Page 99

When Dora reappeared, she was carrying a box of crayons, a sheaf of papers, and a drawing board and looking very business-like. She had also changed into one of the strange theatrical robes she favored so much when she was just at home. After plunking the supplies down in front of him, she turned about surveying the room.

“How should I arrange myself?” she asked sitting rather formally on the couch opposite.

“Not like that,” Clem said eyeing her as he spilled the crayons out onto the table. He did not know how he wanted her precisely. More relaxed somehow. “A more informal pose.”

She propped her elbow on the arm. “Like this?”

Clem frowned. “No,” he said picking up a red crayon.

“Tell me someone to do an impression of,” she said, eyes gleaming.

“No,” Clem repeated swiftly. He did not know what he wanted precisely, but he knew he didn’t want that. “Do something else for a while,” he suggested instead. “Something that will occupy you and take your mind off posing altogether.”

He saw her frown and then get an idea, for she stood up again and walked to the cabinet, opening the drawer. When she returned, she held a pack of cards up to show it to him. “I used to play clock patience a lot as a child.”

Clem nodded and watched as she sat back down again and started placing the card down in the shape of a clock face. He leaned back in his chair, propping the drawing board against his leg, just watching as her actions became more fluid and natural.

“We used to play cards all the time when we were younger,” she confided. “Felix, Hetty, and I.”

“What games did you play?” Clem asked automatically as he started to stroke the crayon over the page.

“All kinds.”

“Poker?”

“Oh yes,” she agreed. “That one was Felix’s favorite for a while.”

After discarding the first sketch, Clem rolled up his shirt sleeves and leaned forward in his seat. Dora, it seemed, had grown tired of patience, for she was now shuffling the cards, fanning and cutting the deck, her actions swift and deliberate. Each time she reassembled the pack, she paused to hold her hands out before her in a curious gesture he suddenly recognized.

“Who taught you to shuffle a deck?” he asked, a sudden suspicion forming in his mind.

“A doorman we had years ago when I was a girl. Long before Vincent started. His name was Thomas.”

“Hmmm. Do you know why Thomas showed his wrists like that each time before he touched the deck?”

She looked up startled. “No. I just liked the way he did it, slowing his quick hands for a moment.” She looked suddenly intrigued. “Why did he do it?”

He was amused in spite of himself. “He was showing you there was no card hidden up his cuffs.”

“Ohhhh.”

“Show me what else you learned from him,” he prompted her.

She spread out the cards again, her clever fingers dancing over the pack, touching one card before selecting another. Distraction. He doubted she had even been aware she was imitating a card sharp all these years.

“Best of all, I liked the way he took snuff,” she confided. “But when I tried it in the privacy of my own room, it made me sneeze for five whole minutes. Then when I blew my nose that evening, the color of my handkerchief alarmed me.”

A reluctant smile curved his lips. “Show me how he did it.”

She dropped her cards at once and pretended to flick open a small, lidded box before peppering the contents along the back of her hand with a studied nonchalance. Then she lowered her nose, sniffing with first one nostril and then the other, and then tugging at her nose with thumb and forefinger. “Uncle used to say Thomas thought himself quite the dandy.”

Clem laughed. “Ever seen anyone chew tobacco?” he asked.

“Yes,” she admitted. “But my uncle caught me spitting once and it was the closest I ever came to getting a hiding. In any case, I doubt they would ever let me do that on stage, even at a music hall.” He saw her peer across. “How is the sketching going?” she asked. He gave a short shrug. “Should I put my ringlets in?”

He frowned, shaking his head. “No. It’s the shape of your head that I like.” He hesitated before confessing, “I’d like to draw the nape of your neck next.” His voice thickened strangely over the words. Instead of asking what the hell was wrong with him, Dora stood up abruptly and went to grab one of the chairs next to the window, dragging it into the middle of the room. She turned it about, so she was facing away from him. Then she plunked it down and dropped back into it.

Clem cleared his throat, discarded the page he had been using, and started a fresh sketch, this time focused on the back view of her bent neck and shoulders. He had no idea why he found the sight of her exposed neck so erotic; he just knew that he did. “When you get it cut this time, you could maybe go a little shorter at the back,” he suggested, wondering why that made his pulse race. “And really give Albert something to think about it.