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A Mother and Child
Dawn was gently breaking as they drove back into London. Silver shoots of morning light pierced the grey November clouds like arrows. Regan fell asleep on Arthur’s shoulder and only woke up when he pulled into The Pearl’s underground parking garage.
Arthur laughed softly at her. “Finally wake up?”
“Sorry,” she said, sitting up straight. “I’m not used to getting up at three in the morning to visit haunted houses.”
“Go up and get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll stop by later.”
“You don’t want to come up and sleep with me?”
“How much sleep do you think we’d actually get?”
She smiled tiredly. “Fair point. See you soon.”
When she started to leave the car, Arthur stopped her by putting his hand gently on her arm. “Will you promise me something?”
“What is it?”
“Whatever he’s doing…and for whatever reason, please don’t let it…”
“Arthur…” She wanted to tell him everything would be all right no matter what occurred, and that they would be together and happy until the end of time.
“I can’t make that promise,” she said. “You know I can’t make you any promises about the future.”
“I know.” He nodded. “I know that.”
Why must love be so impossibly difficult, she wondered? If she’d loved him less, she could have promised him more. When she looked at their future, all she saw was pain—his pain. He’d tire of her saying no to his marriage proposals. He’d resent her for not wanting to adopt children. He’d wonder why he wasted so many years on a woman doomed to an early death, when all that time he could have been finding love with a girl his own age who’d marry him in a heartbeat and give him a half-dozen bouncing Godwick babies.
The heartbreak was that Regan knew he’d marry her tonight, even knowing all of that. Proof he was absolutely mad, which meant she had to be the sane one.
“I can promise you right now,” she said. “How’s that?”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
She kissed him, then watched him drive off. How many more kisses were left to them—a thousand? A hundred? Ten?
Regan returned to the penthouse, doing her best to avoid the curious eyes of The Pearl’s staff who must have been wondering why the boss was dragging herself across the lobby at the crack of dawn. She found her bed waiting for her. She undressed and crawled under the sheets, and fell into a deep and lonely sleep.
* * *
When she woke up,it was raining again. Regan heard the endless drumming of an autumn shower on her windows and walls. Her bed felt enormous and empty without Arthur. How had she gotten used to him being there so quickly? After Sir Jack died, she’d sworn she’d never sleep in the same bed with another man as long as she lived. Now, barely seven months later, she was clutching Arthur’s pillow, searching out his scent.
Hunger finally drove her from bed. She ordered room service—Cuban coffee, lobster ravioli in brown butter sauce, salted caramel ice cream—and ate every bite. After a long, hot shower, she dressed in a grey wool skirt and matching jacket. She went downstairs to the sitting room, where she froze. Someone had changed the painting above the fireplace.
It was an original she’d picked up years ago at an auction—a haunting portrait by the American painter Elizabeth Nourse calledA Mother and Child.Both the mother and the child wore somber expressions. Behind their heads were painted pale nimbuses like the icons of saints, though this mother was not the Virgin Mary, just an ordinary woman. The child wasn’t Jesus, but a normal baby boy.
Zoot might have hung it, but she had never before changed the paintings out without Regan’s permission or at her request.
Malcolm, then.
What did he mean by hanging a portrait of a mother and child in her home? Was he taunting her?
Regan took the painting down and might have thrown it into the fireplace if she hadn’t been such a fan of Nourse’s other work.
She carried it into her office and hid it behind the desk, turning it to face the wall. She picked up the phone and called for Zoot.
“I have a painting I want taken to Sotheby’s,” Regan told her. “You can bring up a replacement, too. Anything. Today, please.”
