nothing more than words, to understand his mercurial brilliance.
She turned to Peter, unable to keep the urgency from her voice, the demand. "Yes, please. Tell me."
His hand tightened on her elbow. Peter hesitated as if trying to find the rights words. "Jonas Whitaker is a —a brilliant painter, one of the geniuses of our time. Some of his earlier works are such pure inspiration. I'm sure you've felt the same way."
Imogene looked down at the immense flagstones beneath her feet. Peter sounded so reverent she couldn't bring herself to admit that the only paintings she'd ever seen by Jonas Whitaker were the ones on his studio walls.
"Though I have to say I was surprised to see you in his class," Peter went on. "Most women—well, they don't care for him much. I've seen works of his that even make me blush. He is a bit controversial ..."
The word grated on her nerves. Yes, Jonas Whitaker was controversial, but she'd heard that word associated with him too many times. For her father, for Thomas, it had become a justification somehow, something that didn't quite explain him, that excused rather than questioned. "I've heard that too," she said.
"He's controversial for more than just his paintings, I'm afraid," Peter said. "There are rumors that he was thrown out of Barbizon a few years ago. They say he offended one of the other artists there, someone important, though no one knows who. The talk is that it was Jean Millet, that Whitaker was too friendly with his—uh—" Peter threw her a sideways glance—"his wife. They say Millet—or whoever it was—asked a friend to get rid of Whitaker. The two of them got into a fight. That's how Whitaker lost his hand."
Imogene frowned. The story sounded too easy, somehow, a little too pat, but she couldn't say why, didn't know why it suddenly made her think of the way Whitaker had cradled his hand yesterday, that strangely gentle touch.
"Do you believe that?" she asked.
Peter looked at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. "I don't know. I guess I do." His expression hardened. "Yes, I'm sure I do. He is . . . You haven't been around him long, you haven't seen the things we've seen. He's never the same. He's—" He took a deep breath. "I've been studying under Jonas Whitaker for a year now, and I don't know him at all. He's the . . . moodiest man I've ever known." His tone was perplexed, as if the words weren't quite right but he didn't know why.
"It's true he's always angry," Imogene offered.
Peter laughed shortly. "Today he was," he said. "And yesterday, and maybe he'll still be angry tomorrow. But not forever, I guarantee you." He looked down at her with an expression so intense it sent a shiver creeping up her spine. "I should tell you about last spring, I think. It's not an easy story to hear."
Imogene felt again that sharp needle of curiosity. "Tell me anyway."
He hesitated, and then he nodded. "One day—it was March, I believe—and it was a Monday. I remember because we hadn't seen Whitaker for a few days. We got there at nine, as usual. Daniel and I. Tobias hadn't started yet—he came a few months later. Anyway, the door was locked. Tightly locked, which was odd, you understand, as he'd been expecting us, and there was no note on the door, nothing to tell us where he'd gone or what to do.
"So we waited. Well, first we pounded on the door, but there was no answer, and so we thought maybe he'd gone to Goupil's for supplies. We waited an hour before we decided to leave, and we were on our way down the hall when Childs came up the stairs. He asked if class was over early, and when we told him that Whitaker wasn't there, that there'd been no answer, well—he looked so odd. He paled, I think, and then he raced past us and started pounding on the door, screaming bloody he—" Peter cleared his throat. "He was yelling, you know. Shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Daniel and I were just standing there watching, not knowing what was wrong, and there was Childs, making all
She turned to Peter, unable to keep the urgency from her voice, the demand. "Yes, please. Tell me."
His hand tightened on her elbow. Peter hesitated as if trying to find the rights words. "Jonas Whitaker is a —a brilliant painter, one of the geniuses of our time. Some of his earlier works are such pure inspiration. I'm sure you've felt the same way."
Imogene looked down at the immense flagstones beneath her feet. Peter sounded so reverent she couldn't bring herself to admit that the only paintings she'd ever seen by Jonas Whitaker were the ones on his studio walls.
"Though I have to say I was surprised to see you in his class," Peter went on. "Most women—well, they don't care for him much. I've seen works of his that even make me blush. He is a bit controversial ..."
The word grated on her nerves. Yes, Jonas Whitaker was controversial, but she'd heard that word associated with him too many times. For her father, for Thomas, it had become a justification somehow, something that didn't quite explain him, that excused rather than questioned. "I've heard that too," she said.
"He's controversial for more than just his paintings, I'm afraid," Peter said. "There are rumors that he was thrown out of Barbizon a few years ago. They say he offended one of the other artists there, someone important, though no one knows who. The talk is that it was Jean Millet, that Whitaker was too friendly with his—uh—" Peter threw her a sideways glance—"his wife. They say Millet—or whoever it was—asked a friend to get rid of Whitaker. The two of them got into a fight. That's how Whitaker lost his hand."
Imogene frowned. The story sounded too easy, somehow, a little too pat, but she couldn't say why, didn't know why it suddenly made her think of the way Whitaker had cradled his hand yesterday, that strangely gentle touch.
"Do you believe that?" she asked.
Peter looked at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. "I don't know. I guess I do." His expression hardened. "Yes, I'm sure I do. He is . . . You haven't been around him long, you haven't seen the things we've seen. He's never the same. He's—" He took a deep breath. "I've been studying under Jonas Whitaker for a year now, and I don't know him at all. He's the . . . moodiest man I've ever known." His tone was perplexed, as if the words weren't quite right but he didn't know why.
"It's true he's always angry," Imogene offered.
Peter laughed shortly. "Today he was," he said. "And yesterday, and maybe he'll still be angry tomorrow. But not forever, I guarantee you." He looked down at her with an expression so intense it sent a shiver creeping up her spine. "I should tell you about last spring, I think. It's not an easy story to hear."
Imogene felt again that sharp needle of curiosity. "Tell me anyway."
He hesitated, and then he nodded. "One day—it was March, I believe—and it was a Monday. I remember because we hadn't seen Whitaker for a few days. We got there at nine, as usual. Daniel and I. Tobias hadn't started yet—he came a few months later. Anyway, the door was locked. Tightly locked, which was odd, you understand, as he'd been expecting us, and there was no note on the door, nothing to tell us where he'd gone or what to do.
"So we waited. Well, first we pounded on the door, but there was no answer, and so we thought maybe he'd gone to Goupil's for supplies. We waited an hour before we decided to leave, and we were on our way down the hall when Childs came up the stairs. He asked if class was over early, and when we told him that Whitaker wasn't there, that there'd been no answer, well—he looked so odd. He paled, I think, and then he raced past us and started pounding on the door, screaming bloody he—" Peter cleared his throat. "He was yelling, you know. Shouting at the top of his lungs.
"Daniel and I were just standing there watching, not knowing what was wrong, and there was Childs, making all
Similar Books
