a bit of a surprise, isn’t it,” he said casually. And then he looked at her. “And it sheds some light on those letters.”
“Letters?” Grace questioned. “There’s more than the one you told me about?”
Callie nodded while Jack spoke.
“I’d found one with a similar tone years ago, and if they are indeed a pair, it appears that Nathaniel might have had an affair with, or at the very least
a romantic interest in, the wife of General Rowe.” He looked back down at the painting.
“What are you going to do?” Callie asked him. “Do you want to have the face covered up again?”
There was a long pause.
“Even if it is General Rowe’s wife, I think not.” As she glanced at him in surprise, he shrugged. “Whatever the implications, I believe the portrait wouldn’t be authentic without it.”
Grace frowned. “These letters, you’re sure they’re between him and the general’s wife?”
“You should look at them yourself,” he said, “but the circumstantial evidence suggests it was her.”
“And you think this woman”—Grace pointed at the painting—“is the one he was in love with? Sarah Rowe?”
Callie interjected. “The general’s wife was a known associate of Copley’s, right? I mean, there are notes in Copley’s journals that stated she often visited his studio before he left for London because she dabbled in painting as well. Nathaniel commissioned this portrait. It’s not inconceivable that he’d put his lady love’s face in it but, because of the clandestine love between them, have it covered up. A secret pledge of his feelings, perhaps. Quite romantic, actually. And the timing’s right—1775.”
Grace laughed softly. “That’s a fine theory and I don’t doubt some of its merits. There’s only one problem. The general’s wife was a blonde.”
Both Jack and Callie turned their heads.
“How do you know?” he demanded.
“I have some expertise in American history,” Grace replied with a dry grin. “There are very few portraits of the general’s wife. Maybe two at the most, one of which happens to be a miniature owned by the Hall Collection. She most certainly was a blonde.”
“So who the hell is that?” Jack asked, frowning.
“Are you sure the letters make reference to the general?” When Jack nodded, Grace said, “Then it could be his daughter, Anne. She was a brunette, took after her father in that regard.”
“Really?”
Grace nodded and looked up at the ceiling, tapping one high-heeled shoe.
“Let me see if I can do the math properly. This portrait was done in 1775. Anne would have been sixteen, I think, and Nathaniel Walker would have been about twenty. That sounds on the young side now for a love affair, but back then, girls were married off in their teens regularly.” She looked at Jack. “General Rowe’s writings suggest he was very protective of his daughter. At one point, I recall reading that he wanted Anne to pursue a spiritual life, and I take that to mean he might even have pushed her to join a religious order. I can certainly see why, if she were falling in love with Nathaniel, she’d want to keep it from her father. At least until there was an engagement and it would be too late.” Grace’s eyes went to Nathaniel’s face. “But Anne died in 1775, if I remember correctly. Of typhus. Quite a tragedy. Her father never recovered.”
