“Hence the subterfuge was made easier,” Beck said. “The child was yours and legitimate, but alas, as a legitimate child, also under Reynard’s authority. He went along with the scheme to put you, Polly, and Allie more firmly under his control, and probably saw the advantages to him from the start.”
“Of course,” Sara said, burying her face against Beck’s shoulder. “I think so far as he was capable, he loved Allie, but then when we visited England, she began to draw, and her talent was obvious.”
“No.” Sara shifted slightly. “The art is what drew them back together. Polly matured a great deal and loves Allie every bit as much as I do. But as my child, Allie would be legitimate, as you say. As Polly’s, she’d be a scandalous indiscretion and reflect poorly on Polly and me both. I’m not sorry we did what we did—even Allie seems to understand the why of it—I am sorry Reynard exploited the situation for his own advantage.”
“It can’t have been easy.” Beck’s lips found Sara’s crown. “Raising another woman’s child while she looks on.”
“It wasn’t, particularly when that woman is your younger sister and blames you for the child’s existence, when she’s not blaming herself, then berating herself for feeling any resentment, and on and on. It was during one of our periodic feuds that Reynard suggested to Polly the various nude studies of me.”
“They are breathtaking.”
He
“We’ll untangle it.”
He might have been referring to enlarging Hildegard’s wallow, for the simple conviction in his tone.
“We?” Sara tried to wiggle off his lap and was gently restrained. “Beckman, I have lied to you, about myself, my daughter, my sister, my past, my marriage. You have no responsibility to me or mine. None at all.”
“You are entitled to your privacy, Sara, but I’m going to ask you a question, and would have truth from you or nothing at all.”
“Don’t do this.” Sara tried to leave him again but was again gently dissuaded. “Beckman, you aren’t thinking clearly. You aren’t considering your situation.”
Beck looked straight at her, and God help him, his every emotion was in his beautiful blue eyes. “Sarabande Adagio Hunt… I love you. I love you, and I want to marry you if you’ll have me. Do you love me?”
She reared back, surprised.
“I can live with not marrying you,” Beck went on. “I can ask you to marry me twice a day for the next fifty years, or fifty times a day for two hundred years. The only real question is do you love me? Because if you love me, there is no way on God’s green and beautiful earth that I will walk away from you. There is no foreign land I will visit, no vice I will descend into, no family project I will turn my hand to. You are my home, and I was put on this earth to love you.” He slipped his arms from around her, leaving Sara at sea and desperate to find the shore.
“Do you love me, Sarabande Adagio? Can you love me? A drunk, a fool, a man who drove one woman to take her life and that of her unborn child, a man who nearly killed himself rather than admit his family loves him and he them? Can you, do you, love that man? For he certainly loves you.”
She shook her head slowly from side to side, her face turned from him. In the patient silence, a tear fell from her jaw onto the back of her hand.
“I love your courage,” Beck said softly, lifting her hand to kiss the spot where the tear glistened in the firelight. “I love your determination, your fire, and your tremendous heart. I love your passion and the way you protect your own. I love your unbending integrity and your tender feelings, your—”
Sara pitched into him, wrenching sobs breaking from her. He encircled her in his arms while she cried for the exhausted, bewildered, mean, angry years of her marriage. She cried for herself and Allie and Polly. She cried for her brother and her parents and for the girl she’d been and never would be again.
And then she cried in relief, because she could, because Beckman Haddonfield must truly love her to hold her this way, to bear her secrets and Allie’s and Polly’s. To trust her and wait for her and trust her yet more. When she had cried herself out, she rested in his arms, absorbing the warmth and strength of him for long minutes.
Beck’s chin came to rest on her crown. “Shall I take that for a yes?”
“You may.” Sara unwadded the handkerchief she didn’t recall Beck passing to her. “But I want to say it.”
“I want to hear it. As often as you like, for the rest of my life.”
“I love you, Beckman Sylvanus Haddonfield,” Sara said, her voice hitching in the aftermath of her tears. “I love you, Beck.”
“Practice as often as you please. I love you, and I will love hearing you say it.”
“I love you.” Sara rose and extended a hand. “I love you. I will always love you. It’s a rainy afternoon, we have hours of privacy, and I love you.”
In the years to come, they often stole away for hours of privacy on rainy afternoons. Sometimes Sara would play her violin for Beck, and sometimes they’d pass hours in loving each other without words.
Other times, they’d talk, and Sara would drowse on Beck’s chest, enthralled with the music of his voice and the melodies of his hands on her naked body. Whether they loved silently or with noisy, unbridled passion, secrets never again had the power to separate them or to dim the love they shared for the rest of their lives.
A significant question for me as this story wandered into my imagination was whether there are child prodigies among the painters. Mozart is the quintessential musical wundkerkind, but I hadn’t come across his like elsewhere in the arts. I asked the art historians in my family (we have two) if they knew of such, and the example that came immediately to mind was Pablo Picasso. A little nosing around also brought to light the example of Sir Thomas Lawrence, who was contributing to his family’s upkeep significantly with his sketching by the time he was ten years old. Sir Thomas went on to lead the Royal Academy, and his portraits continue to delight us to this day.
A yet more interesting case was that of Angelica Kauffmann, a Swiss-Austrian lady who became one of two female founding members of the Royal Academy. By the time she was thirteen, Angelica was painting portraits professionally, and she went on to trade portraits with Sir Joshua Reynolds. Alas for the ladies, when the two female founding members of the Academy died, it took more than a century for that august body to again admit a female artist as a Royal Academician.
I love this story, love a tale of people wandering far from home for all the wrong reasons, people who then (eventually) find the courage to come back to the love they need and deserve. Credit goes to my editor, Deb Werksman, for choosing Beckman and Sara’s tale over some less unconventional offerings, and for making time in the middle of a tempest to give the story a thorough buffing.
As always, Skye, Cat, Susie, and Danielle are manning various oars to row the manuscript along, and I cannot thank them often enough.
I’d also like to thank my parents, who early and often in my childhood loaded as many as five children into a station wagon and drove us coast to coast of a summer holiday. We learn things when we leave home, and we learn things when we come home, too.
