Page 47
She felt dizzy. There were too many things to say.
I don’t see beauty. I see labor. I see money. I see hope and fear.
Nonetheless, he wasn’t wholly wrong. She crossed her arms.
“I feel something,” she admitted. “When I look at paintings, I feel something.”
But he already knew that.
“Is beauty an emotion, then?” Her earnestness surprised her. She’d often longed to ask Jack this type of impractical question but never dared.
De’Ath raised his brows. “Some people say beauty is the image of God.” His smile was crooked.
“Do you say that?”
“I say beauty is a pleasure particular to each of us but available to all.”
She cleared her throat. She was in a very red, very plush, very small room, alone with a man, and the conversation had turned to pleasure. According to Miss Holroyd, De’Ath sought pleasure freely.
“To put it another way,” he continued, “beauty is the experience of becoming human.”
She gave him a close-lipped smile. “I’d rather experience a Chelsea bun than a Botticelli. Does that make me less human?”
His ears seemed to prick. He spoke softly. “You know of Botticelli?”
“Old Italian bloke. Famous.” She cursed herself, and in a back compartment of her brain, Jack did too. “I saw a print in a shop, once. Madonna and child.” She made a vague motion with her hand. “Some lilies. I don’t understand the fuss.”
After a moment, De’Ath nodded. “I’ll take you to the National Gallery to see an original.” His head tipped to the side. “If you’ll bake me a Chelsea bun. We will widen each other’s spheres of experience.”
She wanted to laugh, and then she wanted to cry. For years, painting and baking had pulled her in opposite directions, two incompatible pursuits. De’Ath brought them together seamlessly, each a fit return for the other.
“First you have to try my Victoria sponge,” she said, afraid that tears sparkled in her eyes. Oh, the Jack in her head was howling now.
“And someday,” De’Ath said, “I’ll try your gooseberry tarts.”
The silence thickened.
He’d placed the two of them in the same someday. In that someday, her pastry shop bustled with customers. Rows of tarts cooled on trays, and she’d set one aside for Alan De’Ath.
Of course, it meant nothing.
He turned abruptly and looked up at the picture. “It’s called The Dreamers. Miss Holroyd painted it.”
“Miss Holroyd?” Nina’s eyes flew to the lovers in shock, landed on the curves of the woman’s breasts, damp with sweat, nipples rosy. The other figure was partially concealed by the woman, and by the twisted sheet. Nina’s eyes glided down a lithe-looking arm, which draped the woman’s waist.
She read the name in the corner. “Kit Griffith.”
“Signatures can be deceiving.” De’Ath turned to face her. “Or haven’t you learned that by now?” His expression was humorous.
She suspected her answering smile was weak.
“I can tell it’s Holroyd’s work,” he said. “It’s no mystery why she didn’t put her own name to it. Wholly inappropriate subject for a female artist. And too realist. Invites a scandal no matter who painted it. Olgilvie tucked it away because he didn’t want to risk another protest by the British matrons.” De’Ath’s laughter shaded into an ironic sigh. “England can’t abide an original work of art, not if it challenges the canons of purity. The public prefers forged Berneys.”
“Those forgeries, though.” Her throat squeezed. “You said yourself they were wonderful. It’s real, the experience someone has, looking at them. Even if the pictures are fake.”
“You’re right that a wonderful forgery presents a conundrum.” He brushed back a wing of raven hair. “What does one do with a beautiful crime?”
His eyes were two steel points, inscribing the question on her skin.
