The smile had set her body aflame.
As Beth turned to make another agitated pass through her room, she heard a muffled sound through the walls. She knew the sound, had heard it often from herself after Thomas had died. She’d lain alone in her plain bedroom in Mrs. Barrington’s house and wept.
Drawing her wrapper around her, Beth hurried next door to Isabella’s room. Tapping on the door brought no response, so she pushed her way in.
The gaslights had been turned low, and a weak yellow glow filtered through the room. Depressing. Beth turned up a light to reveal Isabella on a chaise longue, her head in her hands. Isabella’s long hair poured over her back like a scarlet curtain, and she wept in choked, heaving sobs. Beth slid next to her, her hand on Isabella’s satiny hair.
“Darling, what is it?”
Isabella jerked her head up. Her face was blotchy and tear-streaked. “Go away.”
“No.” Beth lifted a curl from Isabella’s cheek. “I’ve cried alone like this before. It’s a terrible thing.” Isabella regarded her with streaming green eyes before she flung her arms around Beth’s neck. Beth held her close, stroking her hair.
“Mac was at the ball tonight,” Isabella sobbed.
“Oh, dear.”
“The comtesse invited us both to see what would happen when we saw each other. The bitch.”
Beth agreed. “What did happen?”
Isabella raised her head. “He utterly ignored me. Pretended he didn’t see me, and I pretended I didn’t see him.” She made a sound of anguish. “But, oh, Beth, I love him so much.”
“I know, dearest.”
“I want to hate him. I wish I could hate him. I try so hard, but I can’t. I’m usually brave about it. But when I saw him tonight…”
Beth rocked her a little. “I know.”
“You can’t know. Your husband died, but it’s not the same. You know he loved you, and he’s always in your heart. But whenever I see Mac, the knife twists so hard. He loved me once, before it all went wrong.” The last word elongated into a sob. Beth held her close, resting her cheek against Isabella’s hair. Beth’s heart ached. She’d seen the strain in Isabella’s eyes, and she’d seen the hard weariness in Mac’s. It was none of her business, but she wished she could put it right.
Isabella raised her head again and wiped her eyes. “I want to show you something.”
“Later, Isabella. You should rest.”
“No. I want you to understand.”
Isabella rose, pushing back her hair, and padded across the room to her wardrobe. She opened it and extracted a small picture wrapped in cloth. Isabella carried it to her bed, laid it reverently on the mattress, and stripped off the cloths. Beth caught her breath. The painting showed Isabella sitting on the edge of a tumbled bed. A sheet slid provocatively down her shoulder, baring one prefect breast, and a swirl of hair peeped from the join of her thighs. Isabella was looking away from the painter, her red hair caught in a loose knot at the base of her neck. Despite the subject—a woman just rising from the bed of her lover—the portrait was in no way lewd or indecorous. The muted colors were elegantly cool, with Isabella’s hair and a sprig of bright yellow roses the only vivid colors. It was the portrait of a beloved, painted by a man who regarded his wife as his lover. It was also, if Beth was any judge, an amazingly good painting. The light, the shadows, the composition, the color—so much captured on one small canvas. The painter had signed the corner with a flourish:
Mac Mackenzie.
“You see?” Isabella said softly. “He really is a genius.”
Beth pressed her hands together. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”
“He painted that the morning after we married. He did the sketch right there in the bedroom, then painted it in his studio. Slapdash, he called it, but he said he couldn’t stop himself.”
“You are right, Isabella. He did love you.”
Silent tears slid down Isabella’s cheeks. “You should have seen me
As Beth turned to make another agitated pass through her room, she heard a muffled sound through the walls. She knew the sound, had heard it often from herself after Thomas had died. She’d lain alone in her plain bedroom in Mrs. Barrington’s house and wept.
Drawing her wrapper around her, Beth hurried next door to Isabella’s room. Tapping on the door brought no response, so she pushed her way in.
The gaslights had been turned low, and a weak yellow glow filtered through the room. Depressing. Beth turned up a light to reveal Isabella on a chaise longue, her head in her hands. Isabella’s long hair poured over her back like a scarlet curtain, and she wept in choked, heaving sobs. Beth slid next to her, her hand on Isabella’s satiny hair.
“Darling, what is it?”
Isabella jerked her head up. Her face was blotchy and tear-streaked. “Go away.”
“No.” Beth lifted a curl from Isabella’s cheek. “I’ve cried alone like this before. It’s a terrible thing.” Isabella regarded her with streaming green eyes before she flung her arms around Beth’s neck. Beth held her close, stroking her hair.
“Mac was at the ball tonight,” Isabella sobbed.
“Oh, dear.”
“The comtesse invited us both to see what would happen when we saw each other. The bitch.”
Beth agreed. “What did happen?”
Isabella raised her head. “He utterly ignored me. Pretended he didn’t see me, and I pretended I didn’t see him.” She made a sound of anguish. “But, oh, Beth, I love him so much.”
“I know, dearest.”
“I want to hate him. I wish I could hate him. I try so hard, but I can’t. I’m usually brave about it. But when I saw him tonight…”
Beth rocked her a little. “I know.”
“You can’t know. Your husband died, but it’s not the same. You know he loved you, and he’s always in your heart. But whenever I see Mac, the knife twists so hard. He loved me once, before it all went wrong.” The last word elongated into a sob. Beth held her close, resting her cheek against Isabella’s hair. Beth’s heart ached. She’d seen the strain in Isabella’s eyes, and she’d seen the hard weariness in Mac’s. It was none of her business, but she wished she could put it right.
Isabella raised her head again and wiped her eyes. “I want to show you something.”
“Later, Isabella. You should rest.”
“No. I want you to understand.”
Isabella rose, pushing back her hair, and padded across the room to her wardrobe. She opened it and extracted a small picture wrapped in cloth. Isabella carried it to her bed, laid it reverently on the mattress, and stripped off the cloths. Beth caught her breath. The painting showed Isabella sitting on the edge of a tumbled bed. A sheet slid provocatively down her shoulder, baring one prefect breast, and a swirl of hair peeped from the join of her thighs. Isabella was looking away from the painter, her red hair caught in a loose knot at the base of her neck. Despite the subject—a woman just rising from the bed of her lover—the portrait was in no way lewd or indecorous. The muted colors were elegantly cool, with Isabella’s hair and a sprig of bright yellow roses the only vivid colors. It was the portrait of a beloved, painted by a man who regarded his wife as his lover. It was also, if Beth was any judge, an amazingly good painting. The light, the shadows, the composition, the color—so much captured on one small canvas. The painter had signed the corner with a flourish:
Mac Mackenzie.
“You see?” Isabella said softly. “He really is a genius.”
Beth pressed her hands together. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”
“He painted that the morning after we married. He did the sketch right there in the bedroom, then painted it in his studio. Slapdash, he called it, but he said he couldn’t stop himself.”
“You are right, Isabella. He did love you.”
Silent tears slid down Isabella’s cheeks. “You should have seen me
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