—44—
A spate of bad weather gave us a respite from raids.
Mother rested more than she had been able to do, and it improved her spirits significantly, although she continued to decline physically.
Nina visited, which cheered me, and we agreed to meet in a week to transport the paintings to her wine cellar, which Jonathan promised would hold up against anything except a direct hit.
Better than I could expect here.
Peter arrived one afternoon and called out from the base of the stairs.
I was in my studio, taking paintings from their stretchers, and looked over my shoulder to see what might be visible to his casual eye.
Nothing but a painting of a chair with a length of fabric over it. He would not know what that fabric was.
“Studio!” I called, and continued to pull the fastenings from a large painting I’d done during our time in Cairo.
His step on the stair told me he was in good spirits, and he came into the room with an amiable expression. “Well, you’ve been quite busy!”
“I want to store them with Nina. In case.”
“Wise.” He was well dressed, his fair hair brushed back from his forehead. I smelled cologne and wondered where he’d been. Wandering over to the table, he touched the top painting, and moved it slightly.
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said.
“Hmm.” He ignored me, moving another to look below. “I’ve been exploring the possibility of moving Betty. It appears there might be a berth for her near Guildford. Out of the way.”
I plucked a nail from the wood and placed it on the table. “Thank you. It does not appear she’ll be working again.”
“I’m sorry, Elsie. Wretched to lose her, I know.”
I worked on the next nail. “Worse for her.”
He glimpsed the painting I was loosening, and came around to give it a good look.
“Cairo,” he said of the flat light and suggested shapes, one of the more experimental sets, which I loved very much, angles and harsh light, and bright accents, more abstract than much of my work.
“I never loved these back then, but I see now why you painted them.”
In surprise, I looked at it with him. “You hated these. The whole series.”
“I did.” He inclined his head. “It looks like a memory, the way you see something in bits and pieces.”
“That’s lovely.”
“Do you have more of them?”
“Of course. Only a few ever sold.”
He headed for the closet with its rows of vertical shelving. “Here?”
“I’ll find them.” I set the hammer aside and hurried over, but he’d already entered the space, and there was hardly room for two.
“I’ve never been in here before.” He flipped through a few at his eye level. “Are they organized by time period?”
“Peter, really, it would be so much easier to find them myself.”
He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. “Are there paintings you don’t want me to see?”
“No.” A lie. “I’m sure you’ve seen them all.”
“I don’t think so.” He tipped one out, Channan by herself. “I do remember this. Poor thing.”
There was nothing scandalous in these paintings.
Still, I sensed a growing tension in him as he pulled one after another out, as if he were looking for something in particular.
“Ah,” he said, pulling out a portrait of Tanveer at twenty-one or twenty-two, his beard thick and glossy.
“Always more of the prince. How many paintings have you done of him? A hundred? A thousand?”
“Peter. There’s nothing to be gained from this.”
“How many have you done of me?”
I met his gaze with apology. “Only the one.” I’d painted him at the Pyramids, one of the only times he’d been reliably happy for any length of time at all. “Would you like another?”
It seemed to pierce him, and he deflated. “No.” He shook his head sadly. “I wanted you to love me.”
I bowed my head. “I know.” I looked up at him. “I am sorry, you know.”
He looked back to the vertical stacks. “Will you find one of the Cairo paintings? I’d like to hang one in my office.”
“Of course.” I backed out of the closet and gave him space to pass me. Our bodies brushed, and he caught my hand.
“Elsie, is there no world in which you would forgive me?” He leaned into my neck, and I stiffened. “Make love to me?”
I did not move, aware that there could be danger in moments like this, when he allowed himself to reveal the truth of his yearning. I waited, still as a stone, as he moved his hand to my belly, and simply rested it there. “I have never stopped loving you.”
Still I did not speak. Another silent moment passed between us, and then he said, “Never mind the painting,” and left me.
I stayed where I was for a long moment, my heart beating unnaturally fast. My education on his mercurial moods had been far too thorough during our time in Cairo. He’d been moody, prone to fits of fury, often drinking far too much.
This felt like that.
I should have to be wary, especially in light of the instability the bombings could bring to his shell shock.