The Artist's Muse

"Now Roland, you will pose for me in the garden won't you?" she said sweetly.

"Absolutely not," he said and then rolled away from her. Hunching his shoulders, he turned away from her. Although they had just given each other pleasure, she felt she had run into a wall between them that eclipsed her from his true feelings. Letitia heard Roland breathe out with a heavy sigh and then he placed his hands on her neck for a brief moment and then was gone. Letitia turned to look at his retreating figure, but he had already left.

"Indeed," she said, her mouth setting in a firm line. She was determined to paint his portrait, no matter the cost to his pride. She applauded herself for having done all those sketches of Roland when he was in a catatonic state. She had the material to begin her portrait.

Chapter Six

Wandering through the long mirrored hallways of Chateau Bertrand, Letitia daydreamed about how her portrait of Roland would appear on the walls of the French Academy's Salon. In her mind's eye she saw her painting of his face surrounded by works of all the other great masters. The critics' voices sounded in her head of her previous failed attempts, they had labeled her work "banal" and "not fully developed." The more she ruminated on these voices, the more she became enflamed to prove them wrong. As she gazed at the highly realistic portraits of former Bertrands, she couldn't help but notice the stiff poses and unnatural gazes of the subjects. She had to admit though that the brushwork was tight and beautifully done, if you appreciated that realistic genre. She was determined though to paint in a way that evoked emotion rather than purely a realistic image before her.

Admiring a bucolic landscape painting at the end of the room above the fireplace, Letitia leaned against the wall to rest her mind, while her eyes took in the serene landscape.

Suddenly, the fireplace revolved and revealed a secret passageway. There were a large number of cobwebs that Letitia tried to duck and avoid so she wouldn't get them on her grey debutante wig that she had purchased recently. Holding a candle in her hand the dark gloominess of the passage was almost overwhelming, however, she kept walking. Rounding a bend in the tunnel, Letitia came out into a round room, which had long black drapery on the walls, as if trying to keep out the light. Inches of dust seemed to have piled on the floor and the furniture. A large cabinet stood in the far area of the room and drew her eyes. Peering closer, she could see there were various specimens, precious artifacts from someone's journeys abroad.

A dark roughhewn wooden mask of a man, stood up right next to a finely carved ivory couple that were tupping without restraint. When she pulled the lovers apart they were individual sculptures; judging from their tangled limbs and Asian features, she guessed that this traveler had been to the Far East. She ran her finger over the woman's rotund thighs. The ivory was cool beneath her touch. There was an unclothed statue of Venus too, and an assortment of illuminated manuscripts with images of Eastern couples indulging their passions without restraint. Although Letitia was not inexperienced in the matters pertaining to love, she felt herself blush at the new amorous discoveries she was making. In another area of the room she noticed a large assortment of weaponry: guns, muskets and shot. This must be the collection of Roland she thought.

An array of dried butterfly wings, struggled to flutter before her, their wings pinned down. There were the fiery orange and reds of the monarch butterfly and the silken velvet of a common moth. Green, black and sapphire sparkled on the tip of a peacock's feather winking at her. An assortment of glass jars with exotic-looking spices beckoned. She opened the first jar and recognized the rich, spicy scent of cloves. The ends of grass on another mask reminded Letitia of Haitian rituals and fantastical beasts, stories her mother had told her when she was a child. She stroked her finger along the fine raffia, the sandy gold colours shimmered in the dusky room.

Looking above, an assortment of finely bound leather books stood like sentinels on guard. Out of the corner of her eye, the candle light flickered onto the painting of a man and a woman. Letitia felt drawn to the couple. She gazed first at the face of a dark-skinned woman. Her grey wig was puffed and elegant, her lips were upturned as if she was holding a secret. Her dark eyes sparkled. She wore a yellow damask gown that revealed a curvaceous bountiful figure. She placed her arm daintily on the strong limbs of a man wearing a long red jacket with gold buttons. His tanned skin and high cheekbones radiated health. His eyes were a sharp blue colour. His lips were sensuous and full. His cravat was starched and white; he wore a blue silk waistcoat and gold watch that sparkled in the daylight of the painting. Dark grey tights revealed his muscular calves. Both man and woman looked askance as if they were drawn to some momentous event. The longer she gazed at the portrait, the more she felt sure that this was indeed a portrait of Roland and his wife. How come he had never mentioned her?

Over the next day, Letitia set up her studio in this round room, stopping only to take her meals in the garden. She felt that her portrait was safe here, away from the prying eyes of servants and the owner of the house. She painted Roland's portrait, creating layer upon layer of oil paint, detailing the smoothness of his cheeks, his dark silky curls and his vivid blue eyes. Without holding back, she whipped the paint onto the canvas with loose strokes. She used a large brush for his shoulders, remembering how he had traced over her skin with his long capable fingers. With a smaller brush she worked in the details of his face; the scar that ran on the right side of his face from his eye to his lip. This scar to her was a defining feature for his unique beauty, it created asymmetry in his profile, a quality that she was always drawn to in a subject.

It was late into the night when Roland returned from the café. Wandering through the hall of mirrors, he felt that he should see the portrait of his wife once more. The light in the tunnel alerted him that someone was working there.

Letitia was standing next to her easel, her dark creamy bosom appealing to his darkest desires. Breaking his eyes from her luscious curves, he was struck by the painting in front of him.

"How could you paint me like this?" he said with a sneer, barely taking a glance at the painting.

"Roland, good to see you as well," she said, a little taken back by his tone. She could smell Absinthe on his body.

"Answer me dammit! I want you out of here! Get away from my dead wife! " His chest heaving, Roland paced the room.

"Out of here you artiste!"

"I know when I'm not wanted. Fine then! I'm going to Baron La Brue's mansion, he's a patron that appreciates artists! And he will pay me decently!" Letitia said in a loud cry and grabbing the portrait of him, she sped from the round room.

Gathering her things in her carpet bag, she fled Chateau Bertrand in the middle of the night, the rain pelting down on her carriage when she left. She had nearly completed her masterpiece and Roland's reaction was exactly the kind of strong emotions she intended to arouse in the critics as well, except she hoped they would appreciate the risks she was taking in developing a new, more immediate style.

Although her heart was hammering, she had a feeling that she had struck a heart chord and she wanted to keep it that way! Roland had nearly destroyed her portrait, her best work yet, and she had no intention of letting him stall her from becoming the best artist she could.

Chapter Seven

Stepping out of his carriage, and walking along the Seine, Roland gazed into its murky waters. His heart quickened a little at the thought that he would see some new art works at the Louvre Museum, which was thankfully open once again after the Reign of Terror. It was now intended as a museum for the people, and Roland was taking full advantage of the opportunity. He wanted to gain some perspective on why he had acted so forcefully towards Letitia, kicking her out of his chateau. Visions of her lips on his neck and abdomen, the exquisite feel of his length within her, haunted his every waking thought.

Looking up at the neoclassical façade of curvaceous nymphs, goddesses and muses, he was reminded of her curves. Their swaddling tunics revealed their bountiful breasts, and full hips. His body seemed to tighten as he remembered the way Letitia responded to his touch, raking her fingers along his thighs, turning him into a passionate rake. It had been five long years since he had shared intimacy with a woman. The death of his wife was almost the death of him, so deep was his mourning. Yet, Letitia seemed to bring him out of the dismal life he was leading, of heavy drinking and lonely nights in the cold. He smirked a little to himself as he walked through the corridor heading to the new paintings wing.

He spent some time looking at luscious landscapes of Haiti, his eyes enjoying the sensational colors on the canvases. Of course there were some blasé landscapes by up and coming artists, Roland quickly perused through some of them until his eye caught on a newly framed portrait. Gazing at the expressive brushstrokes, the long shadows on the face, the full lips that held a promise of love, he realized it was a portrait of himself! Letitia must have submitted it to the Paris Salon the moment she had left him at his chateau. His heart raced as he recognized this abstracted realist painting -- the colours were garish, but they were innovative -- she had used blue and purple tones to bring out his eyes and the fullness of his nose and mouth. His eyes widened and he felt his mouth drop open in complete bewilderment. It was a risk taking work -- the most innovative portrait he had seen in a long time. The immediacy of his gaze was brought out through Letitia's skillful hand.

As he caught his own eyes in the painting, he felt an uncanny feeling that Letitia knew him better than he knew himself. Her love, her passion and acceptance of him had changed him somehow. The darkness that had filled him had been replaced with a new fire. She had painted a three-quarter profile that rather than casting his scar in shadow, revealed it. He breathed out a long sigh -- she clearly understood his needs, battles and struggles.

Taking another long look at the portrait, he then raced out of the salon and headed straight for Baron La Brue's mansion.

Chapter 8

In her 10 years living in the city, Letitia had never seen the torrential downpours like she did that week after she left Chateau Bertrand. She was working on her next portrait for Baron La Brue who wanted a full length painting of himself, alongside the huntress Diana. Like Roland, La Brue had also served in the military, although judging from his large stomach and penchant for smoking opium, Letitia guessed that he had completed mostly "administrative" rather than soldierly duties. Nevertheless, La Brue was a change, if somewhat lackluster, compared to the passion-filled days that Letitia had spent with Roland. Pressing large brushstrokes onto the canvas, Letitia couldn't help but imagine the way Roland use to provide her with harsh criticism and then long kisses. She felt herself missing him but she didn't want to admit it. She needed to create.

The sharp quick footsteps of someone in the hallway alerted Letitia to a visitor.

La Brue noticing someone said, "Blast, I wasn't expecting any visitors!" with a huff, he took off his Grecian robe and hurried on his smoking jacket.

Without stopping to introduce himself, Roland pushed his way past the waiting servants and proceeded into the library where Letitia was painting. His hair was soaking wet, his coat tails were dripping and his sharp blue eyes burned with a fiery intensity. She couldn't smell any liquor on his breath. She wanted to run her arms around his neck, draw him into her.

"I believe you owe me an explanation Letitia!" he said in a deep voice, commanding and drawing all her attention.

"I'm sure that you owe me one!" replied Letitia in a voice that matched his.

"I feel I must be interrupting something," peeped in Baron La Brue.

"Please forgive the intrusion Monsieur La Brue," said Roland flashing the Baron a quick nod of the head.

"Quite, all right, all right, Monsieur, just don't keep my artist for too long now," he said, and then whistling to his Great Dane he left the room as quick as his stubby legs could carry him, shutting the door behind him.

Roland caught Letitia's gaze and his body felt flooded with yearning and desire, but he reigned himself in to say, "I was walking through the Salon this morning and who do I come across, but a painting of myself! Loose brushwork, intensely felt. You placed my," he paused, overcome with emotion.

"Yes I did because that is one of the defining marks about you, a beautiful feature of your profile," she said, not backing down.

"I mean I felt, when I looked at my portrait, I felt that you knew about me. About all my deepest secrets. And that's when I came here," he said, crossing the room as he did so. He noticed her eyes were as bright as ever, her complexion clear and smooth. She was wearing a yellow dress that crossed in the front that reminded him of the Haitian goddess of amour.

"It was one of the most moving portraits I've ever seen in all my years of walking through the Salons," Roland said, now only an arm's length from her.

"I'm so glad to hear it Roland," she said, her resolve not to touch him crumbling away. Roland saw a few tears stream down her cocoa skin; he wanted to brush them away. "I don't think I've ever painted someone as truly as I've painted you," she whispered.

"You captured me Letitia, and that is what," he paused again, his voice quivering and then he cleared his throat, "that is what makes you such a talented painter, whose works now grace the Academy walls. I'm sorry for how I acted and how I hurt you." Reaching out his arms, he invited her into them. She looked into his eyes, and she saw everything she needed, his humility and love. She stepped into his arms and they held each other, closer than they had ever been.

After a few tender moments, Roland said, "Ma Chérie, I do believe, you still owe me a portrait for my collection." He stroked her face with his fingertip, the sensation sending warm energy through his body.

"And you owe me a proper sitting," she said raising a delicate eyebrow.

Picking up a clean paintbrush, he twirled it in his fingers and then graced it over her skin, pressing lightly and making loose spiral traces on her neck, "I'm sure that can be arranged," he said and then added, "and I wouldn't mind posing either."

"You're my muse, aren't you," she said, and placed her lips on his.

FIN