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The scene was noiseless except for the soft moans of the wind. Almost involuntarily, Anne turned
toward the gatehouse.
“Take us,” Rayley said. “Show us these things he paints that hurt you so.”
As if in some sort of trance, Anne stumbled toward the gatehouse and Trevor and Rayley followed
her through the door and across the cold bare floor. The smell of paint had dissipated, but portrait
was there in the corner, still on its easel, and in the full light of day they could study the work in
greater detail.
“He paints Dorinda,” Anne said. “I find her face waiting here, each morning, as if she is mocking
me.” Her tone was defeated, the voice of a woman who has given all she can give and still has lost.
“Then what remains to hold you here?” Rayley asked urgently. “You are right in saying that we are not
who we claim to be, but I assure you, my dear Anne, that we come not to abuse young women but to
offer you a way out of this trap.“
“This child I hold in my arms, where does it come from?” Anne asked, flicking a fingertip toward the
picture. “I have never seen him paint a child, not once, but when I ask him why it is there and what it
means…he grows wild with anger. He accuses me of tormenting him. How can he say these things to
me when I am the one in torment?”
“That is not the face of Dorinda Spencer,” Trevor said flatly. “I tried to tell you so last night.”
“What?” said Rayley, turning back toward the picture. “Of course it is.”
“And the paint is always wet, every morning,” Anne said. “He claims not to understand it. He says
he must walk in his sleep. But I know he does not leave his bed.” She flushed in shame. “I should not
know whether or not a man leaves his bed in the dark of night. No decent girl knows these things, but
I do.”
“It matters not,” Rayley said. “Your family understands and forgives all. We shall catch the train
tomorrow morning and you shall be home by Christmas Eve.”
“It looks like Dorinda Spencer,” Trevor continued, talking softly to himself as if he could not hear
Rayley and Anne, as if he alone were immune to the emotion engulfing the room.
“Good God, man, what does all of that matter?” Rayley snapped. “Remember why we have come
here, and it isn’t for any damned painting.”
“I have gone too far to turn back,” Anne said.
“One can always turn back,” Rayley said fiercely. “We have journeyed here on the wishes of your
mother, with no other intention than to bring you home.”
“It is an understandable error,” Trevor murmured, his eyes never leaving the naked Madonna’s face.
“But first tell me,” Rayley persisted. “Do you own a white cloak? Does he?”
“A white cloak?” Anne echoed in confusion. “I have no such garment and LaRusse wears the same
clothing every day. Why do you ask? And what did my mother tell you? She does not understand me