After Innocence (19 page)

She stalked forward, purring, “Jake. I’ll bring Sofie. Later. I promise.”

He stared at her, unmoving and skeptical.

She paused before him and touched his chest very lightly. “I love you. You know it. I know you know it, because of what I do to you when we’re alone, when we’re in bed.” Her tone had dropped, low and sultry. “Do you think I do those things to other men?”

Jake made a sound of bitter laughter. “I know you do.”

Her heart thundered. “That’s not fair. It’s not true. And there wouldn’t be anyone else, not if you would stop being so stubborn and so headstrong.”

“Cut the crap, Suzanne,” Jake warned.

The danger in his tone made her swell and grow slick. Suzanne smiled seductively and touched his shoulders. He flinched. She pressed her warm, pulsing sex against his groin. The guards were probably enjoying this, too.

“I love you. I always have,” she whispered, rubbing against him. And she was rewarded, because he hardened instantly.

She was triumphant. “You still want me!”

“I’ve been behind bars and without a woman for a month, Suzanne; what other reaction would you expect?” He laughed in her face and pushed her away. “You love my cock, Suzanne, not me.”

She paled.

“Get out.” His eyes blazed, filled with fury. “But if you don’t bring Sofie to me, today, I will get back at you—I swear it. I’ll find a way, even from prison.”

“Sofie!” she cried. “Always Sofie! I do hate you, Jake, I do!” With that, she turned, crying and humiliated and furious and suddenly glad he was being extradited, yes, glad, damn him, and she banged on the door, demanding to be let out.

And that night, while he rotted in his cell, she stayed at home, unable to sleep. But she was not alone.

*    *    *

Suzanne brushed the tears from her eyes, hating Jake all over again as she had that day for rejecting her. She had not brought Sofie back to visit him. Suzanne regretted her foolish pride and her childish desire to hurt Jake by denying him a last visit with their daughter. Two years later he had escaped prison in England and been killed in a fire, so neither she nor Sofie had ever seen him again.

She was older now, and wiser. There was so much she would do differently if she could. She knew now that she should have returned with Sofie. If she had been a mature adult instead of a selfish child, she and Jake might have parted as lovers should, instead of in anger, as enemies would.

She thought about the trust he had left for Sofie, a direct result of her behavior that day. Her anger swelled in spite of any and all logic. Jake had been the one imprisoned, he had been the one to die, but he had made good his threat. As he had promised, he had struck back at her, even from prison, getting far more than even with her.

Suzanne closed her eyes. Whenever she thought about Sofie’s trust, which she frequently used to buy lavish clothing and gifts and even jewels for herself, she felt guilt as well as anger.

Suzanne had also embezzled several hundred thousand dollars from the estate, which was now in her own private banking account. Sofie still had plenty of funds left over, and would never know that anything was missing. Whenever her conscience intruded, reminding her that she had stolen from her own daughter, whom she loved, Suzanne would switch it off, reassuring herself that she was owed every single penny she had taken.

Suzanne sighed. She would do more than change that day at Randall’s Island if she could. If she could, she would have changed it all. It was hard to remember, now, so many years later, why she had been so angry at Jake almost from the start of their marriage. It was that anger, and the neglect she felt from him, that had led her astray, and his apparent indifference to her behavior had only made
her more flamboyant in her infidelity. If only she’d had a hair of the wisdom she had now.

But even if she’d been less wild and willful, Suzanne wasn’t sure their relationship would have been any different. From the beginning, theirs had been a tempestuous and volatile, sometimes violent, union; Jake had been as arrogant and proud as she. But for every instance of hell, there had been at least one instance of heaven.

Suzanne did not want to remember any of it, not the good, not the bad. She lay beside her second husband, staring up at the ceiling, tears streaking her cheeks as she cried silently over the past.

She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, swallowing a ragged sigh. Suzanne could not let the same thing happen to Sofie. Surely a daughter should profit from the mother’s mistakes. Motherhood had not come naturally to her as it did to some women. But after Jake had been incarcerated, she had become a capable and concerned parent, and over the years, Suzanne had realized just how much she loved her daughter. She loved Sofie more than anything or anyone, except perhaps Jake. She had been protecting her from life ever since the accident—ever since Jake had died. She could not cease her vigilance now, not when it was more crucial man ever.

Suzanne decided that this time she would ignore Benjamin’s advice. This time she would reassure herself personally that all was as it should be in New York City.

S
ofie had directed him to the best gallery in the city, which had recently moved uptown to Thirty-sixth Street on Fifth Avenue. Edward paused outside the Gallery Durand-Ruel, one of the world’s most renowned dealers, with offices in New York, Paris, and London. His clients included some of the greatest collectors in the world.

Edward had learned that he had bought and sold a small number of Impressionist paintings over the past few years, mostly Monet, but also Degas, and mostly upon the request of his clients. Edward knew little about art, but had made it his business in the last two days to find out more. He had visited a number of gallerys and museums. His untrained eye, after much intense scrutiny of many different works of art, finally told him that Sofie’s work was similar to that of the French Impressionists she so admired. Yet it was different, too; he could not easily look at a soft Degas rendering of ballet dancers and exclaim, “Ahh, Sofie paints just like that!” because she did not. Her style was unique and entirely her own.

The tricolored flag of France waved atop the store’s temple-fronted entrance. Edward stepped inside. Pale carpeted floors stretched away. He was in a single, large showroom. Art of all sizes and subjects, mostly paintings, hung on the blue-gray walls and were stacked all around the gallery. A few sculptures stood on pedestals. Almost every inch of space was being used to show the art for sale. Edward paused to glance at one small sculpture, a beautiful figure of a nude woman in bronze, and he read the plate: Auguste Rodin.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Edward turned to see a nondescript young man in a dark gray suit and tie. “Mr. Durand-Ruel?”

The young man smiled. “Monsieur Durand-Ruel is out of town, sir, purchasing Manet’s
La Buveur d’eau
.” He smiled, as if expecting an eager response from Edward, who only smiled back. “But perhaps I can help you? I am his son.”

“Perhaps you can. Monsieur, I am not a buyer; in fact, I am not very familiar with an. But I do think I know brilliant work when I see it, and I have stumbled upon a young artist whose work I would like you to see.”

The younger Durand-Ruel’s smile had faded. “Indeed? And who is the artist? Perhaps I know of him already.”

“He is a she. Her name is Sofie O’Neil.”

His brows lifted. “A woman? An Irishwoman?”

“She is an American.”

“That is hardly better. Our clients favor the French artists; surely you know that.”

“You do not sell the work of Americans?” Edward asked, surprised.

“We do fairly well with Thomas Eakins, and of course, Mary Cassatt. I have no Cassatts for sale at the moment, but I do have an Eakins.
Vièns avec moi,
I will show you.”

Edward, somewhat dismayed, followed the now enthused young man across the room. His dismay grew when he was faced with a large portrait that was as different from Sofie’s work as could be. It was painted very realistically, and it was very dark. “How much is this?” he asked, curious.

“We might be able to get a thousand for it, as Mr. Eakins has a reputation.”

“He is the only American you sell here?”

“Once in a while we might sell something else, but usually from an expatriate living abroad, like Cassatt. We deal heavily in the French art of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, and there is always a great demand for the seventeenth-century Dutch masters. And recently there has been some demand for Goya.” Seeing Edward’s confusion, he said patiently, “He is a Spanish painter of the early nineteenth century who would be unknown except that our
greatest clients, Mr. and Mrs. Havemeyer, have discovered him and wish to buy much more of his work.”

“A collector can do that? Create a demand for a previously unknown artist?” Edward was amazed—and hopeful.

“Only if they buy a good deal of that artist’s work. That of course, inflates the value of that art.”

Edward felt certain that, should Sofie wind up in this exclusive gallery, she would be discovered quickly by some great collector. “Twice you’ve mentioned a woman artist. Who is Mary Cassatt?”

“She is another great artist, renowned for her treatment of the subject of mother and child. Sometimes she is mistakenly labeled one of the Impressionists, but in truth, her mature style is all her own. She is American, but she lives in France and has done so for many, many years.”

“She sells a lot of her work?”

“Yes.” Jacques smiled briefly. “But it was not always that way. monsieur. A few years ago she was struggling, as were many of today’s successful artists.”

“Will you come to see Miss O’Neil’s work?”

The man hesitated. “Why do you not give me the address of her studio, and when I have some time—when my father returns—I will make an appointment.”

Edward knew he did not intend to come, “She is extraordinary,” he said softly.

The young man, who had been turning away, jerked to meet Edward’s intense gaze.

“You lose nothing if you do come, except some time—and if I am right, you gain everything,” Edward said.

“All right. We have a telephone. Let me give you our number. Speak with the artist and arrange for a showing. The mornings are most convenient for me.”

Edward smiled and the two men shook hands firmly. But as he left the gallery, his smile faded. He glanced at his watch. In another hour he was due at the Ralston residence. He had promised Sofie he would model for her.

Sofie trembled in excitement, so anxious to begin her latest endeavor that she could not stand waiting for Edward to arrive. Her studio had been prepared hours ago; she had
positioned a chair beside a small table draped in white linen in front of the garden window. A rainbow-hued centerpiece of wildflowers was upon it, as were beautiful gold-rimmed porcelain plates, crystal glasses, and gleaming silverware. She planned to go back to Delmonico’s, of course, several times, so when she was done, the table and background would appear exactly as they should be.

Sofie started at the knock upon her door. Mrs. Murdock poked her white head in. “Sofie, you have a caller.” She beamed.

Sofie was aware that the housekeeper and Jenson were erroneously assuming that Edward was her suitor, and that they were pleased as punch about it. She had tried to correct them, but stubbornly they disagreed, insisting that Edward did admire her. Sofie had given up her attempt to dissuade them.

Now Sofie’s heart skipped a beat. Edward was not due for another hour; he was early. She wondered if he was as excited about working together as she was. Smoothing strands of hair back behind her ears, she said brightly, “Do send Mr. Delanza in, please.”

“It isn’t Mr. Delanza. You have another gentleman caller, Sofie.” Mrs. Murdock was obviously delighted. “It’s Mr. Henry Marten, and he’s in the green salon,” the housekeeper said. “I hope I should not tell him you are indisposed?” She scowled at that.

Sofie was surprised. Whatever was Henry Marten doing there? She did not have a clue as to what he should want. “No, I will see him,” Sofie said, following Mrs. Murdock out of her studio and to the front of the house. She imagined that, whatever Henry’s business was, he would be gone long before Edward arrived to model for her.

Henry Marten stood in the middle of the salon, hands in the pockets of his baggy trousers, looking somewhat ill at ease. His dark suit did not fit him well, being somewhat oversized. He blushed when he faced Sofie. “I hope this is not too much of an inconvenience,” he said.

“Of course not,” Sofie returned with a smile. “Good day, Mr. Marten. How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.” His color deepened. “I must say, you
are looking very well, Miss O’Neil.”

Sofie nodded and smiled, doubting it all the same. Her hair was in one long, fat braid, and as usual, she wore a plain navy blue skirt and a white shirtwaist. She gestured to two chairs and they both sat. “I have asked Jenson for some refreshments,” she said.

“Thank you.” He fidgeted. “I have been in the city a few weeks now, and I intended to call upon you sooner, but I have had several clients and I have actually been up to my ears in work.”

“That is wonderful,” Sofie said sincerely. But she was amazed. He was actually calling on her?

He smiled, obviously pleased. “Yes, it is, but not as wonderful as it should be, because it has kept me from seeing you.”

Sofie blinked and sat up straighter.

Henry was now beet red. He looked at his hands, clasped in his lap.

They sat in sudden silence, Sofie too stunned to think of making polite conversation, until Jenson appeared with a silver tray containing plates of pastries and a Wedgewood pitcher filled with steaming black coffee. Sofie assembled the cups and saucers and poured them both coffee, adding thick, fresh cream and sugar, taking the opportunity to recover her composure. As she handed him his cup, she said, “Where is your office?”

He answered quickly, relieved. “Downtown, not far from Union Square.” He coughed. “Perhaps I might show it to you, sometime when you are free?”