bride in full regalia, crowned with orange blossoms, trailing yards of tulle. A soldier, far too handsome to be anything but an idealized version of an imaginary hero. Other faces, obviously sketched from life, and far less attractive. They lacked the sure touch of the trained artist, but they had a certain quality; one, of a scowling, wrinkled old man, was almost a caricature.
On the last page was the full-length portrait of a woman. The shape of her body was oddly distorted, probably owing to the artist's lack of skill, but the face was admirable. She wore a highnecked black gown with long, tight sleeves. The boned collar was pinned with a jet brooch, and sable bangles circled her wrists. Her hair, dead-black and lifeless, was pulled back into a heavy bun at the nape of her neck. Her head was turned slightly to one side. Black brows slashed across her forehead; and at her feet, half hidden by the folds of the flowing skirt, was...Satan. The cat's eyes had been touched in with vivid yellow, the only color on the page.
"My God," Jim said softly. "The cat is part of her—you can't tell where its body stops and her dress begins. The tail could belong to either one of them."
"Satan's great-great grandfather?" Andrea murmured.
"And then some...It's good, isn't it?"
"Yes." Faint praise for what was unquestionably a brilliant piece of portraiture, particularly for a young girl. Why did she assume the artist was young, and female? She found reasons, after the fact; sketching and painting, embroidery and the pianoforte were the proper occupations of young ladies of good family in the nineteenth century, the period suggested by the costumes. The earlier drawings were the sort of thing one might expect to find in such a sketchbook—flowers and fashions, handsome faces and pretty brides.
The portrait was different. Jim didn't appear to see it, and Andrea was not inclined to draw it to his attention, but the sheer malice of the sketch took her breath away. The subtlety of that malice was precocious and disturbing. The features were not distorted, in fact, they were those of a handsome, stately woman; but the curl of the lip, the vicious slash of the frowning brows...And the cat. Jim had noted the blending of the two bodies, the identity of woman and animal, but he had not understood the implication.
Andrea turned back to the beginning of the book. Now that she was on the lookout for it, she found a small, almost imperceptible flaw in almost every sketch. Small black worms gnawed at the hearts of the roses. Ingeniously masked by the intricacies of ruffles and folds in the fashion sketches were the lines of naked bodies—in one case, the bare bones and grinning skull. The artist's not very successful attempt to understand the underlying anatomical structure was not shocking in itself, but in the late nineteenth century, female modesty was at its more prurient and unnatural. An unmarried girl was not even supposed to know what her own body looked like.
The only drawings that seemed unflawed—and, in consequence, much more vapid—were those of the young officer and the bride. Why, Andrea wondered, were they included in the sketches—the dirty pictures—the artist had hidden from parents and teacher? Slightly sickened, she closed the sketchbook. Viewed as documents of social history, the drawings were a damning indictment of the prudery and double standards that had made Victorian life such a hell for women. Viewed in another way, the girl who had lived in this room was definitely neurotic.
Neuroses weren't contagious, Andrea reminded herself. Jim was in no danger of infection, even if he did breathe the air she once had breathed.
SIX
Andrea had no patience with people who believed in omens and portents. It never occurred to her to view the discovery of the strange, disturbing book as a portent of disaster; but the following days brought one problem after another. Linnie was increasingly slow and clumsy. The price of coffee
On the last page was the full-length portrait of a woman. The shape of her body was oddly distorted, probably owing to the artist's lack of skill, but the face was admirable. She wore a highnecked black gown with long, tight sleeves. The boned collar was pinned with a jet brooch, and sable bangles circled her wrists. Her hair, dead-black and lifeless, was pulled back into a heavy bun at the nape of her neck. Her head was turned slightly to one side. Black brows slashed across her forehead; and at her feet, half hidden by the folds of the flowing skirt, was...Satan. The cat's eyes had been touched in with vivid yellow, the only color on the page.
"My God," Jim said softly. "The cat is part of her—you can't tell where its body stops and her dress begins. The tail could belong to either one of them."
"Satan's great-great grandfather?" Andrea murmured.
"And then some...It's good, isn't it?"
"Yes." Faint praise for what was unquestionably a brilliant piece of portraiture, particularly for a young girl. Why did she assume the artist was young, and female? She found reasons, after the fact; sketching and painting, embroidery and the pianoforte were the proper occupations of young ladies of good family in the nineteenth century, the period suggested by the costumes. The earlier drawings were the sort of thing one might expect to find in such a sketchbook—flowers and fashions, handsome faces and pretty brides.
The portrait was different. Jim didn't appear to see it, and Andrea was not inclined to draw it to his attention, but the sheer malice of the sketch took her breath away. The subtlety of that malice was precocious and disturbing. The features were not distorted, in fact, they were those of a handsome, stately woman; but the curl of the lip, the vicious slash of the frowning brows...And the cat. Jim had noted the blending of the two bodies, the identity of woman and animal, but he had not understood the implication.
Andrea turned back to the beginning of the book. Now that she was on the lookout for it, she found a small, almost imperceptible flaw in almost every sketch. Small black worms gnawed at the hearts of the roses. Ingeniously masked by the intricacies of ruffles and folds in the fashion sketches were the lines of naked bodies—in one case, the bare bones and grinning skull. The artist's not very successful attempt to understand the underlying anatomical structure was not shocking in itself, but in the late nineteenth century, female modesty was at its more prurient and unnatural. An unmarried girl was not even supposed to know what her own body looked like.
The only drawings that seemed unflawed—and, in consequence, much more vapid—were those of the young officer and the bride. Why, Andrea wondered, were they included in the sketches—the dirty pictures—the artist had hidden from parents and teacher? Slightly sickened, she closed the sketchbook. Viewed as documents of social history, the drawings were a damning indictment of the prudery and double standards that had made Victorian life such a hell for women. Viewed in another way, the girl who had lived in this room was definitely neurotic.
Neuroses weren't contagious, Andrea reminded herself. Jim was in no danger of infection, even if he did breathe the air she once had breathed.
SIX
Andrea had no patience with people who believed in omens and portents. It never occurred to her to view the discovery of the strange, disturbing book as a portent of disaster; but the following days brought one problem after another. Linnie was increasingly slow and clumsy. The price of coffee
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