The Model Debutante

Excerpt

Miss Talitha Grey shivered slightly and risked a glance downwards. A single length of sheer white linen draped across her shoulder and fell to the floor at front and back, beneath it her naked skin had a faintly blue tinge. Tallie strongly suspected that it was marred by goose bumps.

With a resigned sigh she flexed her fingers on the gilded bow in her left hand and fixed her gaze once again on the screen of moth-eaten blue cloth that was doing duty for the skies of Classical Greece. Perhaps if she thought hard enough about it she could imagine that she was bathed in the heat of that ancient sun, her skin caressed by the lightest of warm zephyrs and not by the whistling draughts which entered the attic studio by every door and ill-fitting window frame.

Tallie did her best to summon-up the distant sound of shepherds’ pan pipes floating over olive groves to drown out the noise of arguing carters from Panton Street far below. She was concentrating on conjuring the scent of wood smoke and pine woods to counteract the distressing smells of poor drainage and coal fires when a voice behind her said peevishly, ‘Miss Grey. You have moved.’

With care to hold her pose and not turn her head Tallie said, ‘I assure you I have not Mr Harland.’

‘Something has changed.’. Tallie could hear the creak of the wooden platform on which Mr Frederick Harland had perched himself to reach the top of the vast canvas. On it he was depicting an epic scene of ancient Greece with the figure of the goddess Diana in the foreground, her back turned to the onlooker, her gaze sweeping the wooded hillsides and distant temples until it reached the wine-dark Aegean sea.

There was more creaking, the muttering which was the normal counterpart to Mr Harland’s mental processes and then the floorboards protested as he walked towards her. ‘Your skin colour has changed,’ he announced with a faint air of accusation.

‘I am cold,’ Tallie responded mildly. Frederick Harland, she had discovered, took no more, and no less, interest in her naked body than he did in the colour, form and texture of a bowl of fruit, an antique urn or a length of drapery. When in the grip of his muse he was vague, inconsiderate and sometimes testy, but he was also kindly, paid her very well and was reassuringly safe to be alone with – whatever her state of undress.

‘Cold? Has the fire gone out?’

‘I believe it has not been lit today, Mr Harland.’ Tallie wished she had thought to insist on it before they had started the session, but her mind had been on other things and it was not until the pose had been set and the artist had clambered up onto his scaffold that she realised that the lofty attic room was almost as chilly as the February streets outside.

‘Oh. Hmm. Well, another ten minutes and then we will stop.’ The boards groaned again as he walked back to the canvas. ‘In any case, I need more of that red for the skin tones, and the azure for the sky. The cost of lapis is extortionate…’

Tallie stopped listening as he grumbled on, his words indistinguishable. She knew she was frowning over her thoughts, but at least in this pose she did not have to guard her expression. Mr Harland had placed her standing with only a hint of her right profile visible from behind, her long, slightly waving, blonde hair falling free to midway down her back.

Her feet were bare. A fine filet of gold cord circled her brow, its trailing ends forming a darker accent in her hair, and the linen drapery revealed her left side, the curve of her hip, the swell of her buttock and the length of her leg. All of which normally smooth features were now covered by a rash of goose bumps.

Still, at half a guinea a sitting she could hardly complain, and Tallie had no option but to make her own living. The guineas from Mr Harland paid the rent. The fact that she was engaged in an occupation which was entirely beyond the pale for any lady and which would be regarded by almost every right-thinking person as scarce better than prostitution, did not concern her. Having a roof over her head did.

She entirely trusted Mr Harland’s intentions towards her and it was not even that he was making himself behave in an entirely proper manner. No, she knew he was entirely disinterested in not only her but, apparently, all females. She had heard that some men were attracted to their own sex, but this did not appear to be the case either. It seemed that his mind was filled with a single-minded obsession for his Art and it allowed no room for any other strong feeling.

The other reason that Tallie was unconcerned about the nature of her employment was that she was certain that no work of Mr Harland’s in which she featured was ever likely to grace the walls of an exhibition. It was not that his obsession for the Classical ran counter to the modern taste, as the excitement at the news that the Elgin Marbles were to be exhibited showed. No, it was simply that his canvasses were too vast, and his perfectionism too obsessive, to allow him ever to finish one, let alone submit it to critical judgement.

The Diana picture was the fourth in which Tallie had featured. Each had reached a stage of near-completion when the artist had flung his brushes from him with a cry of despair at ever realising his inner vision. They were stacked away now and from time to time he would attack one of them again for a day or two, then give up in frustration.

It was fortunate, both for Mr Harland and for Tallie, that he was not only the possessor of a modest inheritance but also had a flourishing and lucrative business in portraiture, an occupation he despised as mere craftsmanship. On three days a week he indulged his Classical passion. For the rest of the time he painted Society portraits in the rather more salubrious studio on the first floor of the ramshackle house. It was a tribute to his work that the ton were prepared to make the journey to the shabby house in a decidedly unfashionable street just off Leicester Square to have their likenesses taken.

Tallie was mentally casting her accounts in an effort to decide whether she could see the winter out without replacing her light brown walking dress and pelisse or whether her other, publicly acknowledged, occupation required her to make an investment in a new outfit.

From four floors below there was the sound of the knocker on the front door being pounded, then a number of male voices echoed up the uncarpeted stairwell.

With an exclamation of impatience Mr Harland cast down his palette with a clatter, clambered down from his post and flung open the attic door.

Tallie ran to his side and out onto the bare landing, clutching her flimsy draperies around her. Clearly up the stairway from below she could hear the voice of Peter, Mr Harland’s colour-man. Peter inhabited the ground floor rooms with his pots and jars, his bags of pigments and flasks of oils and there magically ground vivid colours out of strange materials.

‘Mr Harland doesn’t receive clients on Wednesdays, gentlemen. Tuesdays and Thursdays are his days. You can’t go up there now, sir!’

‘Dammit, I wrote to say I would call to arrange my aunt’s portrait and I have no intention of trailing back another day at Harland’s convenience.’ The drawling voice was arrogantly dismissive of the colour-man’s protests. ‘Are you saying he is not here?’

‘Yes, sir, I mean no, sir, he is here but he–’

‘Perhaps he is with someone?’ It was a new voice, carrying easily up to Tallie far above. A coolly sardonic, rather bored voice which made the previous speaker sound affectedly high-handed.

‘The man has just said that Harland does not have clients on a Wednesday, Nick. Step out of my way, fellow, I have no intention of standing here banding words with you all afternoon.’

‘But the master’s working with a model, sir. You can’t go up there.’ From the rising note of Peter’s voice the speaker had pushed past him and was already on the stairs.

‘What? A female model? Now that is more the thing! Come on, you fellows, this should be good sport.’ The voice had lost its drawling arrogance and held a note of excitement which made Tallie’s chilled skin crawl. They were coming up, and it appeared that there were several men in the group.

Tallie had disrobed in a room on the floor below, having learned from experience what effect the dusty attic had on her small wardrobe, and her only covering was the length of linen. She cast round, her heart thudding. The attics, although essentially one large open space, rambled around corners made by the construction of racks of canvases and piles of dusty props and in one corner, shielded by the largest rack, there was a large cupboard with a door to it.

‘I will hide in the closet,’ she said urgently to the artist who was exclaiming in irritation at the interruption. ‘Whatever you do, Mr Harland, do not let them know I am here or I will be quite ruined.’

He nodded distractedly. ‘Yes, yes, into the closet with you. I wonder if any of the gentlemen would care to buy an historical canvas?’

Tallie did not stop to argue but ran on bare feet across the splintery boards. She whisked round the corner of the racking as the voices outside neared the attic and jerked open the cupboard door. The key which had been on the outside clattered to the floor.

Tallie scrabbled for it but it was nowhere to be seen. With a sob of frustration she abandoned the search and pulled the door closed behind her. The closet was lit by a tiny window, begrimed with dirt and cobwebs but sufficient for her to see that the space contained nothing in which she might cover herself and nothing to wedge the door with. Not, she realised despairingly, that wedging it would have done any good because it opened outwards.

The men had reached the attic now. Through the warped boards which framed the closet she could hear at least four voices. The arrogant man and the sardonic man she recognised from their voices far below; their companions had equally well-bred tones and in them she could recognise a kind of febrile excitement at the thought of what they were going to find in the studio.

Tallie scrabbled to pull her linen draperies around herself in some gesture towards a decent covering. Her fingers closed on air and chilled skin. The length of fabric had gone. Wildly she cast around the little closet as though three yards of white cloth could be hiding in an empty space, then she recalled the slight tug at her shoulder as she had hurried around the racking.

Harland’s voice was clearly audible as she stood there shivering with cold and fear, her ear pressed against the door panels. He sounded flustered. ‘Gentlemen, as you can see, I am alone, but really not in a fit state to receive. However, now you are here, what can I do for you, Mr Lynley? Something about a portrait of your aunt I believe?’

‘Alone?’ The owner of the arrogant voice – Mr Lynley, she deduced – appeared to take no notice of the artist’s question. ‘Your man said you had a model up here.’

‘He is mistaken. I was working from the nude earlier, but–’

‘Nude, I’ll say. See here you fellows.’ This voice was younger, excited.

‘Take care, my lord. That platform is not at all stable.’ So, one of them had climbed up to the canvas.

‘Bloody hell.’ It was Lynley, his voice strangely flat with what even Tallie in her innocence could recognise as lust. Then the excitement came back to his tone. ‘I’ll bet she’s still here, Harland, you dog. Come on, men, yoicks and tally ho!’

‘For heaven’s sake, Lynley.’ The sardonic man sounded utterly bored ‘How much longer do you intend hanging around in this squalid attic? Oh, very well, if nothing will satisfy you but to search, let us search. I will look over here, you and the others take the rest. Doubtless we will discover some large spiders, a dead starling or two and any number of mice.’

The voice was getting closer as he spoke. Tallie thought wildly of seizing the door handle and holding on if he tried to open it, but the possibility of being dragged out into the open in such an undignified way only added to the horror. The approaching footsteps halted. From the far side of the attic there was the sound of boisterous searching, excited cries and the occasional ‘Do be careful of those canvasses, gentlemen!’ from the agitated artist.

The footsteps resumed, rounded the corner of the racking if her straining ears were correct, and stopped outside the closet. Tallie turned her back on the door, moved as far away from it as she could and, wrapping her arms around her shrinking body, awaited the worst.

Her hair fell on either side of her bowed head giving her the fragile illusion of shelter and anonymity. But even that vanished as the door creaked open sending light from the studio flooding into the small space. It defeated the glimmer from the closet window and spilt the shadow of a man across the floor beside Tallie’s feet.

He did not move. Tallie could hear his breathing, steady and even, but she had also heard the sudden catch in it when he had first seen her. He was under control again now, standing there silently watching her. She could not drag her eyes away from the long shadow.