Even with the buffer of distance the words stung. Imogene put them out of her head, thought instead of yesterday, of the glowing pride she'd imagined would be on his face. She knew exactly what she would see instead if she stopped the lessons and came home now. Disappointment. Anger. There was too much at stake to fail. This was her one chance to redeem herself in her father's eyes, in her own.
Her one chance to make up for surviving Chloe.
Imogene swallowed and "turned away from the window, closing her eyes against the quick ache of memories: the sight of her sister twisting in pain and her father's misery, the touch of Nicholas's hand . . .
No, she could not go home to
Nashville
a failure, regardless of how Jonas Whitaker felt about her. He might dislike her, but he could not drive her away, not until she'd learned the things she had to learn from him.
Not until she'd lived up to her sister's promise.
The resolve gave her strength, and by the time the carriage cleared the north end of
Washington
Park
and stopped in front of the gothic pillars of the Gosney house, she felt better, composed again. When Thomas met her at the door, she gave him a reassuring smile.
"Join me for some tea, won't you?" Thomas motioned toward his study. "I was just getting ready to have some when I heard the carriage. I've been waiting to hear how things went."
She felt her smile falter, braced herself for the lie that things had gone well. From the beginning, her godfather had protested this whole idea. He had gone along with it only because her father insisted, because she had promised him she wanted it. But Thomas truly worried about her, she knew, and if he thought Jonas Whitaker had treated her badly, he would stop the lessons in a moment and send her home. She swallowed and hung her mantle and hat on the peg by the door. She couldn't take the risk of telling Thomas about Whitaker. Not yet.
"Of course," she murmured, following her godfather through the huge double doors that led to his private sanctuary. She took a seat in one of the deep burgundy chairs that flanked the pink marble fireplace.
"So, what happened today?" Thomas asked, his voice deceptively light. She saw the concern in his deep blue eyes as he poured her a hot, fragrant cup of tea.
She searched for the right words; words that would ease Thomas's worry, words that would make the morning successful without being a complete lie. She took the cup and looked down into it, swirling the pale golden liquid until it released its flowery aroma in steam. "We painted dahlias."
"Dahlias?"
"Red ones."
"I see." Thomas sat, holding his own cup delicately between long, well-shaped fingers. "Red dahlias. How interesting."
Imogene nodded; she felt the fine edge of tension between her shoulder blades, in her face. "He's a fine teacher."
Thomas gave her a quick look, and Imogene had the sudden feeling that she'd said the wrong thing. He didn't answer her, and the silence grew between them, along with her tension, until Imogene wondered if she should think up an excuse to go to her room. But before she came up with one, Thomas broke the silence.
"Imogene," he said slowly, and then he took a deep breath, his fingers pressed so firmly against the fine china of his cup she wondered if it would break. She had the thought that he was going to say something that pained him, but he only repeated what he'd told her before. "Imogene, I—I just want you to know that I'm here for you, my dear. If you have any problems at all, if Whitaker does anything—"
"No, of course not. What could he do?" Imogene spoke quickly—too quickly. When she felt Thomas's eyes on her, studying her, Imogene played at a nonchalance she didn't feel. "He's done nothing. Nothing at all."
She forced self-possession through the words. Thomas had always been good at seeing through her, ever since she was very small and he had come visiting every few months, bringing her a special book, or a doll, because
"A sick little girl needs reasons to get better, don't you think, dear heart?"
Almost as if he knew that even her own parents never made time to visit her sickroom, as if he knew he was her only friend.
She lowered her eyes and stared at the thin leaves floating to the bottom of her teacup and hoped he would believe her, hoped he wouldn't see how afraid she was of failing, how afraid she was of disappearing completely in her father's eyes the way she had in her mother's.
She looked up at her godfather, forced a smile. "It was fine today, Thomas, really it was. I'm sure I'll learn a great deal from Mr. Whitaker."
He frowned slightly. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure." She nodded and took a sip of tea, struggling not to choke as the hot liquid burned her tongue, scalded her throat. "You—you shouldn't worry so much about me."
"Oh, my dear." He leaned forward, putting a hand on her knee, and his eyes were soft and kind and as comforting as they'd been all those years ago, when he'd sat beside her sickbed, reading her a story. "If I don't, who will—eh? Who will?"
She tried not to feel sad at the words.
Chapter 3
“W
e’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.