considering his level of
talent and her natural beauty. There was a bit of a hubbub about it at the
time, since it seems Whistler was so proud of the finished work he initially refused
to release it to Blout. They say he wanted to keep it for his private
collection or sell it to a museum.” Gerry screwed up her face, struggling to
remember. “I think perhaps George took him to court over the matter, or at
least there was some business with their solicitors. George prevailed, of
course. After all, the portrait had been a commission, paid for in full before
the artist ever picked up his brush. And my understanding is that it hung over
the fireplace in the family home until the day Isabel disappeared.”
“You never saw it?”
Gerry regretfully
shook her head. “I’m hardly likely to be invited to a party in the home of George
Blout or any man who knows my politics. But I would have liked to have seen
it. Tess described it as quite unlike the usual portrait of a society wife and
rather…remarkable. As if the artist had somehow managed to get straight to the
essence of the woman.”
“And did the artist manage
to get straight to the essence of the woman?”
Gerry snorted in
amusement. “That was certainly the gossip.”
“Justified?”
“Whistler was the
consummate professional, a man who’d done a dozen commissions in Mayfair
alone. Why would he suddenly insist on keeping one?”
“Perhaps this
picture was somehow better,” Trevor guessed. “Representative of his best
work.”
“Then why not simply
reproduce it?” Gerry shook her head. “You know I rarely come down on the side
of idle gossip, but in this case the speculation seems warranted. Whistler’s
refusal to release the painting to Blout was a nip at the very hands that had
been steadily feeding him, tantamount to ruining a lucrative career as the
portraitist of London’s upper class. It implies not just pride in the work but
a more intimate connection to the subject matter, wouldn’t you say?”
“I really can’t
say. The whole story is quite bizarre and makes me wonder all the more how
Abrams might have gotten himself tangled with such a woman. Married at sixteen
to a man four times her age. A rumored affair with an American painter. Then
she leaves both to decamp with a nouveau riche man in Paris….”
“Nouveau riche?
Very good, Trevor.”
He flushed slightly.
Geraldine’s education and world experience so exceeded his own that she
sometimes unconsciously made Trevor feel like a schoolboy. “Emma has not totally
abandoned the hope I will someday learn French. She persists with our lessons,
although I fear I give her little cause for optimism.”
“Nonsense. She’s
very fond of you, Trevor.”
He could think of
nothing to say to this, and in the silence that ensued, Trevor squirmed a
little under the steady gaze of Geraldine’s heavy-lidded eyes. Struggling for
a way to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand, he fished Rayley’s
letter from the pocket of his jacket and quickly scanned it to see if he had missed
any details. “Abrams says she goes by the name Isabel Delacroix in Paris.”
“Indeed?” Geraldine
said, as swiftly diverted as he hoped she would be. “If so, then that is quite
the fabrication. He may not speak of Isabel or even be willing to concede she
exists, but George Blout would never consent to a divorce. Too public. A
final blow to the male ego, I suppose.” Gerry paused. “But you know, something
else is coming to me. There’s a chance her infamous portrait may find its way
to Paris along with its subject. I read in the papers some time back that
Whistler is showing as part of the art exhibition, and that some of his more
exalted London portraits were on loan to the American pavilion.”
“Her husband would
allow her image to be displayed before half the world? It seems strange for a
man with such pride.”
“I believe
talent and her natural beauty. There was a bit of a hubbub about it at the
time, since it seems Whistler was so proud of the finished work he initially refused
to release it to Blout. They say he wanted to keep it for his private
collection or sell it to a museum.” Gerry screwed up her face, struggling to
remember. “I think perhaps George took him to court over the matter, or at
least there was some business with their solicitors. George prevailed, of
course. After all, the portrait had been a commission, paid for in full before
the artist ever picked up his brush. And my understanding is that it hung over
the fireplace in the family home until the day Isabel disappeared.”
“You never saw it?”
Gerry regretfully
shook her head. “I’m hardly likely to be invited to a party in the home of George
Blout or any man who knows my politics. But I would have liked to have seen
it. Tess described it as quite unlike the usual portrait of a society wife and
rather…remarkable. As if the artist had somehow managed to get straight to the
essence of the woman.”
“And did the artist manage
to get straight to the essence of the woman?”
Gerry snorted in
amusement. “That was certainly the gossip.”
“Justified?”
“Whistler was the
consummate professional, a man who’d done a dozen commissions in Mayfair
alone. Why would he suddenly insist on keeping one?”
“Perhaps this
picture was somehow better,” Trevor guessed. “Representative of his best
work.”
“Then why not simply
reproduce it?” Gerry shook her head. “You know I rarely come down on the side
of idle gossip, but in this case the speculation seems warranted. Whistler’s
refusal to release the painting to Blout was a nip at the very hands that had
been steadily feeding him, tantamount to ruining a lucrative career as the
portraitist of London’s upper class. It implies not just pride in the work but
a more intimate connection to the subject matter, wouldn’t you say?”
“I really can’t
say. The whole story is quite bizarre and makes me wonder all the more how
Abrams might have gotten himself tangled with such a woman. Married at sixteen
to a man four times her age. A rumored affair with an American painter. Then
she leaves both to decamp with a nouveau riche man in Paris….”
“Nouveau riche?
Very good, Trevor.”
He flushed slightly.
Geraldine’s education and world experience so exceeded his own that she
sometimes unconsciously made Trevor feel like a schoolboy. “Emma has not totally
abandoned the hope I will someday learn French. She persists with our lessons,
although I fear I give her little cause for optimism.”
“Nonsense. She’s
very fond of you, Trevor.”
He could think of
nothing to say to this, and in the silence that ensued, Trevor squirmed a
little under the steady gaze of Geraldine’s heavy-lidded eyes. Struggling for
a way to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand, he fished Rayley’s
letter from the pocket of his jacket and quickly scanned it to see if he had missed
any details. “Abrams says she goes by the name Isabel Delacroix in Paris.”
“Indeed?” Geraldine
said, as swiftly diverted as he hoped she would be. “If so, then that is quite
the fabrication. He may not speak of Isabel or even be willing to concede she
exists, but George Blout would never consent to a divorce. Too public. A
final blow to the male ego, I suppose.” Gerry paused. “But you know, something
else is coming to me. There’s a chance her infamous portrait may find its way
to Paris along with its subject. I read in the papers some time back that
Whistler is showing as part of the art exhibition, and that some of his more
exalted London portraits were on loan to the American pavilion.”
“Her husband would
allow her image to be displayed before half the world? It seems strange for a
man with such pride.”
“I believe
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