Portrait of a Love (12 page)

She looked from the table to the elegant men and women seated around it. She looked at Leo, so assured and natural in this company. Why shouldn’t he be assured and natural? she thought. He had been bred to this kind of a life, bred to wealth and to luxury. He was at home here, as was Lady Pamela Ashley, who had probably cut her teeth on affairs like this.

Isabel was not at home. She felt like a visitor from another planet at these dinners.

It was a feeling that had not disturbed her unduly before tonight. In fact, she had enjoyed herself a great deal. To a girl who had been brought up on stainless steel and meat loaf, all this magnificence was fun.

It was fun to be a visitor. But what would it be like, Isabel wondered, to be a part of this world permanently, to spend one’s time booking caterers and arranging the flowers, to be valued for one’s connections, one’s social utility?

It was not for her, Isabel knew that with utter certitude. It was fun for a while, but it could never be an important part of her life, not as important as her painting.

As if on cue, her dinner partner said, “I understand you graduated from Cooper Union, Miss MacCarthy. My nephew went there a few years ago. I must say I was very impressed by it.”

Isabel looked interested. “Did he? What was his name?”

It turned out that Isabel had known his nephew and they talked art schools as they spooned up jellied consommé with bits of melon on top. Arthur Stevens was known for his sharp brain and stinging political wit, but he seemed genuinely interested in Isabel’s experiences in art school and in getting herself established.

After the consommé, broiled sole with toasted almonds was served and champagne was poured. Arthur Stevens began to talk about the role of the Washington press, and Isabel listened for a while and then began to ask a few telling questions. They were engaged in a concentrated discussion when the fish course was cleared and filet mignon with béarnaise sauce, pommes soufflés, and braised carrots were served. It was time to talk to the man on her other side.

“We’ll finish this conversation later,” Mr. Stevens promised, and Isabel turned to the congressman on her right. Leo, she was gratified to see, was no longer talking to Lady Pamela.

Isabel discussed the defense budget with the congressman, who was a cousin of Ron Messenger’s and who sat on the House Defense Committee. During the dessert, an ice-cream bombe, they talked about the problems of living in two places. The congressman was a young man with a young family, and Isabel lent a sympathetic ear to his problems.

After dinner the men went into another drawing room for cigars and brandy. Many of the ladies went upstairs to tidy up and the rest of them were ushered down a series of corridors to a music room and sun porch where a small band tuned up. Mrs. Messenger made a point of coming over to speak to Isabel.

“At last we are to see this famous portrait of Leo,” she said pleasantly.

“Yes,” said Isabel.

Mrs. Messenger smiled. “Leo makes so light of it. I think he is just a little embarrassed at having his picture painted.”

Isabel smiled too. “He did it only to please his mother. But I think Mrs. Sinclair was right. There are some people who
need
to be painted. A photograph just won’t do.” She wrinkled her nose a little ruefully. “Of course, that is a point of view one would expect from an artist.”

“I agree with you,” the other woman said forthrightly. “In fact, I have been thinking of having my husband’s portrait done.”

“You have?” said Isabel a little lamely.

The men entered the room and Mrs. Messenger rose. “I’ll speak to you at some other time, my dear,” she said.

“Of course.” Isabel’s eyes were enormous as she watched Mrs. Messenger cross the room.

The room had filled with people, but there was no sign of Leo. Arthur Stevens came across the floor to talk to Isabel again and people began to dance. It was ten minutes before Leo finally came in, making all the other men in the room look small. He was followed by Ron Messenger. Leo looked around the room, saw Isabel, and began to move in her direction. He was stopped almost immediately by the British ambassador’s daughter.

While Isabel talked to Arthur Stevens, Leo talked to Lady Pamela. He looked to be enjoying the conversation very much. Then he took Pamela out onto the dance floor. Isabel resolutely turned her back on them.

Mr. Stevens asked her to dance. The party had become very gay by now and there was a great deal of laughter. Isabel did her best to join in, but it was all pretense until she felt Leo’s presence behind her. A second later he put his hand on her arm.

“You’ve got my girl,” he said humorously to Larry Selneck, with whom she was speaking.

“Sorry, Senator,” the young congressman returned a little stiffly. Isabel had gathered from their conversation at dinner that he was rather in awe of Leo.

Leo smiled genially and said a few more words. Isabel watched as the congressman began to relax and finally to joke a little. She looked at Leo. It wasn’t a deliberate thing, she thought, that potent charm of his. It was simply a matter of native grace radiating effortlessly upon all who came within his orbit.

“Shall we dance?” Leo asked her, and as she turned into his arms, she saw a smiling Larry Selneck go off to find his wife.

The party broke up at eleven-thirty. “I still can’t get over how everyone runs home so promptly,” Isabel said to Leo in the car. “One minute there is mirth and music, and the next—
poof
—everyone is getting into their coats.”

“Getting home to read those reports,” he murmured.

Isabel yawned. “Actually, I like the early hours. By eleven-thirty I’m tired.”

“Frankly, so am I. Six o’clock comes awfully quickly the next morning.” He grinned. “I remember a party once which didn’t break up until well after two. It was at the Wisharts’ out in Chevy Chase and the guest of honor was Jerry Roget, and Jerry likes a party. Now, the rule for departures is quite rigid: no one leaves before the guest of honor. Jerry was having a grand time and by midnight still showed no signs of wanting to leave. The British and the French ambassadors were asleep on their feet but refused to break protocol and leave before the guest of honor.”

Isabel chuckled. “Talk about being a martyr to one’s convictions.”

“Frank Wishart suggested that they leave, said everyone would perfectly understand. They wouldn’t budge.”

“Rule Britannia,” said Isabel.
“Vive la France.”

“Wishart wound up telling Jerry to get into his car and drive around for a little so the poor souls could escape. Which Jerry did. He returned in good form and the party went on well into the morning.”

Isabel threw back her head and laughed. “What a marvelous story. And what a crazy city!”

“Isn’t it?”

Silence fell and Isabel wondered if Leo had been at that party with Lady Pamela. She decided she didn’t want to know. She wondered what the people tonight thought about her and Leo and decided she didn’t want to know that either.

Lady Pamela had asked her a question that had been gnawing away at the back of her brain all evening. What would she do when Leo’s portrait was finished and his mother’s party was over? She frowned ahead of her into the night and admitted to herself she did not want to go back to New York. But her excuse for staying with Leo would be gone.

“You look almost grim, honey,” came his voice, and involuntarily she glanced his way.

“Just tired, I guess.”

“Mmm?”

“Actually, I was thinking about what Lady Pamela said.”

“Ah.” He knew instantly what she meant. They pulled into the drive and he shut the engine off and turned to look at her. “I don’t want you to go back to New York,” he said flatly.

Isabel’s eyes closed very briefly. Until this moment she had not let herself know how afraid she had been that he would simply wish her good luck and kiss her good-bye.

“I don’t want to go either,” she said softly. “You kissed me for the first time in this car. Remember?”

“I remember.” He caught her hand in his and turned it. His warm mouth found her wrist and then followed her arm to the inside of her elbow. Isabel gazed at his bent head and felt suddenly dizzy with a rush of intense emotion. He dropped her hand and opened his car door. Isabel waited until he came around to open her door before she got out. He put an arm around her, and holding her close to his side, he slowly walked her to the door and then up the stairs to bed.

On Saturday morning Isabel finished the portrait. In the afternoon they took a long leisurely drive through the Virginia countryside, stopping at an old inn for dinner. It rained Sunday, so they spent the afternoon in the sitting room with a fire blazing and the papers spread all over.

The warm and quiet sitting room was an island of peace for Isabel. Outside, the rain beat on the pavement and the roof, but in here she was safe. The fire light glowed on Leo’s shoulder and arm. Isabel bent her head as she watched him contentedly. Without realizing it, she was storing up memories for the future, the bleak and empty future. But for now, she was happy. A log dropped on the fire and his hair reflected a brighter gold. He read something to her from the paper and she smiled faintly, loving the soft cadences of his voice. He raised his head and his eyes rested for a moment on her face. So blue, she thought, his eyes are so very blue. He held an arm out invitingly, and she went to sit beside him, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder, her body soft and relaxed against the solid strength of his. Leo murmured in her ear and she smiled a little in reply and then closed her eyes.

Here was peace. Here was security. Here was happiness. The outside world could not intrude. She was safe.

* * * *

On Wednesday afternoon Leo’s mother arrived and Isabel drove to the airport to meet her. Isabel had liked Charlotte Sinclair very much but she wished Leo’s mother was not coming to Washington. She wished she was not going to be staying at the house in Georgetown. She wished the portrait was still not finished, and she had weeks and weeks ahead of her to work on it.

None of these feelings appeared on her face, however, as she greeted Leo’s mother at the airport.

“Isabel. How lovely of you to come and meet me, my dear.” Isabel had forgotten how warm Charlotte Sinclair’s smile was, how persuasive her charm could be.

“How was your flight, Mrs. Sinclair?” she asked as they got into Isabel’s rented station wagon.

“The flight was fine.” Charlotte’s face looked briefly strained. “I’m afraid I just don’t like to fly,” she confessed.

Isabel abruptly remembered how her husband had died. “Of course you don’t,” she said with brisk sympathy. “It would be a miracle if you did.”

“Ben is getting his flying license. I bite my tongue and shiver in abject fear every time he goes up.” She sighed. “He’s so like his father. He loves planes and he’s absolutely fearless.”

“Did your husband pilot himself?”

“Yes. He was very good, too. He wasn’t at the controls the night they crashed and I’ve often thought.... Oh, well. I don’t want to bore you with my problems, dear. Tell me, how are you enjoying Washington?”

“Very much, thank you. The dresses we bought have been perfect.”

“I’m so glad. Now tell me, who has Leo invited for Friday night?”

They spent the rest of the drive discussing the upcoming party. Not a word was said about the portrait until they arrived at the house. Then Isabel took Leo’s mother into the library, where the portrait still rested on her easel.

Mrs. Sinclair gazed at it a long time in silence. When she finally turned to Isabel, her eyes were suspiciously bright. “Oh, my dear,” she said softly. “Oh, my dear.”

Isabel looked at her gravely. “You are satisfied?”

“Satisfied—yes. I am satisfied.” Mrs. Sinclair turned back to the picture. “I was afraid it was going to be merely pretty,” she said. “But it isn’t. You’ve caught it, that special radiance that makes Leo Leo. You’ve caught it.” She turned back to give Isabel a shrewd look. “You’ve caught something else, too; it shows around the mouth. It’s not there on Leo’s face very often; he hides it well. But you caught it.”

The gravity of Isabel’s expression did not alter. “How bad are his knees?”

“I don’t think they hurt a great deal now. He’s limited, of course, in what he can do. And that is very hard for him to accept. He didn’t play for so long on damaged knees because of his great team spirit, you understand. I know Leo too well. He played because he wouldn’t admit that he couldn’t play.”

“So he ended up nearly crippling himself.”

“Yes. Stupid, wasn’t it? Unforgivable, really, in a man of Leo’s intelligence. But there it is. He simply will not admit to pain, not until, quite literally, he can’t get to his feet. Which is what happened to him at last.”

“What a terrible sport football is!” Isabel was passionately angry. “Why the hell do they do it?”

Mrs. Sinclair sighed. “You’re asking the wrong person, my dear. I’m not a male.”

“Male,” said Isabel scornfully. “It isn’t male. It’s barbaric!”

“My husband and my sons absolutely adored it. I can’t tell you why, but they did. Ben, fortunately, did not have Leo’s aptitude.” Mrs. Sinclair made a wry face. “So now he’s taken up flying instead.”

The two women looked at each other for a moment in the silence of perfect accord. Then Isabel looked back to the portrait. “From the way he moves, you’d never be able to tell he had been injured.”

“He worked at physical therapy. My, did he work. No, you can’t tell. But the cartilage in his knees is irrevocably damaged. The doctors repaired what they could, but it had gone too far.” Isabel had seen the scars on Leo’s knees but refrained from mentioning this interesting fact to his mother.

“How have people reacted to your painting Leo?” Mrs. Sinclair asked curiously.

“I’m famous,” Isabel replied. “Everywhere I go I’m pointed out as ‘the girl whose doing Leo’s portrait.’ It’s going to be my epitaph.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Sinclair said with a smile. “It will merely be your beginning.” She looked back to the portrait. “You do very impressive work, Isabel. Very impressive.”