‘I understand you have been traveling?’ said Madame de Rochemont. ‘The Middle East. An unusual choice for a young woman.’
‘I—I wanted somewhere different,’ Alexa managed to say, wondering why Guy’s mother should have gone to the trouble of finding out where she had been these last weeks.
‘Indeed. But it is not a part of the world where young women tend to go on their own,’ observed Madame de Rochemont.
Still reeling, Alexa tried to gather enough composure to make an appropriate answer. ‘I was treated with great respect, madame—I did not court attention in any way, and my hosts were kindness itself.’
‘You were there some time?’
‘I worked, madame. Painted. The desert has a beauty of its own.’
‘Of course. Tell me, do you plan to exhibit your work?’
Alexa shook her head. ‘My talent, such as it is, is moderate only. Portraiture allowed me a comfortable standard of living, and I am grateful.’ How she got the words out, made this simulacrum of normal conversation when her head was reeling, was quite beyond her, but she did it somehow.
‘You are very modest, mademoiselle.’
There was a tone in her voice that Alexa could not interpret. Her eyes went automatically to an exquisite seventeenth-century Claude beside the mantel, depicting a classical mythical episode in a vast landscape. ‘It takes only a single great work, madame, to make anything else impossible,’ she replied candidly.
Guy’s mother inclined her head slowly. ‘Yet modesty,’ she said, ‘may go hand in hand with not inconsiderable natural gifts. The portrait you made of Guy confirms that to me. You have captured him well.’ She paused, her eyes never leaving Alexa’s.
Alexa swallowed, fighting for composure, remembering all that had come about because of that portrait. Remembering, with burning pain, how she had finally come to complete it, her heart torn to shreds by the man she was depicting. Then… ‘Thank you,’ she managed to get out, her eyes dropping to the floor. She could not look at Guy’s mother. ‘I wonder, mademoiselle, if you would consider painting me, as well as my son?’
Alexa’s eyes few upwards. She swallowed again. Madame de Rochemont was regarding her, her gaze slightly questioning.
‘I—I am sorry. No.’ Alexa’s reply seemed staccato, blunt, even to her own ears.
‘No?’ The arched eyebrows rose delicately. The questioning look was still in the eyes. More than questioning. That sense of being evaluated came over Alexa again. She felt her cheeks colour slightly. More than ever she wanted to get to her feet and walk out—as fast and as far as she could.
‘I—I am sorry,’ she said again.
There was a pause—the very slightest. ‘Perhaps you would tell me why, mademoiselle.’ It was politely said, but there was a hauteur in it that Alexa could hear clearly. She knew why—a grande dame such as Madame de Rochemont would not be used to hearing blunt refusals, especially to a commission that was intensely flattering, not to say valuable and prestigious.
Alexa pressed her lips together, trying to find an answer. ‘I no longer practise portraiture, madame. I am so sorry.’
‘I see. Would I be correct in thinking, therefore, that my son’s portrait is the l
ast you have made?’
Into Alexa’s mind came the vivid, violent portrait that was the demonic twin of the one that had been a birthday gift for Guy’s mother.
‘My last professional portrait, yes,’ she replied. ‘It was a commercial commission. Done only for money.’ Her voice was flat.
‘Of course,’ said Guy’s mother. ‘Why else would you wish to paint my son’s likeness, mademoiselle?’
Alexa looked away. Back to the Claude beside the fireplace. She studied the figures, tiny against the broad pastoral expanse. One of the figures, at least, was blending into the landscape. It was Daphne, at the moment of her transforming into a laurel bush to escape the attentions of Apollo.
I escaped as well—becoming a recluse, hiding from life. Hiding from Guy. From what he wanted of me.
She looked away again, her gaze colliding with that of Guy’s mother. The air froze in her lungs and dismay drowned her. Realisation dawned.
She knows. She knows what I was to her son…
Her face paled. Panic rose. Without conscious volition she got to her feet. She had to go now. Right now.
‘I am sorry, Madame de Rochemont, but I must go.’
Guy’s mother did not stand up. ‘Before you do, I have a favour to ask of you.’