City of Darkness and Light (9 page)

“Someone I thought I recognized,” I said. “It’s strange that we were talking about Reynold Bryce last night because that girl looked just like the young girl in his paintings.”

She shook her head and smiled. “Oh, no, my dear. That can’t be possible,” she said. “He painted those portraits years ago. He’s been living in Paris for quite a while now. Miss Hetherington will know. She knows everything about the art world. But maybe later you and I could take a stroll on deck and see if we can spot this young woman again. You didn’t notice her in the dining salon last night, did you?”

“No, I didn’t,” I said.

“Then maybe she is in first class. We’ll ask the others at luncheon. Let me know if she comes past again.” And she went back to her letter while I had to jump up to rescue Liam who was now crawling with determination toward the door. I would have to ask if there was possibly a baby carriage on board that I could use or I’d spend the whole time at sea chasing after him.

When we went into luncheon I looked around carefully but the girl wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I asked if any of the women had seen her. They hadn’t but Miss Hetherington was, as predicted, a font of information.

“I met Reynold Bryce several times at soirees in Boston back in the eighties,” she said. “In those days he was just making a name for himself. It was really the portraits of the young girl that put him on the map. He painted one every year for five years. Then he abandoned his whole career here and went off to Paris. He had become enamored of the Impressionist movement and the more modern style of painting that was being produced over in France, although I can’t say I favor it myself. Anyway, he just upped and left one day and hasn’t been back to the States since.” She looked up from her soup, pleased that we were all paying attention. “Of course one has to admit that he was born with talent. He is now one of the few Americans to have established himself as a leader among Impressionists. He’s a friend of Monet and, one hears, a wonderful mentor to young American artists. His salon is the place to be seen, so one is told.”

“The friend with whom I’ll be staying is an artist and has secured an introduction to him,” I said. “She hopes to be included in his upcoming exhibition.”

Miss Hetherington sniffed. “Then she must indeed be talented. It is said that he has a poor opinion of women painters. He is of the old school—that women belong in the home, raising children. Such an outdated notion, as I used to tell my students. I used to say ‘I am educating you to be more than a beautiful adornment to your husband. I am teaching you to think for yourselves and to believe that the whole world is open to you.’”

“Quite right,” Miss Pinkerton said. “I told my students the same thing. But it was usually the same outcome. They left our establishment determined to become doctors and writers and explorers and six months later they were engaged to some vacuous young man and considered themselves happy and blessed.”

“If only it were possible to be happily married and have a career,” one of the widows said and sighed.

“Of course it’s not. How can it ever be possible,” the other widow snapped. “Unless one is Madame Curie.”

I stayed silent.

“Speaking of the young girl in the Reynold Bryce paintings,” the other spinster, a Miss Schmitt, joined in the conversation for the first time, “wasn’t there some kind of scandal or rumor about her?”

They turned to Miss Hetherington, the resident expert. She nodded and leaned closer to us, lowering her voice and looking around before speaking. “I gather, although this has not been confirmed, that she is shut away, of unsound mind.”

“Shut away? In an institution, you mean?”

Miss Hetherington shook her head. “No, I understand that she is cared for at home. I am told, on good authority by someone who knew the family in Boston, that she was always a little—shall we say—strange—remote, unworldly. The person who told me said that she couldn’t put a finger on it but there was something not quite right about her. Well, one saw it in the paintings, didn’t one? As if she wasn’t quite of this world. Angelic, almost. That’s why he called her Angela, of course. I believe her real name was something quite different. However one gathers that she had some kind of brainstorm or mental collapse and now is a pathetic creature of strange fits and fantasies who needs constant care.”

“How terribly sad,” I said, thinking that the face that had looked out to sea in that painting had been full of hope and interest for what lay over the horizon.

“That must have been the reason that Bryce stopped painting her,” one of the widows said. “She was sliding into madness and her face no longer had that luminous angelic quality.”

“One gathers he was very generous to the family,” Miss Hetherington said. “Of course he was born to money. That’s how he funded his painting for many years until he made a name for himself. The Bryces are an old Bostonian family, you know.”

“We must make it our quest during this voyage to find out who this young girl is,” Miss Schmitt said with great animation. “Was she with anyone?”

“Yes, an older woman who could have been a companion,” I replied.

“Ah, then we must seek her out.” The women exchanged a glance and nodded conspiratorially.

Nine

We met at dinner that night and my table companions reported that they had had no success, except to determine that she was not traveling second class. Since a cold wind had been blowing on deck, she would probably have stayed in the first-class lounge. That cold wind was now accompanied by a decided swell.

“Oh, dear,” Miss Schmitt exclaimed as the ship crested a wave then fell again. “I do hope I’m not going to be seasick. I don’t think I’m a very good sailor and one has heard that the Atlantic can be so rough.”

“It’s all a question of mind over matter,” Miss Pinkerton said. “You simply tell yourself that you are not going to be ill. You eat hearty meals and take plenty of exercise.”

“Quite right,” one of the widows exclaimed. They were a Mrs. Bush and a Mrs. Cowper but I hadn’t worked out which was which. Then she added, “And I always bring ginger pills to suck. Most effective. I’ll give you one after dinner, Maude.”

I had crossed the Atlantic twice before and hadn’t experienced any seasickness so I hoped for the best this time. Liam seemed to think the whole idea of rolling side to side was quite fun. In fact he had been no trouble at all this first day at sea. I fell asleep watching two dressing gowns swing like pendulums on the cabin door.

Next morning we awoke to clouds racing across a pale sky and a noticeable swell to the ocean, making it hard to walk straight along the passageway. We breakfasted, I played with Liam, and after I put him down for a morning nap, I decided to venture out on deck. As I stepped out into the wind, I had the door wrenched out of my hand and slammed shut. It was lucky that I wasn’t wearing a hat or it would have gone sailing over the side. There were whitecaps on a slate-colored ocean and no sign of any living thing. It made me realize how small and insignificant even the largest ocean liner really is. I stared out to the north, looking for icebergs. A young officer passed me and smiled. “You are brave to come outside when it blows such a gale,” he said in such a charmingly French accent that it could almost belong on a stage. “You must be an American demoiselle. The French ladies, they do not venture forth when it blows like this. They worry about their coiffure, their hats, and that the wind will make their faces red.”

I laughed. “I don’t have much of a coiffure to worry about. My hair refuses to be tamed.”

“Like its owner, perhaps?” and he gave me a most flirtatious look, which should have outraged me and prompted me to tell him I was a married woman. Actually it raised my spirits.

“I was looking for icebergs,” I said. “Do you think we’ll see one?”

“I sincerely hope not,” he said. “They have been a constant worry this spring, coming further south than is normal. The captain has decided to take a more southerly course than normal. We would have sailed close to Newfoundland, but that puts us in the path of stray icebergs. So we cross the open Atlantic and risk more storms and high seas. But that is surely better than meeting an iceberg during the night.”

“Are we in for a stormy crossing, do you think?”

He shrugged in that Gallic way. “The signs are not good. But do not worry. This ship can handle the worst of seas. I have seen waves like mountains…”

Somehow I didn’t find this comforting. “Will it not make our voyage quicker if we sail directly across the ocean, rather than going so far north?” I asked.

“The opposite,” he said. “You see, the Earth is like an orange, no? If we make an arc like this”—and he drew a rainbow shape with his finger in the air—“it is actually a shorter distance than traveling like this. You understand?”

I didn’t really but I nodded. “So will we arrive on schedule?”

“Let us hope. I suspect we will be a little late, unless the wind moves to the west and drives us along with the waves. But we will get you there safely, have no doubt.” He saluted, gave me another saucy grin, and went on his way. I continued my walk and when I reached the leeward side of the ship out of the worst of the wind I paused to catch my breath. It was then that I noticed I was not alone. The mysterious girl was standing at the railing, staring out to sea, her light hair streaming out in the breeze.

I went to join her at the railing. “I’m glad the wind isn’t quite as fierce on this side,” I said. “I thought I was going to get blown away.”

She turned and looked at me, then she grinned. “You look as if you almost were blown away.”

I put my hand up to my head. “My hair must look a frightful sight. It won’t stay pinned up at the best of times.”

“I don’t put mine up,” she said. “I like the feel of it around my shoulders. I don’t think one should have to conform, do you?”

“I’m afraid one does have to eventually,” I said. “I haven’t always conformed. I have never worn a corset, for one thing. But once you are married it’s different.”

“You mean you have to obey your husband?” and she wrinkled her button of a nose.

“Not ‘obey’ necessarily, but not do anything that might let him down or damage his position. I’ve had to learn to temper what I say. I’ve always been a trifle hotheaded.”

“Me too.”

“Are you going to Paris? If so you’ll find plenty of people who don’t like to conform, so I’ve heard.”

She frowned. “I’m joining my fiancé and his family there. They’ve been in London and sent me a ticket to join them. But they are Bostonians. Everything has to be done properly and with decorum.”

“Then I don’t think you’ll be going to the Moulin Rouge or Montmartre.”

A wicked smile twinkled in her eyes. “They expected me to sail on an American ship out of Boston but I found this one sailing a week earlier. I plan to enjoy my freedom in Paris before they arrive.”

“Mercy,” I said. “Your family must be very modern if they will let you run around Paris on your own.”

The wicked smile spread. “They don’t know. They think I’ll be meeting Peter straight away.” Then a little sigh. “I had to make the most of my one moment of freedom, didn’t I? When I marry Peter I’ll have to behave like a Boston matron and hold tea parties.”

“I know just how you feel,” I said. “I only married recently and I certainly had to think hard about giving up my freedom. But surely you’re not traveling alone?”

“No, not exactly. Mademoiselle is with me. She was the French teacher at my old seminary and she is returning home to France so she was asked to accompany me to Paris. I just have to make sure she doesn’t find out that Peter won’t be joining me for a few days. She’d have hysterics and cable Mama and all would be lost.”

Finally I dared to pose the question I had been longing to ask. “Has anyone told you that you look remarkably like the girl in the Reynold Bryce—”

“I know,” she snapped, cutting me off. “But I assure you I’m no angel.”

“Then it’s just a coincidence?”

“No. We’re related. Her real name is Adelaide and she’s my aunt.”

“Your aunt?”

She nodded. “My mother was the oldest of five sisters. Adelaide is the youngest.”

I wondered how far I dared to pursue this. “Did I understand that your aunt had been ill?”

Her face became stony. “Aunt Adelaide is of a delicate nature. She is afraid of many things and does not like to venture outside the home, that’s all.”

Again I remembered the eyes of that child in the portrait. They had not seemed fearful. Had Reynold Bryce created her as he wanted her to be and not as she was?

“Are you acquainted with Reynold Bryce too? What does he say about this resemblance?”

“I’ve never met him,” she said. “He went to Paris before I was born and he never comes home these days. But I do plan to call on him when I’m in Paris. It should be rather fun to meet a real artist, don’t you think?”

“It should. I have friends who are hoping to be introduced to him. My friend is an artist, or rather wants to be recognized as an artist.”

“How lovely to be able to paint, or to do something exciting. I’ve been to a young ladies academy where all they care about is manners and looking pretty. So boring.” She sounded like a typical girl of her age and rolled her eyes, making me smile.

“Do other family members have such a strong resemblance to your aunt?” I asked. “What about your brothers and sisters?”

“I’m an only child,” she said. “My father died before I was born so I never knew him. For many years it was just Mama and me, but then she married again.”

“Ah, so you have a stepfather?”

“I do, and I hate him.” She spat out the words with venom. “He treats me like a child and won’t let me do anything. I had a nice sum of money settled on me and he won’t let me touch it. He is rude and overbearing and a bully. I can’t wait to escape.”

Ah,
I thought. So that was why she was marrying the very proper Bostonian—to escape the domination of a hated stepfather. I was about to tell her not to rush into marriage with someone she didn’t love when a woman came flying down the deck, arms waving. “Ellie, so there you are, you naughty girl,” she called as if the girl was five and not a young woman about to be married. “Again you escape from me. Did I not tell you that it is not seemly to walk on the deck alone. One does not know if you will meet a sailor.”