Under a Stern Reign (23 page)

She did not just browse it, as he suggested, but instead she read each of over a hundred poems again and again over the ten days or so that followed her encounter with the artist.

They were thick with allusion and metaphor and blended his own fancies and philosophies with his ideals, and his worship of a particular girl.

The girl, however, seemed to change in each poem, and on the whole actually appeared to be two wholly different females. This, Genevieve felt, seemed to correspond in some way to what he had said about light and dark.

The maids were at first shy of her as they passed her in the house, although she was in good spirits. She realised they were afraid that she would report the incident and their activities to Conde de Agora. So, one morning at breakfast, she told Ana and the other two maids clearing the dishes that she would keep the whole affair a secret. They smiled warmly and relaxed, and from then on a complicit friendliness seemed to pervade between her and the serving girls.

Frederique visited her at Conde de Agora's house three days after they first met. It was a warm morning again, and Genevieve had decided to sit among the lemon trees. He found her there reading his poems.

As on their first encounter, he was wearing a white cotton dress. They greeted each other pleasantly and with great warmth, as if they had known each other for a long time. Soon they began discussing his poetry, and as they did Genevieve looked at him quizzically for a few moments, aware that something about him was different and then realising it was his face. His moustache and beard were gone. She eyed him curiously, thinking that if it were not for the deeper tones of his voice he was almost unrecognisable from a girl.

‘But there seem to be two females, really,' Genevieve said. ‘You direct your words to two girls - a good one, who is fair, and a bad one, who is dark.'

The young artist smiled and shook his blond locks. ‘Yes and no,' he said. ‘I do see two forms of the same girl, that complement each other to make up one. However, lightness and darkness have nothing to do with good and bad.'

Genevieve frowned ironically, but the sparkle in his eyes fascinated her.

‘Light has its qualities,' he continued. ‘Warmth, gentleness, softness, passivity, and the tendency to yield, for example. But it has its detriments, too; fickleness, shallowness, lack of direction, lack of commitment.'

Genevieve continued gazing into his eyes, smiling subconsciously. So strange were the thoughts and reflections that filled the mind of this young man, who looked like a girl.

‘Darkness has its bad qualities. It's aggressive and destructive. It hates inactivity. It's mindless and cold. But at the same time, it never flickers from its purpose, direction or commitment.'

She continued smiling wistfully, listening intently to his words.

‘I'd like to paint you now,' he said coolly. ‘May I?'

She was silent for a moment, caught a little by surprise. Why would he want to paint her? ‘Perhaps,' she consented. ‘But tell me first, why do you dress as a girl?'

‘Why do you dress as a man?' he countered immediately, and Genevieve cast her eyes down over her own clothing, forgetting she was once again wearing male cast-off shirt and breeches.

‘I have no other clothes at present,' she explained. ‘I have no other choice.'

‘Well, I do,' the artist said. ‘When I was young my sisters thought I would be very pretty as a girl, so they played games dressing me as one. Gradually I began to enjoy it, and now I feel at my happiest this way. My sisters are often jealous; they say I am prettier as a girl than they are. And it helps me when I am thinking, writing and painting.'

Genevieve gazed at him again. His sisters were right. He did indeed make a fine-looking young woman.

‘Ana and the other girls,' he went on. ‘They have all agreed to come and pose for me again today. I have my easel set and some spare canvases, but I've been waiting all morning. Perhaps I could make a start on my painting of you?' He held out his slender hand.

‘All right,' Genevieve acquiesced, blushing despite being secretly excited and flattered by the idea. She closed the book and tucked it under her arm, and he took her other hand in his as they wandered through the groves and headed down the track through the woods.

It was pleasant but strange, Genevieve felt, instantly reminded of the times when she had first arrived at Count de Tranville's chateau, and how she would walk through the countryside with Elise. For a moment she lost herself in the bittersweet memory.

Frederique began humming to himself, smiling at her from time to time, and Genevieve felt that this effeminate young man was more familiar to her than any other person she knew or had known. His blond hair and features were like Emelie's, she reflected. His full lips were soft and inviting...

Eventually they came to the small clearing again, the easel standing as before, just beside of a small patch of soft leaves and the fallen trunk. The gently gurgling water shimmered with the flickering light of the midday sun, its ripples beating from the fall like a gentle melody.

Frederique led her to the patch of soft leaves. She gazed at it silently; it was there that Ana and the two maids had posed naked in their scene of seduction.

Without saying another word Genevieve placed the book of poetry on the little folding stool that was again faithfully beside the easel, and then slowly pulled off her shirt. The cool air by the water's edge made her breasts tingle, and her pulse quickened as the artist's eyes fell admiringly to her stiffening nipples. Then he actually reached out, very slowly, and touched one.

‘How beautiful,' he whispered.

Careful not to break the gathering spell, Genevieve unfastened her breeches and eased them off her hips and down her thighs, while he watched in silence and in awe. Her smooth legs felt weak as she looked again down at the patch of soft leaves, naked before him.

‘Um, how do you want me to pose?' she asked tremulously.

He took her hand. ‘You're tense,' he whispered. ‘Relax... lie down...' She sat gracefully on the leaves, which were cold and soft and instantly made her bottom chilly, the intoxicating moment making her feel faint. ‘Lie back,' he coaxed, then picked up his book of poems and dropped to his knees beside her. ‘Raise your bottom a little,' he instructed, and when she did he slipped the volume beneath her. It was warmer than the bed of leaves and she smiled her thanks for his consideration, then before she could react he closed his eyes, leant down and pressed his mouth to her moist pussy. Genevieve gasped, and with only that first tentative touch of his lips she melted in ecstasy. His tongue beat delicately over her pussy lips, bathing them in lingering strokes of adoration, and Genevieve's head lolled back, her hair sweeping the leaves and her legs falling further apart as his tongue pushed into her, exploring her soft passage. She sighed blissfully, and savoured a quiet, peaceful orgasm.

And then it was as if she was in a dream, her eyes closed for a few moments that seemed like blissful hours, and upon opening them it took her some seconds to realise where she was. There were sounds of chatter and giggles as the exquisite aftermath of her orgasm ebbed.

She looked up and immediately gasped and blushed. Four of the maids were gazing down at her, smiling, and Ana was whispering to Frederique, clearly discussing her.

‘Don't worry,' he said to Genevieve, seeing her rise and the rosy flush of her cheeks. ‘You were tense. It's not so easy to paint a tense model, so I did what I did...'

Genevieve scrambled up and grabbed her discarded clothes. It was as if what had just happened between them had not happened - or had meant nothing to him, had been prearranged for some deceitful, ulterior motive.

‘You traitor!' she hissed, hastily grappling her clothes back on.

Frederique reached for her, as though to console her like an adult might a sulking child. ‘But Gen?'

‘Don't touch me!' she warned, shucking his hand away from her shoulder as she fastened her breeches and buttoned her shirt, seeing him now as a patronising, duplicitous fraud, not the sensitive and considerate young man she had naively thought him to be.

Genevieve's eyes flickered from him to the other girls. They were smiling at her - smiling at her and laughing at her... mocking her.

In a sudden panic, her mind in a whirl, Genevieve snatched up the book of poems and dashed blindly for the overgrown path heading away from the clearing. She didn't know why she grabbed the book, but she did.

Tears fell from her eyes as she ran, the bushes catching her shirt and breeches as though trying to halt her flight. In her haste to get away from the treacherous group she had left her sandals behind, but she was oblivious to the jagged stones digging into the soles of her bare feet. A storm seemed to be breaking inside her, filling her with raging feelings she did not understand but filled her with fury and sorrow.

She was furious with Frederique. With his tender nature she had bared herself to him, and he had taken advantage to do something only an intimate lover should dare do. What kind of a man dressed and behaved as a woman, anyway?

And then her thoughts jumped to Rodolfo, and the sorrow washed over her. He had proposed marriage... nobly, patiently, and she had just betrayed him with another. How could she possibly face him again, ever, let alone accept his proposal?

She wept bitterly as she ran, tears blurring her sight of the uneven path, causing her to stumble and almost fall. Was Rodolfo not a renowned fornicator, though? Was he a man worthy of being treated fairly or of having her hand in marriage?

For some reason Emelie span into her head. Why Emelie? Was it because the gentle girl was the only true and loyal friend she had ever found? If only she could see dear Emelie just one more time. Would they ever meet again?

By the time she reached the groves she had stopped running and slowed to a staggering walk, panting heavily after the strenuous run up the long, winding, and overgrown path. She was exhausted and wanted to rest, but the desire to get back to the relative sanctuary of her room was stronger.

Perhaps she should marry Rodolfo, she argued with herself.

Perhaps his philandering ways to date were just a young man's thing, as Count de Tranville had once said.

Perhaps his feelings for her were as genuine as he claimed, and he was ready to settle down into married life.

She emerged from the undergrowth and approached the rambling house, stopping to rest on the old ruined wall and catch her breath.

Curiously, there was a coach stationed at the end of the wide path that led to the large front door. Had the count returned already? Or Rodolfo, perhaps? She quickened her pace again, heading pensively towards the vehicle.

An elderly coachman with a stern dark face sat up on the driver's bench. He looked at her keenly as she approached. Someone had been to the front doors, and was heading back to the waiting coach. It was a female with blonde hair tied up into a bun, her complexion clear and fair, walking elegantly in a pale blue dress. She had a pretty countenance, and Genevieve felt her heart pounding and then soaring. She recognised the girl, even from a distance. The clothing was unfamiliar, but there was something unmistakable about the graceful figure. It was dear Emelie!

Genevieve was about to wave and shout and break into a run, but then she noticed the other figure by the front door talking to the maid, Flavia - it was the unmistakable figure of Elise!

 

 

 

Most of the voyage back to France seemed blurry in Genevieve's recollection. From the time Elise and Emelie met her at the front of Conde de Agora's home, she seemed to have been overtaken by a surreal state. It could have been exhaustion - physical or emotional - it could have been a spell of grippe.

Most of the crew on the ship were French, it seemed. She had a comfortable enough cabin, and apart from occasional strolls around the upper deck for some fresh air, she remained there through most of the voyage.

She noticed a tall, grey-haired man onboard. He was a scowling, sinister figure, and for some reason Genevieve had the distinctly unnerving impression that he and Elise knew each other, although she couldn't put her finger on why she suspected that. She never caught them together, or even exchanging passing pleasantries, but something gnawed away at her.

He was like a phantom. On deck she constantly sensed he was lurking, watching her, but when she'd turn he would not be there, the masts and rigging creaking overhead in the sea winds. She only ever caught glimpses of him, and when she looked again he'd be gone as though never there in the first place.

 

News of Genevieve's departure was not announced or observed speedily at Conde de Agora's home. Rodolfo did not return until the following evening, troubled and ill at ease after the festivities in Lisbon.

He had been delighted to meet his old friends and to revel with them, the street processions so vivid and colourful. But at one point, when his friends suggested they seek out the company of some girls of easy pleasure, his mood changed.

So many girls had passed through his relatively young life, he reflected. So many had brought him pleasure, and enjoyed great pleasure in return. But the betrayals were mounting too; Claudine and Juliette, who only viewed him as a way to an easy life, and then Elise, and now it seemed Genevieve had let him down too. Her rejection of his proposal of marriage was the unkindest cut of all. It had dulled his appetite for female company. And after he risked all to ensure her well-being and safety.