A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [53]
There were landscapes heavy with paint, storm clouds thrusting upward, wind racing wildly through a high meadow, waves lashing a rocky coast where watchers waited for stormbound ships, to lure them inland.
He saw enormous control in each work, the sure knowledge of exactly how much and how little made enough. A natural gift of talent honed to a cutting edge by long experience. The same control she had exerted just now.
But there was not a single still life among them….
As if the whirlwind in the painter’s mind couldn’t be leashed that far?
He was finding it hard to relate the woman before him and the art he could see with his own eyes.
“It’s unwomanly,” Hamish said uneasily. “I’d not take my ease with one of those hanging above my hearth!”
As if she’d heard him, Catherine seemed to collect herself with an effort. She saw Rutledge examining her work. Brushing the dark hair aside, she said with a sigh, “Yes, I know, no one expects me when the artist is introduced. Everyone thinks C. Tarrant must be a man. Or one of those masculine women who wear trousers everywhere and smoke strong Russian cigarettes. I’ve considered wearing a patch over one eye and walking about with a trained ocelot on a leash. Were you listening at all?”
“I was listening. And you’re wrong, I would have had no objection to your marriage. Not, at least, on the basis of Linden’s nationality. I didn’t know the man himself.”
“But I did. And if you believe I might have shot Charles out of some twisted need to revenge Rolf, I suppose I could have. But what good would it have done, I ask you?”
“A life for a life?”
Her mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. “Charles Harris for Rolf Linden. Do you think that’s why I came to see you about Mark? To make certain that he didn’t hang for my crime?” She laughed, but there was no amusement in it. “It would be a terrible irony, wouldn’t it, if Mark was punished for what I’d done? The two men I’ve cared for dead because of me.”
“Who were the women in Charles Harris’s life?”
The change of direction sobered her. “How should I know? He spent so little time here, and when he was at home, Mallows absorbed him completely.”
“Was he ever in love with anyone in Upper Streetham? Mrs. Davenant, for instance?”
“Why on earth do you ask that?”
“Most soldiers carry a woman’s image in their minds.”
“Like the photos of Gladys Cooper each man wore next to his heart, in the trenches?” She considered that, head on one side. “I’ve never really understood why Sally married Hugh—yes, he was attractive, if you liked the ne’er-do-well dashing romantic. Enormous fun, always exciting, and he could make your heart absolutely flutter when he wanted to be charming. But as a husband, he was hopeless. For a time Laurence Royston was in love with her, I’m sure of it. I couldn’t believe at first that Mark wasn’t! But Charles?” She shook her head slowly. “I’ll have to think about that….”
With a smile to take the sting from his words, he asked, “And you? Were you ever in love with Charles Harris?”
She laughed, this time a contralto laugh that rippled with humor. “Of course. When I was sixteen and went to my first ball. It was at the Haldanes’. And Charles rescued me from the possessive clutches of my father, who thought every man in the room must have designs on my virtue. It would have been far more exciting if they had, but Charles was there, splendid in his dress uniform, and took pity on me. So I promptly fell in love with him and slept with my dance card under my pillow for at least a month afterward. He was a terribly attractive