The Elsingham Portrait - By Elizabeth Chater Page 0,7
the confident eyes of the painted figure. She cannot break away from the challenging green gaze which seems to follow her and—compel her attention. She experiences a sudden overpowering dizziness . . . falls . . . and finds herself in a strange house, dressed in the garish, shameless gown worn by the woman in the portrait. She is no longer in New York—worse, she is no longer in her own body, but seems to be caught in the living body of the woman whose portrait she had been looking at.”
Kathryn paused, and searched the set face of the man with imploring eyes. Incredulity, impatience, rejection—she could read these in his expression.
At length he said, “Do you wish me to make a rational comment on this—story?”
“No, not yet,” Kathryn hastened to say. “You promised me five minutes—and no prejudice!”
“Go on,” he said after a minute.
“In addition to this nightmare change,” Kathryn said quietly, “I—that is, the woman of whom I speak—fell and broke her arm. She was carried to a bedroom by a man whose eyes were kind, although he obviously disliked the woman he was helping. Now, injured, terrified, in a strange place and what was undoubtedly a different time . . .” Kathryn held her clenched hand against her trembling lips, fought to regain her poise. So much depended upon this—so very much! And his eyes seemed coldly contemptuous. “Lord Elsingham! I am Kathryn Hendrix of New York City. And the date I saw on my calendar, when I went to work in the Uptown Library yesterday morning, was November five, 1974. As God is my witness!”
“Nadine, I must beg you to excuse me,” Lord Elsingham said coldly. “I’ll send your woman to you at once. Dr. Anders would be very angry with me for permitting you to excite yourself in this manner.” He stood up.
Sudden anger flared in Kathryn’s frightened heart.
“How dare you treat another human being with such arrogance, such prejudice? If you are a fair example of the intelligent Englishman, it’s no wonder George the Third lost the Colonies!”
He halted, turned back to face her.
“What new nonsense is this? We haven’t lost the Colonies.”
“You’re going to—in 1775.”
Lord John hesitated, obviously torn between interest and contempt. “I apprehend you are referring to the Boston Tea Party and the subsequent closing of the Port of Boston by Parliament? Let me congratulate you—on your newly acquired political expertise, ma’am. I had not realized you were a bluestocking! But you have your dates incorrect. Let me remind you that the petty disaffection in Boston occurred over a year ago, in 1773.”
“War will be declared in 1775,” Kathryn retorted hotly, still warmed by anger at his unfairness, “and ended by treaty in 1783 with a victory for the United States of America!”
“1783? Eight years in the future?” Elsingham didn’t even try to understand the intense emotional response he was experiencing. He hated and despised this beautiful lying woman—didn’t he? He had only contempt for her tricks, however disturbing and inventive they were becoming. Not once but many times bitten, he would be forever shy of her! So, suppressing the surprise and interest he felt at this unusual tactic, he said, “Doing it rather too brown, ma’am! Can it be that you hope to change my mind? Let me assure you that my decision is firm. I will not be taken in by this farrago of nonsense about ‘United States’ and insurrections. You Irish are all too ready to raise the flag of rebellion! You will leave London for Ireland as soon as you are well enough to travel. I cannot permit you to remain here, dishonoring my name with your public displays of wantonness, for eight more years while we wait for proof or disproof of your ridiculous statements.”
He stared at her, reluctantly admiring, held against his will and better judgment by her beauty and the dramatic story she had told. Then he laughed angrily. “You’re a clever devil, Nadine! You almost had me believing—Politics? That’s a new start for you. You must have acquired a politically-minded lover—or one with a taste for government. My compliments on his skill as a tutor!” His fingers touched the newly-healed scar on his face. “Will he follow you to Ireland?” Then, when Kathryn, silent with despair, did not reply, Lord John continued, surprised at his own violence, yet unable to prevent the words, “I suppose we are to bid adieu to your young artist who has run tame in my house this two