Under a Stern Reign (22 page)

Fortunately Ana was not serving at breakfast, so Genevieve was relieved to not have to face her. Only one girl was in attendance, one she had not seen before, a fresh-faced girl with blue-black her and dark eyes. Silently and with a shy smile she served and cleared Genevieve's breakfast, and none of the others were to be seen.

Afterwards Genevieve wondered what to do. She had spent the previous day alone in the house, and so she wanted to go out for a walk. It was a bright, cloudless day and the warmth and solitude were already beginning to soothe her.

The clothes she wore were a strange mixture of items pulled together from around the house and placed in her wardrobe, and because the household had lacked a mistress for so many years, few of them were actually for a woman. So that morning Genevieve wore a tight pair of boy's breeches that must have belonged to Rodolfo or one of his brothers when they were much younger, and a white shirt that also clearly once belonged to a young man. She had to roll up the cuffs to uncover her hands.

Although unusual for a beautiful girl from good stock to wear, the outfit made her feel comfortable and strangely excited. Her hair was washed and smelled fresh, and shone lustrously that morning when she stepped out into the bright Portuguese sunshine, adding exuberance to her rosy cheeks at a time when she was feeling less than secure. She was a combination of flattering contradictions, her fresh face and appearance so feminine and so at odds with her clothes that she seemed more enigmatically alluring than ever.

Wearing a pair of cork-soled sandals she decided it was time for her to venture out and explore the verdant valley that spread before her bedroom window. So her wandering started at the old wall where Rodolfo had been exercising his horse. It seemed to be built of a different stone to the rest of the house, and looked as if it might have been far older.

From there she spotted a footpath winding downwards towards a series of groves, from where a strong fresh scent drifted upward. It was eucalyptus, an odour that was as new to her as it was enchanting, and she walked through a patch of the eucalyptus trees as if in a languid trance.

From there her senses were further filled with new smells as she wandered through lemon trees, heading downwards sharply until she reached the start of rich leafy woods.

It seemed intimidating to her at first, despite its vivid green beauty. But with little reason to yet return to the house she continued through softly shaded foliage, gradually becoming darker as she strolled deeper into the woods. Now the sunlight only flickered through crossed branches and fell in moving shafts on thick red trunks.

She stopped by one large tree for a moment, in awe of a creature she saw staring down at her. It was a tiny snakelike thing with beady, roving eyes, and as soon as she stepped closer it scurried off on four legs.

The undergrowth bristled with life. Birds seemed to twitter from every branch, and the downward descent continued with the same steepness. Occasionally she would come to a clearing from which she could still view the other hills around her, sand-coloured rocks and peaks.

After another ten minutes or so she heard the distinct murmur of water and immediately thought of the river Rodolfo had mentioned. She wanted to reach it, that would be her goal for the day, she told herself, realising that the upward return would not be as easy going as her journey so far.

But as she continued her descent the ground levelled out, and soon she came to a break in the woods and faced a wall of bushes. The water could still be heard and she wanted to press on, and was relieved when she saw that the path continued very narrowly through a break in the bushes to her right. She made her way excitedly through the gap and after a few minutes she was suddenly delighted to see the glistening light of water, flashing downwards from a rocky waterfall some four metres above ground level.

She headed towards it, still on the overgrown path, and then a sight suddenly caught her by surprise and held her in her tracks.

Not far from the water's edge there was a fallen tree, and on it sat a few figures. They had their backs to her and were observing something, chatting and giggling, and Genevieve realised they were some of Conde de Agora's maids.

She recognised Flavia and Fulvia first, sitting side by side. Next to them was the girl who had served her breakfast that morning, and beside her was a girl Genevieve recognised but whose name she didn't know.

Just in front of them Genevieve spotted another figure, a slender blonde girl standing before an easel upon which was a canvas. Although she was of slim build she had quite broad shoulders, and she wore a flowing white cotton dress. She held a brush in one hand and her face flitted intensely from the canvas to whatever scene was taking place in front of the sitting maids, out of Genevieve's view.

However, as Genevieve looked at the girl's face she gasped and her hand rose to her mouth in shock, her eyes widening, for she could not help but notice the wispy moustache and small beard on her chin. The girl was not actually a girl after all! Or if she was, she was some kind of a freak!

Despite her initial revulsion Genevieve could not suppress her curiosity, and she carefully edged closer to the surreal scene, her eyes on the freaky artist. He was about the same age as her, she guessed, not much taller, very slightly built and now noticeably effeminate, although the moustache and beard were in truth no more than sparse and wispy bristles.

His blond hair was curly and long, and his chiselled face was stern with concentration. He was quite beautiful after all, Genevieve reflected, amazed that now the initial shock had passed she could actually find him attractive instead of being utterly repelled by the sight of him.

Beside him was a folding stool, upon which he had set his paints and an open book. By now she was mere yards from the small, idyllic clearing, concealed by the thick undergrowth and stepping as lightly as possible, but still she could not see what it was the maids were observing and the artist depicting.

Engrossed by the scene before her she carefully crept another few paces forward, but a dry branch snapped underfoot. The maids looked around, and spotting her immediately they jumped up and raised the alarm. The artist stopped painting and looked too, and as they all moved the scene in front of them became visible to Genevieve for the first time.

It was Ana and two other maids. They lay naked, as still as statues, the more slender two with their limbs entwined around the busty girl in an amorous pose of seduction.

One girl held Ana around the shoulders while cupping one of her breasts, her lips by her ear as if whispering something to her. The other held Ana around the waist and dangled grapes before her mouth.

They were the last to notice Genevieve, and on doing so instantly dropped their pose and became agitated. Vexation immediately crossed the artist's face and the maids were fretting, anxious to escape the scene.

‘That will be all for today, girls,' the artist said brusquely to his naked models, clearly annoyed at having his scene disturbed. ‘I'm nearly done anyway, so you may dress now.'

Ana and the two other naked maids stood up, looking from Genevieve to the artist before hurriedly taking their clothes from next to the trunk upon which the other maids had sat. He took some money from his purse and distributed it to the three, but the irritation on his face soon faded, seemingly transfixed by the sight of Genevieve. She stepped to one side to let the jittery maids file past her and back up the path leading homeward.

He was looking intensely at her, so she returned his stare for a few moments before starting to turn. ‘Wait,' he blurted, immediately starting towards her. ‘You can't simply leave after the interruption you've caused.'

‘I did not mean to interrupt anything,' Genevieve responded curtly. ‘I was simply taking a walk and some fresh air.'

The artist fell silent, his eyes fixed on her, blatantly taking in her beauty without shame. She studied him in return, deciding he was vulnerable and sensitive.

‘You were spying on me,' he accused her.

‘I was not,' she refuted.

There was a tenseness between them, and then he laughed and approached her. ‘My name is Frederique de Vaudville,' he told her, and bowed graciously.

‘Genevieve de Montvert,' she replied, instinctively starting to curtsey but remembering she was wearing breeches.

‘Genevieve de Montvert,' he repeated. ‘The name sounds familiar. You're French... what are you doing here?'

She briefly explained her flight from her country and her stay at Conde de Agora's residence, although the mention of the man clearly made Frederique edgy.

‘Please,' he said, ‘I'm an artist, and often, unfortunately, there are elements of art that confuse and disturb others - nudity, for example. But at my present home there is a lack of female form and beauty. Our maids, sadly, are not appropriate for modelling, but the good Conde de Agora's maids are, and they seemed to have spare time and energy, and are keen to earn a little extra money. Conde de Agora is our neighbour, a wise and good man, but if he knew of this I fear...'

‘Don't worry.' Genevieve tried to reassure him. ‘It is not any of my business, so your secret arrangement is safe with me.'

His demeanour brightened instantly, and he began gazing at her intensely again. ‘Would you like to take a look at my painting?' he asked. ‘It isn't complete, but...'

Genevieve nodded, smiled, and approached the canvas. The three girls had been painted with such a free depiction that they looked like a very different threesome, she immediately thought. She gazed at it in silence, and Frederique studied her. She did not know what to say.

‘Naturally I find the female subject extremely appealing,' he said. ‘But my real interest is light and dark.'

Genevieve looked at him, a little unsure of his meaning.

‘It's been a lifelong fascination of mine,' he continued. ‘As a boy I would often stare at burning candles in my darkened bedroom. In my fancy I imagined a battle being waged between the light and the dark. The light was seeking to penetrate the darkness, to spread from the candle and banish the darkness and shadows from my room.'

He was looking intently at his unfinished work. ‘Darkness, meanwhile, would be attacking the light back, seeking to enshroud it, to smother it, to snuff it out.'

Genevieve pondered him. Why, she wondered, was he wearing a dress?

‘I've been trying to blend these ideas with females and female sexuality,' he went on, not noticing the scrutiny he was under. ‘Opposites waging war, but opposites always being drawn together.'

‘And the third component?' Genevieve asked, indicating Ana.

‘That,' he said, ‘is again a fancy. I would imagine a thin, intangible area between darkness and light, and that's what she is. It's a fertile, fragile area from which pleasure and life grow.'

Genevieve was looking at him with deep interest as he contemplated his own painting. She remained silent, and could feel her heart beating and her hands trembling; he was perversely appealing, despite his strange appearance.

‘I - I should be heading back,' she said quickly, gathering her wits and turning away.

‘You know...' the artist went on, ‘I wept bitterly when we had to leave our home in Savoy because of the revolution. The mountains and lakes there filled me with so many wonderful dreams, and one constant dream I always had was of a... a particular girl. I never really paid attention to any other females around me. Instead I dreamed of her. I wanted to share my soul with her. I wrote poems to her, poems that only she would understand. I painted pictures which I wanted only her to see.'

Genevieve looked at the painting again.

‘I've spent my life waiting for that girl,' he continued, his dulcet tones relaxing in the peaceful surroundings. ‘And something tells me I've not been waiting in vain, and that my waiting may have come to an end.'

‘Then you're very fortunate,' Genevieve said. ‘And now I really must go.'

‘Wait,' he said hastily. ‘Please, take this.' He stooped and picked up the book from the low stool. It was his poetry. ‘I'd be honoured if you would browse the works of my heart.'

She smiled uncertainly, but took the heavy volume.

‘I'll come and collect it, one day,' he said, smiling happily, looking almost relieved. ‘What an enchanting model you would make,' he added suddenly. ‘All the others I've painted would look pale in comparison.' She blushed at his compliment. ‘It's as if I have found the light, the light side of passion. Perhaps you might let me paint you, one day?'

Genevieve blushed. ‘With, or without clothes?'

‘With or without... your beauty would radiate whatever. If modesty rules you, then with, naturally. But if art is to triumph, I would prefer to depict your beauty unsheathed.'

‘I really must be going,' Genevieve said, after a pause to consider the sincerity of his accolades. ‘Good day to you, sir.'

He bowed theatrically and held the pose, watching her from his stooped position as she turned and headed back up the path through the bushes.

 

If it had been Frederique's motive to immerse Genevieve in deep ponderings and reflection, he succeeded when he gave her his book of poetry. It was certainly heavy going.