A Victorian Virgin? Ch. 06

Author's notes: I have had to submit this piece in a hurry as I don't want the plot summary to be read. So it's incomplete.

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Artist, photographer and pornographer, Archie Tennyson, frowned slightly. He nervously brushed his hand through his foppish blonde hair. Rachel Hobson, his dear, raven-haired model, stood before him, also frowning. Her dark expression was reminiscent of her Morgan le Fay series, brooding yet seductive. Her arms were firmly folded over her black maid's uniform. He failed to understand what he had done wrong. Rachel was the best model he had photographed since he lost Mary. Beneath the heavily starched fabric, her body was smooth like polished marble, as lustily curved as Venus herself. Archie had thought his artistic nature had left with his lover, but Rachel's presence had reignited the fiery, passionate flames of creation. He felt the urge to paint scratching his mind, desperate to escape and capture her upon canvas. A painting would leave a warm, glowing impression in a way a photograph never could.

"Please Rachel," Archie begged the pale beauty. "You're so beautiful, so lovely, the gentleman love your pictures. I want to paint you. Please come back to me. I'll up your cut to twenty percent. Come by the studio after you finish working here. I'll put on a nice tea and we can discuss this matter properly. Please, my dear." His overly wide smile and twinkling brown eyes promised his model more than a simple meal. The evening would end with her naked in his bed, but how he would make love to her was another issue entirely. Archie considered the tracing of a beautiful form onto paper, filling in the depths and shadows of her neck, her breasts and thighs, to be a form of making love, as if his pastel was his hand upon her delicate flesh.

The frowning beauty placed her hands on her black-clad hips. "I'm sorry, I really am, but I cannot do it anymore." Rachel was sorry. While her extra earnings had purchased her many luxury items, she would miss her employer more.

Archie was one of the few men who had treated her with the respect and dignity a richer woman would enjoy on a daily basis. He had constantly praised her body, sometimes kissing each part as he told her so. Archie had dressed her in transparent silks, ropes of pearls, roses and leaves, always careful to show her form in a beautiful, artistic manner, her pubis nearly always covered. Rachel had been Archie's Morgan le Fay, his Artemis and Ophelia. They had had fun together, she smiling for the lens, he beneath the cape of the camera, capturing her beauty forever on card. To top that all off, he wanted to paint her. Archie hadn't painted since he lost Mary; it was a great honour that he offered her the position as model. And Rachel had to turn him down.

Archie caught the maid's shoulders, pinning her to the wall as he studied her face. A white, anaemic skin enshrouded her feline-like bone structure. Her eyes were large, dark and expressive, a feature commented on by many who saw Archie's portfolio. She had a layer of thick eyelashes brimming her eyes. Her hair was long, black and wavy.

The blank slate of Rachel's pale skin and darkly defined features, was a good starting point for Archie's pornographic representations of a range of emotive characters. Seductresses like Morgan le Fay, Cleopatra and Medea, innocent beauties like Susannah, Iphigenia and various maidens tied to trees awaiting a chivalrous knight. Rachel's photographs always sold well.

"I don't understand why you cannot pose for me anymore. Why have you been avoiding me?" Archie asked. Rachel had recently left her lodgings without leaving a forwarding address. It had taken him a long time to discover the meeting house where she worked as a maid. "Are they whoring you here?"

Rachel was no prude. She laughed at his suggestion. "No. I just- cannot do it anymore... I'm engaged to be married, Archie. I cannot have my husband being humiliated and ridiculed because of them dirty pictures." Rachel smiled at her employer for a brief second, before lowering her eyes to disguise the tears. Archie had been very clear when she started to work for him that there was no hope of marriage. His heart belonged with Mary.

"Oh," Archie said. He instinctively knew not to push for any details. It would only make their parting moments more uncomfortable for them both. "I can understand your situation. Of course you do not want such smut circulating. I promise you, I shall not sell any more of your pictures," he lied. "And well, good luck for the future. I hope that you are happy."

Numbly, Rachel felt the kiss on her forehead. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she was alone. Her back leant against the dark-panelled wall of a servant's hallway in the bowels of the meeting-house where she worked.

Archie had moved so quickly that he soon found himself lost. He would be faced by Rachel Hobson if he turned back, so he pressed forward, finally finding a wooden flight of stairs. He climbed up, two at a time, and emerged in an empty room. The walls were papered with deep, burgundy toned paper. There was a long, rich velvet drape in the same colour, covering some sort of doorway. He pushed through and emerged behind the desk in the entrance hall of the meeting house. For an instant, everything blurred and it was as if he and she were the only people in the room. Mary was as lovely as he remembered her.

Her hair was a lovely golden colour, glistening beneath the gas-lamps. It tumbled loosely down her back in natural ringlets, drawn elaborately up at the top by, he didn't doubt, ornate combs. Fashion dictated that this style was only worn by unmarried women. The silk dress she wore was a vivid green colour, striped with very thin black lines that attempted to mute its beauty. It was a colour that only she seemed able to suit, as a perfect complement to her hair and creamy skin. The neckline dipped low, displaying a brief hint of cleavage, but not so much as to be immodest. The dress would be perfectly acceptable at an upper-class tea party. As Archie watched her, he began to realise that it was not Mary before him. Mary was gone. It was another woman arguing with the fat woman in charge of the books. The resemblance of the woman to Mary was uncanny at first sight, but as Archie observed her, he noticed some obvious differences.

The woman's face rose to scrutinise Archie. He had never seen eyes that colour; they were a clear, slightly blue-toned grass green, as vivid as her dress. He was somewhat reminded of bohemian absinthe, an agreeable strain of the drink he had encountered in his travels of the region. The long lashes that decorated her brilliant eyes were the antithesis of her hair colour, black as night. They emphasised her beauty and drew his eye in to sample more. Above, thin, arched eyebrows mirrored the slightly angled curves of her eyes. Her cheekbones were perfectly padded; not fat, but not gaunt either. A dusting of red along their ridge enticed his sight down to her full, cupid's bow lips. They were an amazingly pure red colour, full and unwrinkled. She looked three-and-twenty if she was lucky. One year younger than Mary would be.

Arabella winked at the young man gawking at her from behind the counter. He had a thin frame, yet wasn't particularly feeble-looking. His dark suit was cut in the season's fashion, an indication that he had money at his disposal and he was not merely a servant of the establishment. His blonde hair was too long by most standards, but framed his face perfectly. It was a nice, deep colour, not faded like the hair of her husband, Peter Hawke. The young man's features were strong and angular, yet somehow boyish. She supposed that was due to the lack of facial hair upon his face. The absence of a moustache, beard or side-whiskers made him appear almost naked; she was accustomed to seeing hair on men's faces. The boy, she decided, had expressive, pink-toned lips, his mouth wide and friendly. His brown eyes returned her wink, but she was too angry to flirt. She turned her attention back to the ugly, pasty-faced hostess, Susannah Price; a woman who was trying her utmost to be difficult.

"I do not know why you cannot put the room's rental on the good doctor's account, as you normally do," Arabella snapped. As she spoke, the man slowly inched himself out from behind the desk, trying not to alert Susannah of his presence. Lord knows where he had sprung from.

Usually, the customer was always right, in Susannah's books, but not this prickly bitch. She had seen this one, some poor cuckold's slut, at her establishment with at least three other men besides Edward Hawke. Despite her golden hair, perfect figure and youthful face, bountiful experience in her expression matured her customer to at least thirty years of age. She looked as though she was accustomed to getting her own way. Not today, Susannah thought, smiling inwardly. "But Edward is not accompanying you, my dear," she said, gently, even though she wanted to snap back. "I cannot, in good faith, place your use of the room on his account. How do I know that it was he you were waiting for?"

"Well, he must have arranged the room-"

"The first I heard about it was when you arrived here, unscheduled, looking for a room. Therefore, it is you that is responsible for payment," Susannah replied.

Archie lingered, watching the two argue. He had to speak to the woman; her resemblance to Mary was uncanny. He stepped in when the hostess started to push the woman to leave an item of jewellery as she had no money. "Excuse me, could I be of any assistance?"

Susannah had an odd look upon her face as she tried to determine where Archie had come from. Arabella, on the other hand, glared. "No, you most certainly cannot." She did not need to be indebted to anybody. "Here," she told Susannah as she plucked her earrings from her ears. "These are good quality gold and the little stones are diamonds. Keep them, I shall not return." They were an ostentatious gift from Peter; she'd never liked them. Whenever she wore them she was reminded of his bland face and pawing hands. She always got a thrill from wearing them with his brother, Ned, seemingly mocking Peter's pathetic performance by showing him how a real man treated her.

Arabella turned on her heels and rushed to pick up her coat and hat from the elegantly liveried doorman. Today's experience had been a humiliation and she did not take humiliation lightly. Ned was definitely going to pay, she just did not know whether she'd turn the emotional blackmail up, or tie him down and whip him. She preferred the latter idea as it would bring to the surface all the old wounds associated with his father's beatings. After an episode like that, he would be even more frightened of her. He would not try and stray again.

The meeting-house was located in a well-to-do area. As Arabella leisurely walked down the street, the heels of her tiny boots making a clip-clop sound, she passed well-dressed men and women on their way to and from various coffee and teahouses. She let her eyes lazily admire the bulges in various men's trousers and inwardly mocked the vapid women at their sides. Women who had been told all their lives that they were not allowed to enjoy sex, who just lay there and took it. How their husbands secretly hated them, lusting after a more experienced woman such as herself. Still, no-one would wish to change places with Peter and take Arabella as a wife. Men wanted wives that knew nothing, who were frightened of the idea of sex and therefore would not stray.

It was a gray day, but at least it was not raining. Snippets of conversation wafted through her ears as she searched for a hansom cab to take herself home.

"Excuse me, miss! Miss!" Arabella heard the sound of running feet and knew before she turned who it was.

"What?" she snapped. "I haven't got time to bother with the likes of you."

Archie Tennyson grabbed her gloved hand as she turned away. "I've got your earrings. I settled your bill." Another puppy, she thought. Should she rein this one in on a leash or throw a bone and send it away?

"Why would you do a silly thing like that?" Arabella had to admit that he did have a nice face. Up close though, she realised she had misjudged his age. She observed permanent creases in his forehead and beside his eyes. "You don't even know me."

Archie smiled as he saw the severe set on her face lighten. "Well, we could change that if you would like to join me for luncheon." Her hat was hardly more than a bunch of lace and silk. It barely covered her head and hair. He bravely brushed a golden tendril off her face. It had a lovely, silky texture and he could not help but run his hands down the entire length. He knew that anybody who walked past would be scandalised by his behaviour toward this unwed girl, but he did not care. His work defied convention everyday.

"Oh, is that the time," Arabella said. She pulled away from him. "I really should go."

He snatched her silk-encased elbow as she started to walk away and laced it in his. He was much stronger than he appeared and seemed to propel her forward along the footpath so quickly that she had to lengthen her stride. "Now listen to me," Archie told her, forcefully. "I've just paid top money to settle your debts. The least you could do is join me for lunch."

The photographer's words did not frighten Arabella. If anything, they aroused her and determined her decision regarding the man. However, she would not let him know that yet. She could never appear too easy. "If you don't let go of me, I'll scream."

Always the gentleman, Archie let her go. "Alright," he said. "Go home."

Arabella had other ideas. She had two days of freedom before Peter got back. The boy would do. Ned would have to wait.