Cilla halted, brush in the air; she gazed out the window at the scudding clouds. “I don’t believe in love.”
“You had a lover in Paris once, did you not? Might you rekindle that relationship?”
Cilla began to paint wild brush strokes onto the canvas. “She died.” Her voice sounded oddlyimplacable.
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” Cilla gazed at her with raised brows. “You would find my problems difficult to understand.”
“I do hope you’ll find happiness, Cilla.” Laura flushed, fearing they were about to enter dangerous territory again. She shifted on her chair, wanting this over so she could return to theabbey.
Cilla became quiet as she workedsteadily.
Half an hour passed and Laura found it increasingly difficult to keep still. Cilla wiped her brush. “It’s finished.”
“It is?” Laura could hardly contain her eagerness and jumped up. “May I see it?”
Cilla stepped back. “Yes. It just needs varnish.”
Laura studied it. She understood in a flash how Cilla’s moods played out on the canvas. The calm, settled look in the eyes of her subject contrasted greatly with the wildness of the background. She’d placed Laura beneath the loggia in her green gown. Behind her, the cliff seemed fearfully close. She might be about to step off into space. Gulls wheeled across an unsettled sky with thunderclouds gathering over the horizon. There were slashes of violent, thick paint on the background, which might have been done by a different artist from the one who painted Laura so exquisitely: the pearl combs in her burnished hair, her soft, creamy skin tones, the delicate lacework on her collar and cuffs and the coralnecklace.
Laura could not hang this work above the fireplace. Not where they would see it every day. It was an extraordinary painting, but it was alsodisturbing.
“It’s a very fine work,” Laura said soberly. “You are a talented artist, Cilla.”
Cilla unscrewed the lid on a bottle of varnish and painted a section. “I’ll have to wait until the paint dries before I apply the rest of the varnish. You think it a good likeness?”
“It’s clever; I do see something of myself here.”
“I’m rather proud of how well the eyes turned out.”
Laura bent closer. “Are my eyes really so green?”
“I would hardly embellish them. You must know they are.”
It was like an accusation. Laura straightened. The painting repelled her and made her feel ungrateful. “You’ve flattered me, Cilla, thank you.”
“I merely paint what I see.”
Laura watched Cilla clean her brushes. She studied the painting again. Rendered in oils, Laura sat, hands folded, while chaos appeared to rage around her. It was in the threatening sky, the wild trees and the turbulent sea. She was like the calm center of a storm. Laura took a deep breath. She supposed that was how Cilla saw Laura’slife.
Cilla screwed the lid back on the bottle. She glanced out the window. “It looks like rain.”
“I’d best get the dogs back to the stables. I didn’t bring an umbrella.”
“I’ll lend you one.” Cilla went to a cupboard and opened the door. She reached in and pulled out a mannish blackumbrella.
Laura saw a flash of blue. She peered closer, then grabbed onto the sofa back as her legs wobbled. A pastel-blue parasol stood in a corner of the cupboard. A dainty thing, so unlike anything Cilla would have bought for herself. It had a pearl handle exactly like the one in Amanda’s painting. Laura exhaled a ragged, sharp breath as she recalled the smell in Amanda’s room, the memory of which had been gnawing at her. It was the smell ofvarnish.
Cilla swung around, eyes wide. “You are far too sharp, Laura. You shouldn’t meddle.”
Laura stepped back. “That can’t be Amanda’s.”
Reaching into the cupboard, Cilla took the parasol out. She twirled it in her hand. “Pretty thing.” She opened and closed it. “Oh, I shouldn’t have done that.” She laughed. “It means bad luck, doesn’t it?”
Not wanting to believe what she feared, Laura swallowed a knot of dread. “You found it?”
“I’ve always had it.”
