The Wild Princess

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.

Louise couldn’t wait to get home to tell Bea and Lenchen.