The Taker (49 page)

That morning, Adair sent for the tailor. Jonathan needed a wardrobe, Adair decreed; his new guest could not continue to be seen in public in mismatched, ill-fitting costumes. As every member of the household was a clotheshorse and had enriched the tailor greatly, Mr. Drake rushed over before the breakfast things were even cleared away, bringing with him a train of assistants carrying bolts of fabric. The latest woolens and velvets, silks and brocades, from European warehouses. Tea chests filled with expensive buttons made of mother-of-pearl and bone, pewter buckles for a pair of slippers. I sensed Jonathan did not approve and didn’t want to be indebted to Adair for an extravagant wardrobe, but he said nothing. I sat on a stool at the fringes of the activity, ogling the lovely fabrics, hoping to get a dress or two out of the fitting.

“You know, I could use a few new things,” I said to Adair, holding a strip of pink satin to my cheek to see if it suited my complexion. “I left my entire wardrobe behind in St. Andrew when we fled. I had to sell my last piece of jewelry to make passage on the ship to Boston.”

“Don’t remind me,” he said drily.

Mr. Drake had Jonathan stand on his tailor’s box in front of the biggest mirror in the house and began taking his measurements with a length of string, clucking to himself over Jonathan’s impressive proportions. “My, my, you are a tall one,” he said, running his hands up the length of Jonathan’s back, then over his hips, and finally—nearly
causing me to swoon—up his leg to measure an inseam. “The gentleman dresses left,” Drake murmured, almost lovingly, to the assistant scribbling down the numbers.

The order for the tailor was long: three frock coats and a half dozen pairs of breeches, including a pair of the finest doeskin for riding; a dozen shirts, including a very fancy one with lace for gala events; four waistcoats; at least a dozen cravats. A new pair of field boots. Silk and woolen stockings and garters, three pairs of each. And that was just to meet the immediate need; more would be ordered when new shipments of fabric arrived. Mr. Drake was still writing up the order when Adair placed a huge ruby on the table in front of the tailor; not a word was spoken but, by the smile on Drake’s face, he was more than happy with his compensation. What he didn’t know was that the gem was a mere bauble, plucked from a box containing many more, the box itself only one among many. Adair had treasure dating back to the sacking of Vienna. A gemstone that size was as common as a field mushroom to Adair.

“A cloak, too, I think, for my associate. Lined with heavy satin,” Adair added, spinning the ruby on its faceted end like a child’s wooden top.

The ruby attracted everyone’s eye, and I was the only one to see Adair take a long, appraising look at Jonathan, from his shoulders down to the graceful dip at the small of his back and over his trim buttocks. The look was so naked and heavy with intent that it froze my heart in fear for what lay ahead for my Jonathan.

As the tailor packed his things, a stranger arrived for Adair. A somber gentleman with two ledgers and a portable writing kit—ink-well, quills—tucked under his arm. The two went immediately to the study without a word to anyone else.

“Do you know who that man is?” I asked Alejandro as I watched the study door close.

“Adair’s taken a solicitor while you were gone. It is understandable: now that he is in this country, he has legal matters to attend to regarding
his property overseas. These things come up from time to time. It is of no consequence,” he answered, as though it was the most boring thing imaginable. And so I paid no more mind to it—at the time.

“It is nonsense,” Jonathan said when Adair told him an artist was coming to the house that day to make sketches of him for an oil painting.

“It would be criminal not to have your likeness captured,” Adair argued back. “There are far homelier men who have immortalized themselves for posterity, lined the walls of their familial mansions with their sorry likenesses. This very house is a case in point,” Adair said, gesturing to the walls of portraits that had been rented with the house to provide a ready-made pedigree. “Besides, Mrs. Warner told me about the artist, quite gifted, and I want to see if he is worth the accolades that are being heaped upon him. He should thank God to get such a subject, I tell you. Your face may well establish this man’s career.”

“I don’t care to make anyone’s career,” Jonathan retorted, but he knew the battle was lost. He sat for the artist but was not exactly cooperative; he slumped in the chair, leaning with his cheek against his hand, face sullen, like a schoolboy being kept after class. I perched on the window seat for the entire session, seeing his beauty anew through the artist’s quick charcoal sketches. The artist clucked to himself throughout, undoubtedly pleased at his good fortune to be working on such a striking figure and getting paid for the privilege.

Dona, once an artist’s model, sat with me for an afternoon, ostensibly to study the artist’s technique. I noticed that he seemed to observe Jonathan more than he bothered with the artist.

“He’s going to become quite the pet, isn’t he,” Dona said at one point. “You can tell by the portrait—Adair only has likenesses done of his favorite. The odalisque, for instance.”

“And what does that mean, to be his favorite?”

He gave me a sly look. “Oh, don’t pretend. You have been Adair’s favorite for a short while. In some ways, you still are. And so you
know, it’s onerous. He expects your attention all the time. He’s very demanding and easily bored, especially when it comes to sex games,” Dona said, lifting a shoulder archly, as though to say he was happy he was no longer pressured to come up with new ways to bring Adair to climax. I looked closely at Dona, studying his features as he spoke: he was a handsome man, too, though his beauty had been forever ruined by some unhappiness he carried inside. A secret malice clouded his eyes and twisted his mouth into a sneer.

“And he’s only had portraits done of these two?” I asked, taking up the conversation again. “Only Uzra and Jonathan?”

“Oh, there have been a few others. Only the stunningly beautiful. He’s left their paintings in storage in the old country, like the faces of angels locked away in a vault. They’ve fallen out of favor. Perhaps you’ll see them one day.” He tilted his head, studying Jonathan with a critical eye. “The paintings, I mean.”

“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
some
have left. What of the others? Has anyone left without Adair’s permission?”

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

A
fter 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.