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Chapter Four
We had been at Tenebris for about a week when Eddie’s belongings, including his paintings, arrived from Paris. He was adamant that he needed a studio, and there was some debate about where this should be located. Lucy was inclined to view an artist’s studio as something less than a necessity for the heir to an earldom. Eddie, moody and sullen as a result, dug his heels in stubbornly. Eventually, Tynan broke the impasse by suggesting that one of the estate cottages, which was located half a mile or so from the house itself, might be converted to suit the purpose. This decision met with everyone’s approval. Eddie would have peace, quiet and privacy in which to pursue his art, and the clockwork precision with which Lucy ran the household need not be disturbed. A team of farm workers were deployed to make the cottage suitable for his requirements.
Once Eddie had organised the small rooms to his liking, I strolled over to the cottage with him. The tiny building was basic and simple but in a good state of repair. Time had stolen much of its charm and the once-white outer walls were now diseased and flaking. Inside, there were two rooms downstairs and an attic bedroom. All of these had dangerously uneven flagged floors and windows that, despite recent efforts, were darkened by the scars of age. Steep steps led down to the cellar. These were so narrow and rickety that I eyed them dubiously before declining to descend into the darkness that lay beyond their base. Eddie laughed at my expression and made a joke about pushing me down there and throwing away the key, should I prove to be an unsatisfactory wife. I responded by calling him Bluebeard, and our funning felt easy and natural once again. That had not been the case since we left Paris, and I missed the easy camaraderie we had always shared.
Standing side by side, we examined the paintings, which had been neatly stacked in the smaller of the downstairs rooms. There were several large canvasses of me, and I studied them thoughtfully. Eddie had ability, it was true, but he lacked the special something that would make his work stand out from the crowd. I had seen raw talent once or twice and it was unmistakable. I think Eddie knew he didn’t have that touch of genius, and he allowed the knowledge to gnaw like a hungry rat at his insides.
I was seventeen when I first took off my clothes for money. Forced to flee my home in troubled Buda, one of the twin capital cities of Hungary, I worked my way across Europe with no clear destination in mind. My only object was to ensure that Sandor could not find me. When I set out, I had very little money, and only the clothes I stood up in. I was innocent, but not so naive that I was blind to the dangers facing me. My face and figure were all I had, but I knew already that both were remarkable. Men, and sometimes women, stopped in the street to stare at me. There had to be a way I could use my looks to my advantage, other than the obvious option of prostitution. It was in Vienna—that most beautiful and graceful of cities—that I met Magda von Tiel, and my career as a nude model began.
Magda had herself enjoyed a long and lucrative career posing for artists, but, as her looks began to decline, she had set up what she laughingly termed her own “stable” of girls. We met by chance in the tiny café where she usually took breakfast. After staring at me long and hard across the room, she bought me cake and coffee and outlined her terms. In return for half my earnings, Magda would find my clients and provide me with lodging, food and protection. I had to confide in her about Sandor, of course, so that she understood why I could not allow my face to be painted. I couldn’t risk my portrait being publicly displayed. Fortunately, there were enough artists who wanted to paint, sketch or sculpt the nude female form without needing to include the face. And my body, it seemed, was exactly what was wanted. I was much in demand. Magda joked that my derriere was the most famous in Austria, but no one would be able to match my face to it. By the time Sandor arrived in Vienna—and I was forced to flee once more—I had amassed a tidy sum of money, and a wealth of experience. It was Magda who advised me to head for Paris.
Once there, I found instant popularity. Some of the men who hired me just wanted to spend time with a naked girl, which was rather sad and occasionally sinister. Many of them were talented artists and, now and then, I was privileged to witness signs of real genius. I was fortunate to be hired by one famous artist who painted a whole series of pictures of me wearing nothing but a carnival mask. That exhibition earned us both good deal of money. Sometimes I would get requests for erotic poses, which I politely refused. There were one or two occasions when I sensed I was in real danger. But Magda, and life, had taught me well. I could take care of myself. Naturally, I was also regularly offered more money in return for sex. I never took it. Did I ever have sex with the men I worked for? Of course I did. I was young and desirable, and some of them were, too. I wasn’t promiscuous, but I wasn’t celibate, either. There had been no one special in my life, however. My thoughts flickered wistfully toward the memory of a pair of fire-gold eyes, a flashing smile and hands that could play my body like a well-tuned instrument. Determinedly, I turned those thoughts away.
