“I didn’t get on well with my father,” he said. “I avoided him. I spent every possible hour outside, painting.” She could feel him moving closer, though he made no noise. It was implicit in the way the air moved, in the way soft eddies of warmth and scent curled past the wisps of her hair, changed the folds of her dress. “When I grew tired of painting the moor, I turned to the forest. It occurred to me that there were very few forest paintings around. An untapped niche.”
“Ah, a mercenary,” she said. With her head turned away she was a different Jane, a Jane who still had a brother and a mother, a Jane who had taken this job as a calling to help Dorie, and not also because she was desperate. This Jane could flirt, she could tease, she could even call him “Edward.” As long as she didn’t turn and look at him, the moment would hold.
“In my head I would be the bravest artist of them all—and the wealthiest besides,” he said, and there was laughter in his voice. “You don’t have to give up your artistic merit for riches if everyone knows you were tremendously brave to get that painting.”
“I thought people with ancestral estates and good family names were supposed to despise the acquisition of money,” said Jane.
“Ah, but I didn’t get on with my father, remember? I was going to show him—show them all.”
“Wicked child,” said Jane. “Won’t go to parties, defies his parents, goes into the woods … it’s impossible to see where Dorie gets it from.”
“And you?” he said. His voice was rough; it caught at her, intense and burred. “Where do you get your stubbornness from? Your independent streak? Your strange, fierce spirit? Where?”
There was a sound from behind the far door and she turned, startled, and her eyes met his. He did not turn to look for the source of the noise, but no matter. The instant he saw her face in its mask, the other Jane popped like a burst bubble and she was plain damaged Jane Eliot again.
“Are Martha’s quarters on this floor?” she said.
“No.” He leaned forward, urgency in his voice—deep, tense—passion in his simple words. “Tell me who you are.”
She started to speak, though not knowing what she’d say—but then the door opened and a lovely woman sailed out.
Her face was perfectly symmetrical, carefully chiseled, framed by a mane of red hair, by a chain of aquamarines at her white throat. She glanced in the mirror at her perfect reflection, then beamed at Edward. “In the pink of health, I knew it. You are divine, dear, but I must run.” She saw Jane and her fine eyes widened. “Is this a new one?” She crossed to them and leaned in confidentially to Jane. “You’ll just love him. We all do.” She kissed Edward on the cheek, whispered something in his ear. A flash of worry flickered on her pretty face, her shoulders tensed, as she told him something Jane couldn’t hear. Then she was sailing toward the door, all smiles again. “See you in a few weeks for that coming out you’ve promised me. Don’t worry about me, I can see myself out.”
Edward shook his head at Jane. “Just a moment.” He hurried after the beautiful woman and ushered her to the stairwell door, his head close to hers. Jane saw his finger touch the woman’s rose petal cheek before she managed to look away.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said as he returned. “Miss Ingel is a client. I didn’t want you to think—”
“There’s something familiar about her,” Jane interrupted. A familiar anger coiled around her heart, suffused her head.
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that you’d know her.”
“We’re not in the same social circle, no,” Jane said dryly. Though he had betrayed no covenant with her, she felt hideous and ashamed; humiliation made her hostile. “Did she buy one of your masks?”
“Yes,” he said.
“They are popular, then? I can’t understand it.”
“Yes. I take it you wouldn’t want one.”
“I wouldn’t want to bring more ugliness into the world.”
“I understand,” he said. “Jane…,” and he took her hand.
The familiarity of her first name on his lips infuriated her. He had the upper hand; people like him always would. People like her had to be grateful for crumbs. She had nothing, she was no one, and she was a great big fool in her sister’s dress and shoes, mooning out the window, feeling linen touch her thighs and dreaming of a different present.
“Of course you understand,” she said, and jerked away. “Why wouldn’t you?” The rows of masks watched her every move. “I like your daughter just fine. The house isn’t even that weird.” She licked dry lips as the orange rage erased all wit and tact from her tongue. “It’s you. You and your horrible artwork scare people off.”
Chapter 8
MOONLIGHT
“Jane,” he said to that, but she was gone. His voice echoed down the stairs behind her. Her flight stopped on the landing with the mirrors, the one that flung your reflection back on you, as if you were coming to meet yourself from the other end of the staircase.
She stopped, breathing hard, watching the girl in the iron mask. Between heartbeats she listened to the stairs above.
But he did not follow.