down again.
Ava went into the kitchen and set her bags on the counter. She had been out all night, mostly in her office, but also rummaging through the dusty records in the library basement. Her experience in the hidden art gallery had prompted a frantic search for answers. She had found none, but an unexpected piece of information had surfaced on the passenger list of a certain Pennsylvania packet out of Portsmouth in March of 1775.
Those late night hours among the documents of the long dead had helped to wipe away some of the grime of her encounter with Knightly Davis. After she had stared speechless and sickened for several minutes before the portrait of what could easily have been an adolescent Ettie, Davis had intoned, “An excellent example of erotic portraiture, don’t you agree? It puts the voluptuous colors of the eighteenth century to good use, and the rendering of the young lover is beautifully idealized, even somewhat mythologized.”
His admiration of the picture as well as the dry, academic speech infuriated her.
“ Really ?” She had turned to him, incredulous, eyebrows dangerously raised, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “ That’s your takeaway from this painting?”
He smirked condescendingly, and his eyes took on the flat, opaque aspect she was beginning to recognize. “Dr. Washington, I’d hoped that your background in the liberal arts would have produced a more open mind. Art is beyond mere plebeian morality.”
“Is that what you think the liberal arts teach?” It was her turn to smile stiffly with condescension. “Just the opposite, Mr. Davis, my background informs me that this…” She waved to include the entire gallery. “…reflects an evil and disregard for human suffering that sickens the spirit. These paintings should be thrown onto a bonfire and release the suffering souls that inhabit them.”
“Very Nazi Germany of you,” he shot back at her.
“Spare me the Hitler comparisons,” she retorted, recognizing the typical fallback of the corrupt and dishonest. “These aren’t great, transcendent works of art. You don’t keep them to study or illuminate the society that allowed the creation of these atrocities. You admire them. They give you pleasure. And as long as they are used for that purpose, these children can never rest.” It was an impassioned speech for all that it was spoken in the calm, modulated tone she had cultivated long ago.
He had laughed abruptly and changed the subject. “You think you know her, don’t you? Dr. Cooper did as well. I could tell.”
Ava compressed her lips tightly together and took a deep breath. He had known all along why she was there, but she merely replied, “I’d like to see any verification of provenance you may possess regarding this painting.”
“Why would I share that with you?” he queried, amused. “You obviously don’t admire the work, and your interest is clearly only of a personal nature.”
He forestalled her reply with a shake of his head. “No, I have nothing more to show you. You can easily see his signature in the corner and will just have to take my word that it is authentic. Although, if it makes you feel any better, it is the only one of this nature that Jonas Bell was known to have painted.”
“Do you know who she was?” Ava persisted as he shepherded her toward the door.
He didn’t answer and maintained a cold silence as they had waited for the pressure to equalize. Once back in the library, Faith reappeared, smiling politely.
Davis gave a lazy wave of his hand. “Show her out,” he commanded.
Ava resisted Faith’s sweeping gesture toward the door and walked over to Knightly Davis. She stood directly in front of him. He wasn’t a tall man, so she didn’t have to look up far to meet his eyes.
“I want you to destroy every last one of those paintings,” she told him stoically.
“By all means, Dr. Washington,” he replied mockingly.
“I mean it. I’ll report you. I’ll go to the
Ava went into the kitchen and set her bags on the counter. She had been out all night, mostly in her office, but also rummaging through the dusty records in the library basement. Her experience in the hidden art gallery had prompted a frantic search for answers. She had found none, but an unexpected piece of information had surfaced on the passenger list of a certain Pennsylvania packet out of Portsmouth in March of 1775.
Those late night hours among the documents of the long dead had helped to wipe away some of the grime of her encounter with Knightly Davis. After she had stared speechless and sickened for several minutes before the portrait of what could easily have been an adolescent Ettie, Davis had intoned, “An excellent example of erotic portraiture, don’t you agree? It puts the voluptuous colors of the eighteenth century to good use, and the rendering of the young lover is beautifully idealized, even somewhat mythologized.”
His admiration of the picture as well as the dry, academic speech infuriated her.
“ Really ?” She had turned to him, incredulous, eyebrows dangerously raised, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “ That’s your takeaway from this painting?”
He smirked condescendingly, and his eyes took on the flat, opaque aspect she was beginning to recognize. “Dr. Washington, I’d hoped that your background in the liberal arts would have produced a more open mind. Art is beyond mere plebeian morality.”
“Is that what you think the liberal arts teach?” It was her turn to smile stiffly with condescension. “Just the opposite, Mr. Davis, my background informs me that this…” She waved to include the entire gallery. “…reflects an evil and disregard for human suffering that sickens the spirit. These paintings should be thrown onto a bonfire and release the suffering souls that inhabit them.”
“Very Nazi Germany of you,” he shot back at her.
“Spare me the Hitler comparisons,” she retorted, recognizing the typical fallback of the corrupt and dishonest. “These aren’t great, transcendent works of art. You don’t keep them to study or illuminate the society that allowed the creation of these atrocities. You admire them. They give you pleasure. And as long as they are used for that purpose, these children can never rest.” It was an impassioned speech for all that it was spoken in the calm, modulated tone she had cultivated long ago.
He had laughed abruptly and changed the subject. “You think you know her, don’t you? Dr. Cooper did as well. I could tell.”
Ava compressed her lips tightly together and took a deep breath. He had known all along why she was there, but she merely replied, “I’d like to see any verification of provenance you may possess regarding this painting.”
“Why would I share that with you?” he queried, amused. “You obviously don’t admire the work, and your interest is clearly only of a personal nature.”
He forestalled her reply with a shake of his head. “No, I have nothing more to show you. You can easily see his signature in the corner and will just have to take my word that it is authentic. Although, if it makes you feel any better, it is the only one of this nature that Jonas Bell was known to have painted.”
“Do you know who she was?” Ava persisted as he shepherded her toward the door.
He didn’t answer and maintained a cold silence as they had waited for the pressure to equalize. Once back in the library, Faith reappeared, smiling politely.
Davis gave a lazy wave of his hand. “Show her out,” he commanded.
Ava resisted Faith’s sweeping gesture toward the door and walked over to Knightly Davis. She stood directly in front of him. He wasn’t a tall man, so she didn’t have to look up far to meet his eyes.
“I want you to destroy every last one of those paintings,” she told him stoically.
“By all means, Dr. Washington,” he replied mockingly.
“I mean it. I’ll report you. I’ll go to the
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