He takes Persephone from his bag, dropping a kiss on her tiny nose and perching her on his shoulder. “We’re getting close. I can feel it.” Merryn’s story, a distant melody, is growing louder. He’s catching pieces of it now, and he’s hungry for more.
He turns into St. Peter’s churchyard and takes a breath. A local Cornish man might have attended the Methodist, but when one wishes to find traces of a visiting artist like Covington, he looks in the Anglican Church.
Hat in hand, William approaches the church office and scratches his bearded chin before knocking. Helen would have wanted him to shave, but William is so accustomed to his appearance, the wiry, itchy feel of the overgrown beard, that it has become his new self. The man who walked with a bounce in his step, clean-shaven and alert, is a stranger now.
When a cleric answers his knock with a startled stare and takes a step back, William’s shoulders bow. “Begging your pardon, sir. If I c-c-c-ould see the re-re-register.”
A pause. “The birth registry?”
“Muh-muh-marriage. Please.”
One eyebrow arches up and the young cleric looks him over, his expression gentling. “Perhaps you’d care to wash your hands first. It seems you’ve had a long journey.”
Heat flushes up William’s neck—which makes him grateful for the beard. He follows the man to a small table with a bowl and pitcher and cleanses his hands as best he can. His fingertips are caked with grime. The foul stench of fish lingers but is less after a good toweling.
No matter. He isn’t here to impress anyone.
Then the man places three huge volumes on the table and slips out. Hungrily, William throws open the record of marriage banns, and he skims for a familiar name.
In 1908, 1909, nothing. But then in 1910, his heart flutters as his finger crosses the line,Covington and Dunn.With one hand protectively on Persephone, he lowers into the rickety chair and reads the entry.
Covington, Rupert and Dunn, Merryn petition for marriage. Banns read July six, thirteen, and twenty. Marriage license granted, officiated by Rev. Reginald Harris, Vicar, Newlyn.
He runs his finger over the words, memorizing them. Twisting the kaleidoscope to see the mysterious Merryn in this new light.
Covington’s wife. She is hiswife.
It isn’t sufficient to authenticate the painting as his work, but it’s plenty to convince him.The painting is a Covington.After calling out his thanks, William shuts the book and walks back into the fading daylight, stretching stiff muscles. He wandersuntil a large chapel-like stone building catches his eye: Newlyn School of Art.
Stepping into the public gallery, he glances around the large open space with wide, sunny windows. Portraits of artists line the east wall in the hushed expanse, and he quickly locates the one he wants. Rupert Covington is a striking young man with dark eyes and a neat mustache against pale skin. The photograph’s sepia tones show off the striking contrast, the faraway look of a visionary artist.
“Help you, sir?”
William spins to face a tall man with elegantly combed silver hair and patient expression. “I uh…no.”
“Covington cuts quite a figure, doesn’t he? Made a similar impression at the school.”
“You knew him?”
The man shakes his head. “Not well. But the lore surrounding his life makes me wish I had taken the time while we were here together.”
“Might I trouble you to—that is, what became of him? Of his wife?”
A smile tugs at the man’s mouth. “Depends on who you’ve spoken with. Some say he married many times, others say he never married—although that’s been disproven.”
“I found his name. In the re-re-registry.”
The man’s eyebrows rise, hands clutched behind his back. “Did you, indeed? And what did it say?”
William ignores the question. “Did he ever paint people?”
“He was certainly no portraitist. He’d have been ashamed of that title.”
“But did he ever paint them?”
The man rocks back on his shiny heels, a knowing smile. “Officially, no. But I happen to know he painted many portraits of the same woman.”
A charge zings through his chest. “And…what became of them? The…paintings.”
