“Burned.”
“By whom?”
“Him.” The man came to stand beside him, staring up at the photograph of the enigmatic artist. “One day in 1912 or 1913, he shoved every canvas with her face on it into a stove and lit them on fire.” That had occurred before she’d written in her journal, hadn’t it? The first entry had been in 1913.
Which means she’d forgotten her husband.
What kind of love leaves no trace upon its bearer?
He swallows. A fleeting image of Helen marrying another man slices through him. He’s imagined it happening so many different ways—in a large church, a tiny country chapel, a hillside dotted with wildflowers. Her bold, brilliant smile occurred in every version. She has every right to a happily-ever-after. He’ll help her achieve it, if he can.
William stares up at Covington’s face. “I don’t suppose there’s any way of proving those paintings existed, is there?”
“I’m not even certain of my own memory of them. I’ve heard so many differing stories. He’s rather a legend, as you can imagine.”
“So I’ve heard.” William shoves his hands into his pockets. “Why did he burn them?”
The man shrugs. “Temperamental artist.”
Broken man. William stares at the portrait—had it been taken before or after his wife had forgotten him? “Did he ever paint her again? After burning the paintings?”
The man inhales audibly, then releases it. “I suppose he might have. He left Newlyn around the summer of 1913, he and his wife, and hasn’t had much to say to the public since.”
That’s the year of the journal. The year she returned to Cornwall in search of her past.
“He’s a rather private man, and he hasn’t released much information on his personal life. Even to this day.”
“So he’s still married? To the same woman?”
“I would assume—if she’s alive. Rumor around the art community is that they are happily settled in some remote part of France or Italy. They don’t welcome visitors, though.”
“Of course not.”What happened to you, Covington?He stares into those eyes, willing him to speak, to open up and explain why he burned the paintings…and what happened after that. Merryn was searching for him, not far along the coast. Did they find one another? William needs them to have a happy ending, a glorious reunion—an impossibility becoming possible. William needs to live out a happy love story through them.
As William turns to leave, the man rushes to catch him. “I just remembered something. You know, it’s been so many years and I never knew how valuable information on Covington would become.”
“Of course.”
“She came to the gallery once, though it was a lodge in those days. I’d been trying not to eavesdrop, but it was rather a spectacle. It was the only time I ever saw her, but I’m nearly positive she was the woman in his paintings. It’s hard to say now, since not a single one remains.”
Oh, but it does.
He painted her again, after the fire. He must have. Or somehow, one had survived the burning and ended up hidden in Dunn Cottage.
William strides back into the gallery and stares up at the mysterious artist. So many questions only the man himself could answer. What he wouldn’t pay for even the tiniest glimpse into the man’s life that year, when he painted Merryn again.
Chapter 27
Rupert Covington, Newlyn, 1913
Rupertbracesagainstthesiren’s wail as the wind kicks up and shoves his hands into his pockets. Crunching over the pebbled beach, he follows his circuitous route from shore to cave, then up to the eroding widow’s walk, letting his senses expand into deeper awareness, but it’s no good. Like standing inside a cave, the world around him has dulled. There’s nothing from which his spirit can pull and create beauty.
Perhaps he won’t ever again.
“You make a piteous widow,” says a sardonic voice behind him.
He turns to face Laura, who’s watching him from the entrance of the widow’s walk with arms folded. “I’m hardly a widow.”
“You’re certainly grieving like one.” She lifts one eyebrow and takes a few steps toward him along the walk. “It’s the anniversary, isn’t it?”
