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“Agnes?”
Edward's eyes struggled to open, after having been held captive by the confines of the heaviness of illness.
“Edward, I'm here,” she said, leaning into him and placing her palm against his forehead.
“George! It's gone. His fever is broken!”
“George?” Edward said, his eyes fluttering open and searching for the long- absent man.
George stepped forward for Edward to see him.
“I'm here, Edward.”
A smile, slowed by the fatigue, spread across his face in gratitude.
“You are home?”
George nodded.
“Agnes, I'll fetch him some soup,” he said, leaving the cousins alone.
“Edward,” she said, taking his hand in hers as she had so many times when he was ill, gladdened now that his eyes sparkled full of life, “you were right.”
He tilted his head to the side, allowing her words to wash over him and make sense.
“About Lady Pemblebrooke and the children. They were safe when I found them in the cottage. Clara is innocent. She was set up— well, there is plenty of time to tell you everything later. The important thing is that you were right and you're getting better,” she said.
***
A FULL TWO DAYS PASSED before Edward was recovered enough to convince Agnes to leave him alone for the day. She returned to her students, who kept interrupting their lessons to hear of her heroic tale of rescuing Lady Pemblebrooke and the children. Clara and George rested by the warmth of Agnes's hearth, while Edward focused his attention on the source of another fiery place. When at last he was alone, he wearily walked to the room that beckoned to him. It was early in December, at the dawn of the day. Woodsmoke from the cottages on the surrounding lands wafted through the window, as he propped it open. He breathed in the fresh air, inhaling too deeply and causing a cough to begin in his chest and rumble through his throat. Edward steadied himself against the windowsill, before turning toward the crates.
Edward's body, stiff from the illness, bent awkwardly toward the stack of paintings. Too tired to hold himself up he sat back heavily against the floor, the weight of the boards pushing up on him. He underestimated the amount of energy required to complete the simple task of flipping through the paintings. His hands moved steadily over the oak and maple frames and the raw canvas of those that lacked a wooden perimeter.
Where was she? He had reached the end of the pile with no trace of the painted lady. He began the arduous task of searching through them again. A growing sense of desperation surged through him, as he neared the end of the stash of paintings.
Edward fumbled with hands outstretched, sweeping them across the floor, waiting for the painting to materialize. He had been right about Lady Pemblebrooke and the children, when he allowed the painting to help clarify his thoughts. There was so much still that needed to be examined. His body on the mend, he was ready to be fully healed and to claim the elusive peace that hitherto remained beyond his grasp.
A cough rocked his body, irritated by the draft of cool air that bellowed through the window. Edward shivered and stood to shut it. He squeezed between two crates to make his way to the window, rather than going around the crates as he had when entering the room. The toe of his boot kicked something loose, causing him to stumble. Crouching down, a stream of hope flooded him, as he lifted the thin notebook from the floor.
Forgetting the window, he leaned against the stack of crates and opened the book. Turning the delicate pages, he opened to an entry dated April 23, 1894.
I write this to keep my promise to a dear friend. He entered my life one sunny afternoon, bringing me two gifts. The first was something I have shared openly with those around me and hope to someday present to the world: art. It awakened a passion for color and form to record the world around me. The second is something that must be hidden, but that has consumed my being more than any other earthly thing. The pigments I use in my own art pale in comparison to the vibrancy of the woman who delivers the messages.
Edward paused in his reading, contemplating the meaning of the ascribed name for his painted lady.
Well, she was an artist. Maybe she was speaking metaphorically, alluding to the painting's power to communicate the thoughts buried deepest inside. He continued reading.
Perhaps you, my fellow secret keeper, have given her some name of your own. If you are reading this, then I am certain that she must have touched you as she has me. I made a promise seven years ago that I would draw her portrait in a notebook given to me by the man who gave me my true friend and confidant, the painting. From the moment I swore my allegiance to his promise and he wrote my name at the front of the journal, passing the torch to me as it were, I remembered the words. And though I completed the task assigned many years ago, I was compelled to record her story, for a portrait copied cannot accurately convey the great depths surrounding her. I often think of her history, trying to imagine who else must have gazed into her eyes, who first gave her birth upon the canvas and how her magical ability came to be. I know of no such record and I hope that I am not acting in some way counter to the wishes of those who know her truth as I do, but it is my intention to write my history with her today so that others after me may know where she journeyed before, so that in the future others will at least know part of her story that came before their encounter with her. I want whoever is reading this to know that she has lived in Pagny-Alsace in France and is now traveling to England with me. How ironic that I always felt left alone, until the painting entered my life, because my brother and sister moved to other regions of France, and now I am to move to the homeland of my new husband in England! I hope that—”
“Edward? Edward where are you?” Edward jumped at the sound of Agnes's voice. He slid the notebook beneath the crate and scrambled to his feet.
“Edward?”
“I'm in here, Agnes,” he said, speaking a bit too loudly for his throat and sending him into a coughing fit.
“Edward? Oh, there you are. My goodness, you're pale. Are you overexerting yourself?” she said, entering the room and seeing her disheveled cousin before her. He couldn't help but smile, as she fussed about him. Since George had returned, she seemed different, enlivened, rejuvenated by his presence.
“What are you smiling about?” she said, a smile of her own seeping from the corner of her mouth, at the sight of Edward's infections grin. The smile disappeared just as quickly though, when she saw the opened window.
“Edward, it's freezing in here! No wonder you are so pale,” she said, crossing to the window and closing it. With her back still turned to him, Agnes said,
“Oh Edward! I haven't told you yet. While you were so ill, a woman came and,” she paused, pulling on the window hard to free it from its stuck position.
“Yes?”
“You made your first sale,” she said cheerily, securing the window shut.
“Tell me,” Edward said, his stomach sinking, “Did she by chance buy a painting?”
“Yes, that's right. She said it was for sentimental reasons. I knew that if you were well, you would have helped her find it. She reminded me of you in a way, how you were relentless in your search for the house and then how you were so dedicated to helping me.”
“Did she happen to tell you her name?”
“Marie Régine. I made sure to ask for you.” The window firmly in place, she turned with a smile.
“Edward? What's wrong? You've gone positively ghostly!”
Edward struggled to control his heart, which thudded at a quickening pace.
“Just a little tired, Agnes.”
***
A FULL WEEK, WROUGHT with worry and immersed in Marie Régine's journal, passed before Edward felt strong enough to begin his search for her. He feared that if he asked for Agnes's help, while he easily could have made up an excuse for wanting to speak with his first customer, he would not have been afforded the privacy needed to meet with Miss Lefront.
When at last he was able to set out to find her, the search proved fruitless. No one had heard of Marie Régine Lefront. Resting on the bridge, looking down at the silver ribbon of water dotted with islands of ice, Edward realized his mistake.
“I've been a fool,” he said, his breath turning to smoke in the frostiness of the day. Marie Régine Lefront was an unmarried woman in France. Through reading her words, he had come to think of her as a friend but, he had overlooked her words. She was leaving for England with her new husband. Marie Régine had told Agnes the name that Edward, if he had discovered the secrets of the painting, would know her by. But conveniently, it was a name he could not trace. Certain that if he did find her, she may be unwilling to relinquish the painting that she had paid so handsomely for, Edward carried on, determined to recover the painted lady.
For another week, he searched both the houses of the surrounding land and the pages written by the woman who escaped his search. The familiar pull of desperation, eating away at his insides and leaving him feeling exposed and raw, returned. Something, beyond his ability to comprehend, compelled him to continue his search. His wandering steps, aimless but with the compass of determination, carried him across the sweeping country, desolate and bleak with the hold of winter.
A barking dog bounded down the path, welcoming him.
“Edward?”
“Yes, it's me, Martin and— I'm sorry I don't know your name,” he said, to the woman sitting beside Martin.
“I'm Florence,” she said, “Edward, I've heard so much about you from Martin.”
He stepped forward, joining them on the porch.
“Well, I am delighted to make your acquaintance,” Edward said.
“What brings you here, Edward? You are always in search of something when you come to visit it seems.”
Edward, looking rather sheepish, said,
“Well, I did hope that you might be able to help me in locating someone. She is a French woman who married an Englishman. She must be in her forties or fifties. Her maiden name was Marie Régine Lefront.”
Martin shook his head.
“No, sorry Edward, I don't know anyone by that name.”
“I do,” Florence said, “At least, I think I may know who she is. There's a woman named Marie Fielder who speaks with a French accent. She comes into the hospital and reads to the patients sometimes.”
A growing tide of hope built in Edward, soothing some of the raw desperation.
“Thank you, Florence,” he said, nodding to her. He turned to leave, but not before adding,
“Oh, and Martin, she's lovely.”
“I know she is, Edward,” he said with a smile, lacking all the armor of hiding and as genuine as any Edward had seen, “I can see her spirit.”