“The paintings…,” I repeated. “But the fallen ones-what has become of them?”
“Oh, some have left. With Adair’s blessing, of course. No one leaves without it. But they’re scattered like leaves in the wind… We rarely see them again.” He paused for a minute. “Though you have met Jude, now that I think of it. No loss, his departure. What a diabolical man, to pass himself off as a preacher. A sinner in saint’s clothing.” Dona laughed, as though it was the funniest thing he could conceive of, one of the damned masquerading as a preacher.
“You said only
Dona gave me a thinly malevolent smile. “Don’t pretend to be stupid. If it were possible to leave Adair, would Uzra still be here? You have been around Adair long enough to know that he’s neither careless nor sentimental. You either leave in his good graces or, well… he’s not about to leave someone behind to take revenge on him and reveal him to the wrong people, is he?” But this was the last Dona would say about our mysterious overlord. He glanced down at me and, seeming to think better of divulging anything more, swept out of the room, and left me to ponder all that he’d told me.
About this time, there was a commotion across the room, Jonathan rising abruptly from his chair. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I can bear it no longer,” he said, following Dona and leaving the disappointed artist to watch his good fortune walk out of the room. In the end, there never was a painting done of Jonathan, and Adair was forced to settle for a charcoal drawing that was subsequently framed under glass and kept in the study. What Adair didn’t know was that Jonathan was to be the last of his favorites to be immortalized in a portrait, that all of Adair’s peculiarities and schemes were about to be upended completely.
FORTY-ONE
After the success of the first night, Adair took Jonathan with him everywhere. Besides the usual evening diversions, he began finding things for the two of them to do together, leaving the rest of us on our own. Adair and Jonathan went to horse-racing meets in the country, dinners and debates at a gentlemen’s club, and attended lectures at Harvard College. I heard Adair took Jonathan to the most exclusive brothel in the city, where they picked a half dozen girls to attend to them both. The orgy seemed a sort of ritual meant to bind the two together, like a blood oath. Adair impatiently introduced Jonathan to all his favorite things: he piled novels on the nightstand beside Jonathan’s bed (the same ones he’d had me read when he’d taken me under his wing), had special meals prepared for him. There was even talk of going back to the old country so Jonathan could experience the great cities. It was as though Adair was determined to create a history for the two of them to share. He would make his life Jonathan’s. It was frightening to watch, but it did distract Jonathan. He hadn’t spoken of his fears for his family and the town since we left, though it had to be on his mind. Perhaps he was doing me a kindness by not speaking of it, since there was nothing we could do to change our situation.
It was after a little time had passed in this way, the two men spending much of their time in each other’s company, when Adair pulled me aside. The household was lounging in the sunroom, the three others teaching Jonathan the intricacies of betting in faro, Adair and I sitting on a divan watching like a contented father and mother admiring their brood at harmonious play.
“Now that I’ve been in the company of your Jonathan, I’ve come to form an opinion of him… Would you care to know what that is?” Adair said to me in a low voice so he wouldn’t be overheard. His gaze did not leave Jonathan as he spoke. “He’s not the man you think he is.”
“How do you know what I think of him?” I tried to sound confident but could not keep the quaver out of my voice.
“I know you think someday he will come to his senses and devote himself entirely to you,” he said sarcastically, indicating how little he cared for the idea.
Forsaking all others… Hadn’t Jonathan already vowed as much to one woman, for all the good it did? He probably hadn’t remained faithful to Evangeline for a month after they were wed. I settled a curdled smile on my lips; I wouldn’t give Adair the satisfaction of knowing he’d wounded me.
Adair shifted his weight on the divan, insouciantly crossing one leg over the other. “You shouldn’t take his inconstancy to heart. He’s not capable of such love, not for any woman. He’s not capable of putting anyone else’s needs before his own wants and desires. For instance, he told me it troubles him that he makes you so unhappy-”
I dug my fingernails hard into the back of one hand, but there was no pain to divert me.
“-but he is at a loss as to what to do about it. Whereas, to most men, the remedy would be obvious: either give the woman what she desires or break off with her entirely. But he still craves your company and so he cannot be done with you.” He sighed, a bit theatrically. “Do not despair. All hope is not lost. The day may come when he will be capable of loving one person, and there is a chance, however slight, that that person may be you.” And then he laughed.
I longed to slap him. To throw myself on top of Adair, circle his neck with my two hands, and throttle the life out of him.
“You are angry with me, I can feel it.” My impotent anger seemed to amuse him, too. “Angry with me for telling you the truth.”
“I’m angry with you,” I replied, “but it’s because you’re lying to me. You’re trying to crush my feelings for Jonathan.”
“I’ve managed to make you quite upset, haven’t I? Granted, I’ll allow that you can usually tell when I’m lying- and you’re the only one who seems to have that skill, my dear-but I’m not lying to you this time. I almost wish I was lying. Then you would not be so hurt, would you?”
It was too much to bear, being pitied by Adair at the same moment he was trying to turn me against Jonathan. I looked over at Jonathan as he peered over his cards to the pot in the middle of the table, absorbed in the faro game. I’d begun to find Jonathan’s presence a great comfort, like a resonant hum within me. Of late, though, I’d noticed a melancholy undercurrent from Jonathan, which I’d assumed was sadness for having left Evangeline and his daughter. If what Adair said was indeed true, might he not be melancholy for the unhappiness he caused me? It made me wonder for the first time if the obstacle to our love-the defect, as it were-lay with Jonathan and not me. For it seemed almost inhuman to be unable to give yourself over wholly to one person.
A trill of feminine laughter interrupted my thoughts, as Tilde threw down her cards in victory. Jonathan flashed a look back at her, and in that look, I knew that he had slept with her already. Slept with Tilde though he didn’t find her particularly alluring, though he knew to be wary of her, though he knew if I found out, I would be devastated. Despair lit up in me like flash paper, despair for what I was helpless to change.
“Such a waste.” Adair was at my ear instantaneously, like the serpent in the Garden. “You, Lanore, are capable of such a perfect love, a love like nothing I have ever seen. And why you choose to waste it on someone as unworthy as Jonathan…”
His whisper was like perfume on the night air. “What are you saying? Are you offering yourself up as a more worthy object of my love?” I asked, searching for the answer in his wolfish eyes.
“Would that you could love me, Lanore. If you really knew me, you would see I am unworthy of your love. But one day, perhaps you will look on me as you look on Jonathan, with the same favor? Impossible, it would seem, given your devotion to him, but who knows? I’ve seen the impossible happen, every once in a great long while,” he said slyly, but when I tried to ask him to explain himself, he merely wrinkled his nose and laughed. Then he rose from the divan and called to be dealt in on the next round of faro.
Ignored, I went into the study to find a book with which to divert myself. As I passed Adair’s desk, the light from my candle fell across a sheaf of papers left on the blotter and my eye went as though by magic to Jonathan’s name, written in Adair’s hand.
Why in the world would Adair be writing about Jonathan? A letter to a friend? I doubted he had a friend in the world. I held the pages closer to the candle.
