by Jo Goodman
The following morning he realized he had been naive. Within minutes of waking, he observed that the breach between them had not been narrowed. Indeed, it was wider than ever.
Restell came to understand then that he was a man very much in need of a bridge.
The offices of Napier and Walpole were a hive of activity. Located only a few short streets from the Thames, they were ideally situated to receive news of arriving ships. They had a sophisticated system of communication involving runners and beacons that went all the way to the sea, and now that the war on the continent was ended, they received reliable reports from Marseilles, Genoa, and Athens. Even the Russian ports on the Baltic were not beyond their reach.
Restell’s appointment with Mr. Martin Johnston was for the one o’clock hour, but Restell purposely arrived early to make his observations. Johnston was one of more than a dozen clerks who worked hunched over small desks making their calculations. Every desk faced the same direction: the spacious and finely furnished room that had once been the office shared by Mr. Napier and Mr. Walpole. Their heirs now held claim to the investment and insurance house and after so many generations, the surnames were no longer those of the founders. Still, there was respect for tradition because the brass plates on the great mahogany desks—the only desks to face each other—still read Mr. Napier and Mr. Walpole.
Restell was a frequent visitor to the firm and well-known to the managing partners. He was shown every courtesy upon his arrival and entertained polite inquiries about his health, his newly married state, and with some effort at delicacy, when they might expect him to make another investment. He had inquiries of his own, but his manner of asking questions was so far and away more subtle than what had been put to him that the partners were unaware of the interrogation.
The unusual feature in the office of Napier and Walpole was a large window set into the interior wall that allowed one or both partners to observe the clerks simply by standing at their desks. Restell had the same view each time he made an excuse to rise. He never caught Johnston out. The man remained stooped over his work, his pen moving steadily across the page as he made his entries. If Johnston was concerned about the interview, he gave no indication of it.
Promptly at one, Mr. Johnston left his desk and appeared at the partners’ door. Introductions were formally made, then Restell and Johnston were allowed the use of a private room where business affairs of a sensitive, often secret nature were conducted.
“It is good of you to meet with me on so little notice,” Restell said, indicating that Johnston could seat himself anywhere at the long table. When the clerk made his choice, Restell took the chair directly opposite him.
“I was encouraged to do so,” Johnston told him. “Your patronage is much valued by Napier and Walpole. How may I serve you?”
“I have not come on a matter of my usual business, although I am prepared to make a substantial investment in the Numidia to compensate you and the firm for your time. I will recommend that ten shares are placed in your name.”
“That is extremely generous of you.”
Restell was impressed with Martin Johnston’s composure. He carried himself quite correctly, with none of the obsequious demeanor that Restell had had occasion to observe in some of Johnston’s colleagues. He was obviously a proud gentleman, and Restell had cause to wonder if that was his nature or a consequence of being released from Sir Arthur’s employment. The latter would have broken some men, but there were also those who would refuse to be damaged by it, especially if they knew themselves to be innocent.
Johnston presented the solemn countenance of a man who did not smile easily. The evidence that he was in or nearing his fiftieth year was in his graying temples and the lines engraved about his eyes and downturned mouth. He was slimly built, altogether average in height and weight, and wearing his black frock coat and unimaginatively tied stock, he appeared little different than every other employee of Napier and Walpole.
“Perhaps you are aware, Mr. Johnston, that I recently had the good fortune to marry.”
“I was not aware, sir, but may I wish you happy?”
“You may. It has been some six weeks. I confess, I had every intention of visiting you before now, but my wife discouraged me.”
Johnston’s brow knit in a perfect puzzlement. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”
“You are acquainted with my wife, Mr. Johnston. She is Emmalyn Hathaway…Emmalyn Gardner now.”
“Miss Hathaway.” Johnston’s dour countenance was dramatically altered by his broad, satisfied smile. “Oh, but this is good news indeed. She has always been a favorite. It has been some time since I have had occasion to see her. The wedding preparations, I suppose, account for her absence.” His smile faded as a troubling thought occurred to him. “Or perhaps it is that I gave her offense. She never mentioned her engagement. You say she discouraged your visit?”
“She did, though not for any reason you might conceive. I have come on a matter that concerns her uncle.” Restell did not miss the immediate shuttering of Johnston’s features. That carefully set expression did not change even after Restell revealed that his visit also concerned his wife. “I cannot discuss the details, Mr. Johnston, but I believe such information as you were privy to as Sir Arthur’s man of affairs could be helpful.”
“I will not discuss Sir Arthur Vega. I understand why Miss Hathaway attempted to dissuade you. Whatever you wish to know, you will have to apply to your wife for answers.”
Restell was not deterred. “She believes you are innocent of the accusations Sir Arthur leveled against you.”
“I am innocent, so it is of no consequence what Miss Hathaway…forgive me…what Mrs. Gardner believes.”
“I think it is of consequence to you. You value her good opinion—as do I. She told me that when the accusations were first made you assigned some fault to her. After all, she did usurp your position as Sir Arthur’s most trusted agent, and you taught her every skill she needed to do so. In your place I would think the very same.”
“It was a moment’s anger that made me speak so incautiously. She is as innocent as I am.”
“How can you be so certain?”
Johnston said nothing.
“It is most damning, I think, that she benefited from your release.”
Johnston started to rise. “I do not wish to hear what you think, Mr. Gardner. I have made my peace with your wife. Indeed, I have made my peace with the whole of what happened.”
Restell pointed to the chair that Johnston was bent on vacating. “Please sit, Mr. Johnston. I will determine when the interview is concluded.”
The clerk sat and stared stonily across the table.
Restell continued as if there had been no interruption. “I have wondered if you could be sufficiently moved by your reversal of fortune to exact some payment from my wife.”
“Payment? What manner of payment?”
“Money is the usual request.”
“Are you suggesting that I have engaged in blackmail?”
“Perhaps a favor,” Restell said. “On occasion a favor may be granted. Have you asked my wife for such a favor?”
“You insult both of us.”
“Revenge is also payment in kind. What of revenge, Mr. Johnston?”
“No shares are worth this affront. I beg you keep them and permit me to return to my work. It is infinitely more satisfying sharing a room with fourteen of my fellow clerks than remaining in your company.”
Restell hardened himself to finish. “Tell me why you are so certain that my wife is blameless.”
“Do you doubt her character?” Johnston rubbed his forehead as his brow furrowed. “I believe she’s made a grave error in judgment in accepting your offer of marriage.”
“Something more than my wife’s character is at stake here,” Restell said.
Johnston simply set his jaw.
Restell knew then that he would not be able to pry it open.
Emma recognized Res
tell’s voice as he greeted Marisol in the hallway outside the entrance to the studio. In anticipation of his visit, she draped a cloth over the easel and turned to clean brushes at the table. Restell did not linger long with Marisol. He was halfway up the stairs before she finished sorting the brushes.
“I am becoming fond of the fragrance of turpentine,” he said, brushing her proffered cheek with his lips. It was a cool, perfunctory kiss of the kind they shared more and more frequently. “Where is Sir Arthur?”
Emma pointed to the sofa where her uncle was sleeping. “He began painting early today and lay down only a short time ago.”
Restell examined the posture that sleep had visited upon the artist. “He will suffer a stiff neck if he remains there for long.”
“Perhaps I will wake him before I go. You are here earlier than I expected. Have you concluded your business so soon, then?”
Restell set himself upon the stool at the table. “It did not require as long as I thought it would. Mr. Johnston sends his regards.”
Emma nearly upended the jar of turpentine. She managed to catch it before it tipped and placed it firmly at the center of the table until she had need of it again. “That is where you were this afternoon? You never said a word.”
“You did not inquire.” Breakfast had been a quiet affair this morning. The distance between them was far greater than the length of the table.
“You know I wish you hadn’t gone,” she said. “But I’d hoped that if you felt you must, you would have asked me to accompany you.”
“You would not have tolerated my ill manners.”
Emma’s shoulders sagged a bit as she set the brushes to soak. She did not look at Restell. “You behaved badly?”
He did not apologize for it. “It was necessary. You will not be astonished that he acquitted himself. He defended you most ardently.”
Emma’s voice conveyed all of her disappointment in her husband. “Oh, Restell. What did you say to him?”
“I asked him if he suspected you of having played a part in his dismissal, and when he said he did not, I pointed out the reasons that he should. He refused to name you.”
“Of course he refused,” she said quietly. “I had nothing to do with it, and he is not a man who lies to save himself. Was it so important that you must needs attack him?”
“He has a powerful motive to hurt you, Emma. I cannot dismiss that.”
“He would never hurt me.” She reached behind her and tugged on her apron strings, then impatiently removed the apron. “He would not hurt anyone.”
“I believe you.”
“Now,” Emma said. “You believe me now.” She hung her apron on one of the wall pegs before she turned on Restell. “Because you have judged it for yourself. Why could you not accept my sense of the matter and spared him?”
“Because I no longer trust your sense on this matter or any other.”
She stared at him.
“Bloody hell, Emma.” Dispirited, Restell closed his eyes and rubbed them with his thumb and middle finger. He could not say he didn’t mean what he said, only that he hadn’t meant to say it. He let his hand fall away and held her wounded gaze because he owed her that. She did not pretend that he had not hurt her. “I do not know what I should say,” he told her.
“Then let silence carry the day. We will both be served better by that.” She picked up her paisley shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders, then she stepped past Restell, deliberately not touching him, and started down the stairs.
Restell did not follow immediately. He sat where he was, feet propped on one of the rungs of the stool, and stared off into space.
“You’ve made rather a mess of things, haven’t you?” Sir Arthur Vega pushed himself into a sitting position on the sofa and stuffed a worn, faded pillow behind the small of his back. “And there is no apology that will suffice at this juncture. You will have to do something extraordinary to put yourself in Emmalyn’s good graces again.”
That was not encouraging. “I don’t know what I did to fall out of her good graces.”
“We never do.”
Restell rested one elbow on the tabletop. “Did you hear the whole of it?”
“Enough.” Sir Arthur regarded Restell from beneath his hooded glance. “I understood you to say that you’d met with Johnston. Frankly, I’m surprised you hadn’t done so already. I cannot believe it of the man, but I suppose he should be eliminated as a suspect.”
“I allowed Emma to persuade me that he couldn’t possibly be a suspect.”
“She liked Johnston immensely. It was a blow to her when she learned of his perfidy. To both of us, really.”
Restell nodded faintly. “She still visits him. Not recently, of course. Not since her abduction. But before then, she met with him.”
“Met with him? Are you sure?”
“He told me. I’m certain he didn’t realize that I had no knowledge of it.”
“What would have been her purpose?”
“I don’t know that she had one beyond visiting a gentleman she considers to be a friend and mentor.”
Sir Arthur released a sigh with enough force to vibrate his lips. “I cannot comprehend it myself. She never breathed a word.”
“Perhaps she knew you would disapprove.”
“The man stole from me. Naturally I would disapprove.”
“The evidence is damning,” Restell agreed. “You have the statements of your patrons. I imagine they provided you with the bills of sale that point to the discrepancies between what they paid and what Johnston recorded in your books.”
“Oh, yes. Neven presented it all to me and explained his suspicions. No charge was leveled until then.”
“I thought that must be the way of it.” Restell offered no other comment. His gaze wandered to the easel. “Emma said you’ve been painting all day.”
“Indeed. I must take advantage of the fine weather as it makes the rheumatism tolerable.”
“May I see? Emma says so little about your work.” At Sir Arthur’s frown, he added, “Pray, do not take offense. She says little on any subject these days.”
“It is a touch of the melancholia, I think. One must remain hopeful that it will pass. She puts me in mind of how she was after her parents died.”
Restell nodded slowly, thoughtfully. I mourn for the loss of self, she’d told him once. And later in the park, watching a pair of young ladies laugh with abandon as they playfully pressed themselves into the wind, she’d said, I want to know that freedom again.
“You can view the painting, if you like,” Sir Arthur said.
Lost in reflection, Restell was several moments in responding. He ran one hand through his hair, leaving it only slightly more furrowed than his brow. “Pardon?”
“The painting. You asked to see it.”
“So I did.” Restell dropped his feet to the floor and pushed the stool under the table as he stood. “Has someone commissioned it?”
“No. It is for my pleasure alone, although it will also be my pleasure to see it sold.”
Restell carefully raised the drop cloth that covered the painting and threw it over the back of the easel. For the longest time, he could only stare as he was transported to the very place he had been thinking about only moments earlier.
Every aspect of the scene before him was familiar. He recognized the beginnings of an overcast sky on the horizon and sensed the movement of air in the swaying boughs of the oaks and pines and chestnuts. There were carriages on the gravel path, one in the distance moving away, the other approaching. A shadow fell across the carefully manicured lawn at the heart of the park, and there, just at edge of the painting were two lovely young ladies facing down the wind. One of them still managed to retain her bonnet, but the other had been captured on canvas in the act of trying to catch hers. She was portrayed almost as though she were airborne, her slim figure so light and delicate that she barely touched the ground. Her fingertips were fully extended in the pursuit of her bonnet’s long, c
urling ribbons. Most telling was her face, for her features portrayed no hint of frustration with the effort she was making. Her impulsive pursuit was all delight.
Restell knew that just beyond the painting’s aspect was a gentleman rogue with an ivory-knobbed cane who would rescue the bonnet and the lady. What would happen after that he couldn’t say, but he suspected the gentleman, the lady, and the lady’s good friend would find shelter from the storm and find enjoyment in the vagaries of nature that brought them together.
Sir Arthur cocked his head to one side, studying Restell’s reaction. “You will have to say something, Mr. Gardner. For myself, I am yet uncertain of this new direction in my work. It is more in the nature of an experiment. As I said, for my pleasure. Perhaps it is not to your taste.”
Restell stepped back, regarding the painting from a slightly different angle. “It is exactly to my taste,” he said quietly. He heard the reverence in his voice and was not embarrassed by it. What he observed in the painting, the naked expression of a moment’s abandon and joy, filled him with awe.
He finally turned to Sir Arthur. “You will have no difficulty finding a buyer for this piece.”
“Do you think so? Frankly, I have wondered, though I often entertain these doubts until the moment the painting is sold.”
“What does Emma think?”
“She is guarded in her assessment.”
“Truly? This work is of a piece with the painting my mother purchased.”
“The Fishing Village.” Sir Arthur moved from the sofa to stand beside Restell and study the painting from the same vantage point. “You are correct, of course, but I should like to hear what leads you to that conclusion.”
“I am no expert.”
“And that is of no consequence.”
“Well, it is primarily the emotion of the piece. I am not familiar with the entire body of your work, but it seems the choice of paints here is a departure for you. The colors are particularly vibrant. They are not quite as they appear in nature, are they? Yet they are not unnatural. I am put in mind of a dream.” Restell shrugged. “Perhaps it is accounted for because this is not a portrait.”
