“Dear…” I can see the woman trying to keep her patience. “You must know that, surely. That’s a detail from one of his most famous paintings. We have a version in the library if you’d like to have a look-”
“Yes.” I’m already moving. “I would. Please. Show me.”
She leads me down a creaking corridor, through to a dim, carpeted room. There are bookshelves on every wall, old leather chairs, and a large painting hanging over the fireplace.
“There we are,” she says fondly. “Our pride and joy.”
I can’t reply. My throat’s too tight. I stand motionless, clutching the book, just staring.
There she is. Gazing out of the ornate gilt frame, looking as though she owns the world, is Sadie.
I’ve never seen her as radiant as she looks in this picture. I’ve never seen her so relaxed. So happy. So beautiful. Her eyes are massive, dark, luminous with love.
She’s reclining on a chaise, naked except for a gauze fabric draped over her shoulder and hips, which only partially obscures the view. Her shingled hair exposes the length of her elegant neck. She’s wearing glittering earrings. And around her neck, falling down between her pale, gauzy breasts, twined around her fingers, tumbling in a shimmering pool of beads, is the dragonfly necklace.
I can suddenly hear her voice again in my ears. I was happy when I wore it… I felt beautiful. Like a goddess .
It all makes sense. This is why she wanted the necklace. This is what it means to her. At that time in her life, she was happy. Never mind what happened before or after. Never mind that her heart got broken. At that precise moment, everything was perfect.
“It’s… amazing.” I wipe a tear from my eye.
“Isn’t she wonderful?” The woman gives me a pleased look. Obviously I’m finally behaving as proper art-lovers are supposed to. “The detail and brushwork are just exquisite. Every bead in the necklace is a tiny masterpiece. It’s painted with such love.” She regards the portrait affectionately. “And all the more special, of course, because it’s the only one.”
“What do you mean?” I say, confused. “Cecil Malory painted lots of pictures, didn’t he?”
“Indeed. But he never painted any other portraits. He refused to, his whole life. He was asked plenty of times in France as his reputation grew locally, but he would always reply, ‘J’ai peint celui que j’ai voulu peindre.’ ” The woman leaves a poetic pause. “I have painted the one I wanted to paint.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded, my head sparking as I take this all in. He only ever painted Sadie? His whole life? He’d painted the one he wanted to paint?
“And in this bead…” The woman moves toward the painting with a knowing smile. “Right in this bead here there’s a little surprise. A little secret, if you like.” She beckons me forward. “Can you see it?”
I try to focus obediently on the bead. It just looks like a bead.
“It’s almost impossible, except under a magnifying glass… here.” She produces a piece of matte paper. Printed on it is the bead from the painting, enlarged massively. As I peer at it, to my astonishment I find I’m looking at a face. A man’s face.
“Is that…” I look up.
“Malory.” She nods in delight. “His own reflection in the necklace. He put himself into the painting. The most miniature hidden portrait. It was discovered only ten years ago. Like a little secret message.”
“May I see?”
With shaking hands, I take the paper from her and stare at him. There he is. In the painting. In the necklace. Part of her. He never painted another portrait. He’d painted the one he wanted to paint.
He did love Sadie. He did. I know it.
I look up at the painting, tears blurring my eyes again. The woman’s right. He painted her with love. You can see it in every brushstroke.
“It’s… amazing.” I swallow. “Are there… um… any more books about him?” I’m desperate to get this woman out of the room. I wait until her footsteps have disappeared down the passage, then tilt my head up.
“Sadie!” I call desperately. “Sadie, can you hear me? I’ve found the painting! It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. You’re in a museum! And you know what? Stephen didn’t paint anyone but you. Never, his whole life. You were the only one. He put himself in your necklace. He loved you. Sadie, I know he loved you. I so wish you could see this-”
I break off breathlessly, but the room is silent and dead. She’s not hearing me, wherever she is. As I hear footsteps, I quickly turn and plaster on a smile. The woman hands me a pile of books.
“This is all our available stock. Are you an art-history student or simply interested in Malory?”
“I’m just interested in this one painting,” I say frankly. “And I was wondering. Do you… or the experts… have any idea who this is? What’s the painting called?”
“It’s called Girl with a Necklace . And, of course, many people are interested in the identity of the sitter.” The woman launches into what’s clearly a well-rehearsed speech. “Some research has been done, but unfortunately, to date, no one has been able to identify her beyond what is believed to be her first name.” She pauses, then adds fondly, “Mabel.”
“Mabel?” I stare at her in horror. “She wasn’t called Mabel!”
“Dear!” The woman gives me a reproving smile. “I know to modern ears it may seem a little quaint, but, believe me, Mabel was a common name of the time. And on the back of the painting there’s an inscription. Malory himself wrote, My Mabel.”