Free Angel of Hever Castle, The by Kim Wright Page A

herself up and said, “But he shall be back soon, I know he shall.  And you needn’t think I would leave the man I love on such foolish provocation.   I know who the two of you are, you know.  I have known from the very first night.”
    Now there was more than one beat of silence.  There were several.  Rayley was conscious he was clenching his jaw and he dared not look at Trevor.
    “You are not an artist,” Anne said haughtily, fixing her light grey eyes on Rayley’s face.  “Your work is dreadful, everyone says so, and you hide behind the term ‘impressionism’ in an attempt to delude us that your ridiculous splashes of paint bear a sort of secret meaning.  And you,” she added, turning to Trevor, “are even less of a poet.  Poets talk all the time.  They love the sound of their own voices and they drink at the fountain of words.  They drink deeply, Sir, and their words flow out at every opportunity, yet you lurk about the fields saying nothing to anyone.  No, I know full well why the two of you have traveled to Hever, so you need dissemble no more.”
    Both men held their breath.  The girl pushed back her hood of her cape and spat the next words. 
    “You are here for the sex.”
    Trevor let go an explosion of pent up air, which could have been inte rpreted as either a laugh or a cough.
    “Men of your sad ilk come to the colony often,” Anne went on, surveying first one and then the other with narrowed eyes.  “Drawn by the tales of free love and the promise of unguarded women.  You pose as artists, but your true art is lovemaking and you imagine that we are all –“
    “I saw him slap you.”  Trevor’s voice cut into the girl’s mad torrent of words an d she paused, looking at him uncertainly. His abrupt change of topic was a calculated effort to grab the reins of this runaway conversation, and, judging by the sliver of fear which came into Anne’s face, it had worked. 
    “Why would you remain loyal to such a man?” Trevor went on, seizing the advantage and determined to remain unmoved by the tears in the girl’s eyes.  “I have heard your shouts of rage, your anger at the cruel position in which you have been cast.  LaRusse poses you naked in the winter cold and yet paints the face of another, is that not the crux of the matter?”
    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