The rest of the work on the portrait went quickly, in spite of the disorder in the Boit household. The girls, freed from Popau, wandered in and out of the foyer, sometimes willing to pose and sometimes not.
It mattered little by that time; I had their bodies blocked in as I wanted them; and as for their faces, I was no longer trying to paint what they showed the world, but what I saw in them. Jane I put at the edge of the shadow, looking toward me. But still standing next to her, Florence. Which way would she turn? I wondered.
Florence herself refused to speak to me now. She hardly spoke at all. I posed her against her vase, looking toward the mirror, toward the dark that she still wanted.
Mary’s face was half in light and half in shadow, with her hands behind her. Strong, stubborn, and secret.
Julia was already finished, but I changed her, turning her face away from the doll that was no longer Popau. I repainted her with her eyes looking off to the side, away from all her sisters, and away from me.
I put in the red screen that had hidden Miss Joseph. I put in the mirror, which now shone with the ordinary light of day.
And in the darkness around Jane and Florence, I painted the absence of the Lady of Love. Whether she no longer existed or simply could not reach us, I had no way of knowing. Nor did I know what I had taken from the girls. I only knew that I had lost the love of my life.
Edward Boit came home a few days before I finished my work. He arrived a day before he had been expected. When he walked through the door, his daughters came running from all over the apartment to surround him. His wife came downstairs slowly, beautifully dressed, making her entrance.
Julia clung to his legs, Mary hugged his waist, Jane and Florence draped themselves over his shoulders.
“Papa’s home, Papa’s home!” Mary shouted.
“Home, home, home, home,” Florence crooned.
Jane only wept.
“Papa, P-paul died,” Julia said.
But Boit didn’t hear this in the din of his homecoming.
Boit shook off the girls and greeted his wife.
“How are you, my dearest?” he asked.
“We are all very well, Boity.” She smiled.
Boit shot me a questioning look. Then he said, “Friend Sargent. I’m so glad to find you here. Let me see the painting if I may.”
By now the thing was done except for the lower left corner and part of the right-hand side.
Boit studied it long and thoughtfully while the girls tried to distract him with all kinds of chat and tattle. It was as if Miss Joseph had not died, and Flint had not disappeared, as if nothing that had happened had happened. Except for Boit, they all acted as if I were not there.
Then, after he had rubbed his chin and pulled at his mustache over and over, Boit said, “Everyone go into the small salon. I’ll join you there. We’ll have a party, eh? Just the family.”
They all left.
Boit turned to me.
“Thank you, Sargent,” he said.
“I’m pleased you like it,” I said.
“It’s very skillful,” Boit said. “But that was to be expected. No, friend, what I’m thanking you for is showing me what my daughters are living through. I know about the death of poor Miss Joseph. And about Flint’s disappearance of course. I’m sure there’s a great deal more Iza hasn’t told me. When there is time, I’ll want a long talk with you about the things that happened in my absence.”
“Oh—certainly—yes, Glad to—” I stammered. “Perhaps best if I go now. Family.”
I waved my arm in the direction of the small salon.
“I see it all,” Boit said, “the shock and fear on the faces of my poor darlings. I will deal with it, I promise you,” he said, and squeezed my hand.
He went up the stairs to his family, and I went home, wondering what I could possibly tell Edward Darley Boit that he could believe.
I never did think of a credible tale I could tell him about the things that had happened in his absence, but it did not matter. He never asked.