The Bound Heart (21 page)

Olive beamed, grinning like an idiot the whole time.

Mrs. Iwara suggested she could discuss her services with Mrs. Okazaki.

When she had gone to protest, as she was perfectly capable of negotiating her own services, Mrs. Okazaki had agreed and given her a ‘we’ll talk in private’ look. And maybe that was better. Olive didn’t know how the Japanese negotiated, and sometimes it did work better with someone in-between.

As they walked to the exit to put their shoes back on, Olive reached out and touched Mrs. Okazaki.

“Thank you.”

Mrs. Okazaki did one of her nods.

As they opened the door to the outside after Olive put on her boots and brace, a Japanese man and a beautiful Japanese woman in a kimono looked to be entering.

A flurry of what sounded like Japanese greetings and lots of bowing followed. Olive clasped her hands by her sides and waited.

Finally, the man looked over to her.

“May I have the pleasure of introducing myself? I am Mr. Sato and this is Miss Omori.”

“Thompson-san,” Mrs. Okazaki said, then looped her hand through Olive’s arm. “My London friend, we have been shopping.”

Olive looked at Mrs. Okazaki in surprise.

Mr. Sato laughed as his glance took in her old clothes.

“Your friend can hide no secrets, Okazaki-san. I think she is someone else’s special friend.”

Olive blushed beet red and that seemed to make Mr. Sato laugh even more.

He took her hand and bent over it. “A pleasure to meet you, Thompson-san. Perhaps you will one day give me the pleasure of working with you too?”

Mrs. Okazaki’s hand on her arm tightened.

“You must forgive us, Sato-san, Omori-san, but we have another engagement to rush to,” Okazaki said.

“Of course,” Sato replied.

More bows followed and this time Olive gave one back.

“Charming,” Sato-san said and they moved away; as the shop door slid closed.

They unlinked arms and continued to walk down the small street.

“That was strange,” Olive said.

“Sato is another one of Sensei’s pupils, like Jamie.”

“Oh.”

The girl, the beautiful girl. “Was Omori-san his model?”

Okazaki’s face hardened. “Yes.”

She stopped and took Olive’s hand. “Never let him work with you, Olive.”

The image of what she and Jamie did came into her mind. Her doing that with someone else was inconceivable.

“Never, I… Jamie and I…”

“Olive-san, you are only beginning to enter the world of rope. You have entered it as a lover, but you will see there is more to the world than the sensuality that can be taken from it.

It is war.

It is a battle of ideas, of traditions, and lineages.

Sato has come to do such a battle. His models are of no consequence to the outcome.”

Jamie paced in the foyer. The clock in the downstairs receiving room had struck two already.

The cab waited by the curb.

An odd flutter ran through his belly. Like he was hungry, but he wasn’t.

Where was she? He said two…

Olive’s reservations this morning had planted a seed of doubt.

What if he’d been right and his world was not for her? She liked him; he was confident of that. And she loved the rope, found real pleasure in their coming together. But if they couldn’t work together outside of bedroom play, he would have to work with others; and the session with Madeline showed that Olive was not happy with that.

He’d stopped all work coming in after Olive’s response to that session. But it was a part of his livelihood and he would inevitably need to take on commissions that involved others. Today was an opportunity to show her more of his world. How despite the sexual and intimate nature of what he did, that there was a difference when it was about work than when it was about pleasure even when similar actions and intimacies were present.

More importantly, he wanted her to think about being a part of his world.

No, not that was an understatement. He wanted her to agree to be part of his world. To give it a try. Work with him for the Paris competition.

His pacing took him to the open door of the downstairs receiving room; it was now five past two.

Jamie, put his hat on the sideboard and headed out the back, which involved slipping off his shoes at the black door and then slipping into his garden shoes after the back door. He headed down the small path to Okazaki’s small house where Olive stayed.

The door to Okazaki’s house slid open.

He stopped on the path.

Stopped and stared.

“Olive…” it slipped out of him in the softest whisper.

Of course, it was her.

Okazaki had done her hair into a bun at the back of her neck and she wore a simple but pretty hat. Her dress was soft yellow with broad white candy stripes and a smart, short, well-fitting jacket, much like a bolero jacket, in a deeper burnt yellow. The effect with her soft freckled face was like sherbet on his tongue. A fresh and unexpected delight.

Jamie held his hands out to the side. “Look at you. An elegant woman of the world.”

“It’s not too strange?”

Her hands ran over the item, which made his heart beat fast and ache at the same time. He wanted to lead her upstairs to the attic workshop and push her gently against the wall, hold her hands flat against the cool surface while he whispered everything they would do. Then untie that wonderful obi from around her waist. Unravel the intricate decoratively knotted bow it was tied into, and use it to tie her with, slowly and languidly.

“Okazaki-san tied it for me. It’s going to be a lot of fun to learn.”

“Turn around.” His voice was a little hoarse; a cough cleared it. But the image of that wide golden satin belt wrapped around her and nothing else was sending a whole range of potential photo plates through his mind.

She circled around on the spot and the wonderful intricacy of the tie was displayed above her bustle. A package that begged to be untied.

Olive moved forward, pleasure marking high color on her cheeks, natural openness shining bright through her eyes. So unlike her sister, so unlike the world she was brought up in.

She made him find those parts in himself; made him want to see the pleasure of the world through her eyes. Search out and remember the things he had held in such wonder when he first walked out of the hellhole of the brothel at the age of nine.

He was a different character to Olive. He’d been angry, determined to build a world where he would not feel the things he’d felt in the brothel again.

Olive had done none of that, had not constructed her world. She would have wounds, would be scathed; but it hadn’t tarnished the surface. He would seek out those hurts. Bath them, anoint them with care, and watch them heal.

“Jamie, the shop was full of the most wonderful things. I love Japanese fabrics, and I was able to try on a Kimono. I want to find out more. I have so many ideas for my embroidery.”

He tucked her gloved hand over his arm. “Well, the excitement of the day continues with a visit to the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square.”

Olive chatted in the cab about the morning. She had many, many questions about Japan, the Japanese culture, the textiles, and how things were worn.

“Do you know Japanese clothes have no buttons? That all the traditional clothes are tied on with fabric belts or cords.”

It made him smile. “The Japanese have a very special relationship with tying things. In Shinto, the main religion they live by, they will tie rope around a stone or a tree to indicate that it holds spirit. They also have a very large thick rope that they hand at the entrance of their temples.”

When they reached The National Gallery and walked up the stairs and into the impressive entrance, Olive was a mixture of terror and bursting excitement. Tight fingers squeezed into his arm as they walked slowly through the gallery.

“I feel like a fraud, like someone is going to ask what I’m doing here,” she whispered.

“You are not a fraud; you are wholly and delectably you. Besides The National is for the people.”

“What if I say or do something and they all know where I’m from.”

“Everyone is hoping that everyone else is looking at them, not realizing that means no one is looking at anyone, so you’re safe.”

She laughed and her posture relaxed.

“What an idiotic thing to say.”

He looked down and she looked as much the lady as she sounded.

“Idiotic? Now that’s fancy.”

“Yes, I heard a lady in the thread shop say it once and… well this is the place to use it.” She grinned up at him.

“So it is.” He
was
an idiot, he was beaming back down at her.

She would learn fast, as he had, learn so fast to climb out of an ignorant birth.

She shifted to walk closer so that every few steps some part of their bodies touched.

It was like sinking into a hot Japanese tub at the end of the day. Every part of him just soaked in the radiant heat, and fraction by fraction, his muscles ease. Olive was doing that to him on the inside, softening him around things that were best held tight and in their place.

“Come on, I want to show you something and tell you a story. But I hope you are noticing all the naked paintings and statues, and all the respectable people who came especially to admire them.”

“Seems at odds. Everyone walking around so proper, all the rules of what to do and not to do.”

“It’s the nature of artists to love the human body, to show it naked, to give it a timelessness. As soon as you put a person in their clothes, you know when and where they are from, their class, and their time in history. Outside of clothes, an artist can show something of our basic nature, of our humanity and what we experience as people, of us as something more than the place and time the painting was done. Some of these paintings were done hundreds of years ago and still reach out to the person looking at them.”

“People go to see naked in Whitechapel too, and it’s all about basic nature too.”

He laughed. “Yes, and what I want to do with you is somewhere in between.”

Her expressive face said she wasn’t buying any of it. And she was right. There was his work, but then there was what he simply wanted to do with her, which was completely carnal.

They walked through the gallery slowly stopping at pictures along the way. Olive noticed Jamie was right. No one was looking at them.

A few glanced at the unusual obi and its bow at the back; but the one thing having a limp and wearing a brace had taught her was to walk with pride and confidence, no matter what you felt inside. Taunts were an unpleasant fact as she grew up. She now didn’t really care what other people thought. It was more how confident she was in own her decision. Once she had made up her mind, she simply set about it. Besides, the looks at her fancy belt were curious but in a good way.

“Look at this one,” Jamie said, “a whole canvas full of naked people. It even has cherubs in it, and they’re naked too.”

An undignified giggle slipped out. He was making her relax about it all. It was a new idea, yet also exciting. To stand out and be different. To be seen as a woman who men would admire. Not look at and quickly look away because of her limp or feel sorry for her. Jamie didn’t feel sorry for her. He was careful, not sure how strong her leg was, but he saw her as a woman he wanted to do delicious and dark things with.

“Stop pointing out the naked people.”

“In case you miss it. Did you see that group of women over there?”

Olive looked to where he pointed.

“Yes…”

“How old would you say they are?”

“Grandmothers or, at least, mothers of adult children.”

They were looking at a painting of a woman reclining naked on a long, low lounge. A half-naked man with beautifully defined muscles had his knee between the woman’s thighs. As he leaned over the reclining woman, his lustful purposes were very clear.

“Would you say that was erotic art?”

She nodded. “Yes, yes I think so.”

He slipped her arm through his.

“Let’s get closer and listen to what they think.”

Jamie guided them right next to the group on the pretense of looking at the painting beside the one they were all gathered around.

The expected disapproving words about the painting were not there. There were discussions about the artist, about the period, the paints used, and the composition of the painting. They made remarks on how the artist used the pose, the color, the angle of the heads, so many small details to tell his story. They talked of the seduction, if the look in the woman’s eyes was that of encouragement, was he a welcome lover, or was she wary. Was it a power relationship of master and concubine?

Olive looked at the image and wondered about those same things. The painting took on a deeper meaning about its tale. If it was one option, it seemed romantic, if the other, it was strangely exciting but also sad. It made her think of the lack of choices women had. Could the images she and Jamie might make start the same kinds of thoughts in the minds of viewers?

After following the group through a few paintings, one of the women hung back.

“Excuse me for asking, but what an unusual belt you are wearing. May I enquire from which dressmaker you bought it?”

Olive flushed. “It’s Japanese. It’s called an Obi.” The woman noted her accent, an accent of the street. Olive looked at Jamie who stepped closer.

But the woman simply nodded. “How unusual. Is it normally worn like this?”

Olive nodded. “Yes, I believe so, but with their traditional dress called a Kimono.”

“Well, you seem to know quite a bit, my dear. I would love to have some for my daughters. It strikes me as a wonderful item to wear. They could be a new rage.” The woman’s face softened into a beaming smile.

“The dressmakers are all Japanese. I could arrange to bring some to show. The tying of them is the challenge and something to master, and I understand there is a whole art to the array of ties that can be done.”

The woman opened her reticle and drew out a card. “Here is my card. Perhaps you could call on me and we could discuss the possibility of an event to try to learn some of the Japanese ties. We are all very interested in Japonism. My name is Lady Grossner.”

“I’m Mr. Edwards and this is Miss Olive Thompson.” Jamie said as he passed his own card.

“Mr. Edwards knows a lot about Japan,” Olive added.

“Do you, Mr. Edwards?” Lady Grossner looked up at Jamie with more interest.

“I was lucky enough to be fostered by a Japanese resident. It involved a few trips to Japan.”

“Oh, my word, how interesting. You simply must meet the group.”

Lady Grossner turned and marched over to the women now in front of another painting. Another nude.

“Ladies, ladies.”

And so, an exchange unfolded that had Jamie and her invited to attend Lady Grossner and the other ladies next meeting.

After they left, it was almost boring to look at all the paintings.

“I’m too excited to look anymore,” she laughed and clapped her hands. “They liked the obi, and they were so interested in your travels, Jamie.”

He slipped his arm through hers. “What did I tell you about art and culture, Olive? It crosses through the usual social and class barriers. People are hungry for what is inherent in the lives of someone who lives to their own beat.”

“You know the nudes all start to look the same. It seems to me, if you really want to stand out, if everyone is doing one thing, you would take a different route. That’s what you’re really telling me about being an artist.”

He stopped and tilted his head as he looked down at her. Really looked at her. Not those joking eyes, the cool or reserved eyes, and not the hot, hungry ones either, his was a look of respect and real engagement in what she said.

“You’re right. The question is will the power of moving away from something that works be more powerful or simply something different. Maybe you need a combination of both somehow. As I am what would best be termed an erotic artist, nakedness to some degree is required.”

They moved through a few more rooms, and then he led her to a series of paintings.

“Here, this is what I wanted to show you.”

“John Morris and Dante Rossetti. These are some of their paintings; and that woman there, their model, was Elizabeth Siddal. She worked in a millinery shop then started modeling for a group of artists who called themselves the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood. She started to draw and paint so she could have something if the modeling stopped. She was a sought after model and an artist in her own right. She was one of the inspirational muses of the period.”

Olive stepped closer and looked at the woman in the paintings. Pale face, lots of fiery red hair.

“I have heard about painters who pay people to pose for pictures.” It was true; there was no stigma involved. A man and his young boy had come into the tavern near her home and boasted about it. But it wasn’t regular work.

“Would you have me model for others as well then, like Miss Siddal?”

His face took on one of those dark looks.

“No. I’m not sure I’d like that. No, just for me.”

His words sent a shiver of pleasure through her, but she had to know what she’d be getting herself into from beginning to end.

“And when you let me go, what will happen then?”

He scowled and pushed his hands into his pockets.

She shook her head at his response.

“You have warned me enough about that. Rule number one, you don’t do love.”

That dark gaze challenged her.

“Would you be worse off when it finished? Will working with me take away options you want now? If we don’t go ahead with working together, what would you do and would it be better?”

“No, but being poor and having had lovers is different than being naked on your photo plates for everyone to see.”

He stepped back and looked up at the ceiling. “I think you might misunderstand what I’m proposing. I have done images for The Velvet Basement and if you had a look at all of them, you would see that you couldn’t identify the woman’s face. Not that I think hiding the model’s face is needed, but because it being hidden or only partially visible adds more allure for the imagination.

“My rope photo plates, the ones I want to make with you and would show your face”-he paused to make appoint-“never reach The Velvet Basement. They are highly sought after. One plate can get a five hundred pounds, some even more. That is not a sordid little image in a basement shop. I am requested to do commission work for people who want the women or men they admire to be in one of my creations. I am not a cheap pornographic supplier, Olive. That’s not what I am offering you.”

Olive lowered her voice. “I’d like to see some.”

His eyebrows raised and his mouth tilted. “Yes, of course, I should have shown you. I was just…not thinking. We can do that when we get home.”

“Your home.”

“Our home, for the moment.”

She stopped and scowled back at him.

“You know how I feel, Jamie; I know you do. Be careful how you use your words. I will not have my feelings used to manipulate me, especially with false truths. I may not like that you pull back and take distance whenever we’ve been close, but I accept it.”

He looked at her with dark eyes. It was one of those Mr. Edwards from the bookbinding workshop looks. One that said things she couldn’t understand and was all coiled up and held back.

She waited him out, but he was much better at it than she was.

His gaze moved over her face, stayed overly long at her lips.

The tension crackled around them.

People walked by and that dark broody look just got darker until she fidgeted and stepped back.

Damn stubborn man.

Yet inside her chest were flurries; and in other soft sensitive places, she was starting to feel achy. She wanted everything that look held back. He didn’t even know it, but he was manipulating her as easily with his withdrawals, as his careless use of words to fill her with a hope she had no right to feel.

“I’m hungry.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up, even as his eyes stayed dark and intense.

He slipped her arm over his, ran his fingers lightly over her gloved hand and she couldn’t help but take a sharp breath in. The corners of his eyes creased as that half smile became full.

He was much too confident of her.

“Come on, we can talk more tonight. Okazaki tells me there’s a wonderful sponge cake served here. If I fail to take you for a slice after all the work you both did this morning, I will be eating bowls of plain rice for weeks.”

As they moved away, a strange sensation passed through her. Suddenly she felt like she was standing on the highest building and it could disappear from under her. A part of her wanted to run. If she didn’t have it so good, there was nothing to lose. But another part was bursting with pure happiness to have such a chance to experience all of this. She was at The National Gallery in the heart of London, dressed in fine clothes in the company of a self-made man with wild, challenging, and complex ideas and needs.

The gallery did have a small and very elegant eatery. They sat inside, the click of cutlery on plates echoing around them, as well as soft voices, and the smell of baked goods. Somehow, she didn’t feel like an outsider. She and Jamie were not of these people’s class, not in their social circles. However, she knew, had always known, she didn’t belong where she grew up. That despite the limp and the brace, she had never fit in; she had always been an outsider. She had dreams of creating too. The embroidery.

The world Jamie lived in, women like Mrs. Okazaki, she began to feel like she had something in common with them, with their world. It was a world that her embroidery and creativity belonged. Today, in Iwara’s shop, here in this magic gallery, the ideas were flowing so fast of what she could make.

She was coming to understand Jamie’s passion and focus with the rope. Learning about the Japanese culture, the way they tied everything. She understood that there were things about Japie’s rope work that had more to do with ideas and history than simply tying someone up or making something erotic.

What had Mrs. Okazaki said this morning? It’s war.

“Olive, I’ve never had anyone stay at the house. No one out back with Okazaki.”

Her breath caught.

“Rule number two,” she said.

He nodded slowly at her. “Yes, I guess it is a sleepover of sorts.” But they both knew he hadn’t asked her to sleepover in the bed not in the attic, and she had never been with him in the red room, his bedroom.

Jamie leaned across the table and took her hand. “The rope work we’ve done together has me excited. Working with you gives me ideas, things I want to try. Ideas I want to stretch.

Sensei took what was the rope work that Japanese warriors, called Samurai, used to interrogate and hold prisoners and moved more into blending it with the ideas in Shinto that use rope. Working with the techniques to show connection, flow, the sacred. I work the same way and I also work on the purely decorative element of the rope, to scale down the ties to create images free of technically cluttered ties and create something of pure harmony, body, rope, form.

You make me want to work. You give me ideas. I… I want to work the rope with you.”

Those flurries under her skin and all through her body started up again. His dark, broody eyes and his confession made her wish they were alone. Alone so she could wrap herself around him and let him see how willing and how present she was for him.

“I am all for that, Jamie. I like what we do. I want to explore it too. I just don’t know if I want it to be something public.”

“I’ll tell you what.” He picked up her hand, leaned forward and brushed his lips over her gloved knuckles. “Let’s work together and leave the competition to the side for a while, see how you feel as we move forward.”

Heat washed through her breasts, her belly and across her hips and thighs.

She wasn’t going to say no. She wasn’t sure she would ever say no to him.

“I’ll tell you what Jamie Edwards, I’ll work with you, if you help me with my dreams too. Help me to build something from my embroidery.”

His eyes creased and he gave her a knee buckling smile.

“Miss Thompson, I think we have a deal.” He folded his palm into hers so they clasped. “Let’s shake on it.”