The Wild Princess (12 page)

Twelve

London, 1866

“It's so unfair! Why won't you let me go to art school? I shall never be a true artist without proper training.” Every afternoon at tea, and sometimes even at family breakfast, Louise fought with her mother, using every weapon in a princess's arsenal.

“Stop it, Louise,” Victoria scolded. “You are becoming an embarrassment. Royal children do not mix with their mother's subjects.”

“I shall stop eating entirely,” she proclaimed, pushing aside the tempting plate of biscuits and sandwiches. “Not a bite will pass my lips until I'm allowed to attend art school. If I am to become a professional artist, I must have a proper education.”

Her mother looked toward one of her elder daughters, Lenchen, for support. “Tell your sister how ridiculous she's being.”

“How can you even think of walking out among ordinary people, mixing with men and women off the street, uneducated, working-class commoners?” Her sister actually shuddered, or pretended to for their mother's benefit.

“It's dangerous, Loosie,” her brother Arthur said, more intent upon his newspaper and choosing a delicate pastry from the tray than on the conversation. “You must be reasonable and confine your socializing to the appropriate class of people.”

Louise lifted her eyes to the ceiling. “Don't you see that talent doesn't depend upon who an artist's parents might be and whether or not they have a title? And I hardly think people wander in off the street to register for art classes.” She huffed. “This is utterly ridiculous. The National Art Training School is a highly respected institution of learning and within walking distance of Buckingham. Yet you deny me a proper education, Mama.”

“For your own protection, yes.” Victoria observed her, lips pinched. “Experiment all you like with your paintings and sculpture here in the palace. Listen to your tutors. They are more than sufficient for teaching you all you need to know. When you marry, your husband will want a wife, a mistress over his household, and mother for his children, not a vagabond
artiste
.”

“Oh!” Louise screeched in protest, pushing herself up and out of her chair. She let her cup and saucer clatter carelessly onto the silver tray. “You are all impossible.”

She ran in tears from the room but didn't give up pleading her case. When hunger strikes didn't work, she tried formal letters of petition to her mother. When that didn't work, she enlisted Mr. Brown's influence and, finally, threats of running away to Paris. In the end, exhausted by her daughter's hysterical pleading, Victoria gave in.

Louise arrived victorious by carriage on her first day at the school, positively thrilled with her new and hard-won freedom. But when she stood before the registrar's desk that most perfect of all mornings, she was shocked by her reception.

“We are most honored to have you join us at NATS, Your Royal Highness.” The registrar gave her a fatherly smile. “Let me show you to where our young ladies take their lessons.”

Louise turned with confusion to her chaperone. On entering the building they'd passed a room where she'd seen several young men in smocks setting up their easels. “Are you saying I won't be with those students across the hallway? The girls have separate classes?”

“Of course, Princess.” He gave her an impatient scowl and moved toward the door, as if wanting her to follow him and stop asking questions.

She stood her ground, suspicious of the separation of the sexes. Was this another way to control her, to take away from her what by rights should be hers? “Why? Why should we be separated if we are to learn the same skills?”

He let out a breath of exasperation. “Because young men and young women study and learn in different ways. It's not healthy for girls to be exposed to the same rigorous demands as boys.” She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. He shook his head, as if amused by her reaction. “You'll be with the other young ladies in a very nice building all your own. I'm certain you will enjoy yourself, Your Highness.”

This did not sound good at all. “Which building?”

“The Female School of Art, just across the way there.” He pointed toward the door she'd just come in.

And so Louise, accompanied by the elderly Lady Vail, who had been appointed by her mother to watch over Louise whenever she left the palace for school, turned around and followed the registrar back into South Kensington's streets, overlooking Hyde Park, and walked the few hundred feet down the brick walkway to classrooms kept solely for students of the “fragile” sex. At the end of that day, and each one after, Louise and Vail were retrieved like loaned pieces of furniture by the same carriage, driver, and footman that had brought them.

Louise felt robbed. The lessons at the Female School were little more than the same tedious instruction she'd received at home. Her one pleasure was carrying back to the palace tales to amuse and shock Lenchen and their baby sister, Beatrice.

“Do not men paint too?” Bea asked when Louise told them of the all-girl classes. The littlest princess sat at Louise's feet in the nursery, gazing up at her with huge, worshipful eyes.

“Of course, they do,” Lenchen said before Louise could answer. The eldest unmarried daughter at that time, Lenchen was only two years ahead of Louise but beat Beatrice into the world by more than ten. “You have seen their portraits and landscapes right here in the castle.”

“But
they
take no classes at the academy?”

“Oh, Bea, they certainly do.” Louise shot to her feet to pace off her frustration over the nursery floor. “The boys have their own much more professional curriculum.”

“Why?” Lenchen asked.

“Because our parents and teachers think they are protecting us delicate, too easily influenced females. They believe we'll be damaged emotionally or turn to evil ways if we so much as glimpse a nude figure.” Louise threw up her hands in disgust. “Women are encouraged to paint flowers, woodland creatures, studies of ripe fruit, stinky dead fish, and glass goblets. Absolutely no
naked
people for us girls. Especially not ones with hairy bottoms or dangly thingies between their legs.”

Lenchen giggled, her eyes dancing at the danger of speaking such words. Happily, their governess had nodded off in her chair in front of the fireplace.

Little Beatrice tilted her head and observed Louise with a solemn expression. “I wouldn't mind so awfully just painting pretty flowers. I don't think I ever want to see a naked person.”

“I do!” Louise felt her skin glow with a heady warmth. “Well, a naked man anyway. I've seen my own body and know what we women look like.”

Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “That's so dirty. Looking at a bare man.”

“Someday you will see your husband's body,” Lenchen reminded her gently, “when he comes to your bed.”

“I will make him wear a nightshirt clear down to his toes. Or not come beneath the linens with me.”

“Then how will he make babies in you?” Louise asked.

Beatrice stared at her. “Babies come whenever God pleases.”

Louise and Lenchen exchanged knowing looks. Young women of good families didn't learn the truth of such things until their wedding night. But the two older girls had caught their eldest sister, Vicky, alone one night after her marriage to Fritz, when she'd had a bit too much wine. The Crown Princess had described
in great and delicious detail
the event of a man and woman joining their sexes. Her sisters had been horrified . . . and delighted.

Later, when Louise combined this secret knowledge with her private studies of nudes painted or sculpted by the masters—Michelangelo, Rubens, Caravaggio, Donatello, and even Jan van Eyck—she was able to understand how a man's organ cleverly fit into a woman's secret hollow between her limbs. Best of all, Vicky (blushing furiously when she'd said it) claimed the act was not unpleasant, and sometimes a child came as a result.

“Well, I for one look forward to seeing a man in his altogether,” Louise repeated. “I wish to be a sculptress, not a painter of plucked blooms and boring lifeless objects. How else, other than by observing real human bodies, may I make my art honest and realistic?”

Beatrice crossed her chubby arms and pouted. “Sculpt for me a little cat or one of our hunting dogs. I'd like that a whole lot better than a dirty old boy without clothes.”

Louise laughed and hugged her little sister. “I'll make you a kitty then,” she promised. But she vowed that very day to find a way to get into the advanced sculpting classes that were offered only to young men.

Thirteen

It took Louise longer than she'd hoped. During those months she often saw Amanda and stopped to chat with her. She was curious why a young woman as attractive and clever as Amanda spent her life as a scullery maid.

“You think it's what I choose?” the girl demanded, looking astonished. “Do you know how many there are like me—women out on the streets through no fault of our own? My da made a good livin' in the print shop at the
Times,
he did. We had us a nice little house, and I kept it right smart for the two of us.”

“What happened?” They were sitting on the front stoop, and Louise offered the girl a slice of her apple.

Amanda winced then shook her head. “After my da died, the house went to my uncle as the only male heir. My mum (bless her soul) was already dead, her brother saw the profit in sellin' the place to the railway as they were buyin' up a path for the new track into the city. But when I asked what part of the money was my share he said, by the law it was all his.”

“He just put you out on the street?”

“Might as well have. I had nothin' to live on.” She eyed what was left of the apple. “Would you mind my havin' another slice; that was awful good.”

“Here,” Louise said, handing her the rest she hadn't yet cut with her palette knife. “I wasn't hungry anyway.”

“Can't remember the last time I could say that.” Amanda laughed and took a hearty bite, smiling at her.

“So what did you do?”

“What most women on their own do for a safe and warm place to sleep.”

Louise stared at her, horrified.

“Don't give me those eyes of yours, all saucer-y and shocked. What would you do, Princess, the old queen turned you out?” She shrugged. “As if that's even likely.”

“Sell apples, matches . . . maybe flowers like I see girls doing at street corners.”

“And if you've no money to buy what you're sellin'? Would you be stealin' someone else's flowers to make a few shillings? Or sell your pretty hair? When that's gone and all you have is your body”—Amanda's voice dropped to a dark place—“you'd have no choice if you didn't want to starve.”

Louise shivered at the thought. She wasn't even sure what selling one's body meant. If a man paid her money to be with him, what would he expect from her? When it came right down to it, she'd never considered what people who didn't live in a castle did with their days. She'd never needed to worry about where her meals came from or whether she'd have a warm bed and walls to protect her from the weather or the wickedness of the world.

Meeting Amanda opened a whole new world to her. One that troubled Louise even as it made her thankful for all her family had . . . and more than a little guilty for her wardrobe's collection of exquisite gowns, shoes, and fur-trimmed cloaks.

But, for the time being, there seemed little she could do for Amanda or other women in her new friend's pitiable situation. She had all she could manage winning herself the freedom she needed to follow her dream of becoming an independent woman and artist. And the next step was convincing her mother that a chaperone's time was sadly wasted during class hours.

After a while, Louise found an ally in Lady Vail, her watcher. The woman clearly was bored—having nothing to do all day long except her needlework—and she missed the gossip of court. With encouragement from Louise, Vail requested release from her duties, claiming the princess was perfectly safe under Maestro's watchful eye. The queen decided an escort of a driver and footman was sufficient to get her daughter to and from the girls' art school. Without anyone watching her every move and reporting to the queen, Louise was free more often to talk to Amanda, or any of the students whenever she wished, without being chastised for “mixing with the lower classes.”

She turned to the other girls for advice on how to get into the boys' classes, but they just shook their heads.

“They'll never let a girl into the live model sessions,” Amanda told her one day. “Never.”

“I'll get in. One way or another.”

“Well, good luck to you.” Amanda dragged her mop across the floor.

“Amanda,” Louise said, putting her hand out to stop the girl from leaving. “If you could do anything, be anyone. What would it be?”

“Oh, we're into daydreamin' now, are we?” The girl laughed and winked at her.

Louise gave her a smile and a gentle nod of encouragement.

“Well then, I'd work for the
Times,
like my da. Only not in the print shop.”

“Where then?”

Amanda flushed with embarrassment. “We're just dreamin', right? You won't laugh at me?”

“I'd never laugh at you,” Louise assured her.

Amanda hesitated, but her eyes lit with anticipation. “I'd write articles like I seen in the newspapers my da brought home from work.”

“You can read?” Louise gaped at her, then realized how awful that sounded, assuming her friend's ignorance. “I'm sorry. It's just that I—”

“It's all right. Just look at me, all covered in grime most of the time, talkin' like a street crosser.” She sighed. “Da taught me. It's just, you live on the streets awhile, you lose a lot of your shine. Like that brass knob on that door over there, if I don't polish it. You sink to the level of the gutters where you live.”

“Never you mind.” Louise reached out and patted Amanda's hand. “What you've lost you can get back. Right?”

“Mebbe.” Amanda shrugged and kicked her mop head with the toe of her boot. “Mebbe someday.”

Despite all the other girls' doubts, Louise never stopped believing that Maestro would eventually give in to her. After all, princesses are denied precious little in life, except the independence of a commoner. After weeks of pleading, promises, and veiled threats, Maestro allowed her to cross over into the main building and take a few basic sculpting lessons with the boys.

At first she was disappointed with the tediousness. They studied various techniques for molding and shaving away at lumps of clay, as they weren't allowed to take a chisel to stone until mastering the ugly gray globs. Then, on the tenth week, a young man with tawny complexion, lustrous straw-colored hair, and cool gray eyes stepped into the room wearing, it appeared to her, only a robe.

Maestro announced, “You will first draw the model's figure. After I have approved your sketch, you may create a clay model. If you are able to do that much satisfactorily, in a week or two you will render the pose in soapstone. It is the softest and easiest stone to carve.” He turned to Louise, whose worktable he'd placed at the very back of the room, to attract the least attention from his boys. “Your Royal Highness, follow me.”

For a panicky moment, she feared he was going to make her leave the room. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes.

“Come, come,” he repeated, walking as he continued to speak. “As a condition to your inclusion in live modeling sessions, I must insist upon the highest discretion. You see here a curtain. Behind this you will find your work station for today.”

She frowned. This was as remote as possible from the model's platform while still inside the long, narrow atelier. “Why must I work here? I can see much better up close.”

“That is the point, Princess,” Maestro said, in an annoyed growl. “You will see as much as is absolutely necessary to do your work and no more. And the other students and model will not be distracted by your presence.”

She was aware of the boys in the class watching as she stepped behind the curtain. There she found all of her supplies laid out neatly on the table and an easel set up for drawing. She glared at the ridiculous curtain. “I can't see through it. Am I allowed to part the fabric to view the model?”

“Of course. Briefly.” Maestro coughed, looking not entirely pleased with the arrangement even then. “I warn you. Should you swoon even once, or show the least sign of weakness or shock, you will never again be allowed in this room. It is for your own good, I assure you.”

Louise looked him in the eye. “I do not
swoon
. And I believe you seriously underestimate my sex, sir.”

He coughed into his hand. “We shall see.” He stepped outside of her privacy screen and signaled the model with a backward wave of his hand.

The young man stepped up onto a raised pedestal. He dropped his robe at his feet.

Louise blinked and sucked in a breath. Her heart stopped—she was certain it actually did—for the space of three full beats. She swallowed. Swallowed again, blinking to clear her vision.

His body appeared as smooth as alabaster, utterly hairless but for the lowest, most intriguing regions of his torso. He was beautiful. More appealing than Michelangelo's
David.
His flesh gave off subtle warmth impossible from the finest marble, serpentine, or onyx. Even from her distant vantage point, she sensed his skin's velvety texture and vibrancy. Maestro signaled the young man to make a quarter turn, putting his back to her.

Louise sat on her stool and tucked her hands inside her smock to hide their agitation, as if her teacher could see her through the curtain. She bit down on her bottom lip, fighting the oddest urge that had just come over her. She longed to walk straight to the front of the room, reach out, and touch the boy's body. Before she drew him, or even thought of sculpting him, she wanted to feel the contours of his flesh, muscle, bone, sinew. She'd slide her fingers through his hair and down his shoulder blades, back, and buttocks. Only then did she believe she'd be able to shape with her inexperienced hands an honest likeness of him.

Maestro was speaking, though he seemed miles away, his voice a distant chime and easy to ignore. After a while the young man turned again, and she dared to let her eyes drop again to the part of him that held the most interest for her. She felt a blaze of heat race up from her chest to her throat and cheeks.

It was just then that it happened.

As if the boy knew she was there, hidden behind her curtain, he turned his head toward her, smiled . . . and his manhood stiffened.

“Stand still!” barked Maestro. “You are posing for these artists, not dancing. And calm yourself, young man.”

Louise covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Prin-cessss,” Maestro hissed from nearby, having slipped behind her curtain while she was distracted. His impatience came at her as a tangible wave of displeasure. She wobbled on her stool. “You must sketch before we begin with the clay. Why do you hesitate?” His eyes glittered with what she imagined was anticipation of her failure. “I can see this experience shocks you. As I tried to warn you, this is not an activity for delicate young females. If you wish to withdraw—”

“No!” Louse shook her head violently. “I am not at all shocked, sir. I simply wished to consider the best way to begin.” She picked up a powdery charcoal willow stick and held its tip an inch above the surface of the paper clipped to her easel.

“Your hand is unsteady.” Maestro's eyes narrowed. He shifted his gaze to her face.

Louise pulled in a breath, steadied herself. This was a test. The critical one. If she failed at this simple drawing exercise, became unglued and visibly shaken by the model's nakedness, her reaction would give the teacher all the excuse he needed to ban her from the class. He would claim it was for her protection, and her mother would no doubt agree with his decision.

She could not . . .
would
not . . . give him a reason for taking away the opportunity she'd fought for so very long.

Louise drew another long, slow breath, let it out, then placed the tip of the charcoal against the clean white sheet. Following the curves of the model's shoulders, the wings of his shoulder blades, inward curve of lower back, swell of his buttocks, and down muscular legs, she let her hand respond instinctively, mimicking the path of her eyes. A narrow black line appeared, firmly drawn with an unswerving hand.

An immutable statement of sensuality appeared against virgin background.

Louise felt Maestro's eyes shift from drawing to model and back again to the paper as she held her breath, awaiting his approval.

“Well enough done. Continue,” he pronounced curtly, then spun around, parted her curtain, and walked away to check his other students' work.

She let out a breath of relief, giddy at her small but decisive victory.

Now that she had begun the work, she let instinct guide the charcoal twig in her hand as she rapidly sketched the rest of the young man's body. She used his natural contours, the pale golden light from the expanse of windows high above the atelier, the deeper shadows created by body parts turned away from the sun's light—defining, perfecting her study of the male body.

Maestro again ordered the model to remain turned so that his back faced her, protecting his male organs from her fascinated gaze. She smiled. Did her teacher actually think women so weak they might be traumatized by the mere sight of genitalia that didn't belong to their husbands?
Preposterous
. This was the most exciting day of her life.