The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [68]
As she went on, I looked to the Doctor again. He just smiled once more and indicated with a quick jerk of his head that I could go back to what I’d been doing. Meanwhile, his conversation with Mrs. Cady Stanton soon got back up to full speed.
It took about two hours for Miss Beaux to complete her sketch, and I spent the rest of that time sitting with the women, speaking when I was spoken to but mostly just observing. It was quite a process: the words would come out of Señora Linares’s mouth, enter Miss Beaux’s ear, then be transformed into movements of her hands that were sometimes very true to the señora’s memories and intentions, sometimes less so. Miss Beaux went through an entire India rubber eraser as she worked away, and dulled a stack of heavy, soft-lead pencils; but along toward eight o’clock a real, living face had taken shape on that page. And as we all crowded around to look at it, we fell into a kind of shocked silence, one what gave quiet confirmation to what Señora Linares had originally said: it was not a face anybody was likely to forget.
The señora’d been able to remember more details of the woman’s features when presented with the ability to see her memories brought to life, just as the Doctor had thought she might, and the woman who stared back at us from the sketch pad fit every adjective that our client had used in describing her. The first thing you noticed was unquestionably the eyes, or maybe I should say the expression in the eyes: hungry, Señora Linares had said, and hunger was unquestionably there. But that wasn’t all; the feline eyes had an additional expression, one what was all too familiar to me but that I didn’t want to name. I’d seen it in my mother, when she wanted something out of me or out of one of her men; and in Kat, when she was plying her trade; it was seductiveness, the unspoken statement that if you’d just do something for this person that you knew was wrong, she’d give you whatever attention and affection you craved in return. The rest of the face—she looked to be about forty or so—had probably been very pretty once, but was now kind of drawn, toughened by hard years of experience, judging from the set of the jaw. The nose was small, but the nostrils flared with anger; the thin lips were pursed tight, with small wrinkles at the corners of the mouth; and the high cheekbones hinted at the shape of the skull, instantly making me think of Pinkie’s painting of Death on a horse.
This was a woman what fit every speculation the Doctor and the others had made: a hard, desperate woman who had seen too many tough things in her time and was prepared to answer in kind. Pinkie, too, had been right in his prediction: Miss Beaux, without ever seeing her subject, had cut through to “the very essence of the personality.”
I think everyone, including Miss Beaux, was a little shocked by what she’d created; certainly the señora just sat in her chair nodding, seeming like she would’ve wept if she’d felt free to. The silence wasn’t broken until Mrs. Cady Stanton said:
“There’s the face of cold experience, gentlemen. There’s a face that man’s society has hardened forever.”
Miss Howard rose at that and took Mrs. Cady Stanton by the arm. “Yes. Indeed. Well—I hadn’t realized how late it’s gotten. You’ll want your dinner, Mrs. Cady Stanton, and you too, Cecilia.” She turned to shake the younger woman’s hand. “And I meant what I said—I’d love to join your class, or just have lunch or dinner. Whenever you’re in town.”
Miss Beaux brightened, somehow relieved, it seemed to me, to get away from her own creation. “Oh. Yes, I’d like that, Sara. It’s really been fascinating.”
Miss Howard started to nudge the two ladies toward the door, and everyone made their good-byes. I was a little shy about approaching Miss Beaux, but she walked right up and took my hand, saying she was sure we’d meet again soon—maybe I could come to lunch with her and Miss Howard, she said.
As they got into the elevator, Mrs. Cady Stanton turned to the Doctor.