The Gallery by Laura Marx Fitzgerald Page B

eligible society bachelors came ’round to court her,” Ma said with certain pride.
    â€œIncluding Mr. Sewell?”
    â€œWell, yes,” she said shortly. “Of course.”
    I looked around the room, with its empty walls and draped sofas. “So? Where is everyone? All these society types?”
    She cleared her throat. “Miss Rose’s father died shortly after her marriage. Miss Rose hoped to step in and take over her father’s affairs, but that was absurd for obvious reasons.”
    I nodded as if I understood what those obviously absurd reasons were.
    â€œSome nephew took control of his company instead and managed to bankrupt it in short order. After that . . .” Ma paused. “Well, Miss Rose had always been . . . saucy, but after that, her behavior grew increasingly strange. She insisted on bringing all the art up to her rooms, refused to come out. All those newfound friends stayed away—not such friends after all, I suppose. And now, this”—Ma tossed the drape back over the lady in blue, turning her into a ghost again—“is all that’s left.”
    â€œStill!” she turned back to me with a pasted-on smile. “As they say, there’s no friend like a faithful servant.”
    â€œBut you said she took all the paintings upstairs,” I said while sucking the finger I’d nicked on Mr. Sewell’s crystal. “So, what about these?” The four frames huddled together, abandoned, on the gallery wall.
    â€œOccasionally,” Ma sighed, “Miss Rose gets it in her head that certain paintings need to be downstairs. For Mr. Sewell’s visitors. So she’ll direct me to bring this one or that one down.” She peeked under the drape again. “Come to think of it, it’s been donkey’s years since she had me switch them out. Maybe she’s finally grown tired of the whole exercise.” Ma slid the sole of her shoe around the floor until she found a stray shard. “You’ll need to sweep this whole area again. We can’t have visitors slicing their slippers on glass.”
    I slid my foot, too, mimicking with the toe of my boot. “Wouldn’t a bit of linseed oil treat this spot? At least, as a measure until the woodworker arrives?”
    Ma thought for a moment. “Yes, I believe it would. Good thinking, Martha. There’s some in the supply cupboard.” She checked her watch. “I have to run to meet with the grocer. When I return, I want the spot treated and the room vacated. Understood?”
    I nodded and watched until the door closed behind her with a shudder of glass.
    The linseed oil was instantly forgotten as drapes were whisked away from each of the cloaked paintings, sheets piled on the floor.
    It was an odd collection of paintings, there was nodenying it: some larger than life, some small enough to tuck under your arm and walk out the door.
    I also saw that, for a woman who ate only broth and mush, Mrs. Sewell seemed quite obsessed with fruit.
    The painting next to Eve—or whoever she was—dulled in comparison, a ho-hum looking bowl of fruit, dusty, patchy apples in a pile, and here again was that strange-looking apple I’d seen in the lady’s milky-white hands.
Nature morte
, a title on the frame read; the name on the frame was Courbet, and then the words:
in vinculis faciebat
.
    The painting next to it was quite pleasing.
Still even,
the plaque said, by Willem Kalf. Large, imposing, and undeniably rich, it made me think of the dishes that came down after Mr. Sewell’s more indulgent dinners: half-finished crystal glasses of wine, a mussed tablecloth, crumbs on the table and silver decanters overturned. But something about the way this one was painted made the whole scene seem delectable rather than messy. The silver glinted, the fruit shone, the linen tablecloth beckoned, and I impulsively reached out for it, feeling silly when I discovered