The Lover's Hand

CHAPTER 1

Rome

1858

The painting was vertical, life-size: a female nude stark against a shadowed background. Her right arm was raised in a languid curve above her head, emphasizing the lush swell of her breast. Her hair, center parted, had been lightened by lemon to a shade paler than the fur between her legs. There was no pretense to the painting; it depicted neither Venus nor Eve but a dangerous seductress of the modern age. Neither did the setting suggest ancient mythology or classical history but a Roman interior of the present.

Her nakedness was exaggerated by two accessories: turquoise beads that spilled voluptuously between the erect nipples of her breasts and a posy of full-blown red roses held loosely in her right hand. Her left hand suggestively stroked the inside of her thigh.

There was no disguising that the figure incited lust. She might insult the morals of decent society but her wickedness was delicious. Men crowded in front of the showcase of Collona Gallery to gawk—furtively but with longing. The might cry vile but their blood was stirred.

Joanna had been lured to the Collona by whispered gossip of the scandalous work. Over the course of the day the crowd had thinned but even so it took awhile for her to wedge her way forward. When finally she stood in front of the gallery showcase she let out a gasp. The face in the painting was not of some idealized muse fitted together from the best features of many women. It was not the face of some unattainable goddess or aloof fabled queen. She shut her eyes against the image. It was the face of her friend, Louisa.

Joanna had to steady herself against the stone arch before she could re-open her eyes. This wasn’t possible. Louisa had come to Rome accepted as a student of the sculptor Thomas Crawford. Two short years later she was successful enough to open her own studio. Some considered her sculpture of Virginia Dare a work of genius. Certainly a woman of such promise would not . . .

But the face in the painting had an uncanny resemblance: completely familiar and very strange. The features were Louisa’s but they were arranged provocatively. Her eyes were not downcast but sensuously direct, heavy-lidded eyes flirting with the viewer. Her reddened lips were parted, the tip of her tongue visible, erotic and lascivious. She was totally unselfconscious, unashamed of her nakedness.

Joanna turned, her blood cold. The rumors were true: there could be no doubt this was Louisa Lander—all of her. The shocking implication that she’d posed for such a painting would disgrace her to the point of ruin.

The tower apartments were empty when Joanna reached home. Faint, she sat as her mother had long ago instructed, cradling her head in her lap. It was not just the shock about Louisa. For the past two years she’d struggled with guilt and regret over her own unforgivable behavior. Vittorio had not spoken to her after the night she posed; she assumed he despised her for the very weakness he’d preyed upon.

Since then Joanna hadn’t trusted a man, much less a handsome man, until Kenyon Wade. She’d affected an air of aloofness that encased her in ice but Wade had chipped away at the frozen façade. She’d become so susceptible to him that she encouraged his advances even after the brutal lesson that Vittorio taught. Nymphomaniac. Joanna suspected that was what she was since she’d read about the sexual pathology in Harper’s Weekly. A woman plagued with erotic desires, with sexual longings.

Suddenly Joanna heard Miriam on the tower stairs. She forced herself to sit upright. It seemed imperative to appear as if everything was normal. She tried to calm herself with reason. Louisa must have done something to induce Vittorio’s revenge; Joanna knew with nauseous certainty that her own future was in terrible jeopardy unless she somehow avoided doing the same thing.

CHAPTER 2

Six weeks before

The first time Kenyon Wade saw her, she was conspicuous in the tangled throng that crossed the Piazza del Popolo. Who is that? He’d interrupted Hawthorne abruptly.

Wade had been only half-listening, more engrossed in the way the early sun had stained the Roman cityscape a monochrome. Everything was pale amber, like a charcoal sketch on done on parchment. Then the girl passed in front of the ancient obelisk and plucked him from his vague imagining.

Speak of the devil, Nathaniel Hawthorne looked up from his espresso. It’s Joanna Ellenschild.

This was the woman Hawthorne had spent the last half hour railing against? Despite the britches and high boots, she was a stunner. The sculptress?

The one I’ve been warning you about. Dangerously unconventional.

You’re too critical, Nathaniel. It was Hawthorne’s wife, Sophia. You’re just not used to observing courage in a woman.

Wade watched Joanna Ellenschild move toward their table at the Café Nuevo. Her long strides molded the kidskin of her britches to the elongated curve of her legs. Dangerous? His eyes shifted upward to observe the effect of the Roman breeze against her shirt. It was finely woven linen and the sun, just clearing the obelisk in the center of the Piazza, shone through the fabric as if it were sheer. In what way dangerous? Her breasts, outlined by the sunshine, defied gravity and floated, apparently weightless, beneath the gauzy shirt.

Hawthorne looked in the direction of the artist and threw up his hands. Rome! He exclaimed, shaking his head.

Sophia rolled her eyes. Don’t get him started down that path, she laughed to Wade. Don’t get him going about treacherous Rome.

Wade tore his eyes away from Joanna Ellenschild to look at Sophia. "Treacherous Rome? And here I thought I was visiting the Eternal City."

Hawthorne patted his wife’s hand and the gesture was not entirely affectionate. Sophia pressed her lips together and sat back from the table while Hawthorne responded for her. You’re certainly aware that the modern city is built over an immense series of caverns, he pushed back his chair.

Wade looked around to find Joanna Ellenschild had made it across the Piazza. He stood.

Good Morning, Sophia, Joanna said. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at the Nuevo for breakfast. Without the benefit of distance, the sun’s rays had lost their power and Joanna Ellenschild’s shirt seemed modest but for the slight sway underneath.

Sophia wouldn’t be here, Hawthorne answered curtly, but we are celebrating—Una’s fever has broken.

Merciful God! Miss Ellenschild, her voice active with concern, bent to take Sophia’s hand. I’ve been so worried. You must feel such relief after all these months!

It’s been since October, Sophia’s eyes welled up and she turned to include Kenyon Wade. Our daughter is one of the very few lucky enough to recover from malaria. She was bitten after we returned to Rome last autumn; well past the ordinary malaria season.

You are incredibly fortunate. He meant it. The disease was deadly and epidemic in the Roman summers. He’d been unaware until then that the threat extended into fall.

We’ve left Una in the care of her governess, Hawthorne explained. We’re off to tour the ruins at Pompeii. He cleared his throat and his taut features took on a superior look. I assure you Sophia will not make it a habit of taking breakfast here.

Joanna smiled but Wade caught mockery in her eyes: eyes the color and translucency of the Mediterranean. I should expect not! Her exclamation was caustic; she and Hawthorne seemed caught in some combative undercurrent. She shifted her gaze to Wade.

Hawthorne followed her eyes. This is Mr. Kenyon Wade, he responded. One more New Englander come to foreign shores.

How nice, Miss Ellenschild said, tilting her head back to look up at him as she extended her hand. It took Wade slightly aback; another woman would have averted her eyes. Welcome to Rome, Mr. Wade.

Kenyon took her hand. It felt fragile but when he raised it to his lips the skin was rough and he felt the coarseness of her knuckle against his mouth.

It’s the plaster. There was pride in her voice but, beneath it, defensiveness.

Wade frowned, not understanding.

Working with plaster makes a mess of one’s hands.

Hawthorne cleared his throat. Miss Ellenschild is a sculptress, he explained, as if he’d not been lecturing about the woman for the past half hour.

Oh, come now, Mr. Hawthorne! Miss Ellenschild was grinning. Most certainly you’ve been gossiping to Mr. Wade about me!

No. Hawthorne sounded cross. We were talking about Rome.

Joanna’s daring seemed to affect Sophia and she moved close to the table again. About how dangerous Rome is to the female artist, she expanded.

Ah, yes, those caverns! Miss Ellenschild had obviously heard it before and her tone said she enjoyed jabbing Hawthorne.

And those priests—

Sophia! Hawthorne cut his wife off. We hadn’t gotten to the priests. He turned to Wade. The priests we can discuss at a more appropriate time. Then back to Miss Ellenschild. Will you be joining us? Hawthorne’s heavy eyebrows were straining so far up on his high forehead, they looked like they might pop right off. His smile was tight with the sincere hope that she would not.

Miss Ellenschild appeared to consider the invitation for the sheer delight of watching Hawthorne’s irritation mount. Then she sighed, tucking a stray, espresso colored lock into the silk net that tried to restrain it. I can’t, she said. I have my usual morning meeting. She gestured to the far side of the patio where a group of men argued around a large table.

Wade watched Joanna turn to leave and found himself wanting to follow. He’d never met a woman remotely like this. In a strange way, she reminded him of his brother, William, with a rigid shell of self-confidence, which, if cracked, would reveal a seed ripe with vulnerability.

A pleasure to meet you Mr. Wade, she called over her shoulder.

The pleasure is mine, he assured her, before he resumed his chair. He scratched the back of his neck. There was no doubt he was attracted, but with this woman he wasn’t sure quite where to go with it.

Joanna is wonderful isn’t she? Sophia bubbled while Hawthorne threw her a malevolent scowl which she ignored. Only twenty and she lives like a young man would. Comes and goes as she pleases. Takes breakfast and dinner with her artist friends. Works well into the night.

Since Miss Ellenschild was the subject of this praise it seemed natural that Wade allow his gaze to find her form. This time he observed her from the rear, mesmerized by how the seam in the kidskin traced the swell of her behind. He closed his eyes, grateful for the cover of the tablecloth. She’s fascinating, he admitted.

She dresses like a man, Hawthorne clucked.

Wade observed Hawthorne’s sharp features in surprise. No man would do justice to those clothes!

Only when she’s working, Sophia corrected. Would you have her climbing scaffolding in petticoats?

Hawthorne sighed. I suppose the trousers are practical. He dunked almond biscotti into his espresso. Still it’s queer.

You forget that when you look at her sculpture, Sophia observed.

Is that right? Wade was curious about her work—he wanted to know every detail about her. A woman sculptor. Girls were taught to keep their hands busy with drawing but to cut stone?

Hawthorne sucked his teeth. Her work is admirable, he admitted reluctantly. The best of that whole flock of women who flutter about Harriet.

Who’s Harriet? Wade wondered.

Mr. and Mrs. Nathaniel Hawthorne froze. Why Harriet Hosmer, Hawthorne said, biscotti poised just above the rim of his espresso glass. "The world-renowned creator of Puck."

Wade’s curiosity overcame any concern about appearing ignorant. He took a sip of his own coffee. The only Puck I know is Shakespeare’s character—

The Hawthornes exchanged glances. It was Sophia who broke the silence. She’s already sold thirty-five . . . at 1,000 dollars apiece!

35,000 dollars! Wade laughed. Are they made of gold?

Marble, Hawthorne explained sullenly, finally dunking his biscuit. That whole flock of sculptresses is here because Rome has an abundance of white marble.

The Prince of Wales has bought one! Sophia exclaimed.

What is it? Wade had a hard time getting beyond the fact that an independent woman had earned 35,000 dollars. A marble what?

An angel, Sophia said softly.

Nothing more than a plump little cherub, Hawthorne declared at the same time.

Representing the spirit of every child who’s ever died. Sophia’s voice caught and Wade sensed she was thinking about the child she’d almost lost to malaria.

Sitting atop a big mushroom, Hawthorne concluded, emphasizing the ridiculousness of the concept.

Sophia glowered at him. "I thought you admired Puck."

Hawthorne took his time swallowing the coffee before he nodded. I do, Sophia. I’m only thinking that 35,000 dollars is a great deal of money for . . .

For what? Sophia demanded.

Hawthorne shifted his head left to right before he answered. For a female’s fairy-tale.

Sophia was on her feet. "Puck is not a fairy-tale! Harriet spoke to the spirit of a dead child for the inspiration. The name refers to Shakespeare’s whimsy but—" Her eyes had latched on to Wade’s for support.

Hawthorne caught the ridge between his nostrils with two fingers and was pinching that narrow line of flesh very hard. The statue—considering it’s done by a woman—is, he coughed, "respectable. But in judging a block of marble that’s been converted into thought, I have an ability somewhat superior to yours, Sophia. Harriet’s Puck cannot be compared to the Neo-classical aesthetics of Canova or Thorwaldson."

Sophia’s eyes raged but she held her tongue.

I’d like to see the statue, Wade said quickly. He said this to distract a distraught Sophia back into her chair but, in all truth, he did want to see the work.

I will arrange it. Sophia sat down and glared at her husband. She spoke evenly to Kenyon. Harriet Hosmer, you may not know, Mr. Wade, runs John Gibson’s studio here in Rome. She employs over twenty cutters. She arranged her dress in even pleats about her lap before she added. All men.

Hawthorne held up his hands benignly. Harriet Hosmer, he declared is an impeccable woman.

And yet, Sophia interrupted, "she dresses like a man!"

Indeed, Hawthorne complied. But Harriet has proved herself. She’s as celibate as a monk. Her life is her art and, dress as she might, she’s done nothing to compromise her purity.

Nor has Joanna, Sophia contended, eyes insistent.

Hawthorne sighed. "Not that we know, but we know very little of Joanna Ellenschild."

We know her work! Sophia cried.

Hawthorne nodded with some condescension. But we have no idea where she came from. He turned his gaze to Wade. Truth be told, the woman is a complete mystery. We don’t even know for certain that she’s a countryman of ours! Ellenschild? What nationality is that? Only in Rome could she claim a position in society without the rest of us having a clue as to who she is or where she came from!

I know who she is! Sophia insisted. I know she’s my friend, true to herself and her art. What more do I need to know?

Hawthorne shook his head. In our New England villages we know what our neighbors do and where they come from. We know every word spoken, every act done, every friendship made or sacrificed. Not so in Rome—

Treacherous Rome, Sophia murmured, her sarcasm louder than her words.

In Rome, Hawthorne continued, ignoring his wife, we take freer breaths than we do at home. We are more . . . He coughed again, it seemed a habit that gave him time to find the appropriate word, generous in our opinions of others without sacrificing our own reputations.

Are you saying you regard Miss Ellenschild in less than a favorable light simply because you don’t know her background? Wade’s interest was only enhanced by the mystery that shrouded the beautiful sculptress.

I am saying Miss Ellenschild is an enigma—

She’s an extraordinary artist, Sophia insisted.

—an enigma who could succeed no where else but in Rome.

And a friend whom I dearly love. Sophia was next to tears.

Hawthorne nodded. Miss Ellenschild is a woman who my heart yearns to trust but . . . he hesitated, shrugged.

But what? Sophia cried.

But my head does not. Hawthorne turned his back on Sophia then and faced Wade full on. Tell us, Mr. Wade, his voice had lost its barbed tone and turned conversational, what brings a New Englander like yourself to Rome?

Wade was taken aback by the shift in subject and timbre. He’d read Hawthorne’s books, of course, and knew him to be a rather self-righteous Puritan. Still, he was surprised by the fellow’s determination that Joanna Ellenschild could not be what she appeared. He felt suddenly aggravated, having moved from spectator to victim of Hawthorne’s scrutiny. The truth was Wade had come to Rome in search of absolution and he had no intention of disclosing that.

He formed his answer cautiously, aware that Hawthorne would analyze his words. I’m here as a tourist . . . seeking the secret of the Eternal City. Wade tried to sound light-hearted despite the guilt that had weighed him down for years.

Hawthorne regarded him pointedly. "The Eternal City is right. The dust here is ten thousand years old. In a strong wind you can choke on the ashes of Michel Angelo. He squinted over the rim of his glass, shook his head over the cold coffee and resumed his interrogation in measured tones. What occupation has afforded you the luxury of travel?"

Wade’s chair seemed very hard all of a sudden, very rigid against his back. He despised talking about himself, about the past. He shifted in his seat. I made my fortune in California.

Gold? Hawthorne’s eyebrows shot up.

Wade nodded.

Am I to assume that I sit face to face with that rare man whose greed was assuaged by sheer luck?

Luck? Wade felt the blood drain out of his face. Luck, if that’s what it was, had led him to murder his brother in the desert of the Sierra Nevada. I do not consider myself lucky.

"Don’t tell me you believe your wealth came because of what you know? Hawthorne had misunderstood Wade’s meaning and his intonation shifted again. Although he never raised his voice, his antagonism was apparent. Or because of some talent?"

Nathaniel! Sophia interrupted sharply, and then forced her voice to softness. You mustn’t tease our new friend; he doesn’t know you well enough to realize that you’re joking. She smiled at Wade. Mr. Hawthorne understands as well as I do that such a fortune is made through industry and risk. Her smile faded when she returned her eyes to her husband. And that luck plays a role in all our lives, including his.

Five years earlier,