As she starts down the stairs, she glances into the storeroom – for no reason really. Perhaps something in the light catchesher eye, or perhaps it is a premonition, some buried sense calling to her – but she looks up.
From the storeroom, Odette looks back at her.
A stack of paintings leans up against the far wall and one, taller than the rest, peeks above a frame – the top of Odette’s face, her watchful, attentive eyes and the curl of her brown hair along her brow.
Cecilia hurries into the room, pulls back the stacked canvases to reveal Odette – and freezes, a gasp caught in her throat.
The painting comes up to her shoulder, and it is a long, narrow thing, like a coffin. It shows a full-length figure amidst the vines and leaves of a Dionysian revelry, pomegranates and apples scattered throughout the foliage.
Odette is entirely naked.
She faces the viewer, head cocked shyly and hair loose about her shoulders. Her breasts are exposed – her whole body on display. If Cecilia didn’t know Odette as she does, she would think her the model for the face alone, that Lydia found some other body to stand in for her daughter.
But she has not.
It is Odette, as Cecilia has known and loved her. It brings a blush to her cheek, but it is – disconcerting. She did not know this painting existed. Odette never spoke of modelling like this. It feels – wrong.
She puts back the canvases quickly and turns to leave, only to find Mr King blocking the doorway.
‘Ah. You’ve found her.’
Cecilia struggles for words. ‘You lied to me.’
He smirks and holds his hands up. ‘You can’t blame me for trying.’
‘I think you’ll find I can. Why did you not tell me you had the paintings?’
‘Lydia’s work is extraordinary, and I had the luck of my life tocome into possession of some of it. I didn’t lie to you. Lydia died before we got as far as dealing with the money, and I thought if I laid low, my great fortune might go unnoticed.’
‘But I have noticed it. The money rightfully belongs to Odette.’
‘On that front, I have no case to settle. I have paid up.’
Cecilia frowns. ‘Paid who?’
‘The late Mrs Fairfax-Waugh’s estate.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I suppose a chit like you has little reason to know how legal matters work, but it is customary that the executor of a will identifies and disposes of the deceased’s assets.’
‘Executor?’ Cecilia fumbles to make sense of it. ‘Who?’
Mr King ignores her. ‘I expressed an interest in acquiring the paintings, and the estate agreed to the sale. You might think many things of me, Miss Moore, but I’m a mere reprobate, not a criminal. I settled the bill, so I have no case to answer to you.’
‘But why did you not say?’
‘As I said, I never lied. When a stranger comes to ask me the details of my business, I find myself under no obligation to give any details of my clients or their arrangements. Who knows what pieces of Lydia’s the estate might discover and feel inclined to sell. I’d rather keep her confidence than yours. But I wouldn’t expect a girl like you to understand the way business works.’
If Cecilia were Odette, she would give Mr King some lecture onartversusbusiness. But Cecilia is not that sort of girl. She has exhausted her own supply of confidence, and she can feel herself shrinking under his gaze.
Of course, the matter is settled. She has been away for two months, and much has changed. Uncle George married Claudine. The money has been tidied up. Aunt Lydia is rotting in her coffin.
What use is Cecilia?
She cannot undo any of these things.
She lowers her eyes. ‘I understand. I apologise for my intrusion. I will gladly take my leave.’
