Page 23 of Zenith
10
Iwas alonein the sea of society.
The world I had never been part of was now fawning at my feet, praising John Rivers’s newest muse, comparing the real thing to the rendering on the wall. I was no longer a human being but part of the exhibition itself.
I watched Rivers talking to a cluster of three women across the room, working his charm as he spoke in detail about the painting before them. His smile was bright, and his hands touched their shoulders gently, urging them to look upon the landscape. After several minutes of laughter and flirting, he shook one of the women’s hand and gestured toward Anastasia. He’d made a sale and quite a successful one as all three women crowded the gallery curator in an attempt to procure another piece from the collection.
John Rivers was a smooth operator indeed!
As he moved along to another group and another painting, my gaze wandered the crowd. It was one of the greatest pleasures I had found in my solitary ways over the years—watching the unseen world move around me.
Through the crowd, my gaze caught a familiar form, and my breath caught. I would recognize her anywhere. Perfect Blanche Ingram in her designer dress and painted face. Her mask was well fitted tonight, the manipulative murderess nowhere to be found, but I knew the truth. The snake slithered just below the surface poised to strike at any moment.
I swallowed my fear and turned away before she could see my face. Why was she here? Was it to intimidate? Was she here to remind me she could finish me off whenever she felt like it?
She would have seen the portrait in the catalog and attended the opening knowing there was a chance I would be here. Or perhaps I was reading too much into it. Glancing back at the portrait, I frowned, hoping it was not true, and the image was not a perfect render of my likeness. Studying the painting again, it was most definitely me, and my shoulders sank. My own stupidity had brought me to this moment.
Turning, I attempted to spot Blanche so I could escape without making her aware of my presence, but it was far too late. She was approaching, a look of triumph on her immaculate face as our gazes met.
“Jane! I hoped I would see you here.” Glancing up at the portrait, she smiled in delight. “What a lovely rendering,” she exclaimed. “It’s a very good likeness, don’t you think?”
“If you please,” I said, keeping my features as plain as I could manage. “Cease with the fake pleasantries.”
“If you wish.” Her mask lifted, and her true face began to shine through. “You gave yourself away, dear, in quite a spectacular fashion.”
“I suppose you thought I was dead,” I replied. “Until now. I suppose it is quite a shock to see me here, rubbing shoulders with your society friends.”
She smiled, but the expression gave away nothing. “I think we need to have a discussion, you and I.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
She looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “It was not a request.”
I stood fixed to the spot, not wanting to talk further nonsense, but I knew when Blanche Ingram wanted something, she would not let it rest until it was hers. It was why I feared her wrath in light of Edward breaking off their engagement.
With a bow of my head, I acquiesced, resigning myself to my fate. I was to hear her threats regardless if I wanted to or not.
She led me through the gallery, away from the guests, and forced me out into the storeroom. It was well lit but cold and empty with rows of crates for transporting canvases lined up against one wall. Blanche’s heels clicked on the concrete floor, her back to me. I had the opportunity to strike if I wanted to, but it was not in me to be violent, even when it had been done to me. I did not wholly agree with the notion of an eye for an eye.
Remembering how I followed her and Mary through Selfridges the other week, I understood how out of reach she was to someone as little as me. She was as untouchable as she was shallow if knowing it was a comfort.
I watched Blanche closely, my gaze following her every movement. I had not forgotten she intended to strike me dead the day she pushed me down the garden steps at Thornfield. Nor did my memory slip when I knew she had been the one to give Bertha the knife which had struck me. This was no tea party, this was a battle, and I had to ready myself for anything.
“The look of fear upon your face is quite pleasing to me,” Blanche mused, walking calmly around the storeroom, her gaze flowing from crate to crate as if she did not have a single care in the world. To her, I was only a plaything. She was the cat, and I was the mouse.
I remained silent, knowing nothing I had to say to her would be either welcome or worthwhile.
“How is Bertha?” she asked, turning to face me with a malicious smile pulling at her crimson lips. “She’s such a spirited creature, don’t you think?” Her gaze fell to my chest, and she laughed. “I hear she struck you twice!”
“Why are you so cruel?” I asked, shaking my head.
Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. “Why? You sincerely do not understand? You poor, pathetic creature.”
I stared back at her, stilling my trembling hands against my sides. Her hatred was so pure and raw it was frightening. All that I had been through in my life had not prepared me to face such a formidable woman, and I was at a loss as to how to defend myself. Not even the harsh discipline of Lowood held a candle to the look upon Blanche Ingram’s face.
“You took what is mine,” she snarled. “And now I will take what is yours.”
“I did not take anything from you,” I replied, no longer afraid of her. “It was freely given.”
