Chapter Sixteen
Fraser
I lean close to Hallie, ostensibly to shield the camera from the sun, but also so I can smell her hair, and rest my lips close to her temple. I want to kiss her, but she’s started to read out Richard Williams’s writing, doing her best to decipher the faded scrawl, so I force myself to concentrate on her words.
“‘The days grow shorter,’” she says, moving the photo up slowly, “‘and the… winds from the harbor carry the…’ scene? No, ‘scent of rain. I am… confined to the house more often than I should like. The damp…’ stoops? No, ‘seeps into my very bones, along with the gloom of…’ what’s that word? Oh, ‘melancholia. My mother frets over my health, even though I…’ assent? Assist?’”
“Assure, I think.”
“Oh, of course, ‘even though I assure her I am quite well. If only she knew that it is not illness that…’ gosh that word’s faded. It looks like pigs.” She tries to enlarge it some more.
“Plagues?” I suggest.
“Ah, yes, ‘it’s not illness that plagues me, but the…’ arch… no, ‘ache, of our separation.’”
“Very heartfelt,” I say.
“I know, you can feel his yearning all the way through the centuries, can’t you?” She minimizes the photo and brings up the next, enlarging it until the words are clear. Richard continues telling Pania about his day, and how he goes about his chores without enthusiasm because he misses her so much.
His words carry sadness, as well as, occasionally, a touch of anger at those who insist on keeping them apart. It’s impossible not to compare his situation to my own. Here is a man who was also governed by forces beyond his control, and who was fighting for his independence and freedom the same way I am. Our cultural and religious restrictions might be very different, but Shakespeare shows us that emotions are timeless, and it makes my stomach flip to think that Richard experienced the same frustrations and fury that boil in my veins.
Hallie scrolls to the next page, her soft voice filled with awe as she reaches back through time to connect with the lonely lovers.
“‘I find myself restless,’” she continues, “‘tormented by the memory of your form beneath my brush… the way the flickering candlelight kissed your skin while I worked, capturing you as only I see you,’ un… um… oh, ‘unfettered by the gaze of others, and untamed by their notions of propriety.’”
She lifts her gaze to mine, and we stare at each other for a moment. “Do you think he means the portrait in the dining room?” she asks.
“‘As only I see, unfettered and untamed by their notions of propriety?’” I query. “I don’t think so. That sounds way saucier than the prim pose in the house. What else does it say?”
She looks back at the photo. “‘The thought of these paintings’—plural, Fraser, you were right, there’s more than one of them—‘falling into another’s hands unsettles me. They are not mere renderings of… pigment and… canvas, but the spirit of my longing, the…’”
“Essence.”
“‘The essence of you as you were meant to be seen.’ You’re right, they’re saucy paintings. Not nudes though, surely?”
“No, I doubt it. Showing an ankle was considered risqué, right? Have you seen the painting called The Swing by Jean-Honore Fragonard?”
“No.”
“Google it,” I tell her. She types it in and brings up an image. It shows a young woman in a peach-colored dress enjoying a swing tied to a tree in a garden. “Her husband is in the shadows, pushing her,” I say, pointing him out. “But look at the young guy hiding in the bushes in front of her.”
“He’s looking up her skirt,” Hallie says, and laughs.
“Yeah. And her shoe is flying off, and you can see her ankle. It was seen as extremely risqué at the time, but there’s hardly any skin to be seen.”
“So you don’t think she posed naked for him or anything?”
“It doesn’t sound as if they were allowed to meet at all. He probably painted her from memory. And he wants to marry her, doesn’t he? I doubt he would disrespect her by painting anything too lewd.”
“What about this, then? ‘Should my family ever discover them, I fear their outrage would know no bounds. For, in their eyes, I have…’ I think that might be trespassed. Yes, ‘trespassed beyond the limits of what is acceptable.’”
We think about that. “Turner painted some erotic sketches,” I concede, “and that would have been twenty years before this.”
Hallie’s eyes gleam. She looks back at the letter and continues, “‘But I would paint you a… thousand times more, if only to… preserve forever the truth of what we are to one another.’”
She shivers, but I don’t know if it’s because of the passion beneath the words, or if my breath has touched her cheek.
She continues, “‘If ever these letters… should be read by another, let them know: it was not… scandal that compelled me, but love.’”
She looks up at me, over her shoulder. “It’s as if he knew we would read these one day.”
Her lips are just millimeters from mine. It could be the beauty of the summer afternoon, the sentiment behind the letters, or the way Hallie’s lips look so soft, but the temptation is too great, and I lower my head and kiss her.
It’s a sweet kiss, just a press of our lips, but when I lift my head, her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are bright.
“Naughty boy,” she says, smiling as she lowers her gaze back to the letters. “I think there’s a kind of magic in these words.”
It’s true that they’ve stirred something inside me. I feel a strange lifting of my heart to think that Richard stood up to those who would have kept them apart. He got his girl, and he married her.
I look at the curve of Hallie’s cheek, her pink lips… I think about how knowledgeable she sounded when she handled the letters, how impressed Adam was… and what great company she’s been, and how good she is with people…
She’s looking at me again, and I realize she’s asked me something.
“Sorry,” I admit, “I was distracted.”
“I was wondering if the mention of these paintings is the reason this letter wasn’t included in Rudolph Hemingway’s book.”
“I would imagine so, wouldn’t you?”
“But why? Do you think the paintings still exist?”
“Maybe.”
“So why aren’t they displayed in the house?”
We start walking along the path slowly as we think about it. “Perhaps it was a bone of contention in the family,” I say. “Maybe some family members were ashamed of them.”
“Ashamed? Even if she was only showing an ankle or something?”
“Revealing the paintings would open the letters to being seen through a different lens. You yourself called them lyrical and poetic, but they would be scrutinized and questioned. His yearning and longing might be condemned as indecency or lewdness. If it was your family, you’d do anything to prevent that, wouldn’t you?”
She smiles at me. “You’re very astute.”
“My father has always been worried about perception. He would do anything to protect his family and the school from scandal. So if that’s Isabel’s issue, I do understand, even if I don’t agree.”
Hallie’s smile fades, and she lowers her gaze to the path. I frown, wondering what’s going through her mind. Is she thinking about her own father? She was with Ian for ten years, and didn’t reveal the truth to him. So I’m not likely to be able to wheedle it out of her after spending one night with her.
These women and their secrets…
“So where do you think the paintings are now?” she asks. “Hidden away in the loft?”
“Probably. Or in safe storage somewhere, maybe in a bank vault.”
We walk a little further, quiet as we both think.
“Do you think Adam knows about them?” she asks, stopping to admire the large, creamy blossoms on one of the magnolia trees.
My eyebrows lift. “I hadn’t considered that he might not.”
“I’m guessing that Isabel is Sebastian’s oldest child, right?”
“I think so.”
“I was just wondering why Adam didn’t mention the paintings while we were looking at the letters. It would have been the perfect opportunity, while Isabel was absent. But if he doesn’t know… maybe Sebastian told her about them because she was the eldest. And he impressed on her the importance of keeping them secret to protect the family.”
“It would be why they’ve hung on to the letters for so long,” she says. “His ancestors must have been too afraid to publish them all because someone would have picked up on the existence of the paintings. They gave all but the October one to Rudolph Hemingway for his book, but kept that one secret.”
“I wonder why that letter isn’t locked away, rather than kept with the rest?”
She shrugs. “The cabinet’s locked. The public doesn’t have access to them, and if they do take them out and show anyone, it would be easy for them to keep that one aside. But if Adam didn’t know, it would explain why Isabel was so upset when she saw us looking at them.”
We stop walking and turn as a voice rings across the lawn. Adam is announcing that a band is setting up where the string quartet was, and he encourages everyone to enjoy the music and take to the floor to dance.
“I wonder if Sebastian is somewhere watching this,” Hallie says. “What was he like?”
I think about the elderly gentleman I met at the conference. “Very like Adam. Shorter than me, but tallish, with silver hair thinning on top. Straight backed, though, and refined, you know? Very old school—he carried a cane.”
She laughs. “Really?”
“Yeah. He was an old-fashioned gentleman.”
“A bit like you.” She smiles.
“Yeah, right,” I scoff.
But she says, “I’m serious. I haven’t met your father, but I imagine you’re very like him. You and Joel aren’t alike at all. He’s boyish and irreverent and scruffy. But you’re always well turned out. You dress smartly, you’re always clean shaven, your hair is neat. You’re quiet and well-spoken and in control. I would call you a gentleman without a second thought.”
“I’m flattered,” I say softly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She wrinkles her nose at me. “This is where you say I’m a lady, by the way.”
“I would, but I have evidence to the contrary.”
Her eyes widen. “Fraser!”
I bend so my mouth is close to her ear. “The last thing I’m interested in is you being ladylike in bed, Hallie.”
Her face flushes, and she’s still pink when Wiremu comes over to introduce us to the head of the children’s charity that the proceeds from the ball is going to today.
The lawn is soon cleared, and before long the band starts playing, mostly popular dance songs that people of all ages will know—Michael Jackson, ABBA, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and the Bee Gees.
The sun is sinking slowly toward the horizon, and, like Hallie’s cheeks, the sky is filled with a faint blush. It won’t be dark for a few hours yet, but members of staff are lighting citronella candles around the lawn to keep insects at bay.
The champagne continues to flow, along with other wines and cocktails from the temporary bar set up in the marquee, and conversation and laughter filter across the lawn with the music.
Hallie is talking to Wiremu’s daughter and her girlfriend, and I assume they’re discussing archaeology. Then I hear Indiana Jones’s name mentioned, so clearly the conversation has moved on.
“Someone call for an archaeologist?” I ask, walking up to her and resting my hand on her waist.
“We were just wondering whether you have the hat and… you know… the whip to match,” Wiremu’s daughter says mischievously.
Hallie turns scarlet. I swear she’s spent most of our time in Tauranga the color of a tomato.
I chuckle. “That would be telling.” I grin at Hallie. “Fancy a dance?”
“Sure.” She gives the two women a last conspiratorial smile, then follows me to the area put aside for dancing.
“Sorry about that,” she says as I turn her into my arms. “They asked me how much you enjoyed acting in Raiders of the Lost Ark and it kinda went downhill from there.”
I laugh. “Anytime you want to see the whip, you only have to ask.”
She gives one of her delightful giggles, then takes my hand again so I can spin her around.
We dance to that song, and the next, and the next, stop for a glass of champagne, then continue on. I love dancing, and while neither of us is particularly accomplished, we’re both enjoying ourselves, which is the most important thing.
The sun gradually sinks toward the horizon, and the sky turns a romantic blend of pink, purple, and orange, like the background of one of Richard Williams’s landscapes. Venus is visible as a sparkle to the west, and the moon is rising to the east like a piece of shining silver foil.
The evening wears on. Hallie and I dance a lot together, and we also have several slow dances, but we keep the mood light and just enjoy each other’s company. I don’t mention what’s going to happen when we get back to the hotel, and neither does she.
I think a lot about it, though.
I also think about Richard’s paintings and letters. I’m conscious of screwing things up with Isabel by being caught with Hallie in the bathroom, as well as looking at the letters when she didn’t want us to, so when I see Isabel going up the steps of the veranda and into the house around seven thirty, I excuse myself and head after her.
The house is cool and relatively quiet. I walk slowly along the hallway, listening for Isabel’s voice, but I can’t hear or see her, and I realize she might have gone into her private rooms.
Deciding to wait in the hope of catching her on the way out, I go into the dining room to take another look at Pania’s portrait.
I stand in front of it for a minute or two, admiring the brushstrokes and the way Richard has cleverly managed to capture the shape of her tattoo as well as the flush of her skin. It makes me think of Hallie, and I smile.
I glance at the wall to my left, wondering whether Richard ever hung any of his other paintings there to complement this one. Or have they always been hidden? The wall is bare of artwork now, and divided into large square panels bordered with wooden batons, each covered with floral wallpaper. It’s an odd design, and I go still, frowning as something sparks in my memory, as sharp and bright as Venus in the sky outside.
Then it comes to me. In the eighteenth century, the artist, Hogarth, once produced a series of eight paintings called A Rake’s Progress . They show the decline and fall of a spendthrift son and heir of a rich merchant who wastes all his money on gambling and prostitution, goes to prison, and ends up in Bedlam.
The paintings are hidden in a secret recess behind a wall at Sir John Soane’s Museum in London, and they’re only revealed to the public a few times a day.
Surely not.
It’s much more likely that they’re boxed up in the attic or kept somewhere more secure.
Or maybe the family wanted them close by, because of their sentimental value?
Glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody’s around, I walk up to the wall and investigate the square panels. I feel around them with my fingers. The batons are rounded and flush to the wall. But then I find it—a tiny button where the batons meet, hidden by one of the flowers on the wallpaper.
I press it. There’s an almost inaudible click. And then the panel to the left pops open a few millimeters.
My heart racing, I open it to reveal a large oil painting. It’s clearly of Pania, as her face is recognizable with her light-brown skin and tattoo. She is dressed, but her gown hangs off her shoulder, almost—but not quite—baring her breast, while the skirt of her dress is bunched in her hand, revealing her naked thigh. By modern standards it’s tame, but in New Zealand in the nineteenth century, it would have been salacious to say the least.
“What are you doing?”
I spin around. I was so engrossed in the painting that I forgot to keep a lookout. It’s Isabel, and she is not a happy bunny.
She marches across the room and slams the panels shut, then turns to me, her eyes blazing. “How did you know about these?” Plural—so there are definitely more.
Deciding there’s no point in lying, I reply, “We read the twelfth letter. I suspected the paintings were in the house. And while I was looking at the one over there, I recalled how Hogarth’s series is kept behind panels because of its content.”
“These are private,” she snaps. “They belong to the family, and you had no right to snoop around.”
“Isabel,” I say as calmly as I can, conscious that things aren’t going well, “please believe me when I say I do understand your desire to protect your family’s history. But these aren’t just beautiful works of art; they’re historical documents that give an important insight into nineteenth-century culture and life. They should be available for everyone to see.”
“To see and accuse,” she bites back. “Pania was fourteen! And Richard was thirty-one! I can see the headlines now—Sebastian Williams’s racist and pedophile ancestor takes Māori girl against her family’s wishes. You don’t think that will create a cultural rift in today’s society? You don’t think my father and I would still be held accountable for Richard’s actions? Our ancestor, Henry, was responsible for translating the Treaty. You know what tension that’s creating, even now.”
I clench my fists in frustration, because even though she’s being dramatic, she’s right. It doesn’t matter that it all happened over one hundred and sixty years ago. Certain words in the treaty, such as ‘sovereignty’, had no direct equivalent in Māori at the time the Treaty was translated, and it’s led to continual problems, with some Māori protesting that their ancestors didn’t know they were giving away their land. Even today, many generations later, and with Isabel and Adam having nothing to do with the original Treaty, there’s still tension. Isabel is fearful not just for herself and her family, but for the memory of her father. And how can I criticize her for that?
“I would like you to leave,” she states, lifting her chin.
“Please,” I reply, “there’s no need for that. I promise I won’t be any more trouble. I’ll keep to the garden, and—”
“Now,” she snaps. She gestures to someone behind me and says, “Daniel, can you please escort Mr. Bell off the premises?”
A guy who must be six foot eight and almost as wide—God knows how he got a suit to fit—hovers in the doorway and says, “This way, please, Mr. Bell.”
“You’re throwing me out?” I ask Isabel, astonished. “But… Hallie is in the garden….”
“Oh yes,” she says, and for the first time her tone holds a snarkiness that makes me bristle. “Don’t worry, I’ll get someone to ask your lover to accompany you.” She says the word lover with a sneer.
I glare at her, and it’s only the thought of Whina’s disapproval that stops me from making a biting comment back. Instead I say, “You’re serious?”
“Right now, please, or I’ll call the police,” she says icily.
I look at Daniel, who lifts his eyebrows. For a second, infuriated, I consider surprising him with a left hook. For a big guy, I’m light on my feet, and I know I could dance circles around him.
But I don’t want to embarrass Hallie, and I’m already in enough trouble with Whina.
I turn on my heel and, without another glance at Isabel, I walk out of the room.