River of Fire

by Mary Jo Putney

  Yet she dared not surrender to desire, no matter how much they would both enjoy it. It would be too easy to become addicted to the pleasure of mating with him. Already her judgment was warped> If they became lovers, she would end up at the mercy of her emotions.

  And if her emotional control ever cracked, she would be destroyed. Better to be only friends.

  But as a friend, she could go to his studio and see how his work had progressed. After all, Handing-In Day was tomorrow. They had both better be ready.

  * * *

  A knock at the studio door was accompanied by Rebecca's voice saying, "It's me. May I come in?"

  "Of course." Kenneth set down his palette and rubbed his tight neck muscles as she entered the room. She looked quite delectable in a navy blue dress with a scarlet ribbon tying back the thick waves of her hair. Red shouldn't have looked so good with auburn, but she had chosen exactly the right shade. He studied the tendrils that curled around her face and emphasized the slim line of her throat, then made himself look away. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

  She glanced around the room. "It's interesting how we imprint our personalities on our studios. Father's is elegant. Mine is cozy. Yours has a kind of military neatness that's rare in an artist, but useful when the studio is so small." Her amused gaze returned to him. "You, however, look as if you've hardly slept in a week. How is your work going?"

  He thought of the harrowing effort he had put into his painting since Beth's wedding. How gut-wrenching it had been to revisit his nightmares. Deciding to let the work speak for itself when the time came, he replied, "I can sleep after Handing-In Day. I'm devoutly grateful that Sir Anthony has been so busy with his own submissions that he hasn't needed me much. Otherwise, I never could have completed my paintings in time."

  She glanced toward his easel, but didn't try to see the work in progress. Since the Lilith picture, she had treated him as a fellow artist rather than a student. That as much as anything had given him confidence.

  She asked, "You're submitting more than one picture?"

  "Two—a related pair." He sighed. "The first is surely unacceptable to the academy, and I don't know if the second is much better. Still, they say what I wanted to say."

  "Every now and then the academy surprises us by recognizing what is powerful and new. Perhaps that will happen with you." She hesitated. "After dinner, let's ask Father to look at our work. He still doesn't know that either of us intend to submit to the exhibition."

  "We can't put it off any longer." He gave her a quizzical glance. "Do I finally get to see the corsair?"

  "Right now, if you like." She glanced toward the easel again. "May I look at your work?"

  Kenneth shook his head. "I'd rather wait and show you and your father at the same time. You might be too kind."

  "You overrate my charity," Rebecca said with a laugh as she strolled across the studio to the window. "I have said nothing about your work that wasn't honest."

  He watched her surreptitiously as he covered his canvas. The fabric of her gown moved fluidly, as if she wore little beneath. Like many of her dresses, it buttoned in front. Convenient for her, and a major temptation. She had such lovely little breasts....

  His body tightened and he looked down at his brushes. A good thing he had been so busy lately, or God only knows what might have happened. "Lead on. Am I going to hate the picture?"

  "I don't know." As she went out the door, she said over her shoulder, "Lavinia just saw it. Her reaction was rather alarming, but she did like it."

  When they entered Rebecca's studio, she wordlessly indicated the easel by the north window. It was turned away from the door so that the light fell full across the canvas. Eager to see what she had made of him, he circled around to see it. Then he stopped cold in his tracks.

  As the silence stretched, Rebecca said in a small voice, "You hate it."

  Trying to match the detachment she had demonstrated on seeing herself portrayed as a naked demoness, he said, "Not at all. It's a superb painting. I just find it a bit... unnerving to see myself rendered so dramatically."

  He must separate his judgment from the fact that it was his own eyes staring back at him. He began analyzing the picture piece by piece.

  The Oriental hangings and the Persian carpet tossed over the sofa were luxuriant but muted, creating an exotic atmosphere without detracting from the main subject. He studied the brushwork with admiration. Rebecca was wonderful at giving a sense of rich texture with only a few fluid strokes.

  The Gray Ghost made a wonderfully haughty hunting cat. Though tufted and striped and doubled in size, the supercilious feline expression caught the Ghost to the life.

  Feeling more objective, Kenneth brought his attention back to the pirate who dominated the canvas. The powerful, arrogant figure sprawled back against the sofa like a waiting tiger, challenging the viewer with charcoal-edged eyes. Looking at the corsair as a stranger rather than as himself, he said slowly, "You've captured the essence of someone who has lived by violence. Hardened. Brutal, even. A man of no illusions who has had to kill or be killed. It's riveting.

  "But this is what makes the painting great." He gestured at the profile reflected darkly in the wall that angled behind the corsair, its surface as smooth and black as polished obsidian. "This image shows the cost of violence to your pirate's soul. He has lost much of what makes life worth living. Now, knowing the price he paid for survival, he is haunted by the question of whether it would have been better to let death take him."

  "Is that how you see yourself, Kenneth?" she said softly.

  He thought of the aftermath of battles, and of Maria. "There were moments when I felt like that. Yet it isn't really me. Rather, you found a buried facet of my nature and distilled it into something universal and compelling. You are going to hand it in tomorrow?"

  "You wouldn't mind?"

  "I'm not enthralled about exposing my tattered soul to fashionable London, but I'll survive. For those who have the perception, the painting will be deeply moving." He glanced from the canvas to Rebecca. "What was Lavinia's reaction?"

  She laughed. "You know Lavinia. She said the picture was pure passion, and that if I felt that way, I really would have to marry you. Utter nonsense, of course."

  He suppressed a sigh. A pity that Rebecca was so set against marriage. Because the more he thought about it, the better he liked the idea.

  * * *

  When dinner that night was almost over, Kenneth said, "Sir Anthony, I have a favor to ask."

  Her father looked at Kenneth with surprise. Rebecca guessed it was the first time his secretary had ever asked for anything.

  Kenneth continued, "I don't know if Rebecca has ever told you, but I... I'm something of an artist myself."

  Rebecca was delighted that his confidence had increased to the point where he could say that. Sir Anthony, however, had the wary expression of a man who had been too often approached by amateur artists with exaggerated notions of their ability.

  To reassure him, she said, "He's very good, Father. I suggested he use one of the empty attic bedrooms as a studio."

  Sir Anthony's brows rose. "It seems that much has been going on behind my back. No wonder you're so insightful about painting, Kenneth. What kind of favor do you want?"

  "I'm thinking about submitting two pictures to the Royal Academy." Kenneth fiddled with his fork with uncharacteristic nervousness. "I think it unlikely that they'll be accepted, but would... would you be willing to look at them and tell me if I'd be humiliating myself to try?"

  Sir Anthony set his napkin on the table and got to his feet. "If you wish, but I warn you, I'm a harsh critic."

  "Even of his daughter," Rebecca said with feeling as she thought of her early lessons. Her father had never accepted less than her best. She also rose from the table. "While you're in the attic, Father, you can look at the two paintings I intend to hand in."

  "So you're finally going to submit! It's about time." Sir Anthony glanced at Kenneth. "Your i
nfluence, I presume. Betrothal obviously suits you both."

  She really ought to repeat that she had no intention of marrying, but that was an argument for another day. "We did encourage each other to make the attempt."

  "Very good. Now let's do the viewing so I can return to work." Her father left the table and headed for the stairs.

  Kenneth bowed politely for Rebecca to go first. His expression was opaque, but it was obvious that his nerves were taut. Not surprising when painting meant so much to him and he was about to be evaluated by one of the finest, and most exacting, artists in Britain. Whatever confidence he had developed might be crushed if her father was too critical.

  Well, she was anxious, too. She had never asked her father for this kind of professional judgment. Worse, her pictures were deeply personal.

  They reached Rebecca's studio first. She indicated the portrait of Kenneth on the easel by the window. "Behold The Corsair."

  Sir Anthony studied it narrowly. "Excellent. The picture is both heroic and human. Kenneth, you will never look better. This will certainly be hung. It will also be a great popular success." From the amusement in her father's eyes, it was clear that he saw some of the same sensuality that Lavinia had. Luckily, he did not comment on that.

  He looked around. "What else are you submitting?"

  Feeling considerably more nervous, she led him to the falling woman picture, which was on another easel. "I think I will call it Transfiguration."

  Both of the men stared at the canvas. A muscle jerked in her father's cheek.

  Most viewers would see the painting as a romantic depiction of an exotic culture. The setting was inside the crater of a Pacific island volcano. The lower canvas was a seething hell of molten lava and billowing smoke.

  On the lip of the crater high above, a group of brilliantly clothed islanders watched as a young woman gave herself to the pagan gods of the volcano. She was falling freely, her arms outstretched and her black hair and bright sarong swirling about her slim body. On the girl's face was an expression of rapture, an utter surrender that was also the invincible strength of being beyond human malice and desire.

  The picture had been inspired by Kenneth's remark about feeling no fear when death seemed inevitable. Rebecca had wanted to portray unconquerable spirit in the face of death; serenity in the heart of tragedy. Some mysterious mental alchemy had transmuted her grief for her mother into this pagan princess. But though she had succeeded in artistic terms, she had failed to find the inner peace she craved.

  Sir Anthony swallowed hard. "It will not be fully understood, but it will be much admired. You have surpassed yourself. Kenneth, it's your turn."

  As her father turned and headed toward the door, she saw him blinking back tears. She should have known he would understand.

  Kenneth paused to say quietly, "It is transcendent." Then he went after Sir Anthony.

  She glanced at the corsair painting. Heroic yet human. Not a bad description of Kenneth. Then she followed the men to the small back attic studio. She arrived as Kenneth finished lighting two branches of candles. A quick glance around confirmed that Lilith was not in sight. She wondered what her father's reaction would be if he ever saw it. Probably a volcano would form in Mayfair.

  Kenneth lifted a painting and set it on the bed, tilting it back against the wall. For an instant she remembered that she had given him her virginity on that bed. Then she looked at the canvas, and all personal thoughts vanished.

  He had painted an execution. It was a night scene, most of the canvas shadowed while an unholy light illuminated half a dozen Spanish guerrillas who were being slaughtered by a French firing squad. She guessed the painting had been done swiftly, for the style was as free as a watercolor, with the haziness of nightmare. Yet it had deep and profoundly visceral power.

  The menacing French soldiers were anonymous in their blue uniforms, their faces shadowed by shako headdresses. But the Spanish guerrillas were individuals, each so distinct that she could have recognized him in a crowd. Several men lay dying on the ground, including a priest clutching a crucifix in his hand. The focal point of the picture was a young man whose arms flung outward as the French balls tore into his flesh. Already his white shirt was stained with gouts of blood. To look at the painting was to rage at the savagery of war.

  "I understand your compunctions about whether it will be accepted," Sir Anthony said. "The academy is not usually fond of blatantly emotional works. What do you call it?"

  "Navarre, the Fifth of November, 1811," Kenneth replied, his expression stark.

  Sir Anthony said tersely, "Show me the other one."

  Rebecca glanced at her father with surprise. Though his own style was classical, surely he saw the quality of Kenneth's work.

  "The scenes are related." Kenneth took the canvas from his easel and set it on the bed beside the execution scene "I call it Spanish Pietá."

  It was even more riveting than the first painting.

  Pietá was Italian for "pity," and the term was used to describe one of the classic images of Christian art—the Virgin Mary supporting the body of her dead son across her lap. Rebecca saw that Kenneth had chosen to copy the pose of the famous sculpture Michelangelo had done for St. Peter's Cathedral.

  However, his version had none of the classical restraint of his model. Working with more tightness and detail than in the execution scene, he had portrayed a middle-aged Spanish woman cradling the body of the youth who had been in the center of the previous painting. Her head was thrown back as she gave a mother's raw cry of agony for her murdered child.

  The image was timeless and haunting, and it sliced through Rebecca's defenses into the anguished core of her own grief. She stared, literally paralyzed by her reaction, terrified that she would begin to weep and be unable to stop.

  She wrenched her gaze away and looked at her father. He was studying the canvas without expression. She wanted to hit him for not speaking. Couldn't he feel Kenneth's anxiety?

  Finally Sir Anthony broke the taut silence. "You have much to learn before you become a great painter, Kenneth. But you are already a great artist." Then he turned and left the studio.

  Kenneth watched him go, his expression stunned, as if he were unsure how to interpret Sir Anthony's comment.

  When Rebecca was sure her voice would be even, she said, "Congratulations, Captain. You have received a rare accolade."

  He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck wearily. "What do you think of the pictures, Rebecca?"

  "Extraordinary," she said honestly. "They will inspire both love and hate. The pietá is so powerful that I can barely endure looking at it. But these are pictures that need to be seen. I hope the academy has the sense to accept them."

  "Even if they don't, I'm going to ask Hampton to engrave these for the Peninsular war series. One way or another, they will be seen."

  She looked at the paintings again, her gaze passing quickly over the pietá to linger on the execution. "You saw these things happen." It was not a question.

  "They are two of the prime images from my gallery of nightmares." The scar on his face whitened. "As a reconnaissance officer, I spent much of my time riding across Spain, always wearing my uniform so that if I was captured, I wouldn't be shot as a spy. It worked, too." He nodded toward the execution painting. "Part of my job was visiting guerrilla bands to gather intelligence. I worked most often with this group, and was captured with them when the French surrounded us. As a British officer, I was treated with great respect. The French gave me wine and said they envied the fact that I'd be sent to Paris if an exchange couldn't be arranged." He halted, his eyes so dark they appeared almost black.

  "And they made you watch your friends die," she said softly.

  "I wasn't forced to watch. But not to see would have been..." he searched for words, "dishonorable. Cowardly. I had to bear witness to their courage and sacrifice."

  "And they have haunted your dreams ever since." She indicated the painting. "This is a noble memorial, K
enneth."

  "They would have preferred their lives," he said bleakly.

  Her reluctant gaze went to the pietá again. She had repaired her defenses a little and was able to view the picture with a modicum of detachment. Even so, the grief of the picture cut close to home, perhaps because she was a woman. She wondered what it would be like to carry a child in one's body, birth it with pain, raise it with love—and then see that child murdered. Even imagining it was almost unbearable.

  Throat tight, she said, "This young man was a particular friend of yours?"

  "Eduardo was Maria's youngest brother," he said quietly. "Only seventeen when he died."

  Rebecca studied the boy's face, seeing a resemblance to the pastel sketch Kenneth had done of his mistress. "You said Maria was killed by the French. She was also shot?"

  "No." His eyes closed and a spasm of pain crossed his face. "Someday I will paint that scene. Then, perhaps, I will no longer have nightmares." He opened his eyes again. "You were the one who taught me that pain might be transmuted through art. It is another debt I owe you that can never be repaid."

  She turned away. There was too much emotion in the room. Too much dangerous warmth in his expression. "You owe me nothing, Kenneth. I've also benefited from our friendship."

  Perhaps also wanting to retreat from intensity, he said, "I know that all paintings have to be delivered to the Royal Academy by midnight tomorrow. Then what happens?"

  "The justly named Hanging Committee is made up of several academicians. They decide what to accept—usually around a thousand pieces. Work is submitted for judging, except for academy members like Father and Uncle George and Lord Frazier. Their pictures are always hung."

  "They are also academicians? I didn't know that."

  "Uncle George is one of the two engraver members. Frazier is only an associate. I suspect that he resents having been passed over several times when vacancies have opened up for full members, but he has too much pride to speak of it."

  "A pity Frazier's talent and discipline don't match his pride," Kenneth said dryly. "How will we find out if our work has been accepted? Is a list posted?"