Dove's Way (9 page)

From the clock, Finnea moved to a vase, studying it with great curiosity. From the vase, she moved to a carved ivory box, and from the box she found a long line of books on a shelf, her fingers gliding over the gold-embossed titles.

“Hmmm,” was all she said.

Before Matthew knew what was happening, Finnea walked out of his study into the foyer and glanced up at the ceiling. He could hear her startled gasp.

Even he had felt a shimmer of surprise when he saw the mosaic in the vaulted ceiling for the first time.

“What is it?” she asked, her head tilted back so far on her shoulders that he thought she would tip oven.

“A mosaic.”

“Of a warrior,” she added, her voice awed as she turned to look at him. “With a dove held gently in his hand.”

“The house is called Dove’s Way.”

She stood for a long moment, staring at the mosaic, and whispered, “Because the dove found its way home. To the warrior.” Then she scoffed at herself. “Paintings in ceilings and real life are two different things.”

He looked at her. “What are you talking about?”

But she had already moved on, turning her attention to the huge pieces of bronze sculpture and oil paintings, leaving him with his brows peaked in surprise.

She studied the Venetian glass with the close-eyed scrutiny of a scientist. She ran her fingers along the draperies with their heavy tiebacks, gray satin balls hanging from them like Christmas ornaments on a tree. She didn’t stop until she came to a wall covered by large rectangles of smoky mirror. He watched as her footsteps faltered, her fingers reaching out but not touching the silvered glass. She studied her reflection, seemingly unaware that he watched her, until she pressed her fingers against the mirror, tracing the image of her cheekbones and lips as if she had never seen herself before.

He thought of Africa. With lakes as calm and clear as mirrors but rarely a looking glass to be had. A world away in more than simply distance. Most Africans had never heard of, much less seen, the modern conveniences most Bostonians took for granted. Velvet-lined carriages, paved streets, gaslights. But they were curious men and women, eyeing and boldly touching anything new and intriguing. Just as Finnea did now.

“Look at this!”

Finnea’s blunt declaration brought Matthew out of his reverie. Only then did he realize that she was no longer in sight. He headed in the direction of her voice and stopped when he found her in a room off the back of the house that was filled with windows.

“This is a wonderful place! What do you call it?” she asked.

“The garden room.”

Finnea tsked. “There are no gardens in here.”

“No, but you can see them just beyond the glass.”

At this she snorted. “All I see is this snow.”

“True, but in the spring and summer the yard will be filled with flowers.”

“I don’t believe a word of it. I can’t imagine how it ever gets warm enough for flowers to grow in this city. All I have seen since I arrived is snow. Great mounds of it, making it impossible to get out.”

“You are out now,” he noted.

“Yes, but my fingers and toes are frozen. I don’t like it at all.”

“Rest assured, Boston will warm up.”

She walked over to a stack of boxes that sat in the corner, clearly not believing a word he said.

“What is this?” she demanded.

“Nothing.”

“You and your nothings. Do you ever answer a question directly?”

“Do you ever demur and hold your tongue?”

Finnea laughed appreciatively. In the next second her eyes sparkled. “Look at this! Painting tools. Why are they in boxes?”

“Not everything has been unpacked since my return,” he replied, his voice growing taut.

“You seem to have unpacked everything else.”

“The servants did that.”

“Then why didn’t the servants unpack these?”

His jaw muscle ticked again. “That is none of your concern, Miss Winslet.”

“Why not?”

Why not? He hung his head in frustration. “Because I sent instructions telling them not to be unpacked. Is that good enough for you?” he demanded.

She picked up a long, thin paintbrush that had been left out on the table, and ran her fingers through the bristles. “I forgot. You told me that you once painted.”

During those long hours in the jungle, he had told her about his love of art. Capturing the soul on canvas. He would have said anything to keep her mind alert. “As I recall, I told you that I wanted to paint you.”

High spots of color flared in her cheeks. “And I said no.”

Suddenly her gaze caught on a crumpled piece of paper on the floor. She reached for it, but he leaned over and snatched it up first. He didn’t want her to see it, didn’t want her to see his pathetic attempt to capture Mary on paper. His sweet child. God how he loved her. He woke up at night wanting to insist she come to live with him in this new house. But in the morning he always remembered the look on her face whenever she saw him.

Lost in thought, it was too late to do anything when she saw the article lying on the table. Unlike the sketch, he couldn’t get it away from her in time, and she began to read out loud.

” ‘Prominent Bostonian to Show Artwork, by Justine Crowleigh.’ ” She glanced at him with a look of surprise, before returning to the article. ” ‘Boston’s very own Matthew Hawthorne has always been a man of many talents. And now we learn he is an artist as well. But don’t make the mistake of thinking that this rich man merely dabbles. He is a master at his craft, painting in a way that both awes and disturbs, provokes and titillates. Regardless of what his art makes a person feel, there is no doubt that the man is talented. And now he will have a show.’ “

The article went on, but Matthew no longer listened. He could have recited the article from memory. He knew each line by heart. Making his first million hadn’t thrilled him half as much as the prospect of that show.

Was it possible it had been written only a year and a half ago? It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. And in truth, it had. His art had been taken away just like the rest. Thinking about it made the fury tick to life in his mind—the supplies sitting before him but beyond his reach.

“Did you have your show?” she asked, her voice soft, as if she somehow understood.

“You ask too many questions.”

She studied him for a long time, seeing too much.

“Did you have your show?” she persisted.

“No, it never happened,” he said sharply.

She started to reach out, and he knew she was going to touch him again. But he was quick this time, and he lifted his hand to stop her. He didn’t want her to touch him; he didn’t want her to feel him. But he was unprepared when their hands met, palm to palm. Large to small, narrow rays of winter-gray sun drifting in through the high glass windows.

He watched as she stared at their hands, hers so tiny against his, making her seem fragile and delicate—as if she weren’t as bold as she appeared.

“Why did you lie to me?” she asked quietly, without moving her hand away.

“What?” Confusion clouded his mind, the world outside the room suddenly distant.

“During that long night in Africa,” she whispered, “you told me that everyone here in Boston was kind and wonderful. I believed you.”

His brow furrowed in memory. “I told you what you wanted to hear.”

“You lied.”

“You were dying!” The words came out sharply, the tinge of remembered panic lacing the air. “You were dying,” he repeated more softly, forcing a teasing he didn’t feel into his tone. “I saw no reason to tell you the truth and hasten your demise.”

Finnea pressed her eyes closed and laughed, a burst of sound that was filled with relief. “True. If you had told me about Adwina Raines, no doubt I never would have recovered.”

“But you did,” he whispered.

He stared at her, unable to look away. They were close, so close that if he leaned just so he could kiss her.

As if she had read his thoughts, a surge of red stained her cheeks. He touched the stain, trailing his fingers to the delicately soft skin under her jaw. He could feel the flutter of her heart as she went very still, and he fought the urge to pull her even closer.

He understood suddenly why he couldn’t forget her. He had been mesmerized by her from the minute she walked into the railcar and fell into his arms. The feel of her fingers, the intoxicating smell of her hair, as if she had washed it in spring water and long grasses. That was it. She made him feel. After more than a year of being dead inside, she made him feel.

And he had no interest in feeling, he thought with cold finality.

“I must go,” she whispered, stepping away from him. She started to leave, but stopped. “I will return tomorrow.”

“No, Finnea.”

He was as surprised as she was that he had used her Christian name.

“I will not teach you,” he stated clearly.

She smiled at that, her equilibrium resurfacing in that quick and sudden way she had about her. “Of course you will. Because just like in the jungle, you won’t let anything bad happen to me.”

Her presumption left him speechless. And before he could find the words, she turned away and strode out of the room. He was dismissed, just like that. Not because of his scar. Not because she couldn’t look at him, like so many others. But because she was done, the matter in her mind decided. She would return tomorrow.

Her self-confident assurance would have made him smile if he weren’t already so annoyed.

Matthew followed her, intent on issuing a sharp set-down. But when he found her in the foyer, Quincy extending her cape, the words broke off.

He took in the black velvet against red hair and burnished skin. The contrast, her beauty.

She was Africa in Boston. It was what he sought, he thought fleetingly. What he needed. Not her, but the escape he had found in the wildness of Africa.

He hadn’t painted since he had been wounded. Thought he never would again. But since he first saw her on that train, the need had begun to circle inside him. He hadn’t been able to put her from his mind—not Finnea, not Africa. There were times when he could still feel the quiet of that dark land, a quiet so real that it wrapped around his soul—making him whole.

The first time he noticed the silence it had been night, the sky black and smooth, dotted with thousands of brilliant stars, the only sound coming from the occasional beat of drums, slow and pounding. Like a secret heart beating in the distance.

The sound had drawn him, just as Africa had drawn him. Just as Finnea Winslet still drew him with her ways that contrasted so sharply with the very ladies she sought to fit in with.

For reasons he didn’t care to think about, he knew he would teach her.

As if she understood, she glanced back at him. He expected her to smile triumphantly, but she surprised him again.

“You will paint again, Matthew Hawthorne. And then you’ll have that show.”

His lips drew into a hard line, blood rushing through his heart so hard that it sounded like drums beyond the trees.

“Now get this place cleaned up, and you might even consider a bath,” she said with the lack of decorum he was rapidly growing used to. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

She was gone in a rustle of wind and jangling bracelets. A flicker of something sparked in his mind. Was it hope?

She had been so confident, so sure that he would paint again.

He returned to the garden room. With trembling hands, he retrieved a pencil and a new sheet of paper from one of the boxes. Tentatively he started to draw. He ignored the pain, willed it away as he moved the charcoal tip. He could feel the need, feel his fingers itch to put image on paper. But he couldn’t get the grip right. His fingers stumbled clumsily. He counted and concentrated, then tried again. Sweat broke out on his brow. His arm began to jerk, and his head swam until he suddenly roared his frustration, snapping the pencil in two.

Raging, he crumpled the paper and threw it savagely across the room. With a curse, he stormed out of the garden room and took the stairs as fast as he could, up and up until he came to a solitary room at the top of the house. When he walked inside, only a weak stream of winter sunlight brightened the room. Dust flew up in tiny puffs with each step he took, but he didn’t stop until he came to a back corner. There he found rows of covered canvases. Despair threatening, he pulled the drapes away from first one painting, then another, until all of them stared back at him, exposed.

His work, his art. The striking beauty.

The past.

“No, Miss Winslet, I will never paint again.” He whispered the words, making him remember the night everything had gone wrong.

Matthew strode through the front door. The house glittered like a jewel, lights glistening, crystal dripping from chandeliers like teardrops. Music swept through the air, and just beyond the reception hall, double doors spilled open to the grand hall, where people danced. A party to celebrate his upcoming art show. A gala celebration and all of Boston was there.

He was late for his own party, but he had wanted to make sure each painting was positioned just right. Now everything was as he wanted it. Tomorrow was the show.

His boot heels echoed against the alternating squares of black and white marble that covered the foyer floor as he scanned the throng of guests for his wife.

“Matthew! There you are, old boy! Let me be the first tonight to offer my sincere congratulations. I look forward to seeing this artwork of yours.”

Matthew turned his attention to a short balding man. “Thank you, Walter,” he said, his smile easy and warm as they shook hands. “Have you seen Kimberly? “

“Well, yes. I saw her a while ago with that sweet child of yours. Matching gowns and even matching dancing slippers. They caused quite a sensation. I think little Mary has since been put to bed upstairs.” He chuckled. “Though your young daughter didn’t want to go. I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw her sneak back down those stairs at any time.”

Matthew smiled. “That’s Mary. I’ll go up and see her. But first I need to find my wife.”

Walter turned to search the sea of faces. “I don’t see her.”