The Portrait Read online

  THE

  PORTRAIT

  Megan Chance

  Other Books by Megan Chance:

  Historical Fiction:

  Susannah Morrow

  An Inconvenient Wife

  The Spiritualist

  Prima Donna

  City of Ash

  Historical Romance:

  A Candle in the Dark

  After the Frost

  A Heart Divided

  Fall from Grace

  The Way Home

  The Gentleman Caller

  A Season in Eden

  Original Copyright ©1995 Megan Chance

  Ebook version Copyright ©2011 Megan Chance

  Cover photo courtesy Brown Brothers, 1870

  New York Public Library Digital Gallery

  ISBN -13: 9781936632015

  ISBN 10: 1936632012

  To my sister, Robyn For all those years of love and pain and joy,

  And for the best gift of all: Morgan

  And to Rob Cohen, for years of believing

  In a dark time, the eye begins to see,

  What's madness but nobility of soul

  At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!

  —Theodore Roethke

  Chapter 1

  New York City, Late October 1855

  She was finally here.

  Imogene Carter paused in front of the door.

  The astringent fumes of turpentine and paint filled her nostrils, along with the scents of musty halls and crumbling plaster and dust.

  The smells of possibility.

  Her stomach tightened. Possibility. The word was as frightening as it was exciting. Her entire future hung on this interview. She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt, trying to ease her nervous tension. She couldn't afford it—not today. She had to be clear-headed and calm. Her father would never forgive her if she failed.

  "Are you sure about this, my dear?"

  Her godfather spoke from beside her, and she turned to look at him, noting the lines of worry marking his face, the concern in his expression.

  She nodded shortly and tried to give him a reassuring smile. "I'm sure. I want this. Really I do."

  Thomas hesitated a second too long. For a moment she was afraid he would refuse to go through with this, but finally he ran a hand through his snowy white hair and sighed in resignation. "Very well then," he said. "As you wish." He rapped sharply on the door. There was no answer.

  He frowned and rapped again.

  Still no answer. Imogene held her breath, waiting. "He knows we're coming, doesn't he?"

  "Yes, of course." Thomas knocked more impatiently. "Whitaker! Whitaker, are you in there? Speak up, man!"

  "Come in." The voice that came from behind the door sounded far away and harsh with irritation.

  Imogene threw an uncertain glance at her godfather, but he only gave her a quick shake of his head and pushed the lever, swinging open the door to usher her inside.

  Imogene stopped short, unable to keep from staring. The scents of turpentine and paint were stronger here, along with those of linseed oil and must, but now there were more than just smells. Cold sunshine filtered through the windows at one end of the large room, lighting the paint-spattered planked floor and a huge table laden with half-finished canvases and stretching wedges and jars of fixing oil that glowed like honey in the sun.

  There were paintings everywhere—hanging on the high-ceilinged walls, leaning in corners, piled one against the other. Some were even painted directly onto the plaster—there was a roughly drawn scene of an entwined couple and a fully realized still life that covered the bottom half of the far wall, so beautifully colored that the pears seemed to loom out of the plaster, ripe and succulent.

  So many images, so many colors. It took her breath away, leaving her to stare in fascination and yearning.

  This was what she'd wanted, what she'd hoped for. The dream her father had given her came rushing back, easing her nerves, so heady and magnificent she felt strong at the thought of it. She could become an artist here. She could be everything Chloe had been. She could make her father proud.

  Smiling, she started to turn to Thomas, and stopped at the sight of the man standing in the light of the blindingly bright window.

  Her excitement died as quickly as it had come; her tension came crashing back. The man—it had to be Jonas Whitaker—was staring at a huge canvas before him, his long dark hair straggling over his shoulders, his presence filling the room even though he didn't look at them. In fact, he seemed oblivious to the fact that they were even there. His concentration was focused on the easel, his brow furrowed between heavy, dark brows.

  He was nothing like she'd expected. She'd imagined someone like . . . like . . . Nicholas. Someone charming and beautiful and artistic. Someone with grace in every movement and smiles in his eyes. But this man was nothing like her sister's fiancé. This man was overwhelming. Somehow unnerving.

  Beside her, Thomas spoke in his smooth, comforting voice. "Whitaker, this is Imogene Carter, the student I told you about."

  Jonas Whitaker didn't look up. He didn't move. Finally Thomas cleared his throat and stepped forward again. "Whit—"

  "You said the name was Carter?" Whitaker kept his eyes on the painting. His voice was deep, so melodious it surprised Imogene when she heard words instead of music. "Of the Charleston Carters?"

  She shook her head. "No. Of Nashville."

  "Nashville." The artist eased the word past tight lips, lifted a brow, tilted his head. "Ah. The little Rome of America."

  With an oddly stiff motion he set aside his pallet and turned to face them. His profile had been sharp—a straight hawklike nose, a short chiseled chin, deep-set eyes—but when he faced them that sharpness seemed to fade. His nose became only straight and well shaped, his jaw long, drawing out the oval of his face. Yet his cheekbones were still high and distinct, and his thin lips had an air of arrogant amusement in their set —as if he were aware of some cruel joke even as the rest of the world was foolishly naive.

  And his eyes seemed to pierce right through her.

  She stood steady beneath his gaze even though her heart was pounding, even as she saw the judgment in his eyes, the unwavering scrutiny in his expression. It was absurd how closely he studied her, as if he could somehow gauge her talent just by looking.

  She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. The moment she did, he turned away.

  He glanced at Thomas. "Can she draw?"

  His dismissal of her was humiliatingly complete.

  Thomas didn't seem to notice. "She's spent the last three years at Atkinson's in Nashville."

  "Atkinson's? What's that? Some finishing school?"

  "There's not much else in Nashville, I'm afraid," Imogene interjected apologetically. "But I've studied watercolor—"

  "I don't teach watercolors."

  "Her father thinks she may find her real talent in oils," Thomas put in calmly. "Even tempera."

  Jonas Whitaker looked at him quizzically, a small smile on his lips. "Her father? Has he studied art then? He knows something about talent?"

  His tone was insulting. Imogene resisted the urge to wince and glanced at her godfather. Thomas didn't look at her. His gaze was focused unflinchingly on Whitaker, and when he spoke she heard a hard and unfamiliar tone in his voice. "Samuel studied art in Rome when he was a young man. He trained his oldest daughter, Chloe, and she was well regarded as an artist in her own right."

  Imogene felt a stab of pain at his words, a wave of grief and guilt that only grew more intense when Whitaker frowned and looked at her.

  "Chloe?" he asked, looking confused. "If she's the artist, why isn't she here?"

  Imogene felt Thomas's hand on her arm, a reassuring presence. "Chloe died fi
ve years ago," he said in a quiet voice.

  Whitaker said nothing. His lips tightened, and his eyes grew even more assessing as he looked at her. He was going to refuse her, she thought. He was going to say no, and the knowledge brought desperation surging into her blood, a despair so great she couldn't stand it.

  Anxiously she tried to think of something to change his mind. Chloe—of course, what would Chloe have done? Imogene brought the image of her sister firmly into her mind, pictured Chloe's vibrance, her smile, her radiant blond beauty. Chloe would step past him and grab the brush from the easel and show him she could paint. She would force him to say yes.

  In Imogene's mind, she saw it. In her mind, she felt it. She pulled the image to herself and took strength from it, imagined she was Chloe as she looked back at him, right into those clear green eyes, and took a step toward him—

  Whitaker turned back to his easel.

  The vision fell away. But before she could speak or plead or do anything at all, Whitaker spoke.

  "Monday morning, nine sharp. Bring your own supplies."

  She stared blankly at him, sure she couldn't have heard him correctly. But then she glanced at Thomas and saw his smile, and she knew she hadn't been imagining things. It was no dream.

  Relief made her so weak she grabbed on to the back of a chair for support.

  "Well then, we'll leave you to your work," Thomas said.

  Imogene glanced at Whitaker. He had forgotten them already. He was looping his palette back over his gloved thumb, and she knew he wouldn't say another word, that in his mind they were already gone. It didn't matter; she didn't care. He'd given her the chance she wanted, had done what she needed him to do. She imagined what her father would say when he found out Whitaker had accepted her, imagined his smiling expression, the warmth of his words. "You have made me very proud, Imogene. Why, you've done as well as Chloe could have, damn me if you haven't."

  They were the words she'd waited her entire life for, words of acceptance, of love, and Imogene knew this was finally her chance to hear them, her chance to be the daughter her father had always wanted, the daughter he'd lost when Chloe died.

  This time, she wouldn't fail.

  Not this time.

  Jonas stared at the canvas before him, trying to concentrate on the sketched lines and curves, trying to ignore the footsteps hurrying down the warped floorboards of the hallway. But each one grated, every squeak accentuated his anger and blackened his thoughts until the painting before him became nothing more than a collection of lines—all flawed, each one mocking.

  It was supposed to be his masterpiece, the vision he'd held in his head for years—a reclining nude, a wash of pale color against a dark background, an unforgiving, uncompromising courtesan. He'd dreamed about it, blended colors in his imagination, pictured the perfect subtlety of chiaroscuro in his mind, and now he was finally turning years of dreaming into the smooth, liquid reality of paint.

  But it was a failure already. He had just finished the underdrawing, and yet his passion for the idea was gone, the fire had left him. He'd attributed it at first to the model. She was a silly little coquette, the dancer- mistress of a friend of his, who liked the notoriety of posing nude but contributed little else to the portrait. There was certainly no flash of intelligence behind her eyes.

  Though he didn't need intellect. She was fine for his purposes; she had the right curves and the dark, lustrous hair of his vision. No, the problem wasn't her.

  It wasn't his skill that was lacking either. He was ready for this, had been ready practically since the idea first came upon him at Barbizon four years ago.

  No, neither of those things was the problem. Before today, he had known that something about the painting wasn't working, but he hadn't known what. Now he did. Now he knew exactly why his vision had left him.

  It was because of the footsteps fading down the length of the hall. It was because of Gosney. It was because of Imogene Carter.

  The thought brought a quick, burning surge of anger. Jonas jerked the palette from his hand, throwing it aside, hearing it clatter to the floor with a grim sense of satisfaction. Christ, he hated this. Hated it with an intensity he couldn't remember feeling in a long time. Gosney, in his elegance, had made it all seem like a grandiose favor, as if Jonas had volunteered to teach Imogene Carter out of the kindness of his heart, as if it were a generous and unselfish gesture.

  But then, he supposed blackmail was too nasty a word for a gentleman like Thomas Gosney.

  Jonas snorted. No, Gosney would never use the word blackmail, but there was no other way to describe what the man had done to him. Today's interview was a farce, nothing more; it was just a way for Jonas to pretend he had some sort of power, a way to maintain whatever dignity he had left. He had kept them waiting because he wanted to make Gosney uncomfortable, and he'd ignored them because he hated to be interrupted.

  In the end, these little manipulations meant nothing. Both he and Gosney knew he had already acceded to Gosney's "request." He would teach his patron's goddaughter because Gosney had threatened to withdraw his patronage if he didn't, and they both knew the effect that would have on Jonas's career. Though Jonas usually preferred to forget that Gosney had created him—or at least, created a market for his work—it was the truth. New Yorkers were like sheep; they didn't know what they were supposed to like until they were told to like it. Two years ago Thomas Gosney had told them to like Jonas Whitaker.

  Jonas frowned. Gosney was an important and influential man. If he removed his support, Jonas knew his other patrons would melt away as well, the money would disappear. He had already lived his starving artist years, and he had no desire to do it again, despite the contempt he felt for most of the well-heeled, well- padded men who paid him to ensure their immortality.

  The follies of the rich, he thought, absently rubbing his aching left arm. Unfortunately, he made his living from those follies, and the hell of it was, before a few weeks ago, he'd liked Gosney well enough. The man was generous with his money and his praise, and he demanded little enough in return: a portrait of his wife, a landscape of the Hudson River covered with ice. Jonas had been lucky. Gosney's patronage had been a blessing. Until now.

  Until Imogene Carter.

  Jonas studied the canvas before him without seeing it, thinking about the woman who had just left. Imogene Carter. He couldn't say now what she looked like, even though it had only been moments ago that she'd stood in the middle of his studio. She was nothing but a bundle of gray wool and pale violet, and a wan oval face with big brown eyes that stared out at him from beneath an atrocity of a puce satin bonnet.

  He didn't need to know more to know what kind of a woman she was. He'd seen her kind before, the cossetted, easily dismissed ladies of society—women who played at watercolors and drew pretty little houses in the country. Women who believed they had talent even

  though they were, at best, remedial sketchers who understood nothing about proportion and less about art. Women who swooned at the sight of a nude.

  Yet he had agreed to teach her how to paint. The idea was absurd. Laughable. Infuriating. Christ, he didn't have the patience to deal with some coddled goddaughter, especially one who would faint the first time he brought a live model into the studio. One who would run at the first harsh word. . . .

  Jonas closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wondering—again—why the hell Gosney had chosen him to be Miss Carter's tutor. Though Gosney had never been crass enough to say it, Jonas assumed his patron had heard the rumors; maybe even passed them along himself. God knew everyone else had.

  Perhaps Gosney believed Jonas felt some kind of obligation to him. An obligation that would make him think twice before he harmed the sweet, bland Miss Carter. If so, it was most unfortunate. Patronage had never made a difference to Jonas when it came to his behavior. Nothing did.

  That was the hell of it.

  He pushed the thought away. Damn, he was trapped. He couldn't afford to lose Gosney's patronage,
and yet he couldn't stand to be controlled by the man either. Not over some untalented watercolorist who knew nothing about the world except what she'd learned in some backwater finishing school.

  Jonas thought back to the way she'd looked standing there beside Gosney—shapeless and nervous, spoiled and too sheltered—and he thought again: the kind of woman who would run at the first harsh word . . . He stared at the window, frowning. Imogene Carter was the kind of woman who would run. Whatever she'd learned in that finishing school in Nashville, it wouldn't be enough to prepare her for his lessons. One day of honest criticism, maybe two, and she would fly nervously back to her watercolors and her mama.

  The thought was compelling. As compelling as the knowledge that if Miss Carter left his tutelage on her own, he would owe nothing to Gosney. If she made the decision not to continue, Jonas could not only keep his reputation—as marred as it was—he could also keep Gosney's patronage.

  The beauty of it was that it would require nothing of him except that he be himself, that he treat her no differently from his three other students—the young men who had studied in Rome or at the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris before their parents had cut short their support and they had come to him. Students who had seen the great Dutch and Italian masters. Students who had a passion for art and a talent, but who still felt insecure enough to squirm beneath his exacting eye.

  There was not a finishing-school watercolorist among them.

  He remembered Imogene Carter standing there, exuding fragility, one of the delicate flowers of Nashville society.

  He could destroy her with a word.

  And he would even enjoy it.

  Chapter 2

  He woke to the sound of whispering, to murmurs that stole through the thin walls

  separating his alcove bedroom from the studio, to hushed movement that sent the tapestry guarding the entrance swaying slightly. Jonas glanced at the pocket watch dangling from the scarred wooden post of his bed, groaning silently when he saw the time. Nine-ten. Christ, he'd overslept.