Chapter 3

 

 

“We’re drawing hands, Miss Carter, not lumps of clay."

"Look at the delicacy of Clarisse's fingers, Miss Carter. Do you see even a semblance of that in your sketch?"

"Miss Carter, you do understand the rudiments of proportion, don't you?"

His words were like small slaps, each one stinging a little more, until Imogene thought she'd go mad if she had to hear him say Miss Carter again in that sneering way of his. Miss Carter, Miss Carter, Miss Carter . . . Coming from him, her name seemed familiarly profane, like a curse that had been uttered so often it lost its meaning, though not its wickedness.

Imogene leaned closer to her easel, clutching the charcoal in her fingers more firmly. From the corner of her eye she saw Whitaker make the rounds again, and she set her jaw and squared her shoulders and forced herself to concentrate, wishing he could move past her even one time without jabbing her with his words.

He never did. Jonas Whitaker stalked the room like a restless cat, peering over shoulders, scrutinizing the sketches on each easel and finding fault with every one, firing out criticisms with the lethal force of a cannon. The only consolation was that no one escaped it.

Though that was hardly a consolation. His words to the others were edged with respect, while his comments to her held only derision. Imogene worked harder. She added veins and sinews and texture, she worked at visualizing the hand from the inside out. It didn't matter. She couldn't begin to make it perfect enough for him. Imogene frowned at the blowzy, coarse model sitting before them, struggling once again to find the delicacy he kept talking about, some hint of elegance, but there was nothing. Not even the woman's hands, draped as they were over a wooden pedestal for the benefit of the class—could make any claim at all to grace.

Chloe could have done this. The thought breezed through Imogene's mind, increasing her resolve. In her mind she saw Chloe, the way her sister worked a sketch, the clean, spare lines she drew, the pretty little frown she made when she concentrated. Imogene knew just how Chloe would have drawn the woman sitting before them today, how her sister would have found a graceful form even where none existed.

Imogene closed her eyes briefly, taking strength from the vision before she tried again. Perhaps a line here, a bit of shading there—

"That's it for today. Go home."

Whitaker's voice boomed through the studio, startling her so completely Imogene dropped her charcoal. She bent to retrieve it.

"Except you, Miss Carter. I want to talk to you a moment."

Imogene forgot the charcoal. She stiffened slowly and twisted to face him. "You wish to speak to me?"

He was in the middle of lifting the pedestal away from Clarisse, and he turned and eyed her coolly. "Is there something you didn't understand, Miss Carter?"

She shook her head and turned quickly away. "No, of course not. I understand."

"Good." He turned back to the model.

Imogene looked at her sketch, staring at the awkward lines, the amateurish form, and felt a sick sense of dread that only increased as the others began packing up their things. There was no reason for Whitaker to want her to stay after class, no reason for him to want to talk to her.

No reason except dismissal.

She inhaled deeply, tried to tell herself that wasn't it, that he simply wanted to point out some small thing —a more subtle way of shading perhaps, or a quick lesson on form. But she didn't believe it, not after the way he'd criticized her today, the ruthless needling. Dismissal explained everything much too well. She closed her eyes against the images that were too clear and too brutal for comfort. Jonas Whitaker towering over her, those green eyes glittering with contempt, his melodic voice harsh and discordant. "You may gather your things and leave, Miss Carter. I don't have time to waste on dilettantes with no talent—"

A touch on her shoulder made her jump. Imogene's eyes snapped open, she jerked around to see Peter Mc- Bride standing behind her.

"Don't worry," he reassured her in a quiet voice. He cast a glance at Whitaker, who was talking with Clarisse a short distance away. "You're not as bad as he lets on. He's a hard master, that's all."

It was impossible to smile at him, but Imogene tried. "You're very kind," she managed.

"I'm serious." Peter's pale blue eyes were concerned beneath the sandy wings of his brows, his expression was sincere and intense. He leaned closer, his voice lowered. "Some other time, I'll walk you to your carriage—we'll talk. There're a few things you ought to know about him."

Imogene frowned, but before she could ask a question, he smiled a good-bye and hurried away with the others. She stole a glance at Whitaker and wondered what Peter meant by the words, wondered how they could help her.

"Go on now, Clarisse," Whitaker said impatiently, a little harshly. "Go home. I'll see you tonight."

"Don't forget, you promised," Clarisse whined. "I'll be performin' at the Bow'ry. I'll leave a ticket at the door. Don't forget."

"I won't."

Clarisse giggled—it was a high, annoying sound. "Good then." She pressed against his gloved hand, and her voice came low and throaty. "And don't forget that either."

"I never go anywhere without it." There was sarcasm in his tone, a bitterness that puzzled Imogene, and she tore her gaze away, feeling suddenly embarrassed and intrusive, wishing he would end this now, wishing he would dismiss her, or chastise her, or whatever he intended to do.

She heard a quiet whisper and then Clarisse's annoying laugh, and Imogene looked up to see him escorting the woman to the door.

"Later, darlin'." Clarisse blew him a kiss, and then she was gone, swishing from the room in a flurry of burgundy skirt and glaring red hair.

Whitaker spun around so quickly Imogene had no warning, and no time to look away.

"I didn't realize you were possessed of such prurient interests, Miss Carter," he said, raising a brow.

She couldn't help it—she flushed. "Sir—"

He ignored her. He crossed the room, stopping by the window. "Come here."

Imogene forced herself to breathe evenly. She got slowly to her feet, smoothing the silk of her pale lilac gown, willing herself to face him with equanimity. If she really tried, she might be able to talk him out of this decision. The thought faded as quickly as she had it. She didn't have Chloe's silver tongue; she didn't even know the first thing to say.

He pulled a large canvas from the wall with quick, impatient movements, then set it on a worn, paint- spattered chest nearby. "Here," he said shortly. "You're going to prime this."

The words didn't register for a moment. Imogene stared at him dumbly, sure she hadn't heard correctly, sure that what he'd actually said was "Miss Carter, you are dismissed." But then he lifted his brow and gave her that derisive little smile, and she heard herself stammering in surprise. “You—you want me to prime this?"

"I believe that's what I said."

"But I don't know how."

"Really?" he said in a tone so heavy with sarcasm it sank through her like a stone. "Why do you suppose I asked you to stay, Miss Carter? To discuss theory?"

She licked her lips, afraid to say the words, afraid that saying them might make them come true. But she had to know, had to be sure, and so she spoke quickly, before she could change her mind. "I thought you were going to dismiss me."

"A tempting idea." He smiled thinly. "But not today. Today you're going to stay until you prime this canvas for me."

She worked to disguise her relief, grateful when he turned away to grab something from the table beside him. It gave her a moment to compose herself.

But he seemed oblivious of her. With sharp, decisive movements, he laid items on the chest beside the canvas: a thick, twisted tube of white lead paint, a small bucket holding thin sheets of a hardened, cloudy substance, a palette knife and a slab of glass, one jar containing turpentine and another full of oil. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her.

"I've already done part of your job for you," he informed her. He waited for her nod before he went on. "The linen's been wetted and stretched on the frame. Now it's dry."

"I understand," she said.

Ignoring her, he went on without pausing. "Your first job is to make the glue."

She nodded. "Very well. What do I do?"

"What do you do? You listen to me carefully. There's isinglass there—" He pointed to the bucket. "Boil it in some water until it's the consistency of jelly. There's a pan on the stove."

He said nothing else, merely leaned back against the window, arms still crossed, the fingers of his gloved hand tense and curled, eerily shadowed against the gray-white of his shirt. His whole body seemed stiff, as if there were some energy within him that he worked hard to check. But he didn't succeed completely. That energy blazed from his eyes despite his stillness, and she had the peculiar sensation that he missed nothing, that he saw her every movement as she grabbed the bucket of isinglass and added pieces of the fishglue to water.

The knowledge made her slow and careful. She set the pan on the small stove. "Until it boils?" she asked.

"Until it's like jelly," he answered.

"And then?"

"We'll get to that in time," he said calmly. "Now I want to know something about your education, Miss Carter. Who didn't bother to teach you how to prime a canvas? What was the name of that school? Allen's, or something?"

"Atkinson's."

"Ah yes. Atkinson's. What did they teach you there? Besides sketching pretty little houses and painting watercolor sunsets."

Imogene forced herself to ignore his ridicule. Just because he hadn't dismissed her yet didn't mean he wouldn't. He was watching for mistakes, and she could not afford to make any, could not afford to let him humiliate her. She called on her reserves, spoke in a quiet, controlled voice. "It was a very good school."

"No doubt," he said, and if anything, the irritation in his voice was stronger. "What did they teach you? The classics? Perhaps you read Shakespeare or Milton? John Donne?"

She shook her head. "No."

"You studied Greek then? Or Latin?"

The fishglue was starting to boil. Imogene focused on it, on the thickening, cloudy bubbles, the putrid smell, and wished she knew how to answer him, wished she were quick and clever, the way Chloe had been. Chloe would have tossed back her head and given him a challenging stare and said "We learned deportment, Mr. Whitaker. Manners. You would do well to study them yourself."

"Well, Miss Carter? What did you study there? Please, enlighten me. I'm dying to know."

Imogene kept her eyes averted. "Deportment," she murmured.

"What did you say?" His tone was insistent, relentless.

"The glue is boiling," she said.

"Let it boil. I asked you what you said."

"Nothing. It was nothing."

"Deportment—that's what it was, wasn't it?" There was amusement in his voice now, unmistakable and painfully harsh. "What the hell is deportment?"

The words came to her again. "Manners, Mr. Whitaker. You would do well to study them yourself." She opened her mouth to say it, to answer him. She heard a bare squeak of sound.

But before she could speak he pushed away from the wall. "Is the glue thick yet?" he asked impatiently, dropping the subject of Atkinson's so completely she wondered if she'd imagined the entire conversation.

She peered into the pot, gathering her composure. The fumes stung her eyes; the grayish bubbles were popping with loud smacks. "I think so," she said, relieved at his sudden disinterest.

"Then bring it over here. Now."

Imogene wrapped a rag around the pan's handle and carefully lifted it, bringing it to where he stood. He gestured to the chest, and she set the pot on it and stepped back. Her palms were damp again, she felt tension in her shoulders, in her face, as she waited.

He gave her the thin half smile she hated. "It's an easy enough job. Even you should be able to handle it."

She pretended to ignore the insult, pretended he hadn't spoken at all. "What do I do?"

"Brush the glue on the canvas. Do you think you can do that, Miss Carter?"

She was beginning to hate her name.

He pointed to the thick brush beside the canvas. "Use that one to spread the glue. There's nothing hard about that, now is there, Miss Carter?"

It was annoying how melodious his voice was, how that thread of amusement clung to it like a faintly unpleasant smell. Imogene picked up the brush and dunked it in the glue. The thick isinglass adhered to it stiffly, plopping off in globs when she lifted the brush.

"It's too thick," he said. "I told you to cook it until it was like jelly, not to boil it dry."

"You told me—" She stopped. Her fingers clenched on the brush. She set her jaw.

"You'll have to use it anyway. There's no more." He moved away from the wall. "Spread it on thinly, Miss Carter. Thinly."

She grabbed the canvas with her free hand. It slipped from her fingers, but he was beside it instantly, holding it steady until she could take it again. Imogene grasped it tightly, digging her fingers into the wood frame. She clutched the brush, touched it to the canvas tentatively, slowly, feeling his scrutiny, wanting to do at least this right.

Glue plopped in huge, gelatinous drops, skidding down the fabric to pool on the trunk. She dabbed at it determinedly, trying to spread it, but the isinglass was too stiff. It wouldn't spread, she couldn't make it behave. It just kept glopping on the canvas.

"Thinner, Miss Carter."

She clenched her teeth, dipped the brush again in the glue. This time, the sticky mass dripped down her skirt, puddled on her shoe before she got it to the canvas.

"Keep it even. Spread it thinner." His words were sharp. He moved closer, until he was right behind her.

She dipped the brush again. This time the glue dropped down the middle of the canvas. Quickly she tried to spread it out, swishing the brush through it, streaking glue in criss-cross patterns.

"Even strokes," he snapped. "You're ruining it."

She struggled for patience. "I can't—"

"Christ." He wrenched the canvas from her grip, flinging it away. It cracked against the wall, clattered to the floor. He grabbed another one from the pile beneath the window, a smaller one, and slammed it in front of her. "Do it again."

He would not break her. He would not. Imogene dipped the brush, stroked it once, twice, over the fabric.

"Thinner!" he demanded.

She tried again.

He yanked the canvas away. It crashed to the floor beside the other. He slammed the next one down so hard the chest shook.

"Do it again."

Imogene felt tears of frustration press behind her eyes, and she bit her lip and hoped the pain of it would make them disappear. She felt the drip of isinglass on her shoe, the hard press of the brush handle against her fingers. No, he can't make me fail. He can't make me. Angrily she swiped at her tears with the back of her hand, tried to focus on the canvas he'd set in front of her.

"Again!"

Imogene bit her lip so hard she tasted the salty, metallic taste of blood. Doggedly, clumsily she set the brush to the canvas. Too hard. The canvas shifted. She grabbed for it, but it fell back, out of reach, clattering against the chest, slipping to the floor.

He lunged for it. She saw him grappling with the frame, saving it just before it hit the floor, one hand curving around it, the other strangely ineffectual, and there was something about the movement, something about the way he grabbed the frame, the way he set it back on the chest, that was vaguely peculiar, a little disturbing. Imogene frowned, ignoring the canvas, the brush, staring at his gloved hand, at the way the fingers were curled yet rigid, oddly stiff . . .

His hand was not a real hand at all.

Imogene caught her breath, shock and surprise brought her heart into her throat. Her frustration faded away. He had a false hand. She couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before—it was so obvious. The single glove, the always-tense fingers, the way he favored his left hand. How strange that she'd never noticed. She found herself wanting to look more closely. It was all she could do not to stare at it, and so she lifted her eyes and tried not to look at it, to look instead at his face, at the wall behind him, at anything but that hand. But it compelled her and she found herself staring at it again, feeling strangely reassured at the sight of the fixed fingers, somehow . . . connected. . . .

"What are you waiting for, Miss Carter?" he asked sharply, looking up at her. "Do it—"

He froze. His whole body stiffened, his eyes locked on hers, glittering and green and so bitter and cynical she couldn't look away, even though she wanted to— Lord, how she wanted to. But his gaze wouldn't release her, and she had no choice but to stare as he brought his gloved hand up, infinitely slowly, inch by inch, finally cradling it in the other with an intimacy that was somehow both gentle and sensuous. Imogene felt the heat of embarrassment flood her face, she felt disconcerted and ill-bred, repulsed and curious at the same time.

"They didn't tell you," he said bluntly.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

He made a small sound, a rush of breath, an aborted laugh. "What the hell for?"

She didn't know what to say, what a person was supposed to say. Miss Atkinson's lessons in deportment had never covered this; even thinking of Chloe brought her no answers. Imogene dug her nails into the brush handle and finally said the first thing—the only thing—she thought of. "Because you must wish you still had it."

He didn't answer. Just stood there, running his fingers over the leather glove, looking at her with that odd expression on his face, and in that moment, she had the strange and startling notion that his false hand was the most real thing about him, that it somehow kept him human. She thought suddenly, We're not that different. He was no more perfect than she was. She opened her mouth to offer—she didn't know what— comfort, maybe, or perhaps only simple understanding.

But before she could speak, he nodded at the glue.

"We haven't finished," he said abruptly. "Until you get that canvas right, you'll be priming one every day."

The moment dropped away almost before she knew it was there, dissipated in the warmth of the room, spun away in steam. Imogene watched Whitaker grab another canvas, watched his graceful movements. It surprised her, and she realized she'd somehow expected him to be clumsier now that she saw he had a false hand. But he wasn't, and she realized nothing else was different either. The moment had left no lingering resolution, no sudden inspiration.

Or had it?

Imogene looked at his smooth motions and the arrogant expression on his face, and realized she was wrong. Something had changed. Something was gone. When she looked at him now she no longer saw the teacher with the power to break her. Now when she looked at him she saw just ... a man. A man who could teach her if only he would. A man who could not force her to leave if she didn't want to go.

The realization brought sudden calm, a strength that fed her resolution. She had as much power as he did over her future, maybe more. He could not make her leave, and she would not go. The thought made her smile.

Imogene dipped the brush again and turned to the canvas. "Very well, Mr. Whitaker," she said calmly, not flinching from his gaze. "Exactly how thin shall I spread it?"