The Portrait (25 page)

Because she was growing attached to him, and it frightened her. Because at night she fell asleep curled beside him, and in the mornings she was still there, cradled against his body. He liked her there because she soothed him, she knew. No other reason. He never made a single attempt to kiss her or caress her. He never spoke of the one time they'd made love.

No doubt he wanted to forget it. The thought made her sad, but it was a reality she was used to, one she could accept. At least Jonas Whitaker had never professed false love. He didn't try to make her believe something that wasn't true. He was temperamental, and he was . . . touched, but he was honest, and as the days passed she found more and more to admire about him. More to care about.

And though she told herself it was wrong, in a way she secretly hoped he wouldn't get better. She wanted to stay. She wanted to care about him. She wanted him to keep needing her. The longing was dangerous, and she knew it, but every day that passed made it grow a little stronger, made the sense of dread within her a little sharper.

With a sense of desperation, she tried to remember how long Rico had said this mood would last. A week? A month? She didn't remember, and she wished he were around to ask. But Rico had disappeared, and though she checked his rooms daily, there was never any answer, and no one ever picked up the notes she left pinned to his door.

Finally she'd sent a note to Peter. He'd been around last spring, surely he knew how long this was likely to last. But there was no answer from him either, and she had the needling suspicion the gossip had already reached him. No doubt the whole city knew of the incident at Delmonico's, and certainly it was no secret she was staying in Jonas's studio. She wondered what the gossip was, whether they were assuming she was his mistress or his model or both. Probably the former, she decided distractedly, but she couldn't really bring herself to care. Time enough for that later.

For now, she wanted to get him outside, into the fresh air. The rain had gone this morning, though the clouds were still hovering, heavy and gray in the sky, and it was cold enough to threaten snow. Still, she thought taking him to the market would do him good. The one time she'd been there, it was invigorating, and she wanted something invigorating, something to grab his interest, since he seemed to take no interest in anything here.

She sighed at the thought, ladling out a steaming bowl of porridge and taking it into the bedroom. He was still asleep, curled on his side, his hair hiding his face. Hesitantly Imogene glanced at the pocket watch dangling from the bedstand. Seven o'clock. It was early. He usually slept—albeit restlessly—until nearly noon.

There was no choice but to wake him. If they were going to the market, they had to be there early, else the best would be gone. She set aside the bowl, touching his shoulder, shaking him gently.

"Jonas," she whispered. "Jonas, wake up."

He barely moved.

"Jonas." She shook him again.

This time he groaned and shrugged off her hand. "Go away," he murmured.

"No." She gripped his shoulder more firmly. "It's time to get up. We're going out."

That got his attention, she noted with satisfaction. He rolled over, opening one bleary eye to look at her. "Out? You're leaving?"

"I need to go to the market—"

"No." He rose, shaking, to one elbow. She saw panic in his eyes. "You said . . . you said you wouldn't go."

"You didn't let me finish," she said patiently. "I was going to ask you to come with me."

He looked confused, the fear didn't leave his expression. "I can't," he whispered.

"Why not?"

"I can't."

"Of course you can." She reached for the bowl of porridge and held it out to him, waiting patiently for him to adjust himself to take it. But though he sat up, he didn't do more than make a cursory glance at the bowl. "Please," she urged. "We'll have fun."

"Fun?" He gave a short, mocking laugh. "I don't think so. I'm staying here."

"You'd rather sit in here and rot."

"Yes!" he shouted. "Yes, I'd rather rot." He held up his useless stump. "Hell, I'm halfway there already."

Her patience snapped. She started to slam the bowl of porridge on the rickety nightstand, then stopped herself, fighting for composure. "I won't let you make me angry," she said slowly, forcing her breathing to calm. "Do what you like. I'm going to the market."

She spun on her heel, hurrying from the room before he had time to stop her. She heard his muffled curse, heard the dull thud of something hitting the wall, but she ignored it. She would not go back in there, not while he was in this mood. He was aching for a fight, and she didn't want to give it to him. She didn't want to hurt him. She didn't want to be hurt.

But she felt the sharp pang of disappointment as she fumbled with her hair and grabbed her bag from the table. She went to the door, reaching for the mantle that hung on the peg beside it, trying not to think of the things he could do in the hour she'd be gone.

"Wait." His voice was low and steady.

She turned. He was leaning against the wall beside his bedroom door, holding his carved hand by the straps. It dangled against his leg. He held it out to her.

"I'd like to go," he said, and she saw the effort it took him to say the words, the fear and wariness in his eyes. "But I ... I can't seem to get this on. Do you think you could . . . will you . . . help me?"

The last words faded off, a whisper of sound. In spite of her relief, Imogene said nothing. She set aside her coat and went to him, intensely aware that he watched her as she took the wooden hand from him. She had never touched him like this, had never performed such an private task, and the intimacy of it made her nervous. She had to work to keep her fingers from trembling as she settled the pad over his wrist and buckled the straps about his forearm.

She looked up when she finished, inadvertently meeting his eyes and the measuring look in them. He was testing her, she realized, and she felt the heat move into her cheeks. She looked away, wondering if she'd passed. Hoping she had.

"Your glove?" she asked.

He nodded toward the table. "Over there."

Imogene grabbed the glove quickly and handed it to him. "Are you ready?"

"No," he said. He pulled the glove slowly over his fingers, looking tired and beaten. He glanced up and met her gaze, and a strange quirk curved his lips. Almost—not quite—a smile. But it lightened his expression nonetheless, and Imogene found herself smiling back.

"It's cold out," she said. "Don't forget your coat."

He didn't, but he did forget his hat, she noticed when they finally stepped outside into the cold. She thought about sending him back inside for it. It was truly freezing. Her lungs burned with every breath. The clouds were gray and heavy, and there was a sense of expectation in the air, the kind of muted light and muffled sound that promised snow.

She saw the dullness in his eyes and decided not to worry about the hat. It was enough that he was standing out here with her, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his overcoat, his loose hair trailing over his shoulders, strands fluttering into his face. His chin was buried in his collar. He was unrelievedly black, she thought. Black hair, black coat. His pale skin merely accentuated it. The only color to him at all was his eyes, and they were such a flinty green this morning that they barely qualified.

He stood there waiting while she hailed a carriage. He said nothing as they got in, and only stared out the window when the carriage moved off toward Washington Market.

As early as it was, the market was crowded. Wagons bottlenecked the streets leading up it, clogging the entrances so the driver had to leave them more than a block away. Even then, there were so many people and horses in the streets that it was difficult to maneuver around them. Imogene tucked her arm through Jonas's, leading him through the chaos until they reached the wagons and stands of the main area. The scent of the Hudson River mixed with the odors of fresh fish and seaweed, sawdust and horses and pigs.

Imogene took a deep breath, her eyes watering in the stinging cold. "Isn't it wonderful?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I've been to the market before, Genie," he said. "Look at these people—most of them don't have a penny to their name. There's nothing but poverty here, look around you."

Obediently she did, and wondered what he was really seeing, why he didn't notice what she did—the fresh produce nearly tumbling from overfull wagons, plump, ivory-skinned chickens hanging from their feet, baskets filled with seaweed and oysters and speckled lobsters. Certainly there was evidence of poverty. Small children with dirty faces and torn clothes angling to nab an apple or a cabbage, girls in tight dresses and thin shoes, women whose worn scarves accented tired, lined faces, but she wondered why he wasn't seeing everything else, everything that made the scene before them a beautiful, vibrant painting. Yellow pumpkins from Valparaiso next to bins of dark green, leafy kale. Pale round cabbages and bright red apples. Men and women wearing burlap aprons and colorful scarves and frayed hats, their beefy hands shoving potatoes into bags, their eyes bright as they tried to convince a customer of the freshness of a whitefish.

Imogene sighed, feeling a stab of disappointment as she pulled him with her from stand to stand. He was sullen and silent as she haggled with the vendors, but at least he helped her get a better price. His very forbiddingness made the merchants think twice before cheating her, and he didn't even have to say a word.

Dejectedly she left the poultry-seller, dodging past a horse blanketed against the weather and two small children playing hide and seek. The milk merchant was her last stop. After that they could go back to the studio. She felt a tug of desperation at the thought, a sense of hopelessness. Today hadn't helped him at all, and she wondered if anything could—if she could. There had to be something more she could do. Something more than sit beside him on the bed and read to him, something to help ease his misery and despair. But she didn't know what, and she was struck with the dull knowledge that Chloe would have known what to do. Chloe would have been able to make him laugh.

Imogene tried to swallow the lump in her throat, and tightened her hold on her bag. Lord, she was so ill-equipped for this, so damned useless—

"Wait."

She was so involved in her own thoughts it took Imogene a moment to realize Jonas had pulled her to a stop, that he'd spoken. Confused, she looked up at him.

He was staring at a wagon loaded with bolts of fabric: bright velvets and satins, jewel-toned silks, sprigged muslins and pale mousselines. The peddler hovered nervously, pulling a heavy sheet of canvas over the more delicate fabrics, muttering as he looked up at the sky.

"What is it?" she asked.

In answer, Jonas strode toward the wagon, pulling her along with him, seemingly oblivious to the people in his way. He stopped at a bolt of dark green velvet, releasing her and pushing aside the gray canvas to touch it. His long fingers smoothed over the fabric, lingeringly, caressingly.

"This," he said in a low voice. "This is the color I want to see you wear."

His words sent a stab of yearning plunging through her, a sharp and dizzying pang of desire. Imogene swallowed, surprised to see how intense his eyes suddenly were, how incredibly green. Like the velvet, like they'd been the night of the salon, when they'd gone onto the roof and he'd made her laugh at his cartoons.

After so many bleak days, his expression was startling and wonderful. Imogene looked down at the fabric, mesmerized by the movement of his hand. "I—it's lovely," she managed.

"It would be lovely on you," he said, and there was a wistfulness in his voice, a longing, that seemed to pierce straight through to her heart.

"Are ya int'rested in that, sir?" The merchant pushed forward, his sharp gaze scrutinizing Jonas. "I c'n give ya a good price on it."

Jonas hesitated. "I'm sure you can," he said finally. He drew his hand away, shoving it in his pocket. "Perhaps some other time."

He moved off, away from the wagon, back into the crowd, and Imogene saw the disappointment in the vendor's eyes—the same disappointment she felt, though she didn't know why. As lush and beautiful as the fabric was, it didn't matter to her. What mattered was that look on Jonas's face, the yearning in his voice. What mattered was the way he'd looked at her and said
"It would be lovely on you."
She had the feeling he would have said something else, something more, if the vendor had not questioned him. She had the feeling he wanted to say something. But now she would never know what it was, because she wouldn't ask, and she knew already that the moment was gone.

He was waiting for her in the crowd, and her disappointment grew when she recognized his expression. It was uninterested, detached. The same look that had been on his face for more than three days, that had disappeared only for that one split second when green velvet had reflected itself in his eyes.

Imogene sighed. The touch of wetness on her forehead and her nose surprised her. It was beginning to snow. Soft, big flakes. It was sticking in Jonas's hair, white against black, light against dark for that brief moment before they melted into transparency.

Slowly she made her way toward him. "I suppose we should leave," she said. And then, unnecessarily, "It's snowing."