Page 50 of A Much Maligned Miss

“Well, no he never actually said that,” Caroline reiterated scrupulously. “Though someone did once tell me I looked rather like a maenad.”

That caught the artist’s attention. “A maenad, eh?” He gave her another grudging appraisal. “And just what were you doing to prompt such a remark?”

“I had been sleeping under a tree, so my hair was untidy and full of leaves. And then I made him dance with me out of doors.”

“Indeed?” He looked more intrigued than shocked by such behavior. Effie started to speak but he held up his hand. “No! Let me think.” She widened her eyes and sent a mystified look at Caroline, who shrugged by way of reply.

“A maenad with her leopard attendants…” he rumbled after a moment’s contemplation. “That could work.” He gave a decisive nod. “Let me set up my easel.” He looked about wildly. “Where am I supposed to work in this accursed place?” he roared.

“Wherever you like,” Effie hastened to assure him. “What about over ’ere behind these screens if you want a bit of privacy, or there’s the billiard room? You tell me, luv.”

“Show me!” Mr. Bailey ordered abruptly. “Lead the way! I need light. I need air. I need atmosphere!” Caroline remained where she was, fussing with the cats, as Effie led the artist around the first floor.

“No!” Caroline heard him boom as he viewed the booths. “Absolutely not!” he yelled again from somewhere else in the distance. Their footsteps retreated in the direction of the billiard room. It was some moments until she heard his upraised tones again.

“Dreadful. Execrable! Take me back. We will have to set up an area over by those gaudy screens. There’s nothing else for it.”

“You’re bleedin’ welcome,” Effie muttered under her breath as she led their way back into the saloon area. She rolled her eyes at Caroline. “’Elp me drape these sheets for ’im, will you, sweetheart?”

Caroline set down the cats and made haste to help Effie hang the sheets over one of the screens for a plain backdrop while Mr. Bailey set up his easel. “Do not let the beasts escape,” he intoned grandly.

“They won’t roam far,” Caroline assured him.

“She needs a chair,” the artist responded. “And a toga.”

“A toga?” Caroline and Effie echoed in unison.

“I don’t know about that,” Caroline continued nervously, for surely that would require the removal of her undergarments. Bell-shaped petticoats would hardly be conducive to the correct shape and as for a corset…

“You can use one of my sheets,” the artist said, picking one up and throwing it to Effie. She caught it and then looked hopelessly at Caroline. It was clear she had no idea what a toga even was.

“I’m afraid that neither Effie nor I have any experience of tying togas,” Caroline pointed out.

“I can tie it!” the artist said irritably. “Just please go and undress!”

Caroline beheld him speechlessly, then turned to Effie. “Sorry about this, luv,” the other whispered to her. “I was ’oping as my friend would sit for ’im, but she’s gorn and left me properly in the lurch!” She gave Caroline a shrewd look. “Are you thinkin’ ’is lordship will cut up rough about you undressin’ for another gent?”

Caroline swallowed. Was that what was she was worried about? Not really, for Gervaise had a decidedly worldly wise air about him. He probably would not bat an eyelid. No, it was her own sense of propriety that was the issue here. She took a deep breath in, then breathed it out again slowly. “Not at all,” she stated with dignity. “I was just wondering where I might—er—divest myself of my garments.”

“Follow me,” said Effie, taking her by the hand. “I’ll play the lady’s maid for you, never fear.” She led her toward a vestibule with a discreet sign stating Water Closet. “In here, darlin. We’ll soon ’ave you sorted out.”

When they emerged ten minutes later, Effie had an armful of petticoats and Caroline was swathed in a white sheet with her hair loose to her waist. She felt most scandalously on show and practically naked, though she had retained her chemisette, stockings, and drawers.

She was a kept woman, she reminded herself firmly, and soon to be artist’s model. Her alter ego, Miss Pomfrey, would not flinch in such situations. She would be queen of any given scenario. Lifting her chin, Caroline vowed to do the same and followed Effie around to the screened-off area.

“The cats have wandered off,” Mr. Bailey growled with dissatisfaction.

“They’ll be hungry and looking for something to eat,” Caroline replied, sitting herself down on a chair that had been placed in front of the white sheets.

“I can fetch them a bit of something,” Effie offered, “when I nip out to fetch us a spot of lunch. I’m behind my time today,” she added apologetically. “Has Mr. Carstairs shown ’is face yet?”

“No, I’ve not seen him.”

Mr. Bailey threw down his piece of charcoal and approached her chair. “Stand up. I need to rearrange your toga. You’ve left your underclothing on!” he added accusingly.

“Indeed, I have. I’d freeze to death without them!”

He glowered at her. “Your chemise will show above the sheet. Remove it forthwith.”