Inamorata (24 page)

He stopped and turned.

“I . . . if I’ve made you angry I do apologize. Perhaps I was too forward . . . that is . . .” I let the words fall, not knowing what else to say.

His gaze softened. He glanced about, and then he took the two steps to close the distance between us. “What did you call me?”

I frowned—I had called him by his Christian name. “Oh, I—”

“Say it again,” he demanded.

“Nicholas,” I said.

“I like the way it sounds from your pretty mouth. In fact, I like everything about your mouth. Have I told you that?”

There were people all around. He spoke quietly enough that I thought they couldn’t hear, but it lent enough of an impropriety to his words that I felt a little trill of arousal.

“No.” I could barely force my voice. “I don’t think you have.”

“Well I do,” he said. “Good night, Sophie.” And then he turned on his heel and strode away.

N
ICHOLAS

T
he Citta di Firenze had good wine, and Henry Loneghan liked it. We’d spent many an evening relaxing at its tables, and he’d been the first to suggest we meet there when I told him of Joseph Hannigan.

“He’s brilliant,” I’d said. “He does people beautifully. Surely you need a new portrait done?”

Henry shook his head. “Of me? Good God, no. We’ve already an absurd number of them.”

“Then Edith. Isn’t it about time for another of her?”

He hesitated. “She hates to sit for them.”

“Ah, but he’s a handsome fellow. She’ll like looking at him. And he has a charming sister who I’m certain would come along to entertain.”

Henry stroked his voluminous white beard—he had more hair than any one man had a right to own, along with a high forehead that gave him a noble and well-bred air—of which he was both. He’d been a friend of my father’s when they’d both been in the House of Commons, and he’d taken an interest in me over my brother Jonathan, which was one of the reasons I liked him. But Henry’s passion was for art, and his disdain for politics had only grown as he’d aged, and so perhaps that explained why he’d chosen a ne’er-do-well poet over a barrister. He was also one of the only people I knew who’d actually bought my poetry.

“At least talk to him,” I urged Henry now. “I thought of you immediately when I saw his work. You’ll like him. I do.”

“Well, thus far you’ve proved to have an unparalleled eye for such things,” he said. “And perhaps . . . we were looking for a piece for the second salon.”

So now here we were—Joseph Hannigan, Henry Loneghan and I—lingering over a third bottle of wine. Henry had been impressed with Hannigan the moment he’d walked into the restaurant—and I was glad to see Hannigan had taken the meeting seriously; though he still wore no hat, he had dressed well. He had an ease and charm that put Henry immediately at his, and they were laughing together before dinner had been cleared.

It was a good thing, as I had little to contribute to the conversation. I was tired; I’d had a few long and exhausting nights with almost no sleep, not all of which was due to my self-imposed sentry at Odilé’s. At least some was the fault of Sophie Hannigan and her kisses—dear God, that kiss at the salon. . . . I didn’t want to think of it just now, or the strangeness of what had happened, the strength of my arousal and then the smell of almonds that had paralyzed me, a perfume that had not been hers, but Odilé’s. It had made me jerk away from Sophie precipitously—and I hoped she hadn’t noticed. But the uneasiness that had come over me then hadn’t gone away.

It was all I could do to devote myself to urging and directing Henry Loneghan tonight. When Henry finally gestured to Hannigan, saying, “Now then, let’s see your work, young man,” I knew I had succeeded. Henry liked Hannigan—there was virtually no chance he wouldn’t like the work. My job was done. I poured another glass of wine and sat back in my chair, watching as Hannigan handed over his sketchbook and Henry began to leaf through it.

Henry paused at the first page. His eyes, still sharp for his age, narrowed; he perused every detail before he said, “Very good,” and went on to the next. I could not help but notice it was a sketch of Mestre, but not Mestre as it was—Mestre as Sophie had described it in her story, shimmering and beautiful and not quite real. What a gift it was, to see the world that way.

Henry glanced up at Hannigan with an admiring expression. “Where did you get your training?”

“I haven’t any,” Hannigan confessed, sitting forward, eagerness in his bearing. In the dim gaslight of the restaurant, he was more striking than ever. “Not formally, anyway. I began copying when I was very young. My aunt wasn’t interested in paying for lessons, so I did what I could.”

“Extraordinary,” Henry said. “I must admit I’ve rarely seen such raw talent. And what you’ve done with it—” He fell silent when he turned the page, freezing. I had some idea what he must be looking at, and I knew it for certain when he said, “Who is this?”

Hannigan leaned in to see. “My twin sister. Sophie.”

It was not the sketch that had first captured me, nor the one at the Lido. This was one I hadn’t seen, the fish market at the Rialto with the Grand Canal and the edge of the Fondaco dei Tedeschi in the background. She was staring into the distance, her chin lifted, her eyes closed, with yearning so starkly and seductively written on her features that I could not help but stare. Again I felt consternation that her brother should see such things in her, again the question of what it might mean.

I felt Hannigan’s glance, and I looked over to see a thoughtfulness in his gaze that confused me before he looked away again. Henry closed the sketchbook with a definitive slap. “Well, there’s no need to see more. You’re hired, Mr. Hannigan. This spring, I would very much like a portrait of my wife done with your talented brush. And I think perhaps I shall want something else too, but we can talk about that then. If you’re willing, of course.”

This spring.
I saw Hannigan’s disappointment, which he hid the next moment.

“The spring?” I asked.

“Unfortunately I’ve been called to Rome,” Henry said. “A pity, as we’ve just got here, but I trust I can reserve your services in advance, Mr. Hannigan?”

Hannigan smiled charmingly. “Yes, of course. I’d be honored. I am very grateful, sir.”

“As am I, to Nicky, for bringing you to me. Your eye for talent has only grown more discerning, my boy. I expect Mr. Hannigan here will set Venice afire.”

I felt justified and proud, half in love with Hannigan myself for how well he’d impressed Henry and how well it reflected on me. As Henry wrote a small cheque to Hannigan, I wondered if it was enough to keep him and his sister in the city—and what I could do if it were not.

After Henry took his leave, I said, “I had no idea Henry was leaving again so soon. I do hope his promise is enough to keep you here.”

Hannigan took a sip of wine. He was nearly vibrating with excitement. “I would stay a year living on the streets for Henry Loneghan,” he said, and I found myself liking him even more, glad that I’d brought him, glad to help him—eager to do so.

“And to think I nearly didn’t go to the campo with Giles that day we met,” I told him.

He smiled, clasping my arm. “I’m very grateful you did.”

The words were simple and heartfelt, and I was startled at how strongly I responded to them. It was that magic in him again—I felt it intensely in that moment, along with the desire to be his friend, to stay his friend. I’d somehow spent my life waiting to sit in this cafe with him, sharing a bottle of wine.

I was tired, and the wine had made me sentimental and maudlin, erasing my usual cynicism—I have no other way to explain why I felt so caught in his spell. I found myself saying, “You and your sister may be the best thing that has ever happened to me,” and meaning it in a way I rarely meant anything.

“Sophie has that effect on people.”

I felt a surge of jealousy at the thought that there might be others like me. “Does she? I suppose the two of you have left more than a few broken hearts in your wake.”

Hannigan laughed humorlessly. “I don’t know about that. But Sophie’s very special.”

“Yes, she is. And so are you. The two of you . . . well, I have to say that no one knows what to make of you. There’s something . . . I think you confuse people.” I wondered if he heard the accusation I was not quite making.

“Because we’re twins, no doubt.” It had the sound of having been said a hundred times before.

“I think it might be more than that.”

His expression went carefully blank. “What do you mean?”

“Well, she’s your muse, isn’t she?” I said. “What you do with the stories she tells . . . it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Your sketch of Mestre—and the Lido too—you drew the world she gave us. The two of you made something so beautiful it changed the way I saw it. I’ll never think of those places the same way again.”

He looked surprised, and then thoughtful, as if there was something in me he hadn’t expected and now needed to reassess. “No one else has ever seen that,” he said softly. “Or if they have, they’ve never said it. It’s Sophie’s talent, though she thinks she has none. She doesn’t know how important she is. But without her . . .”

“Without her, what?”

His gaze locked to mine. “I’m nothing.”

I felt a needling discomfort, the sense that he was challenging me, that he
wanted
me to ask the question of what they truly were to each other. But I suddenly couldn’t ask. As disturbing as my suspicions had been, I now wasn’t certain I wanted to know whatever dark thing was between them—and it
was
dark. I saw it in his eyes.

Instead I was struck by the urge to show him I was different than everyone else, that I saw the sublimity in them that made the rest of it somehow not matter. I wanted him to think me more perceptive, worth keeping. “I think many men would give a great deal for such a muse. I would have given my soul for it.”
I almost had
. “I understand why you keep her so close. Had I something like that, I would never let it go. You’re destined to make a mark. I confess I’m envious.”

“Are you?”

“It’s only because I’ve had too much wine that I’m admitting it, you know. I’d prefer you keep my ambitions a secret, if you don’t mind. It’s less humiliating when everyone doesn’t witness your failures.”

“How have you failed?” he asked. “Was it fame you wanted?”

“Fame? Perhaps. But I think it’s more that I want to believe that my time here on earth has some meaning, that I’ve made some difference.”

He smiled. I saw in his dark blue eyes empathy and affection, and I felt appreciated and valued.

“You understand,” I said.

“Perhaps more than you know,” he answered. He picked up his glass, draining it. Then he said with sudden energy, “Let’s go back to the Moretta and tell Sophie about Loneghan.”

“Won’t she be abed?” I asked.

“We’ll wake her up,” he said. “Come on.”

Well, of course I was not going to say no. The prospect of rousing Sophie Hannigan from bed was impossible to resist. I forgot my exhaustion. By the time we stumbled up the courtyard steps to the rooms he shared with his sister, I was wide awake, and we were both laughing. We went inside, and he turned to me, putting his finger to his lips to signal quiet, and then took me to her bedroom. She wasn’t there, and the bed looked unslept in.

Hannigan frowned. “Where the hell is she?”

“Did you really think not to wake me?” Her voice came from behind us, and we both whirled to see her standing there wearing a dressing gown, her hair in a long braid trailing over her shoulder. She was smiling. “You sounded like a herd of donkeys.”

Hannigan laughed and swooped down on her, wrapping his arms around her in a hug so exuberant he lifted her from the ground. “Loneghan’s hired me to do a portrait of his wife.”

“He has?” Her eyes lit; she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly—a kiss that held, as always, a bit too long, and suddenly my mind was full of darkened rooms and entwined limbs. Again, I felt as if he’d somehow heightened her already considerable appeal. She drew away from him, her eyes sparkling as she looked at me. “It’s all because of you. We have so much to thank you for.”

“We do,” Hannigan said, releasing her at last. “I’ve brought him here to celebrate.”

“I’ve a bottle of wine in the
sala
.” She turned to lead the way, hips swaying beneath thin layers of muslin, and Hannigan and I followed like bucks after a doe—or at least I did, and I would have sworn he was not much different.

In the
sala
, she’d lit an oil lamp, which lent a dim and romantic glow. A book,
Don Juan—
Byron again—was open, face down on the settee, and on the table next to the settee was a glass half full of wine, and a bottle beside it.

“There’s still some left,” she said, lifting the bottle to show us. She had been drinking while she waited for her brother, and I realized she was affected—how much so I didn’t know.

Hannigan took the bottle from her hand. “How much of this have you had?”

“Only a little.” She leaned into him, putting her arm around his waist, smiling up at him. “I’ve been waiting all night to hear what happened. What did Mr. Loneghan say? What exactly?”

She’d mollified him just that quickly, I realized. A touch, a word, and he was back to excitement and satisfaction. “He liked the work. He asked where I’d had my training.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That there had been none at all.” He stepped from her hold, drinking from the bottle before he handed it to me. Then he sagged onto the settee, pulling the book from beneath his hip and setting it on the table.

She laughed, a pretty, bell-like sound. “Oh, you didn’t!”

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? Copying from books and other men’s sketches and art exhibits. I still haven’t got Da Vinci’s shadows exactly right.”

I took a drink. “You don’t need to know how to do Da Vinci’s shadows, so long as you know how to do your own. Henry isn’t looking for someone to copy Da Vinci. He’s looking for someone with a new vision. That’s you.”