by Tia Siren
She slid to a halt in front of the eighteenth-century mansion and got out of the car. It was a warm evening, and there was a row of sparrows sitting high above her on the guttering. She walked up the steps to the front door and went inside. The entrance hall had a marble floor, and it echoed as she called out.
''Hello.''
An old woman came through a door at the back of the room. ''Marcella. Oh Marcella, come here and give me a hug. It's so nice to see you.'' Marcella hugged the small plump woman. ''You're such a fine lady, these days. It doesn't seem like a minute since I used to change your nappies.''
''Thank you for reminding me,'' Marcella said. Silvia had been Marcella's nanny. Now she was cook and housekeeper to the Earl and his wife. ''Is mummy at home?''
''Yes. Somewhere in the garden.''
''I'll go and find her.'' Marcella went back out of the front door and walked around the house to the back garden. It was a huge garden that stretched down to the river. It was her mother's pride and joy. The lawns were immaculate, and the borders at this time of year, full of colorful plants. After five minutes she saw two feet poking out from a border. ''Mummy?''
Marcella's mother was a former model and fashion designer. She never had a hair out of place, but in the garden, she felt free to wear what she wanted and let her hair flow in any direction it cared to fall. ''Marcella,'' she said enthusiastically. She stood up slowly, stretching her back. ''Damn weeds. They never seem to stop.''
''You should get a gardener. It's a lot of work for you alone.''
''Since Sylvia's husband retired I haven't bothered. As you know your father it too miserly to pay for anyone else.''
Her mother was still a stunning looking woman. She was Marcella's role model when it came to looks and fashion. Her black hair was tied up in a bun, and her immaculately manicured fingers were hidden in a pair of huge gardening gloves.
''Mummy I'm sorry. I hate asking, but I haven't got any money.''
Her mother was Marcella's last chance. She hated asking because she knew her mother disliked going behind her father's back. ''How much do you need?''
''A thousand.''
''When you get a job as the Queen's sculptor you can pay me back,'' she joked. ''Come with me to the house. I'll write a cheque.''
They linked arms as they strolled over the path between the borders and onto the wide lawn.
''Marcella,'' it was her father. He'd seen the two women approaching the house from his study. He was leaning out of the window. ''Don't go bothering your mother for money.'' He was much older than her mother, and he'd never shown Marcella much affection.
''I'm skint,'' she said honestly. ''I only have a few months of my degree left. The bank won't lend me any more.''
''No, no, no. I told you when you chose that ridiculous degree that we wouldn't finance you. You should have studied something proper, like law.''
She'd heard it all before. There he was, in his tweed jacket, yellow shirt, and red tie, one of the richest men in England denying his daughter any form of happiness.
''But it's what I want to do. It's what granny did.''
''Your grandmother was a ridiculous figure. Living on that barge, like a vagrant. She did nothing to enhance the family's reputation.''
''Granny was one of the country's leading sculptors. How can you say that?''
The Earl slammed his fist down on the windowsill. ''Sculptor? All she did was make a few strange looking articles from copper. No, Marcella, no money. And you,'' he looked at his wife, ''don't go giving her any cheques,'' he said.
''Bastard,'' Marcella shouted. She began to walk towards the window. Her father knew what her rages were like and he quickly shut the window. When she thumped on it, he left the room.
''I'll talk to him,'' her mother said, pulling Marcella away from the window. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out fifty pounds. ''Here take this.''
*****
Marcella shouted down to Joyce, who was making supper on her narrow-boat. Joyce waved her to come on board.
''You look glum. What's the matter,'' Joyce asked, as she fished some boiled potatoes from a pan.
''My father, again.''
''Money?''
Marcella sat at the small table in the galley and looked out over the water. For a moment she wanted to be a duck. They looked so carefree. They didn't have to bother about money and careers. ''Yes. I'll be finished in a few months. I can get a job then and pay them back. He's a pig.''
''You know I would help you if I could,'' Joyce said apologetically.
''Oh no Joyce. I wasn't insinuating you should help me. I need you to talk to; that's all.''
''Could you get a job? A bar or cafe?”
''I've just been given a fantastic opportunity, and I think it's going to take up all of my time.''
''Really, what?''
''I'm representing the Academy in the National Sculpture Competition.''
''Wow. Congratulations,'' Joyce said as she opened the oven and peered at the chicken cooking inside. ''That's quite an honor.'' Marcella nodded. ''What will you make?''
''I don't know. I'm thinking about it,'' Marcella spun a teaspoon that was lying conveniently on the table. ''Mike wasn't so bad after all, you know. Perhaps I should give him a call. Say sorry.''
''Why? Because you need money or because you love him?'' Joyce said in her most abrupt manner.
''You're right. I'd just be using him.
''You could sell the barge. It's worth half a million, and it's yours.'' Joyce looked apologetic when she saw the look of horror on Marcella's face. ''Sorry.''
''Granny left me that boat. I won't ever sell it.''
''Of course. It was a dumb suggestion.''
''I've got fifty pounds in my pocket, and half a tank of fuel in the car. I'm going to go to sleep early, and in the morning, I'm going to drive home again and talk to my father. I'll pack in college and study business.''
''But....after all the hard work you've put in. It would be such a shame.''
''It would. But I can sculpt in my spare time, as a hobby. Perhaps my father is correct. You can't earn money from art.''
*****
The ambulance arrived just in time to save Peter from bleeding to death.
''He's been very lucky indeed,'' the doctor said. ''Are you family?''
''Er no...I'm one of his students. I wanted to talk to him at college this morning, but they told me he was in hospital. What happened?''
''He was attacked. Mugged.''
''Will he be okay?''
''We hope so.''
''Hope?'' Marcella said questioningly.
''Yes he should be. He needs to rest. When he wakes up, he'll have a big headache.''
''Can I sit with him?''
''Yes. Nobody else has been to see him.''
Marcella pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. She didn't know what the machines around him were; they looked scary. He had a drip feed into the back of his hand, so she touched his forefinger. She stroked it gently. In bed asleep, he looked boyish, not at all like the man that lectured at the London Academy. His hair was brushed back from the wound on his forehead which was covered by a bandage. She felt his finger twitch as she continued to stroke it. Then, he opened his eyes.
Marcella was wearing a white T-shirt, a blue jacket and pair of faded jeans. He said something, but she didn't understand. She raised herself from her seat, closer to him.
He repeated himself. ''Venus.'' She pointed to herself. He nodded.
Marcella laughed. ''You're suggesting I'm like the Roman Goddess of love?'' He nodded again. ''I think you're delirious,'' she said.
''No. You're just like her. Apart from the black hair.''
Marcella smiled. ''I'm glad you're going to be okay.''
''Thank you for coming to see me,'' he whispered. Her beautiful presence had lifted his spirits.
When she arrived the next day, he was altogether more lucid. When he saw her standing in the door, talking to a nurse, his eyes l
ooked at all the places he knew they shouldn't. She's a student, behave; he told himself.
''How are you today?'' she said flashing a white smile at him. She was made up more than he'd ever seen her before.
''Getting better. Are you going to a party?''
''No, why?'
''Because you're all made up.''
She wanted to say, ''it's for you,'' but she didn't think it was wise. ''So when are you coming back to the Academy?''
''The Doctor told me I can probably go home tomorrow, and go back to work in a week.''
''Great. Can I talk to you about something?''
''Sure.''
''I'm leaving,'' she said. He looked at her. If anyone had asked him how he felt right at that moment, he would have said, 'brokenhearted.'
''You can't. Why do you want to leave?''
''I have no more money, and my father won't help me. I'm going to do a business degree instead.''
She looked sad but determined. ''No. I can't allow it. You're just a few months away from graduation, and what about the competition?''
''They'll find someone else. I'm not the best.''
''You are the best. By far. No, this isn't right. No way are you leaving.''
''But I have no choice. I haven't got enough to buy the week’s groceries.''
He stared at her chest as it heaved against her blouse. ''Let me help you.''
''No, I can't accept that.''
''What are you going to make for the competition?''
''Nothing, I'm leaving.''
''Please, Marcella. Okay, let's assume you were going to do it. What would you make?''
''Something in bronze, like granny did. I know, I'd sculpt an owl.''
''Why an owl?''
''Because there a lots of them at my childhood home. I love the noise they make. You can lie under the covers and listen to them speaking to each other.'' Her eyes lit up as she thought of the prospect. ''You.......''she wanted to call him, 'bastard.' ''You did that on purpose, didn't you?''
''Yes. Look with how much enthusiasm you spoke. Would you talk with so much interest about a cash flow report or a balance sheet?''
Marcella dipped her head and looked at his hand. She wanted to touch it. He was clever, very clever and she liked him for it. He'd just shown her how much she cared about her sculpting. ''But I can't take money from you. It wouldn't be right.''
''I haven't got a lot of money, but I can help you. Tell you what. When you've finished your owl, it will be worth a few thousand. If it makes you feel better, you can sell it and pay me back.''
She smiled. The wound on his head was going to leave a scar. ''Thank you. Okay.''
His eyes lit up. For the first time in an age, he felt invigorated. You know I can't help you with the design and sculpting process don't you?''
''I know.''
*****
''You're back,'' Marcella jumped off her stool and hugged Peter. He felt her breasts crushing against him. The effect her scent had on him was even stronger than the last time she'd thrust her arms around him.
He closed his eyes, trying desperately not to touch her. What he felt wasn't right, and he was painfully aware of it.
''Yes. Back and raring to go.'' He wanted to tell her he hadn't had a drink for a week and that he'd actually decided to sculpt something again. But she didn't have to know how low he'd sunk. All she needed to see was how much he wanted his star student to win. ''Is that the beginning of it?'' he asked when he saw a clay model.
''Yes, that's the base for the cast. But I can't get it right.''
They looked at each other. Each full of lust and longing. He turned away and took a deep breath. He put his satchel on the desk and rolled up the sleeves on his checked shirt. ''Show me,'' he said, sitting down at his desk. ''Show me what you're having difficulty with.''
Marcella sat on her stool and picked up a knife. ''It's the proportions of the mouth and eyes. They aren't right.'' He got up and walked to the table.
He leaned to the sculpture and looked at it. ''A bit out of sync, you're right. Do you want me to show you how to get it correct? I'll get hung, drawn, and quartered if anybody knows I've helped you.''
''I want you to kiss me,'' she said desperately. She'd seen his vulnerability, and now he was showing her his strength and she wanted it all. He'd used a new aftershave, and she loved the scent of it. She imagined him between her open legs, thrusting into her, making her scream. ''Please kiss me,'' she said when the silence became too long.
''No, I can't. You're a wonderful woman. But I'm your tutor. We can't....'' She took hold of his arm and pulled him to her. He felt her breath on his face and smelled the fragrance of her hair. She knew he was aroused. He was standing, she was sitting. She could see it.
''Kiss me, I want you.''
''Arrrrghh,'' he cried. He pulled away, his back to her. His erection large and throbbing against the material of his trousers. ''I can't........I want to......but I can't.''
Marcella didn't want to push him further. ''Sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to. I apologize.''
When he turned back to her, she saw he was still hard. ''Come and show me what you meant, I will behave myself,'' she said.
He showed her the correct technique and told her she should start again.
''But it'll take ages if I start again.''
''You have to learn to destroy bad work and start again.'' He looked at her hair, shining in the sunlight that was streaming through the classroom window. Her bottom was hanging over the edge of the stool, and again he felt the need to turn away and sit behind his desk.
''Okay, I'll start again.'' He sat and watched her, entranced by the concentration on her face, the way her hair hung down her back and the way her legs wrapped around the stool.
''That's enough for today,'' he said. ''We can do some more tomorrow. After college.''
''I thought you said you couldn't help me,'' she smiled. He winked at her and pointed to his nose, in a keep it secret gesture.
That evening Peter lay in bed and tried not to fantasize about Marcella, but it was impossible. Never before, not even when he'd first met his wife, had he felt so hopelessly in love. He was fearful he wouldn't have the strength to keep his hands from her. He hoped she'd change her mind and find a younger man.
*****
A week passed. A week in which Peter and Marcella spent late afternoons and evenings working on the sculpture. Only the caretaker saw them, and he had no idea that Peter wasn't supposed to be helping her. There were three days left until submission day, and the sculpture was finished.
Marcella smiled, sat back and stretched her arms above her head. She looked at Peter. ''Thank you. For all your help.''
''Do you know you saved me?'' he said.
''From what?''
''Alcoholism and myself. You gave me my motivation back.''
She got up and hugged him. It was a hug like the others had been. An innocent thank you. But it burst the dam Peter had built. He thought he'd managed to prevent his feelings from smashing through, but when she wrapped her arms around him, it all crumbled.
He leaned down and kissed her. Full on the mouth. He lifted her up and sat her on her desk as they continued to kiss passionately. He wanted her to tell him to stop. But she didn't. They were in a rush. She pulled his shirt from his trousers and unfastened his belt while his fingers undid all the buttons on her blouse. He slid her skirt up to her waist and tugged her panties down. She pulled his trousers and shorts down and reached for his penis. She gasped when she felt how hard he was.
He tried to stop. In his mind, he was in a meeting with the Dean. He was being fired for gross misconduct. When she felt him pulling away, she pulled him back by his penis and placed it at her entrance. ''No going back. I need you inside me. Push into me.'' He did. She gasped and threw her arms around him.
There were no frills, no preliminaries. Just raw passionate sex. An outing of sexual tension that had simmered for days and finally boiled over. The force of hi
s thrusts threw her across the desk, and he had to pull her back to him. She clung on, breathless, as he took them to the summit. When Marcella reached orgasm, she bit into his shoulder to prevent herself from screaming. Her pleasure turned into his, and she slapped his buttocks when she felt him flowing into her.
*****
The Earl spat the toast out of his mouth. His wife gave him a disgusted look. ''What on earth are you doing?''
''Having a bloody heart attack. Look,'' he said holding up the Daily Record.
Charlotte read the headline.
Earl's Daughter Sculpture Queen.
He began to read the article to her. ''This year's National Sculpture Competition has been won by Marcella Horner, daughter of the Earl of Harwood. Never in the history of the competition has the prize been won by a unanimous committee vote. However, Miss Horner managed to convince all twelve judges, that her bronze statue of an owl, was of such a high technical standard, that none of them voted for any other entry. Miss Horner is a student at the National Academy of Arts in London.''
The Earl put the newspaper down and looked at his wife. ''You're a fool,'' she said. ''An old fool. Go to your daughter and beg her to forgive you.'' He nodded.
*****
The Dean's office was plush. It was almost like stepping back into the Victorian era. The Dean sat behind a large mahogany desk and scowled at Peter. When Peter looked at the walls, he felt the eyes of many former Deans looking in a disapproving fashion at him.
''Peter, do you know why I called you to see me today?'' He leaned forward, peering at Peter over his reading glasses.
''I'm not really sure, no.''
''What is your relationship to Miss Horner?''
''I am her tutor, and I must say our relationship is cordial.''
The Dean put his hand to his temple and rubbed. ''Cordial,'' he repeated. ''I will tell you what I know, and you will then have the chance to deny or confirm it. Someone saw you having sex with Miss Horner. In your classroom, of all places. What do you say to that?''