The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove (12 page)

March 1897

Lia sat in the pew next to George, feeling fat and awkward. She wore a high-waisted black silk bombazine gown and willed herself to remain comfortable despite her advanced state of pregnancy. George had proven quite adept at discharging his husbandly duties and Lia had gotten pregnant almost immediately. As soon as he heard the news, he’d moved into a separate bedroom in their townhouse, not wanting to “disturb” her anymore. She had no problem with the change in sleeping arrangements. Frankly, she’d never gotten past the disturbing sensation, though it was false, of lying with her brother.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. May our brother Hiram rest in peace, the great race run and finally won.” The minister must have been a horse racing fan.

Seven and a half months into her pregnancy, Lia and the rest of the family were shocked to hear that Hiram Sizemore had been killed in what the newspapers called a “botched robbery.” Lia didn’t believe that for a minute. Hiram had always “played the ponies,” as he called it, and had even gone in with partners to form the Coney Island Jockey Club in Brooklyn. They built the Sheepshead Bay Racetrack right next door and he spent more time there than in the Manhattan mansion he shared with Em, even in the off season. On the day he died, apparently, Hiram had been wining and dining some members of a racing syndicate out of Kentucky; he was found the next day in his apartment at the club with his throat cut ear to ear. Lia was sure it had less to do with robbery and more to do with the race-fixing scandal George’s father had been keeping under wraps. Now it no longer mattered.

The sparsely attended service concluded and everyone filed past the closed casket to say good bye—
or more like good riddance
, Lia thought. Emma stood by stoically, accepting condolences with her usual gentle grace. When it was George’s turn to pay his respects, he took Em in his arms and held her close, causing more than one eyebrow to raise. Lia, no stranger to such displays, quietly tapped him on the shoulder so that she could take his place. She told her sister how very sorry she was that Emma had to go through this ordeal. She did not say how sorry she was that Hiram was dead.

As usual, Emma was less concerned about herself than about Lia. “Oh, you look so beautiful,” she whispered.

“I feel like a bowling ball,” Lia groused.

Emma smiled briefly, though her eyes were sad. “It won’t be long now,” she added. “You are so very fortunate…and so am I. I am going to be an auntie.”

Despite the innuendo associated with Hiram’s life and death, he did prove to be the “good man at heart” that Em had said he was.
Or maybe he was just being practical,
Lia thought in her more cynical moments. Although creditors devoured much of his estate, he’d put many of his assets in his wife’s name and they couldn’t be touched. Now, for the first time in her life, Emma was free to do whatever she wanted without relying on a father or a husband, or being subject to their will. Lia would have given anything to be in her place.

At night, alone in her room, Lia would give in to her hormones and let the tears flow. She cried for the way in which George subtly but unmistakably patronized her, telling her she could not paint because the fumes weren’t good for the baby and thus depriving her of the one activity that gave her life true meaning. She cried for the myriad ways in which her husband longed for a woman he could never have. And she cried for the absolutely abysmal timing that Hiram Sizemore had shown by not dying eight months earlier. If he had, Emma could have married George, and Lia would have been free.

The rain associated with April arrived right on schedule, as did the birth of George Britland Powell III. Little Georgie looked like a miniature version of his father, which pleased both his father and his grandfather greatly. He was a healthy baby delivered with relative ease, and that pleased Lia even more. She loved everything about her little man, and she looked forward to capturing his life on canvas. He had quickly become as much a part of her as her art, and she was confident she’d be able to blend her passion seamlessly with motherhood.

George, unfortunately, had other ideas.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

February 1899

My Dear Miss Starling,

I have pondered your question as to whether art can ever truly measure up to the complexity of nature, or if nature can ever fully reveal a level of truth that art is capable of expressing. I am not certain if we are talking apples to apples, but as to whether one can make a substantive, qualitative judgment, it remains to be seen. I am looking forward to your next series of sketches illustrating the conundrum.

Yours sincerely, William Keith

L
ia finished reading the letter aloud and folded it before putting it away in the pocket of her painting smock. “You see, he’s intrigued,” she exclaimed to her dear friend and fellow art student Sander de Kalb. The two were setting up their work in one of the upstairs bedrooms that Lia had turned into her studio. Little Georgie, soon to be two, slept in the nursery down the hall.

Sandy was a gracefully tall, fine-boned young man with wavy chestnut hair and an exotic face that many considered “pretty.” He was charming, supportive, and well to do. He was also uninterested in Lia as anything other than the sister he’d never had.

“‘My Dear Miss Starling’?”

“I know, but I sign all my work that way and I didn’t want to confuse the man. Besides, ‘Amelia Bennett Powell’ sounds like an accounting firm.”

“You’ve got a point. So what are you going to send him this time?” Sandy cocked his head as he propped up his half-finished study of a bowl of apricots. Heaving a sigh, he began lining up his supplies: palette, brushes, and tubes of the usual yellow ocher, raw sienna, Prussian blue.

“I think the woodland nocturnes,” she said. She busied herself getting the turpentine, water, and containers ready for their brushes.

Sandy frowned as he began to mix his colors. “But those are oils,” he said.

“I know.” Lia smiled broadly. “I’m going to see if I can get him to finally comment on my work. I have to know if it’s any good, Sandy.”

“Don’t you believe Miss Withrow? ‘Well, my dear, you have bold instincts,’” he mimicked in a deep woman’s voice. “And dammit, you do…unlike me who is stuck with this piece of animal dung I have been struggling with all week.”

Lia laughed. “You’re ridiculous…but delightfully so, my friend.” She was in the midst of giving Sandy a hug when George stepped into the room. Sandy immediately stepped away, even though he had met George on several occasions already.

“Uh, good afternoon, Mr. Powell,” he said.

“Mr. de Kalb.”

Lia smiled benignly. “Hello, George. Home early today?”

George walked over to see the work in progress. “Yes, obviously. I had an itch to see little Georgie. Where is he?”

“Down for a nap. Polly said she’d watch him when he woke up so that I could work. Our final project is due on Friday.”

George puckered his lips as he picked up an open bottle on Lia’s work table and sniffed it. “Haven’t you been working quite a bit this week? Is it the same project?”

Lia glanced at Sandy, who raised his eyebrows. “Yes, it’s quite complicated, and I want to do well. It takes time.”

George nodded. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.” He looked directly at Lia. “I’m sure little Georgie will be happy then too.”

Lia said nothing. In the awkward silence, the upstairs maid Polly could be heard calling in a singsong voice, “And there’s my little master Georgie up and ready to go. Are you ready to get up, my sweet little boy?”

They could all hear the toddler’s happy chortle in response. George looked again at Lia before nodding briefly to Sandy and leaving the room.

“Should I leave?” Sandy asked.

Lia shook her head. “No. Of course not.”

“Um, I don’t think he likes you doing this.” Sandy gestured around the room.

“You’re right, I’m afraid. But it’s too bad, because that’s who I am.” Irritation had crept into her voice lately whenever she spoke of George. Not a good thing. She tried to shake it off and began to prep her canvas. The image in front of her was that of an old fashioned clock with a man’s pipe and stack of books nearby. The usual studies of violets and other flowers, which had brought Miss Withrow such fame, were just…flowers.
Mine have to tell a story.

Three hours later, Lia and Sandy had finished for the day. Sandy wrapped up his brushes, put his paints back in his satchel, and went to empty the containers he’d used.

“Oh, I’ll do that,” Lia said.

“You’re sure? I don’t mind.”

“No, you go. You’re already late to meet Neville. That’s his name, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. He’s a jolly chap…” Sandy heaved a mock sigh and patted his heart. “But he can’t compare to your husband.”

Lia continued putting her paints away. “So I’ve heard,” she murmured.

“Don’t be too hard on him, dear one. He’s probably jealous of the time you spend on your art, that’s all.”

“If only it were that,” Lia said. “But scoot now. I’ll see you at the salon on Friday.”

Lia walked Sandy downstairs and then went looking for her son. She found him in George’s office, playing with a set of toy horses and cows on the floor. Her husband had a stack of reports on his desk that he had undoubtedly brought home to review.

“There’s my little man,” she crooned, lifting Georgie in her arms. “Has he been good this afternoon?”