The Swan Thieves

The Swan Thieves Page 80

Chapter 80 1879

She can't stop thinking about her own body. Surely she should think a little of Olivier's, which has lived in so many interesting ways. Instead, she considers the bug bite on the inside of her right wrist, scratches it, shows it companionably to him as they paint on the beach the second morning. They gaze together at the white forearm, where she has rolled back the sleeve of her linen smock. Her wrist, with that tiny red mark, the long hand and its rings--she regards them herself, as he must, with desire. They are working at their easels on the beach; she has set down her brushes, but Olivier still holds a small one wet with dark-blue paint.

They stand looking at the curve of her arm, and then she raises it slowly toward him, toward his face. When it is so close that he can't mistake her meaning, he presses his lips to the skin. She shivers, more from the sight than from sensation. He lowers her arm gently and their eyes meet. She can't think of any words to fit this situation. His face is reddened against his white hair, from emotion or from the Channel wind. Does he feel embarrassment? It is the sort of thing she might ask him at an intimate moment she won't yet let herself picture.

Chapter 81 Marlow

Sometime after this, I tried the experiment of staying in Robert's room with him in silence for an hour; I brought a sketch pad with me and sat in my chair with it, drawing him as he sat drawing Beatrice de Clerval. I wanted to tell him that I knew who she was, but, as usual, caution stayed my hand. After all, I might need to learn more about her before I did that, or about him. After a first look of annoyance at my presence and a second glare that showed me he'd registered the fact that he was the subject of my drawing, Robert ignored me, but a faint sense of companionship crept into the room, if I wasn't simply imagining that. There was no sound but the scratching of our respective pencils, and it was peaceful.

The escape of drawing in the middle of the morning gave the day a kind of harmony I rarely experience at Goldengrove. Robert's face, in profile, was very interesting; and the fact that he didn't show anger or get up and move away or otherwise disrupt my work pleased and rather surprised me. It was possible he had withdrawn further and simply didn't care, but I felt he was actually tolerating my gesture. When I had finished the effort, I put the pencil in my jacket pocket and tore the drawing out of my book, laying it silently on the end of his bed. It wasn't half bad, I thought, although of course it lacked the brilliant expressiveness of his portraits. He didn't look up as I left, but when I checked a couple of days later, I saw that he had taped my gift up in his gallery, although not in a place of prominence.

As if she'd somehow known about my hour with Robert, Mary called that very evening. "I want to ask you something."

"Anything. That's only fair."

"I want to read the letters. Beatrice's and Olivier's." I hesitated for only a moment. "Of course. I'll make you a copy of the translations I have so far, and the rest as I get them."

"Thank you."

"How've you been?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Working, I mean painting, since my semester is over now."

"Would you like to go out to Virginia to paint this weekend? Just for an afternoon? It's supposed to be springlike, and I was thinking of going. I can bring you the letters then."

She was silent for a beat. "Yes, I think I'd like that."

"I wanted to call you before this. You've stayed away."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry." She did sound sorry, genuinely so.

"It's quite all right. I can imagine what a hard time you've had this last year."

"You mean, you can imagine it as a professional?"

I sighed in spite of myself. "No, as your friend."

"Thank you," she said, and I thought I heard the choke of tears in her voice. "I could use a friend."

"I could, too, actually." It was more than I would have said to anyone six months earlier, and I knew it.

"Saturday or Sunday?"

"Let's say Saturday but watch the weather."

"Andrew?" Her voice was gentle, and on the edge of smiling.

"What?"

"Nothing. Thank you."

"Thank you, instead," I demurred. "I'm glad you want to go." On Saturday she wore a thick red jacket, her hair twisted up and pinned with two sticks, and we painted together much of the day. Later, in the unseasonably warm sun, we picnicked and talked. There was color in her face, and when I leaned over the blanket to kiss her, she put her arms around my neck and pulled me close--no tears this time, although we only kissed. We ate dinner outside the city, and I dropped her off at her apartment on a litter-strewn block in Northeast. She had the copy of the letters in her bag. She didn't invite me up, but she came back from her front door to kiss me again before going inside.