Lords, Ladies, Butlers and Maids Page 7

  ‘It’s not like they don’t have butlers over there!’ he had shouted in his fury.

  For him it was not a slight on his own position but on his Master’s, as if Monsieur was just one of the postwar nouveau riche industrialists rather than the current Lord of an ancient line. It was only the old nobility that understood the values, that innately appreciated fine art and literature and wine, that grasped the finer technicalities of warfare. In short it was only they that could keep our country great.

  ‘Monsieur has more breeding in his little finger than Duval has in his whole body!’ Bernard had said.

  Of course it didn’t help that Duval had thrown off his supposed nobility and become a communist. Bernard was not fond of communists, and maybe he had a point. My Master might still be the same man without his grand estate, but he wouldn’t look so beautiful without his grooming, or his expensive clothes and shoes. Why rob the state of that beauty just out of jealousy? There would be no call for his refinement and chivalry, since such things would be regarded as snobbish. Servants would no longer exist, so there would be none to demonstrate his uncommon decency towards us. It is his respect for all that I admire most, his instinct for how best to treat everyone from royalty to lowly peasants. I wouldn’t have to tell him he could be a little rougher and ruder with me than he might be with his more refined conquests, because girls today have more freedom of spirit and fire in their bellies.

  ‘Sidonie, I wish to ask something of you,’ my Master says, and that fire in my belly ignites. This is the first time he has used such a phrase outside my own imagination. Whatever he now commands I must obey; my status forbids me to refuse him. I am nervous of having to do things in front of the much less attractive Monsieur Duval. Maybe that’s what the rich like to do: share their spoils. There are enough rumours among the girls of what goes on in the circles of the wealthy, although none of us can actually claim to have seen any such things going on here at the chateau. But they must. The rich can do whatever they want, so why wouldn’t they?

  The Master is telling me something but I cannot really concentrate because I’m wondering what he will have me do on the large trunk that has been positioned in the centre of the room. It has been covered by an old bed sheet but one end has not dropped down as intended and I can see and identify the trunk beneath. I can also see that a duvet has been laid over the trunk too, no doubt to act as padding. The cheval mirror is set to the rear and one side to reflect all of this, a blatant sign of their rude intentions that makes my blood fizz. I realise the Master is awaiting some sign that I understand his request.

  I have to drag his words back to mind and formulate them, just to know what he is asking of me. It seems Duval has been commissioned to paint a portrait of Madame and Monsieur. It had to be Duval, according to my Master, because he is such a brilliant artist. No one else would have done. However, Duval does not like to do traditional works and has only agreed to do so if he can also paint a second portrait in his preferred style. I’m not sure what any of this has to do with them putting me over the covered trunk, and frankly the wait to discover my fate is not doing my racing heart much good. Perhaps I am to be payment for Duval’s efforts? I look blankly at my Master, but surely convey that I am at his disposal whatever he chooses to command of me.

  ‘The trouble is,’ says the Master with a smile of apology, ‘Madame will not sit for this second portrait, not just because of time constraints, but because of the manner in which my good friend here wishes to capture us.’

  The artist raises his eyebrows and tuts with exasperation. There is more hesitant explanation from the Master before the artist rudely interrupts.

  ‘Madame refuses to sit for the portrait today because I require her to be nude. This is despite the fact that the composition was conceived purely with her in mind. Presumably she thinks herself above such things.’

  ‘Most of the time you will be covered with a gown,’ says the Master hurriedly, ‘but Monsieur Duval cannot paint from imagination alone …’

  ‘Of course I can’t,’ snaps Duval. ‘What artist can?’

  So that is it. The Master wishes to lure me out of my clothes by using me as an artist’s model. It is a subtle trick. First they get me naked and alone, and then they have their wicked way. Monsieur tells me he was prepared to try to find a substitute from outside but I am so much like Madame, in stature as well as in looks. Even then he would not have asked, he tells me, but having caught him in a state of undress this morning, and having acted with such decorum about it, I was suddenly deemed the ideal replacement. How clever for him to have been bare-chested when I came in this morning, just to provide this excuse. I will be paid extra for my efforts, I am told. Arrangements can be made to cover my duties in my absence. No one else will be told precise details of what I am to do, in order to protect my modesty. The final portrait will hang in the master suite, so no other, apart from Madame and Monsieur – and my good self, as maid of the room – will ever see it; another reason it has to be me.

  ‘I will need to sit with you for most,’ says the Master, ‘but if you prefer, whilst you are to be unclothed I can be absent, or I could summon another servant to take my place.’

  ‘Sir, if I am to be nude,’ I say with some passion, ‘I would prefer to be so in front of a man of status and grace, and not some gossiping groom. And I most definitely prefer not to be left alone with some stranger!’

  Duval looks a little affronted but my Master is more worried about the unintended slight given to me. His sheepish look is enough to pacify me.

  ‘So, you agree then?’ Monsieur says.

  How could I not?

  *

  I am required only for the day. Madame had sat for a previous session, in which she could remain fully clothed, so that Duval could do the background and roughly sketch in the foreground. I am needed as he fleshes out his subjects. I am needed because I am too lowly to refuse to strip. The Master will get me bare and ravish me, claiming I remind him too much of his wife when she was also twenty, and he will do all those rude things they do today which he had missed doing to her when they were both young. To ensure I don’t have second thoughts and run, they gave me only the time it takes for Duval to uncover his easel and set out his paints. Monsieur has provided me with one of Madame’s satin gowns, which I find hanging behind the screen. It is almost as if he knows I cannot resist when I feel that silkiness against my skin.

  Monsieur is already sat upon the covered trunk when I bashfully emerge. He holds out his hand and I go nervously towards him.

  ‘Do you know of Rodin’s sculpture commonly called The Kiss?’ he asks me quietly. I nod, the butterflies alive in my belly. He tells me it is Madame’s favourite work of art. It depicts the lovers Francesca and Paolo from Dante’s Inferno, moments before they were discovered and slain by Francesca’s jealous husband. It was Rodin’s homage to women, to depict them as full equals in love to men. Duval’s idea is to recreate this work, so emotive a theme in today’s society, but in paint form. Madame and Monsieur are to be depicted in the pose of Rodin’s doomed lovers, painted against a background of blue covered with recent examples of graffiti taken from the walls of Paris buildings, daubed by the students and strikers. He is to use phrases like ‘we will have good masters when everyone is their own’ and ‘the golden age was when gold didn’t reign’. Apparently Duval thinks it highly comical to capture his noble friends at the very moment they teeter on the edge of losing it all in this current uprising.

  ‘He also thinks it amusing,’ the Master whispers conspiratorially to me, ‘to paint a portrait in which you can barely make out the subjects’ faces!’

  Our closeness is making my heart thump. I’m sure he must be able to hear it. If you do not know this sculpture then be aware that I am obliged to sit very near to him, between his open thighs, leaning almost against him with my right shoulder. My left arm is up, the hand around his neck, as if I am desperately pulling him down for our final kiss. His right hand rests ju
st below my left hip, the one facing the artist. It barely touches me at all, almost hovering, and yet imagine later when this hip is bare, when his large hand is on my naked flesh. When that time comes my breasts will be fully exposed, particularly the left one. My bottom will be less so, pressed as it is to the trunk, which Duval will presumably paint like the stone of the original. However, a quick glance round shows me that it is actually more visible to both men present, reflected as it is in the cheval mirror behind me. So that’s what it was for, those devious devils!

  It takes less time than I envisaged to get into the correct pose. We have a postcard of the original to refer to, plus brusque instructions from M. Duval. My face reddens when I realise that my thighs are not to be squashed together, hiding all. The left knee points down and only time will tell how much of me this will reveal. Having leant into him it is almost automatic to reach around for his neck to help my balance, and that in turn automatically pulls him in. There is a brief pause as we look into each other’s eyes, both aware of what is to happen next, although I can only guess at what this will lead to. Then my head sinks lower towards his shoulder and I hold my breath in readiness for the soft contact of his lips. I close my eyes, only for them to spring immediately open as Duval calls out,

  ‘That’s it! Hold still – don’t move!’

  We freeze, our mouths less than an inch apart, open, expectant. Now he can surely hear my heart. I can feel his gentle breath, smell the fine fragrance at his neck. His other hand, the one not on my thigh, is down behind me, not holding me. This means my grip around his neck is nearly all I have to keep me in position. It suddenly strikes me that we are hardly touching at all, despite such close proximity. If I didn’t suspect his intentions otherwise, I would say he only allowed me to replace his wife because of this fact. He has humour in his eyes. It is difficult not to melt into him but even the slightest movement has Duval barking his annoyance and telling me to hold still. Monsieur gives me a little smile at this latest rebuke. If I stuck out my tongue I could trace it across his lips. He knows he has the right to my body and this closeness is just torture.

  For ages we hold like this, my head angled away so that I cannot even see straight into his eyes. He whispers the tale of Dante’s lovers to me in full and I feel every ounce of Francesca’s pain at her forbidden love for Paolo. We have to break every once in a while as I simply cannot maintain the position. Duval uses the time to march around chattering to himself about how he should have got a professional model in, and Monsieur simply smiles and uses the time to talk softly to me. We stay close even in these breaks. I can see all his perfections – the completely smooth skin of his chin and jaw, despite the harsh dark hair that will grow there incessantly; the neatly precise grooming of his sideburns and eyebrows; the lack of wiry hair sprouting from nostril and ear that both Bernard and Duval sport.

  All morning we are like this, most of it just an inch apart. It is almost like wearing him, but agonisingly it is not quite close enough. We talk back and forth, since there is nothing else to do.

  ‘Stop laughing!’ Duval cries out impatiently.

  I wish Duval would go up in a puff of smoke and leave the two of us alone.

  Bernard told me never to speak unless spoken to by my Master, and yet here I am doing exactly that. He is disarming and very engaging. I know exactly why Madame loves her beautiful husband so fiercely. It takes everything to stop myself dragging him in that last inch. I cannot wait for the moment Duval finally wants to paint our kiss and tells us to press our lips together.

  ‘Lunch!’ cries the artist, setting down his brush and striding out, as if even a second’s procrastination would ruin his appetite. We are alone, almost frozen into our near embrace. I think this might be the time he acts, but he gently puts his arm around my back, rights me and slowly draws away. He could take advantage of me now, since no one would enter and disturb him, but I remember the convenience of my nudity that the afternoon session will bring. Then the animal will come out and he will have me all over this room, maybe even dragging me off to his own bed in his passion. He rises and tells me he will fetch me something to eat, the Master serving the maid. We break for an hour, eating together, sitting as equals just like the revolutionaries would have us, except they do not realise what they would steal from the world, from me. I do not want the common touch. I want to be taken by nobility. It is the authority of his bearing, his sophistication and his wealth that make me always so ready for him.

  ‘Begin!’ commands Duval, sweeping back into the room, and we smile at each other and slide back into position, so practised now. My heart begins to beat faster again, although the trepidation about removing my gown in his presence has all but gone.

  ‘Gowns off!’ cries Duval.

  Neither of us complies immediately. I see him looking down at me, though I cannot make out the expression. Then his hand lifts from my hip and I can feel him undoing the belt of his gown. I hear the sweep of silk over his firm body and the garment drops away from his shoulders. I hear him grasp it and slide it out and drop it in a heap on the floor. His legs are splayed so there can be no hiding it. One look down and I would see him in all his glory, except of course that my view is blocked by his face and by my own chest and raised thigh. I can just about make out a portion of his firm torso and his muscular left shoulder and bicep. It is not much considering he is totally naked, in brilliant sunlight, just inches from me. I wonder what he looks like down there, whether he already has a swell from the rude intentions he must have towards me. I imagine he is too controlled to be like this in front of his friend. I realise he will almost certainly wait until we are alone to act, and that thought sends a tingle of joy all over my body.

  ‘Mademoiselle?’ says Duval, impatient that I am yet to strip. I think I could but my arm is so stiff from being in the one position that it has almost seized up. Monsieur mistakes my hesitation for reticence. Slowly, patiently he reaches to my middle and unties the single bow that keeps my gown in place. He begins to slide the gown off my shoulders, keeping his eyes on mine. I have to straighten up and drop my arm to allow the gown to slip off. I feel the slight coolness on my skin, the hairs on my body already raised. My breasts are bare but his eyes never leave mine. He tugs at the gown and it comes free, to be dropped on the floor alongside his. There is coolness at my exposed crotch and I bite my bottom lip, suddenly aware that the sensation is caused by dampness between my open thighs.

  My cheeks are aflame. He sees this and says, ‘Do not worry, Little Peach, I can see nothing.’

  He could easily look down and see me, but it seems he is too well-mannered to do so. The strange thing is I wish he would. It might instigate those passions he has so far chivalrously kept in check. I’m sure it is a thin line between restraint and losing control. I know it is a battle I fear I am losing.

  ‘What can he see in the mirror?’ I ask my Master, knowing it will mean looking there, seeing the reflection of my rear. He glances over, holds there as he catches sight of my young rump, then blinks a couple of times before looking away.

  ‘The mirror is to divert the sunlight so he can paint us as if lit from behind and not from the side, that is all,’ he says.

  I wonder if he felt a swell down there at the sight of me, a stirring to awake the ardour. Now we are naked it is even harder to stay this close without gathering him in for a full embrace. Everything about me seems to be reaching out for him – my lips, the hairs on my limbs all up on end. Even the little points of my breasts have stiffened, whether from nervousness or desire I know not. I am aching for the closer contact. It seems he must lose the battle and fall into me at any second. I picture him growing down below, his mind as full of naughty images as mine is. I can almost feel the heat of his swell on my thigh. Soon it will fill out completely and touch me. I dare not move and break the spell. The talk has dried up because of our nudity and because we are hanging on the point of giving in to immorality. Yet still he does not take me.

  ‘Mon
sieur,’ I whisper, ‘if it helps our artist I would not consider it too bold a move on your part to kiss me. For the sake of reality, I mean.’

  ‘Ah, my Little Cabbage, that’s the thing,’ he replies. ‘In Rodin’s sculpture their lips do not meet. It suggests they were taken from each other the moment before they could seal their love. It is what makes their one and only embrace so poignant.’

  I feel my stomach tighten. These hours since lunch I have stayed frozen, totally captivated by him, the heat ever building between my legs. I have sat completely naked, resigned to be used by him, desperate for that first contact, the kiss that would break the seal and unravel our passions. Now the afternoon is slipping away and it seems the kiss will not be ordered after all, despite everything. I have been there for the taking but he has not done so. I have been naked and yet he has kept his gaze steadfastly away from my body. His hand has not slipped from my hip and down between my thighs, even though he must feel the heat coming from between them and smell the readiness as I can. He has not pulled me into him, crushing his lips to mine, made my tongue swirl with his. He has not forced me onto his lap, my legs wrapped around his waist, his hands grasping and squeezing my behind, his fingers sliding into me from the rear. He has not given in to his lusts and stood up upon the trunk, grown right before my eyes, gripped my hair and then forced himself into my mouth.