River Of Fire (41 page)

"Very good. Now let's do the viewing so I can return to work." Her father left the table and headed for the stairs.

Kenneth bowed politely for Rebecca to go first. His expression was opaque, but it was obvious that his nerves were taut. Not surprising when painting meant so much to him and he was about to be evaluated by one of the finest, and most exacting, artists in Britain. Whatever confidence he had developed might be crushed if her father was too critical.

Well, she was anxious, too. She had never asked her father for this kind of professional judgment. Worse, her pictures were deeply personal.

They reached Rebecca's studio first. She indicated the portrait of Kenneth on the easel by the window. "Behold
The Corsair
."

Sir Anthony studied it narrowly. "Excellent. The picture is both heroic and human. Kenneth, you will never look better. This will certainly be hung. It will also be a great popular success." From the amusement in her father's eyes, it was clear that he saw some of the same sensuality that Lavinia had. Luckily, he did not comment on that.

He looked around. "What else are you submitting?"

Feeling considerably more nervous, she led him to

the falling woman picture, which was on another easel. "I think I will call it
Transfiguration
."

Both of the men stared at the canvas. A muscle jerked in her father's cheek.

Most viewers would see the painting as a romantic depiction of an exotic culture. The setting was inside the crater of a Pacific island volcano. The lower canvas was a seething hell of molten lava and billowing smoke.

On the lip of the crater high above, a group of brilliantly clothed islanders watched as a young woman gave herself to the pagan gods of the volcano. She was falling freely, her arms outstretched and her black hair and bright sarong swirling about her slim body. On the girl's face was an expression of rapture, an utter surrender that was also the invincible strength of being beyond human malice and desire.

The picture had been inspired by Kenneth's remark about feeling no fear when death seemed inevitable. Rebecca had wanted to portray unconquerable spirit in the face of death; serenity in the heart of tragedy. Some mysterious mental alchemy had transmuted her grief for her mother into this pagan princess. But though she had succeeded in artistic terms, she had failed to find the inner peace she craved.

Sir Anthony swallowed hard. "It will not be fully understood, but it will be much admired. You have surpassed yourself. Kenneth, it's your turn."

As her father turned and headed toward the door, she saw him blinking back tears. She should have known he would understand.

Kenneth paused to say quietly, "It is transcendent." Then he went after Sir Anthony.

She glanced at the corsair painting. Heroic yet human. Not a bad description of Kenneth. Then she followed the men to the small back attic studio. She arrived as Kenneth finished lighting two branches of candles. A quick glance around confirmed that Lilith was not in sight. She wondered what her father's reaction would be if he ever saw it. Probably a volcano would form in Mayfair.

Kenneth lifted a painting and set it on the bed, tilting it back against the wall. For an instant she remembered that she had given him her virginity on that bed. Then she looked at the canvas, and all personal thoughts vanished.

He had painted an execution. It was a night scene, most of the canvas shadowed while an unholy light illuminated half a dozen Spanish guerrillas who were being slaughtered by a French firing squad. She guessed the painting had been done swiftly, for the style was as free as a watercolor, with the haziness of nightmare. Yet it had deep and profoundly visceral power.

The menacing French soldiers were anonymous in their blue uniforms, their faces shadowed by shako headdresses. But the Spanish guerrillas were individuals, each so distinct that she could have recognized him in a crowd. Several men lay dying on the ground, including a priest clutching a crucifix in his hand. The focal point of the picture was a young man whose arms flung outward as the French balls tore into his flesh. Already his white shirt was stained with gouts of blood. To look at the painting was to rage at the savagery of war.

"I understand your compunctions about whether it will be accepted," Sir Anthony said. "The academy is not usually fond of blatantly emotional works. What do you call it?"

"
Navarre, the Fifth of November, 1811
," Kenneth replied, his expression stark.

Sir Anthony said tersely, "Show me the other one."

Rebecca glanced at her father with surprise. Though his own style was classical, surely he saw the quality of Kenneth's work.

"The scenes are related." Kenneth took the canvas from his easel and set it on the bed beside the execution scene "I call it
Spanish Pieta
."

It was even more riveting than the first painting.

Pieta
was Italian for "pity," and the term was used to describe one of the classic images of Christian art—the Virgin Mary supporting the body of her dead son across her lap. Rebecca saw that Kenneth had chosen to copy the pose of the famous sculpture Michelangelo had done for St. Peter's Cathedral.

However, his version had none of the classical restraint of his model. Working with more tightness and detail than in the execution scene, he had portrayed a middle-aged Spanish woman cradling the body of the youth who had been in the center of the previous painting. Her head was thrown back as she gave a mother's raw cry of agony for her murdered child.

The image was timeless and haunting, and it sliced through Rebecca's defenses into the anguished core of her own grief. She stared, literally paralyzed by her reaction, terrified that she would begin to weep and be unable to stop.

She wrenched her gaze away and looked at her father. He was studying the canvas without expression. She wanted to hit him for not speaking. Couldn't he feel Kenneth's anxiety?

Finally Sir Anthony broke the taut silence. "You have much to learn before you become a great painter, Kenneth. But you are already a great artist." Then he turned and left the studio.

Kenneth watched him go, his expression stunned, as if he were unsure how to interpret Sir Anthony's comment.

When Rebecca was sure her voice would be even, she said, "Congratulations, Captain. You have received a rare accolade."

He exhaled and rubbed the back of his neck wearily. "What do you think of the pictures, Rebecca?"

"Extraordinary," she said honestly. "They will inspire both love and hate. The pieta is so powerful that I can barely endure looking at it. But these are pictures that need to be seen. I hope the academy has the sense to accept them."

"Even if they don't, I'm going to ask Hampton to engrave these for the Peninsular war series. One way or another, they will be seen."

She looked at the paintings again, her gaze passing quickly over the pieta to linger on the execution. "You saw these things happen." It was not a question.

"They are two of the prime images from my gallery of nightmares." The scar on his face whitened. "As a reconnaissance officer, I spent much of my time riding across Spain, always wearing my uniform so that if I was captured, I wouldn't be shot as a spy. It worked, too." He nodded toward the execution painting. "Part of my job was visiting guerrilla bands to gather intelligence. I worked most often with this group, and was captured with them when the French surrounded us. As a British officer, I was treated with great respect. The French gave me wine and said they envied the fact that I'd be sent to Paris if an exchange couldn't be arranged." He halted, his eyes so dark they appeared almost black.

"And they made you watch your friends die," she said softly.

"I wasn't forced to watch. But not to see would have been…" he searched for words, "dishonorable. Cowardly. I had to bear witness to their courage and sacrifice."

"And they have haunted your dreams ever since." She indicated the painting. "This is a noble memorial, Kenneth."

"They would have preferred their lives," he said bleakly.

Her reluctant gaze went to the pieta again. She had repaired her defenses a little and was able to view the picture with a modicum of detachment. Even so, the grief of the picture cut close to home, perhaps because she was a woman. She wondered what it would be like to carry a child in one's body, birth it with pain, raise it with love—and then see that child murdered. Even imagining it was almost unbearable.

Throat tight, she said, "This young man was a particular friend of yours?"

"Eduardo was Maria's youngest brother," he said quietly. "Only seventeen when he died."

Rebecca studied the boy's face, seeing a resemblance to the pastel sketch Kenneth had done of his mistress. "You said Maria was killed by the French. She was also shot?"

"No." His eyes closed and a spasm of pain crossed his face. "Someday I will paint that scene. Then, perhaps, I will no longer have nightmares." He opened his eyes again. "You were the one who taught me that pain might be transmuted through art. It is another debt I owe you that can never be repaid."

She turned away. There was too much emotion in the room. Too much dangerous warmth in his expression. "You owe me nothing, Kenneth. I've also benefited from our friendship."

Perhaps also wanting to retreat from intensity, he said, "I know that all paintings have to be delivered to the Royal Academy by midnight tomorrow. Then what happens?"

"The justly named Hanging Committee is made up of several academicians. They decide what to accept— usually around a thousand pieces. Work is submitted for judging, except for academy members like Father and Uncle George and Lord Frazier. Their pictures are always hung."

"They are also academicians? I didn't know that."

"Uncle George is one of the two engraver members. Frazier is only an associate. I suspect that he resents having been passed over several times when vacancies have opened up for full members, but he has too much pride to speak of it."

"A pity Frazier's talent and discipline don't match his pride," Kenneth said dryly. "How will we find out if our work has been accepted? Is a list posted?"

"Nothing so civilized," she said ruefully. "After the selection, artists must go to the academy and ask the porter about the fate of their work. There is a great queue of people, and the porter loves to bellow out

'Nay' for the pictures that haven't been accepted. Very embarrassing."

Kenneth made a face. "I expect that will happen to me."

She gave him a level look. "Rejection won't mean that your work is unworthy."

He smiled. "Having received approval from you and Sir Anthony, I can survive the academy's lack of appreciation."

Once again, she saw that disquieting warmth in his eyes. It reminded her too much of when they had made love. She drifted across the small room. "One learns where one's work has been hung on Varnishing Day, when artists can make last-minute changes." She smiled. "Mr. Turner has been known to practically repaint a whole canvas from wonderful to even more wonderful."

"How do they hang a thousand paintings?"

"Very closely. The frames are practically touching. The Great Exhibition Room is enormous, too. A painting hung near the ceiling is practically invisible. They call that being 'skyed.' Better than nothing, I suppose, but it doesn't do much to advance an artist's career."

"Obviously acceptance is only the first hurdle of what turns out to be a whole steeplechase." Kenneth's expression became pensive. "It feels odd to be talking about painting and exhibition so naturally. I was raised to be a landowner, and fate made me a soldier. I could not have imagined living an artist's life even three months ago."

She looked at his craggy features and powerful body and thought of the corsair. Perhaps he wasn't every woman's secret romantic fantasy—but he was certainly hers. Knowing she must leave, Rebecca put her hand on the doorknob. "Perhaps a pattern that you didn't recognize brought you to art in a roundabout way, Kenneth. You had the talent to learn with no formal teaching, and war has given you the material for great art. The result is a unique vision."

Then she turned and left swiftly, before she gave in to the temptation to walk into his arms.