Page 8 of Zenith
“Welcome to the Tate Britain,” he said. “It houses the largest collection of British art in the country.”
“Have you ever had work hung in here?” I asked as my gaze drank in the cavernous entrance hall. I wondered how far it stretched up and back from our current standpoint.
Rivers laughed, the sound echoing through the foyer, causing some people to turn and search for the source of the sound.
“Goodness, no,” he said. “I am not famous enough, nor have I changed the world and its thinking substantially to deserve the honor of remembrance. See, even in art there is hierarchy. The trick is to not take it personally. Every piece that is hung in this building is subject to review, and each has its fault. It’s neither here nor there if my paintings are hung beside them. I have found my audience, and it is out there.” He pointed back to the doors we had just entered through. “Art is ever evolving and is not solely reserved for the walls of a gallery. It is found everywhere and in everything.”
“Much like beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” I mused, turning back to the interior of the building.
“Exactly. Now,” he declared, threading his arm through mine. “Let me show you some of my favorite works. I’m sure you’ll be surprised.”
We wandered through each gallery, making a game of picking out our favorite piece in each room. The one that caught my eye over all others was a painting by the name ofOpheliaby a man called Sir John Everett Millais. It was an image of a lady floating in a river surrounded by an emerald wilderness, and when Rivers explained to me that it was Ophelia from Shakespeare’sHamletin the moment before she drowns, it began to form a melancholy beauty about it.
We laughed at a painting titledSatan Smiting Job with Sore Boils,delighted at some of the modern offerings, and finally, Rivers positioned me in front of a grand triptych of paintings. A series of three images that were linked together by a common theme.
“These are some of my favorite paintings in the whole of the Tate Britain,” he explained. “John Martin was famous for his works depicting moments of apocalyptic upheaval. There are many references to the Bible, like Sodom and Gomorrah and Adam and Eve. Also events like the destruction of Pompeii, the fall of Babylon, and many others.”
The painting to the right looked like the world was on fire, and on closer inspection, there were anguished faces swirling into the darkness. The one in the center looked religious in nature with a host of heavenly bodies watching over a torn world and the desperate faces below them. Finally, the one to the left was a beautiful landscape with a shining sky—a paradise where no chaos touched.
“And what are they about?” I asked, wanting to hear his explanation rather than to read the plaque on the wall.
“This is calledThe Last Judgment,” Rivers explained. “It depicts the rapture as told in the book of Revelation in the New Testament of the Bible. The one on the right isThe Great Day of His Wrath. The one in the middle isThe Last Judgmentand the one on the left isThe Plains of Heaven.”
“It’s very depressing,” I mused, knowing a little about the end of the world. “To wipe the world clean in such a terrible way seems awful to me. To forget the past…”
I trailed off, wondering if Rivers had shown me this particular triptych to bring something out of me. My immediate past felt much like the subject ofThe Great Day of His Wrath. The feelings the painting conjured—upheaval, destruction, burning, agony—were all emotions that swirled deep within my soul. The images before me may signify the rapture of mankind, but the metaphor for my own life did not escape me. Was I being judged? I did wish to reside in a world much like the painting on the left.The Plains of Heaven.
“Jane?”
I glanced at Rivers and realized I’d been staring at the paintings with an odd look of anguish. I took a deep breath and turned away, embarrassed that he’d seen it.
“Were you really harmed how you said you were?” he murmured, keeping his voice low so we were not overheard in the hushed gallery.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I was.”
“Are you sure? You can tell me, Jane.”
Adele’s warning came back to me as clear as the night she’d spoken it.Be careful of his motives. I was caught between a man of stone and a man of intoxicating freedom, and I did not know which way to turn. I was grateful to Rivers for helping me these past weeks, but I could not allow him to trick me into a relationship I did not want.
“I am sure,” I said firmly.
“Why did you really leave Thornfield?” he pressed, signaling he had never believed a single word I’d told him about my circumstance, and I was shocked at his blatant manipulation. “Was it Rochester?”
“Is that why you brought me here?” I asked, my ire rising. I did not escape the clutches of a master manipulator to be flung into the orbit of another! “If you wanted to throw all manner of accusations at me, then you did not have to bring me here and manipulate what you wanted to hear. It is a dreadful scheme you have laid.”
His eyes narrowed. “So there is no more to it?”
“No!”
“Then you must forgive me, Jane. I misjudged your reaction and did not think speaking so forthrightly would be received like this. It was my attempt to ease a confession out of you, a confession that I now see had already been given honestly when you arrived.”
I sighed and crossed my arms over my chest, attempting to subdue my annoyance. He did not realize how right he was, but it was not his business. Why should it matter? My secrets weren’t hurting anyone but myself…were they?
“I think I should leave,” I murmured.
“I humbly apologize, Jane,” Rivers declared, looking quite distraught. “Please, don’t leave on my account. I only worry about you. You seem much changed from those days at Thornfield, and I only wished to make sure you were not fretting unnecessarily.”
With words such as those, I could not remain angry with him despite his penchant for arrogance. He’d been kind, not pressuring me to move on from his spare bedroom, only asking for me to contribute to the household expenses when I was able. Surely, I could not be sour with his misstep forever as long as I was clear it was unwelcome?
“Allow me to escort you home,” he said hopefully. “Perhaps we can get some food and wine on the way. My treat, of course.”
“You do not need to placate me with pleasantries,” I said. “You have my forgiveness. How could I allow this irritation to carry on? It is not my hope to make you suffer.”
“Thank goodness for that!” he exclaimed with a relieved laugh. “You are not the kind of woman I am used to being acquainted with, Jane. It’s quite refreshing.”
“Nor are you the kind of man I am used to conversing with.”
“Then it is settled. The past is where it belongs, and only the future is of any worth!” He smiled and offered his arm. “Shall we?”
Relieved the situation had been defused quickly and things were back to where they’d begun—an amicable friendship—I slid my arm through his. “Now about that dinner…”
