The Adventures of Allegra Fullerton by Robert J. Begiebing Page B

not answer immediately. He got up out of his chair, placed his empty glass on a nearby table, and poured off among each of us the residue of a third bottle. When he came to me, he asked again, “What news, then? What do you say, Mrs. Fullerton?”
    â€œBetrayal?” I asked. “Perhaps betrayal in love? Some mysterious betrayal nonetheless, I should think. Wouldn’t death be too direct for the face you have in mind? The more commonplace the news, the greater the difficulty in capturing that facial nuance, the mutability, you speak of. Wouldn’t the danger be that one might overstate the mood, the motion, the … ambivalence you want, if I understand you correctly, sir?”
    â€œThere is something in what you say, of course,” he answered. He bent down and set the empty wine bottle on the floor, then stooped over me and took my face in his big hands. I believe I trembled slightly. A thick lock of hair fell over his brow. His fingers were firm yet gentle as he turned my head a little side to side. “Your face is quite perfect, Mrs. Fullerton,” he said. “At once strong and well proportioned. You have got me thinking about the painting again. But I’ve hesitated to ask whether you’d sit for me. I know of course I’d have to make recompense for the time away from your own work.”
    As his hands dropped to his sides, and he regained his full height above me, I let out a little laugh.
    â€œA model for the ambiguous face, then?” I asked. I was a little startled by his closeness and familiarity, yet I felt a kind of tenderness in my response to his presence and his request. He alone among us worked in his linen painting shirts, open at the neck, spattered, often sweat-stained by the end of day. I had caught the strong scent of his flesh, not unpleasant, and saw his thick throat and the top of his deep chest while he bent to me and gently held my face. My feelings were an admixture of admiration, longing, and uncertainty. He was, to be sure, of my father’s generation, yet so unlike a father. And he was a man of such energy, of such passion for his calling, of such accomplishment, that I did not know quite what to make of my own odd feelings.
    I knew I wanted to pose for him, however, in his new undertaking. So after some moments of silence (how long I could not begin to say), I simply looked up at him and said yes. Yes, indeed, I would be delighted to play a role in such formidable work, even as a sitter.
    That fall, in short (I believe it was in early October) I began to sit for Mr. Spooner one day each week. But after the second sitting the painting did not go well, or at least Mr. Spooner was dissatisfied with his work. He could be even harsher in judging himself than in judging his apprentices or pupils. But I felt there was something more here, some deeper fault or difficulty or confusion he could not address yet. Two or three times he began all over again through those winter months, until at the end of February he threw the project aside and we dared not even speak of it. Or whenever he did mention it, his references were oblique and arose from an excess of wine.
    In May, however, he suddenly asked me if I would be willing to sit for him again, and it was just after I began to sit that my life abruptly changed once more. My lingering presentiments, as I have called them, proved at length to be all too substantial. The sudden, baleful change in my circumstances occurred as follows.
    After posing for Mr. Spooner one day, I returned at dusk to my rooms. Tom was out on some errand or adventure of his own. Fatigued, I undressed so that I might wash and change into a comfortable dressing gown, as was my habit after long days. But midway in my ablutions, a knock on my door announced a young lady in a well-cut dress and cloak of rather vulgar, strong colors. She presented herself as a friend of Julian Forrester who wished to make my acquaintance. She had heard