The Magnolia Palace(53)
In the library, he led her to the painting of the lady and the dog she’d come upon the day before. “Lady Hamilton as ‘Nature,’ painted by George Romney.”
Veronica studied the woman’s face, with its coy smile and tilted chin, as if she had only just noticed it. “Who was Lady Hamilton?”
“She was born Amy Lyon, the daughter of a blacksmith, and became the mistress to a series of wealthy English aristocrats, eventually catching Lord Nelson’s eye. She was incredibly famous and widely celebrated, but after Nelson died, she lost everything and died in poverty.”
The story aggravated Veronica. When she’d first studied the portrait, she’d assumed this was a woman whose life was light and airy, without a care in the world other than the happiness of her pooch. But of course Veronica was looking at the artist’s depiction of the woman, not the actual woman. She grunted in response.
“What?” said Joshua. “Don’t you like it?”
“The painting’s lovely, but I’m annoyed that Lady Hamilton’s only means of success depended on being attractive to powerful men.” She pointed to the painting above the fireplace. “Mr. Frick wasn’t handsome, but that didn’t matter one whit because he was a man. It’s not fair.”
“I suppose it’s not.”
“So I guess now we look for the clue.” She glanced down at the bookcase.
Joshua froze. “Wait a minute. When I first found you, you were sitting on the floor, looking at a book. You read this clue and figured it out and were looking for the next one.”
She knew better than to deny it. “Yes, you’re right. I was curious if I could find it.”
“So why all the pretending?” A coldness had crept into his voice.
“I’m so sorry,” she offered. “That was wrong of me. You see, yesterday, I tried to follow the clues to distract myself from freaking out at the thought of being trapped in the dark, and then you showed up. I knew the models and the film shoot had disrupted things here, and I thought you’d be mad that I’d nosed about. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
He frowned, but then something in him seemed to relent. “Did you find it?”
“The fifth volume from the left.” She waited as he opened the book and drew out the clue.
He read it silently, and then, almost in spite of himself, looked up in triumph. He knew the answer. “This one’s in the art gallery, right next door.”
The twelfth clue referred to a solemn self-portrait by Rembrandt that indeed hung in the art gallery. The gold-and-red costume the painter wore belied his bankrupt state, Joshua explained as they studied it. “The head of an old lion at bay, worn and melancholy.”
“That describes it exactly. Did you make that up?”
“Nope. That’s how the Met described it in an exhibit in 1909, three years after Frick purchased it. Helen Frick’s clue referenced a ‘red-sashed lion.’?”
“Well done. What do you think, shall we continue?” she asked.
“I suppose we should.”
* * *
The tension between Veronica and Joshua melted away as they worked together. The clues tended to be found within close proximity to the painting or object described, tucked under the edge of a rug or taped to the underside of nearby furniture, and the next several hours were surprisingly enjoyable, if at times frustrating, as not all of the clues were as obvious as the ones for Lady Hamilton or the Rembrandt. Joshua was an able guide, and whenever he figured out the answer to a riddle, his eyes grew wide with excitement. Studying the paintings and sculptures in the soft glow of the lamplight made them even more intriguing, as if the figures were moving slightly in their frames, as if they were alive. They took a quick break to eat when they were hungry before eagerly carrying on.
The nineteenth clue directed them back to the art gallery, to a work by Goya called The Forge. The painting depicted three blacksmiths arranged around a sheet of red-hot steel, and stood out from the others around it—which tended toward passive-looking aristocrats or pretty landscapes—with its rawness. Muscular arms, a sledgehammer caught in mid-raise: it spoke of man’s power.
“This one is so different from the others,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“It’s not as pretty, I guess.”
“Henry Frick was a steel magnate, that’s how he got his riches,” said Joshua. “Maybe this reminded him of those early days.”
Veronica looked closer. One of the smiths—the one holding the sheet of metal—had gray hair and was stooped almost all the way over, his face precariously close to the fire. “I wonder if he identified with the young men or that older one.”
“It might have changed as he aged. Paintings tend to do that.”
“Like books.”
“That’s right.” He glanced over at her with a look of surprise.
“Models can read, you know.” She threw him a crooked grin. “Hey, you could write a paper on these clues and how they connect to the artwork here. I bet you’d get high marks.”
“You know, that’s a great idea.”
After his early disapproval of her, it was nice to hear praise. A pleasant silence hung between them as they regarded the painting. “Do you like working here?” she asked.