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Cora turned her attention to the art, hoping questions about the paintings could bring Manuela out from under this shroud of unhappiness. There were two pieces side-by-side, about three feet in height. Even at a glance she could see the enormous talent. She’d always been moved by art, and over the years she’d educated herself on how to appreciate technique, to recognize elements and themes that transformed images on a canvas into a story. There were some tales to be seen here, to be sure.
The heiress had a deft hand with color and shadow. It was easy to see why she’d been selected: every line was precise, the subjects fleshed out so vividly they could’ve stepped out of the painting. Her interest in the Brazilian pavilion’s greenhouse was also evident—flowers were not merely present in Manuela’s work, they were at its essence. That and women. In her art, the feminine didn’t just exist it nature, itwasnature. It was like nothing Cora had ever seen, and it only made her angrier that they’d keep them hidden up here where no one would appreciate them.
“I think I would’ve recognized these as yours at first glance.” She turned to Manuela when she said it and came face to face with a very dubious expression. “It’s true,” she insisted, but the artist was unmoved.
“You don’t have to make me feel better,” she said, again in that stoic, dull tone that seemed to cover the sun with a great, black cloud.
“I thought from what you already knew about me, you’d glean that I do very little to make others feel better, princesa,” Cora retorted, once again trying to obtain some kind of reaction. She was finally rewarded with a minuscule smile that instantly brought back the sun.
“I’m not upset because I don’t think my pieces aren’t good enough to be here,” Manuela told her, and Cora heard a little of that rebellious spirit returning. “I’m angry because they got my name wrong.” She pointed at the little placards under each of the paintings. Cora leaned in to get a look, and Manuela made sound of disgust as she read.
Manolo Caceres Galvan. The bastards.
“Disgraceful.” It was one word, but there was such mighty indignation infused into it, such diffidence in her expression, that Cora could not help thinking that she’d seriously misread this woman. Whatever Manuela Caceres Galvan might be, she was not unsure of her worth as an artist.
“Tell me about this one,” Cora asked, pointing at the piece on the left before she said something she’d regret. “I assume this very morose young man with the lyre is Orpheus.”
Manuela smiled approvingly, provoking a new and distressing fluttering in Cora’s belly. “It’s one of my favorites,” Manuela explained as she took a step closer to the framed canvas. It was darker than what Cora would’ve imagined from Manuela, done in black, white and gold, but every image seemed lit from within.
“Eurydice doesn’t seem very impressed with Orpheus’s musical prowess,” Cora commented as she took in the image.
“She was not very happy to be plucked out of the underworld,” Manuela added, drolly. “She was having a wonderful time without Orpheus’s obsessive pestering and his silly little instrument.” Cora grinned, charmed beyond reason by this woman, who for all her frilly lace and apparent frivolity, was quite brazenly feminist.
Manuela’s Eurydice was indeed unamused and magnificent standing on a black rock at the center of the scene, with her eyes screwed shut, mouth twisted in discontent. A maiden of the underworld tended to the viper bite on her foot, while vines tangled around her naked form. Then there were the flowers. A black anthurium sprouted from the juncture of her thighs, extending over her hips, while a spray of dark purple orchids covered her breasts. Her hair was very black, the tights coils reaching below her waist. Orpheus, small and surly, stood at the mouth to the underworld playing his lyre, head down in concentration, while his beloved had both hands clapped over her ears.
“The Furies don’t seem affected in the same way the myth recounts,” Cora commented, tickled by the figures whose faces—instead of wet with tears—were twisted in outrage for the accosted Eurydice.
“Only the men are captivated by Orpheus’s efforts. The women all see it for what it is,” Manuela answered, bringing to Cora’s attention the other figures in the painting. In the background she’d painted a bloated Hades reclining on a throne with a beatific smile on his lips, eyes fixed on the musician. The other men in the composition all shared the same disturbingly besotted expressions. It was so elegantly subversive. A resonant rebuke of men’s entitlement, of their unbridled selfishness, but it was so beautifully done one could not help feeling inspired while looking at it.
“This is very powerful. I am not surprised they selected it.” Cora shook her head in sincere admiration as she took in the story being told. She also remembered Manuela’s words from that night at Le Bureau, her certainty that the fresco could’ve only been made by a woman, and found herself rethinking, once again, what she thought she knew about the heiress. “I am frankly surprised they had the sensibility to appreciate it.”
“They likely gave me a pass because they thought I was Manolo,” Manuela muttered, derisively. Cora did not argue—she was probably right—and turned her attention to the other painting.
This one, impossibly, was even more compelling to Cora. It was of a woman at the mouth of a cave which was sealed with one enormous pink iris. Ghostly claws tugged at the hem of her white robes as she desperately reached inside. Shards of light escaped from where her hand pierced the center of the iris. Her face ablaze from the rays emanating from the slit in the flower, her eyes wide and hungry, intent on climbing inside. Eager to escape the darkness pulling her back and into the warmth of that light. It was so lifelike, Cora’s heart beat faster as she took in the determination on the woman’s face.
“That is not exactly subtle,” Cora said with approval. It was truly astounding they’d allowed it in the show. Even if relegated to this small attic.
“Well, men aren’t very smart,” the artist quipped, a provocatively sly smile on her lips. “And sadly deficient in their knowledge of anatomy.”
That was the precise moment it dawned on Cora with unequivocal certainty that Manuela Caceres Galvan could wreak absolute havoc on her life. Utter madness itched to come out of her mouth. For one, that she was much too good and far too clever for her talents to be wasted posing as some social-climber’s trophy.
With great effort she managed to remind herself what happened the last time she’d taken on a pretty girl with familial complications. Dammit, she hadn’t come here to admire Manuela’s paintings, much less comfort her. Once again she’d been derailed. Her will and her plans undone. She had to get a hold of herself, hold fast to what mattered. Her business, Alfie, repairing what she’d broken. She turned her back on the paintings and handed the sheaf of papers to Manuela.
“I have the agreement.”
Nine
Manuela took the papersfrom the duchess and went to sit at the lone bench in the room, a bit stunned by Cora’s opinion of her work. She’d been close to tears when she’d come in, and the last thing she’d expected was for the duchess to know exactly the right things to say in order to make her feel better.
Despite her bravado the night before, she’d been nervous about inviting the duchess to the exhibition and then had been mortified when she discovered her paintings had not only been relegated to an attic but that they’d gotten her name wrong.
“Thank you for being kind about my work,” Manuela said, still staring at the papers in her hands without really seeing the words.
Her expression must have given away her thoughts because the duchess laughed as she took a seat beside her.
“I can’t claim that my sensibilities to good art were all my own. My best friend Cassandra has had her share of awful encounters with people who felt the need to let her know her work is absolute filth.”
Manuela exhaled in sympathy. “It is one of the drawbacks of creating things that each beholder interprets in their own way.”
