*
Robert sat in his room, counting out pocket change. Scowling, he placed his coins on the wash stand. No visits to the village pub this month. He had to sell some paintings. With only his salary, his father’s debts might never be paid off. Muffled voices sounded from the masters’ common room, downstairs. Robert hoped Dr. Jenkins had returned, or Monsieur LeGrand. The French-master was a dull chap, but Robert wanted to practice his fading French. It was still light outside, but the stairwell was quite dark. Leaving his door open, Robert walked down the four flights, passing the steward.
“Good evening, Mr. Longworth.”
Flattered at being addressed as “Mister,” Longworth held up his lighted taper. “And a very good evening to you, sir.” He lit a wall sconce and continued up to the next floor.
When Robert reached the common room, an inviting fire blazed in the hearth. He was disappointed to see only Canterville and Hargrave reliving an ancient cricket victory. When they tried to involve Robert in their debate, he pleaded fatigue, selected a book from the ample selection, and climbed back to his room. He lit a candle on his rickety bedside table, added coals to his small stove, then closed the door and changed into his night clothes. He climbed under the bedclothes, pushed the pillow behind his back, and read. The novel was not to his liking, so after a few pages, he exchanged it for a sketch pad and pastel sticks.
He marked one end of the paper with red and black curves, creating a voluptuous, dark-haired beauty. Oh, Margot, I wonder who’s sharing your warm bed tonight. As he drew the rounded shape of her full buttocks and thighs, the memory of her solid flesh sent his pulse racing. He turned the page around, choosing lighter colors, and a luscious blue-eyed blond appeared. Dear Sonja, Are you still trying to marry the count? He felt his hands caressing her large soft breasts as their creamy skin tones appeared from the chalk between his fingers.
Robert turned the page lengthwise, changing to earth tones, and a slender nymphet danced between the mature women. His heart pounded with guilt and excitement. How do I pronounce her name? Elissa? Eliza? His fingers flew, coloring her soft young nipples the same rosebud pink of her lips. His mouth ached to suck those sweet, firm virgin breasts. The bright triangle of hair between her slender hips shone the same copper as the luxurious mane, falling past her waist. He imagined his fingers exploring the baby soft folds of skin between her legs. There you are, Elly. My sensuous little nymphet. As the fingers of his left hand clutched the pad, the fingers of his right hand slid under the bedclothes. He closed his eyes. Oh, My darling Elly. Oh, yes! Yes!
Chapter Twenty-four
The storm continued. Overnight, the weather changed. A gloriously warm autumn was howled away by rain and wind. After Lucy Ann fell asleep, Elisa lay in bed, looking out the window, watching fiercely colored leaves cling to shaking branches. Those leaves were warring against winter. She was warring against her father. They would all lose. Her insides churned, ready to explode with anger and frustration.
She whispered to the faint crescent moon. “I was meant for something, surely. No creature is placed on this earth for nothing. Who am I, where do I belong? I know I have a soul because it’s crying out to me now. It’s reaching for something, someone, I don't know what, but I must find something to hold, to love, to give to, and be nourished by. My heart is filled with nameless longings. I long for… I long for…” She fell into a troubled sleep.
She woke at dawn. Knowing Robert liked early morning light, she wrapped a coat around her nightdress, climbed down the trellis and went to the studio. He was lacquering a painting modeled from pastels he had made by the river. She clapped her hands. “It’s wonderful. I can almost smell the river. It’s perfect!”
He laughed. “Oh, no, my dear. If it were perfect I’d have no reason to go on living.”
She laughed. “How silly! You don't mean that.”
“I do mean it. Strange as it may seem, pretty one, this...,” he made a grand gesture around the four walls, “is my whole life.”
She looked around, suddenly serious. “No, it’s not strange. I understand.”
Throughout the day she thought about what Robert had said. His whole life was art. She wished her whole life could be the theatre. Her happiest hours had always been performing on stage, or watching a theatrical event. The highlight of every summer was the arrival of the London touring companies. Her Aunt Lillian loved the theatre and took her to see many wonderful plays. She would never forget Simon Camden’s Hamlet and Jeremy O’Connell’s Henry V. Of course, women who made their living on the stage were harlots and shunned by polite society. But, well-bred ladies were expected to join amateur theatricals and entertain their friends, at home. If only Sir John would let her do that, she might endure anything else.
A few days later, she paid Robert Dennison another early morning visit. He was working at an easel and did not hear her come in. As soon as he saw her, he pulled an oiled cloth over the painting and spun to face her. “Good morning, Miss Roundtree.” He stood in front of his easel, guarding it like a sentry.
She stopped in her tracks. “Good morning, sir.” She knew she was intruding, but craned her neck, trying to see what he was hiding. “Please,” she swallowed. “May I see your painting?” He hesitated, then pulled back the cloth. It was a naked woman drying herself from a bath. The woman glanced casually over her shoulder, as if she were watching the painter. She looked serene and comfortable.
Elisa caught her breath and tried not to look shocked. “She’s so beautiful.”
“Yes, she is beautiful.”
“Who is she?”
“A model.” He pulled the cloth back down.
Elisa swallowed. “I’d better get back before they miss me.” She knew her cheeks were pink.
“See you later, then.” He smiled as she ran from the room.
A few days later, she sneaked out early, once again. Used to her daybreak visits, Robert barely glanced up from his tiny canvas.
“Good morning.” He paused, then stared at his painting. “Come over here, will you?”
She went over and looked at the canvas. It contained a single red-gold leaf. He took a piece of her hair and held it up to the painting. They both laughed. The leaf was that exact color. He shook his head. “That red-gold has been haunting me. I spent an hour mixing and re-mixing. I thought I was going mad… and,” he paused, still holding her hair. “Here’s the reason why.” He smoothed the hair over her shoulder. “So one mystery is solved.”
“Are there others?”
He rolled his eyes, chuckling sadly. “Life itself is a mystery, my dear.” He went back to work.
“Please go on.”
He gave her a comical look. “Do you want me to wax philosophical this morning?”
“Yes, please.”
He looked slightly embarrassed. “I can’t say anything profound, Miss Roundtree. I only know that every morning is a wonder, sometimes of delight, sometimes of horror. We search every day, craving approval, longing for peace, crying for affection, and usually settling for far less than our ideal.”
Her throat tightened. “But, must we always settle? Must life be that hard?” Starting to cry, she covered her mouth and turned away.
“I don’t know.” He sadly set down his brush. “I wish there was something I could do for you. I feel so helpless.”
“You help me every day. Really! You mustn’t feel otherwise. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
“That can’t be true.”
“It is. You let me say whatever I please, even when it’s nonsense.”
“You never speak nonsense.” He stepped toward Elisa and she smiled hopefully. Remembering himself, he turned back to his canvas.
She hesitated. “Do you want to paint me?”
He caught his breath. “Um… Yes. Yes, Elly. I would love to paint you.”
She smiled. “Elly?”
He blushed. “I’m sorry Miss Roundtree, but I can't pronounce your name.”
She
felt her cheeks warm. “My mother gave me a German name no one can pronounce, but no one’s ever called me 'Elly.' I like it.”
Keeping his eyes on her, he shook his head. “Well, all right then -- Elly. When we’re in private, my name is Robert. Rob, to my chums.”
The chapel bell rang. Elisa sighed and turned to go. “Oh, by the way… Robert.”
He looked up.
“I’ve had a letter from my aunt.” Her lower lip trembled. The words burst out. “I’m to be married at Christmas.” She ran from the studio.
*
Eight weeks remained before the end of the school term, and the date Robert’s pictures were due in London. Although on schedule with his preparations, he was still anxious. After eight years as a starving artist, this exhibit could change his life. He needed everything to be perfect. Morning and night, he worked feverishly, finishing some canvases and remounting others. He felt his collection was unbalanced, but the thought of starting a new painting this late, had been unthinkable. Now that Elisa had offered herself as his model, it seemed possible.
One early morning she raced into the studio. “Oh, Robert! Last night’s rehearsal was brilliant. We finished staging the play. When I recited Kate’s last speech, I really felt I was in love with Petruchio. I wanted to serve him. I wanted ‘my hand… to do him ease’ because I loved him, not because I had to.” She paused. “I think a woman should want to obey her husband. Don’t you?”
He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think anyone should want to obey anyone. If I ever marry, which is doubtful on my wages, I want my wife to be a partner, not a servant.”
She stood still, digesting the idea. “But… partners are equals. I can’t even imagine being a man’s… partner.” Her brows pulled together in a worried frown. “Sir John certainly doesn’t want a partner. He said that he would tame me, that he would teach me to obey. When I said that I already obeyed him and he already did everything he wanted, he laughed and said that I was an ‘innocent.’ He said he would teach me to do things I had never even thought of.”
Robert nearly dropped his palette. She reached to catch it and they lifted it together. Their fingers touched. They both glanced out the windows. Across the river, three masters walked together. No one was out on the girls’ side.
Robert took the palette from her. “Oh dear, you’ve got paint on your fingers.” She happily let him wipe her hand with a clean rag. The chapel bell rang, but he kept holding her hand.
She playfully squeezed his fingers. “It’s time for me to go.”
He smiled, pulling away. “We’ll talk later.”
“We can never talk when the other students are here.” She looked very sad.
His insides churned. “Go on. You’ll be late.” He was dying to take her in his arms, but he stayed still.
She sighed sadly, turned and left the studio.
He picked up his brush and palette, muttering to himself, “She’s in for a worse life than she even imagines. What sort of man is he? I can’t believe her delightful energy is going to be locked away into a sadistic marriage of convenience. If I had money, I’d carry her out of here this instant. I’d hire the best lawyers in London, and free her from whatever hold that monster has over her father. There’s got to be a way to free her. Any life would be better than that.”
He made himself concentrate. Choosing a yellow-green on the palette, he touched it with the tip of his brush and gently stroked it across the canvas. “She’s so happy on the stage. If only…” Struck with a thought, he stood back. “I just got a letter from Mike. Why not ask him?” He put down his brush and palette, and covered his painting. Dashing back to his room, he wrote a letter to His Majesty’s Theatre.
Chapter Twenty-five
After a late rehearsal, Elisa raced to Nicholas House, exhausted and happy. She exchanged a few words with Lucy Ann, before snuggling into the bedclothes and drifting into a deep sleep. Tossing fitfully, she dreamed of her young Petrucio’s boyish face. “…Thou must be married to no man but me…” The boy transformed into Garingham beating her with Miss Kimball’s switch. “Elisa!” he scowled, showing yellow teeth. She pulled away with all her might, but couldn’t move. The boy reappeared in front of her. “…For I am he am born to tame you Kate.” His slight frame broadened into middle-aged girth. The schoolboy blazer faded into a dark gray suit and the boy’s pretend frown became Garingham’s glower. He dragged her screaming down dark stone steps into a dungeon. “You are my wife and you will obey!”
Elisa lurched awake, gasping for breath, and drenched with sweat. Her heart pounded as she threw off the bedclothes. After a few moments, she lay back. Silent tears soaked her pillow. The rain had stopped. Bright moonlight flooded the room. Careful not to wake Lucy Ann, she tiptoed to the window, pushed it open, and inhaled deliciously clean, fragrant air. Huge stars seemed to be trapped in the tops of trees.
Checking the time, she was amazed to see that it was three o’clock. She had never been awake at this hour. The entire school was asleep. If she went out now, she could be totally alone. She slipped on a coat and rubber boots, then climbed out the window and down the trellis. Once on the ground she shivered. Her grotto would be soaking wet, so she walked along the river.
There was a light in the art studio. Peering in a window, she saw that the room was cluttered with pictures. Robert moved pictures from place to place. One table was covered with pastels, another with watercolors, and the largest area with oils.
She understood why Robert was always tired. He could only prepare his exhibit when the studio was empty. If she were his partner, she could help him right now, go to London with him, and be with him at his exhibit. She shivered and hurried back to her warm bed. She dove under the bedclothes and beat her fist against the pillow. “When his exhibit opens, I’ll be married. I may as well be dead.”
Robert had deep circles under his eyes. Lack of sleep and worry about his London show left him unusually short tempered. Elisa was elbow deep in gray clay, molding a figure of her character, Kate. Robert made his rounds of the other students, then moved close to her. Pretending to help her with a tool, he whispered, “Stay after, we need to talk.”
When the chapel bell rang, Elisa took her time, letting the other students go ahead of her, washing their hands at the cold water taps. She was still rinsing gray clay from under her fingernails, when the last student left.
Robert collected supplies forgotten by the students. Looking out a window, he saw Lucy Ann and some other girls tossing a large ball. One girl missed the catch, and the ball rolled underneath the window. Lucy Ann ran to fetch it. Seeing Robert and Elisa inside, she waved through the glass. They waved back. She tossed the ball to her friends, and motioned that Elisa should come and join them.
Elisa shook her head and smiled at Robert. “Lucy thinks I’ll get into trouble, spending so much time with you.” She busied herself, gathering supplies. Lucy Ann wagged a scolding finger, then went back to her game.
Robert watched her go and spoke softly. “She may be right. Listen, I’ve done some inquiring. Do you know Miss Bennett, from the accounting office?”
Elisa nodded, her eyes wide.
He curled his lip. “She fancies me.”
Picturing the bossy woman with small eyes and spectacles, Elisa giggled.
“I’m afraid I misused her good will. I asked her to go through your records and see who was paying your tuition. It’s been Sir John Garingham, the entire four years.”
“I told you that.”
“I just wanted to make sure. Now that I am sure, I am also sure, that you must be the heiress to an estate. Since the man is obviously not spending his money for love, he must expect a healthy return on his investment. That investment being you.”
Elisa shivered. “But, if there is an estate, my father controls it.”
“Not necessarily. Your mother was German. There may be European holdings he can’t touch. I’ve been wracking my brain, but there’s no way I can find out anything by m
yself. Once I’m in London…,”
“I’ll already be married.”
“Maybe not.”
“But I showed you my aunt’s letter.”
“Yes, and you told me half-a-dozen fantasies she’s invented. She’s the one who says you have no dowry. No one else. You told me Sir John hates traveling.”
“That’s right. He says he’ll never go anywhere again, where they don’t speak English.”
“So he’s taking you to Paris? In January? No one goes to Paris in January. It’s dreary. I know.”
Elisa’s brows pulled together. “Aunt Lillian always wanted to go to Paris.”
“And she always wanted to get married. Is it possible…?”
“That she’s making it up?” She shrugged, suddenly hopeful. “Last year Sir John said there was to be no honeymoon at all. After the June wedding, he was just going to take me to his house in Tebay. My aunt cried for days. If she has made it up, it gives me more time, but still…,”
He moved closer. “You have enough time to get away.”
“Away from where?”
“From anywhere your father could find you.”
Elisa paled. “What are you talking about?”
Robert went into a storage cupboard, reached behind a pile of drawing pads and pulled out a letter. “I need to discuss this with you, but we can’t be seen reading it together.” He slipped the letter inside his coat pocket. “It’s time I was locking up.” He thought for a moment then angrily slammed the cupboard door. “Is there no place we can have privacy?”
Elisa paused in thought. “I know a place, but you might not like it.”
“I’ll like it. Take me there.” They grabbed their coats and left the studio.
The late afternoon sun was bright as Elisa led the way, taking them deep into the woods. Robert cursed himself. So much for his promise to Amelia Carrots. He was really risking the sack this time, and he’d deserve it. Elisa stopped, waiting for him to catch up. She pushed apart two bushes, crouched down and climbed through the narrow opening. Robert followed and smiled, taking in the tiny shelter. The forest floor was fragrant with prickly pine needles and honeyed heather. An almost perfect canopy of branches and giant ferns sheltered them from the wind. It was surprisingly warm.
Not From the Stars (His Majesty's Theatre Book 1) Page 17