Read Page 138

With shaking hands, I take the paper from her and stare at him. There he is. In the painting. In the necklace. Part of her. He never painted another portrait. He’d painted the one he wanted to paint.

He did love Sadie. He did. I know it.Advertisement

I look up at the painting, tears blurring my eyes again. The woman’s right. He painted her with love. You can see it in every brushstroke.

“It’s… amazing.” I swallow. “Are there… um… any more books about him?” I’m desperate to get this woman out of the room. I wait until her footsteps have disappeared down the passage, then tilt my head up.

“Sadie!” I call desperately. “Sadie, can you hear me? I’ve found the painting! It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re in a museum! And you know what? Stephen didn’t paint anyone but you. Never, his whole life. You were the only one. He put himself in your necklace. He loved you. Sadie, I know he loved you. I so wish you could see this-”

I break off breathlessly, but the room is silent and dead. She’s not hearing me, wherever she is. As I hear footsteps, I quickly turn and plaster on a smile. The woman hands me a pile of books.

“This is all our available stock. Are you an art-history student or simply interested in Malory?”

“I’m just interested in this one painting,” I say frankly. “And I was wondering. Do you… or the experts… have any idea who this is? What’s the painting called?”

“It’s called Girl with a Necklace . And, of course, many people are interested in the identity of the sitter.” The woman launches into what’s clearly a well-rehearsed speech. “Some research has been done, but unfortunately, to date, no one has been able to identify her beyond what is believed to be her first name.” She pauses, then adds fondly, “Mabel.”

“Mabel?” I stare at her in horror. “She wasn’t called Mabel!”

“Dear!” The woman gives me a reproving smile. “I know to modern ears it may seem a little quaint, but, believe me, Mabel was a common name of the time. And on the back of the painting there’s an inscription. Malory himself wrote, My Mabel.”

-- Advertisement --

pqdm.comads300x250--

For God’s sake.

“It was a nickname! It was their private joke! Her name was Sadie, OK? Sadie Lancaster. I’ll write it down. And I know it was her because…” I hesitate momentously. “This is my great-aunt.”

I’m expecting a gasp or something, but the woman just gives me a dubious look.

“Goodness, dear. That’s quite a claim. What makes you think she’s your great-aunt?”

“I don’t think she is, I know she is. She lived here in Archbury. She knew Steph-I mean Cecil Malory. They were lovers. It’s definitely her.”

“Do you have any evidence? Do you have a photograph of her in her youth? Any archives?”

“Well… no,” I say, a little frustrated. “But I know it’s her, beyond a doubt. And I’ll prove it somehow. And you should put a sign up saying her name and stop calling her Mabel-” I pause mid-track as something new and startling occurs to me. “Hang on a minute. This is Sadie’s painting! He gave it to her! She lost it for years, but it’s still hers. Or, I suppose, Dad’s and Uncle Bill’s now. How did you get it? What’s it doing here?”

“I’m sorry?” The woman sounds bewildered, and I give an impatient sigh.

“This painting belonged to my great-aunt. But it was lost, years and years ago. The family house burned down and she thought the painting was destroyed. So how did it end up hanging on this wall?” I can’t help sounding accusing, and she recoils.

“I’m afraid I have no idea. I’ve worked here for ten years and it’s certainly been here all that time.”

“Right.” I assume a businesslike air. “Well, can I please talk to the director of this museum or whoever’s in charge of this painting? At once?”

The woman gives me a wary, puzzled look. “Dear… you do realize this is only a reproduction, don’t you?”

“What?” I feel wrong-footed. “What do you mean?”

“The original is four times the size and, dare I say it, even more splendid.”

“But…” I look at the painting in confusion. It looks pretty real to me. “So, where’s the original? Locked up in a safe or something?”

“No, dear,” she says patiently. “It’s hanging in the London Portrait Gallery.”

TWENTY-FOUR

It’s massive. It’s radiant. It’s a million times better than the one in the house. pqdm.com