Bone House_ A Novel - Betsy Tobin [65]
“My teacher contrived to be away a great deal during those few weeks, and I was left to my own tasks in the studio, preparing canvases and filling in the backgrounds of his portraits. The young woman often came and watched me while I worked. Because of her circumstances, she was confined to the house, and I think that she was restless and perhaps a little lonely. At first I was in awe of her. I was barely seventeen and had never known the company of women—and although she was older than me and clearly better off, I did not feel unequal in her eyes. She enjoyed watching me work, and I taught her how to mix pigments, and we talked a great deal, though she did not disclose the nature of her plight. She spoke only sparingly of her family. Like me, her parents were both dead and she had no other relations to speak of. Her mother had died the previous year of consumption, and her father had drowned in an accident some time after. She spoke a little French and German, and had inherited some means, and planned to travel to England to seek a new life.
“I was very . . . affected by her presence. I had never known anyone so bold . . . and so incapable of artfulness or deceit. Even her appearance was exceptional—perhaps especially her appearance, for although she was larger than most men, she carried herself with uncommon grace.”
The painter pauses and exhales, as if suddenly relieved of a burden. He turns to face me, and as he does his meaning becomes clear, for Dora has been with him all this time.
I shake my head in disbelief. “You knew her.”
He nods. “Yes.”
For a moment I am speechless.
He holds up a hand, as if to still my thoughts, and continues speaking.
“At the end of three weeks we had news that the ship she’d been expecting had foundered off the coast. By then it was apparent that she was fleeing persecution of some kind, but the arguments between my master and his wife had worsened, and it became clear that she could not remain under our roof.
“I made inquiries on her behalf but there were no other ships bound for London, so she had no recourse but to travel overland to Amsterdam, where she could be confident of securing a passage.” The painter hesitates, glancing up at me uncertainly. “I offered to accompany her. It would have proved difficult otherwise: a young woman of her means traveling alone would have raised suspicion. Together, we could travel as man and wife, and her identity could remain a secret. We hired horses and reached the port in four days, and as luck would have it, she had only three days to wait for passage on a ship bound for England, so the matter was settled swiftly.”
He pauses then. The words “man and wife” ring like bells within my head: try as I might I cannot quell them.
“Why did you not go with her?” I say finally.
The painter drops his head. “Because she would not let me.”
Suddenly I see him as a boy of seventeen: vulnerable, innocent, adoring.
“What happened then?” I ask.
“She said that she would write,” he continues. “But if she did, her letters did not reach me. Eight years later, when I came to England, I made some inquiries, but they came to nothing. London is a big city and it is easy enough to lose oneself if one desires. But I did not realize she would seek a place as far away as this.”
“You searched for her?” I ask, incredulous. “After eight years?”
“I thought perhaps to renew the acquaintance . . . that is all,” he says defensively.
I stare at him. “You were in love with her.”
He shakes his head no. “I admired her, yes. I was . . . in awe of her—” He breaks off, groping for words. “It was almost as if, when she left,