A King and His QueenChapter 19 Gift
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“Without any variety of expression…She sat like the Sphinx waiting to be questioned and with always a vague reply in return…’ Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s studio assistant describing model, Alexa Wilding
He was a young man, lean and wiry of frame. A mirror reflected the passionate intensity of his androgynous features, as a neglected strand of thick brown hair fell into a pair of dark, shadowed eyes. Charcoal stained the long, spatulate fingers as he sketched a rudimentary figure on the blank canvas, only to curse under his breath, erase the thin lines, and try again. A framed reproduction of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s ‘La Ghirlandata’ graced one wall of his haphazardly furnished studio loft. The painting was of a buxom young woman seated in a bower, her fingers idly plucking at the delicate strings of a harp. Whenever he felt the need to be inspired, or drawn into another world, he would lie on his back, his head cradled by mounds of thick satin-lined pillows, and gaze at the picture until the lines between dreaming and reality blurred.
A pair of green eyes, fathomless as the secrets of the feminine mind, pulled at his heart and soul. Those were nights when he dreamed his lush and humid dreams, that he felt her touch upon him, the brush of those vivid crimson tresses against his chest.
She was the mysterious Alexa Wilding of the fiery garnet tresses and dream-heavy, languorous eyes. It was her face and form he envisioned as the basis for his latest work, ‘The Gnosis of Eve’ but what he saw in his mind refused to translate that incandescent vision onto the canvas. Even the apple she held in one delicate hand, to his critical eyes resembled a mutated pomegranate.
Dougray Sebastian considered himself a modern devotee of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, that long ago coterie of artists and poets who challenged Victorian sensibilities with their lush and sensual imagery. And much like them in their own era, it seemed that his work had no place in the cynical and nihilistic twenty-first century. Such ‘classic’ art was looked upon by the so-called ‘hip’ art critics as either being too maudlin, too gauche, or throwbacks to some imagined romanticized age. Some feminist critics even accused Dougray of longing for a return of the sexually repressive and chauvinistic Victorian era.
The criticism stung, and was quite far from the truth, if anyone had ever bothered to ask him. Not being a wildly popular artist, he had little to no chance to defend his work. And like most creative people, Dougray learned early in his life how to wear insouciance like medieval armor.
Oscar Wilde had said it best, it was better to be talked about than not.
At the end of the day, what mattered most to Dougray was that he remained true to that which inspired him to his craft.
He greatly admired the stylized simplicity of William Morris, the idealized sensuality of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and the erotic playfulness of Maria Spartali and Evelyn de Morgan. He loved their themes of magic, of romance and tragedy, of beautiful women, ripe with mystery and power. Those were elements he felt were missing from modern art, which he felt were less about purpose and all about commodity.
Still, for all of his high ideals, there had been many evenings spent drowning his sorrows in absinthe.
One evening after reading yet another pompous art critic lambaste his works, Dougray came to the inevitable conclusion that perhaps the true purpose of his art was to provoke a response no matter how visceral or mean-spirited. Maybe, he thought drunkenly, he was more provocateur than painter.
An early winter’s night wrapped San Francisco in its brisk, crystalline embrace. Earlier that day, a light and cleansing rain had fallen, dampening the streets but not the spirits of the people who lived there.
While trying once again to infuse a semblance of life into his latest creation, there came a gentle, tentative knock upon the door of his studio. Dougray ignored it, certain that someone had the wrong address. Like most driven artists, there hadn’t been much of a social life outside of his craft. His muse was a selfish, capricious mistress, and would not tolerate silly human needs like love or even lust to sway him from his life’s passion. Even eating, which Dougray felt to be one of life’s more enjoyable pastimes often fell to the wayside when his muse made her demanding presence felt.
The tapping at the door became louder, insistent, and Dougray realized that unless he answered the damn thing, whoever it was wouldn’t go away.
“All right, I’m coming!” Dougray shouted towards the door, with paintbrush in hand. “And whoever you are, it had better be important!” Throwing open the door with a rude carelessness, Dougray was about to demand what the caller wanted when his rational and ordered world turned on itself.
Dougray rubbed at his eyes furiously, certain that he dreamed. That the reflection of the streetlights upon the rain-slicked sidewalk created the image that stood before him, the rain seemingly of little discomfort to her elegant dress, managing to look both beautiful and haughty.
Alexa Wilding stood right there in front of him, impossibly and yet wonderfully alive.
“It is rather chilly out here, Mr. Sebastian,” she said, her voice whisper-soft like the lightest touch of silk upon the skin. “A bit of tea would be very nice.”
Hers was a voice he would never forget. One of liquid chimes and dulcet tones, A voice from a time when a whisper was as potent a weapon as a loudly sworn oath or a saber thrust to the heart.
A voice that promised both endless delights and endless despair.
Dougray ushered her inside without a word, transfixed by her beauty. For some time, he was simply content to watch her explore his secret world, her eyes drinking in everything: the paint-stained easels, brushes scattered about, stacks of canvases, some completed, others waiting patiently for their turn to become masterpieces. It had seemed like ages since any woman had made her presence felt in his studio.
Her clothes were any gothic doyenne’s wet dream. The heavy black Newmarket cloak lined in deep purple, the faille satin dress, empire-waisted in a green that matched those ageless eyes. Fashionable boots of dark leather peeped out demurely from beneath the ruffled hem.
And the hair, his paint-stained fingers ached to lose themselves in those abundant russet locks, oddly enough not worn in an upswept chignon as would have been proper, but loose, a red cascade like a mantle about her shoulders.
She was romance, mystery and desire made flesh.
Finally, remembering her request, the young artist set himself to the making of tea. Chamomile was all he had at such short notice, but it would have to do. Dougray wasn’t sure if one served milk and sugar with herbal tea, but included them just in case. The closest things he had to scones were some day-old banana-nut muffins from the organic bakery down the street. Without reservation, he added them to a bright plastic tray, which held two mugs, the milk and sugar.
There was no living room to speak of, save a futon that served as couch, and sometimes the bed, though he preferred sleeping on the floor, surrounded by mounds of large fluffy pillows and a thick goose-down comforter.
Resting the tray on the floor, Dougray poured the tea into one of the brightly colored mugs, handing it to her with solemn reverence. She smiled, and he watched with rapt attention as her vermilion lips wrapped themselves around the rim of the cup.
The bright whiteness of a pair of dainty, pointed teeth shocked him into near delirium, almost causing him to spill the hot beverage upon himself.
“Oh” and those lips formed an ‘O’ of both wide-eyed innocence and gentle seduction. “I am very sorry Mr. Sebastian.” She smiled fully, giving him full view of her pristine fangs. “I should have
warned you about these.”
“How do you know my name?” He somehow managed to ask.
“How could I not?” Alexa just gave him another of her mysterious smiles. “After all, you do sign your name on all of your works, do you not?”
He accepted that as an answer, at least for the present.
If anyone had told Dougray Sebastian that a woman immortalized on canvas over a century ago would be sitting on his futon drinking tea, he’d have recommended their forever swearing off alcohol. Should they have told him that the woman was a vampire, he’d have shook his head in disbelief and told them to stay far away from late night readings of Bram Stoker.
But on this fateful night, that very woman, with skin so pale, and her lips in crimson contrast, did just that, and all he could do was stare in open-mouthed fascination, his heart beating like that of a young man in his first blush of love.
If Dougray had any uncertainties as to her identity, any lingering doubts turned to ash as she regaled him with stories of her days as a model for one of the world’s greatest painters and poets.
“That afternoon of July 1865, I was on my way to the residence of Mr. and Mrs. Auberon Hastings. Their only daughter Mirabella was to be fitted for a proper wardrobe, for she was now of age to be presented to Society, and of course, her parents were quite eager that she meet a desirable and eligible suitor. They were to have been my very first commission as a dressmaker, and I remembered how uncertain I was, and how concerned I was about my appearance.”
Dougray was completely spellbound, drinking in the mental images of gaslights and gloves, of hansom carriages and the height of an empire. Alexa’s luminescent green eyes filled with the softness one reveals when speaking of cherished memories. Time had done little to diminish the rolling cadence of the tradeswoman, so unlike the cold and clipped syllables of the middle and upper classes.
“Suddenly, there was a tug at my arm and I thought some ghastly little urchin was trying to rob me. When I looked up and around, there was a man with deep-set eyes dressed in a worn but still fashionable topcoat with this intense look upon his face. He was of obvious Italian extraction, and my mother, may god rest her gentle soul, warned me about them, that they were no friends of an innocent woman’s virtue.” His eyes closed, her narrative bringing to vivid life the hustle and bustle of Victorian England to life.
“When he told me who he was, and then asked if I would deign to sit for him, I was in awe. Everyone throughout the length and breadth of England knew of Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. They were considered quite scandalous, you see? My mother, when I told her later that night, was most unhappy, and feared that I would be throwing away my chances for a good marriage.” She scoffed at that. “A good marriage was the last thing I wanted.”
“What did you want, Alexa?” It had been the first time since her unlikely entry into his life that he’d used her name, and it fell like a benediction from his lips. “You disappeared from sight, and even scholars aren’t certain of your fate.”
Alexa rose gracefully, wandering around the barely furnished room, studying the unfinished canvas. “I knew what I didn’t want, and that was to be at the mastery of some man. More than likely a husband, who would make a respectable matron out of what many viewed as either my youthful folly or my fall from grace. After all, an artists’ model wasn’t the height of propriety.”
Her back was to him as she gazed out at the shimmery-wet city. “The ‘stunners’, that’s what they called us. We were a rather unusual sisterhood made up of tradesmen’s daughters and prostitutes who shared that single trait of uncommon beauty they so avidly sought.”
Her eyes began to cloud over from the pain of lost reverie. “Of course I made the mistake of falling in love with Rossetti, knowing well that his heart was pledged elsewhere. The moment Jane Morris walked into Blackfriars, I ceased to exist, save as a subject.”
Dougray swore to himself that his initial intention had been only to offer comfort as he came up behind her and gathered Alexa in his arms, cradling her in the safety of his embrace. But the heat of her lush, pliant curves molding themselves against his angular frame taunted him with their sirennic call. Only to comfort, chided the voice in his mind that knew he wanted more, and would not let him rest until he had tasted more.
“I think you do yourself a great disservice, Alexa,” Dougray replied softly, barely finding the strength to speak, his mind focused upon the sensation of this impossibly alive woman in his arms. “Jane Morris might have been beautiful, but she was also the wife of his best friend. Loyalty was obviously not one of her finer points, nor obviously was it his.”
Dougray’s lips brushed feather-like against a shell pink earlobe, whispering hoarsely, “Well, what Rossetti so carelessly used and discarded, I would treasure forever.”
To possess the woman once thought of as the ideal of Pre-Raphaelite physical and spiritual beauty, was more than his rational mind could accept, so he let go of all thought, giving himself over totally to emotion.
His body awash with a hunger that had once reserved solely for his craft, Dougray was driven by an inexplicable need to make Alexa forget about Rossetti forever. It was a selfish need, but one fueled by the realization that she had sought him out.
Alexa gazed up at him, lips parted and moist and waiting to be kissed. She met his eyes. He saw his face reflected in the green pools of her stare. “I do want you to make love to me, Dougray Sebastian, but not out of pity for my foolishly lapsing into sentimentality.” Her eyes were wide, as if frightened that he would reject her. Dougray had no such thoughts as the scent of rosewater and lavender filled his nostrils.
“Dante Rossetti is in my past, and I should no longer grieve for what might have been. You have that rare gift of bringing your art to life. Perhaps you can do the same for me.”
Dougray cradled her face in his hands, lips skimming her face. “You’re not just art to me, Alexa. You are every woman I’ve ever dreamed of. You are a gift.”
His lips touched hers, a gentle contact that ignited his arid hunger like kindling. “I’m afraid that if I touch you, you would fade away.”
“I will not fade, Dougray Sebastian. I am as real as you are. And I want you to touch me. It has been an eternity since someone has done so.”
An overwhelming passion flared within them, to Dougray it held the same intensity as painting. He pulled Alexa closer, kissing her sweet, pliant mouth, its taste and color of the finest claret. They fused together in an embrace that took the very breath from him. He tasted blood, as her teeth punctured the flesh of his lips, but the iron tang only inflamed him more. It was the sweetest reward, and one long overdue.
There had been the prerequisite affaires d’amour, theatrical stylings of the heart from whence had come both inspiration and melancholy. There had been tempestuous kisses in the hazy darkness of underground clubs, heated couplings that had meant so much under the auspices of the night, only to dissipate at first light.
With this woman it became an evanescent touching of kindred souls.
They sank down together upon the mound of huge pillows and the comforter that served as his bed. Here, he had dreamed his dreams, never imagining that one of his most secret dreams was now flesh.
Dougray undressed her with the ease of a lady’s maid. The pulse at the base of her throat was a barely discernible rhythm. Dougray nipped at the flesh there, wresting a moan of pure longing from Alexa’s parted lips.
“So very long,” she whispered, her voice an intriguing admixture of r
egret and hunger. His body hovered over hers, as warm breath softly fanned over her face.
“Too long, my sweet Alexa. Let me love you and my life is yours. My blood, my soul.”
“Such a wondrous gift,” and she said no more.
Dougray paused over each part of Alexa’s splendid body, whispering fervent words of love and worship. There was not a part of her that wasn’t perfection, his lips and tongue bursting into a riot of rich fragrances and flavors. He sculpted and molded her very passion as if she were his Galatea, loving her with an intensity that surprised and delighted them both.
It was still night when he felt Alexa slip away. He felt no fear that she would leave him. His faith bore out when she returned several hours later, satiated and quite eager to experience rapture in his arms once again.
Alexa spoke little of her immortality, nor of that which was needed to maintain her life, and Dougray found that he didn’t want to know. If there was a price to be paid for her company, in his eyes, it was more than fair.
Perhaps, as they said, a dead artist garnered more respect than a living one.
A light rain beat a martial tattoo upon the window. Cold gray sky and roiling thunderclouds hovered warningly in the distance. It was early afternoon, but still bright enough to see by. The acrid scents of turpentine and acrylic mingled with a bouquet of fresh cut flowers and the spicy incense bought from a local Rastafari merchant.
Dougray held impatient court before the easel, a brush held in his fingers, like a conductor’s baton that wielded color, not sound. His eyes strayed from picture to his subject, completely nude, draped upon a crushed velvet divan, bought used.
Amazingly, Alexa was able to pose for hours without complaint, even in the most uncomfortable positions. It was a skill that Rossetti, for all his imperiousness, had admired in his then nineteen year-old subject.
Her face, round with the gentle fleshiness of womanhood, its aristocratic line of a nose and full, tempting mouth, schooled itself into an alluring pose of feminine knowledge. A sense of mystery and timelessness shone from forest-colored eyes.
That ripe, full-figured body tempted him, distracting him from his work. The copper hair rained down past her shoulders and over her pendulous breasts as lava rained down a mountain. A bright red apple balanced upon an outstretched palm.
Dougray tried vainly to see her as line, color and texture. The only line he could see was the deep cleft between her bountiful breasts, the only color was the blush-pink of her arousal when they made love, and the only texture being the silken temptation of her skin.
A feral smile revealed the dainty white teeth and sharply pointed canines.
Those teeth had fed several hours earlier.
“Alexa, please. Less fang, more smile,” he cajoled. He was growing ever more frustrated and more aroused with each passing moment. It was impossible to paint when what he really wanted to do was part her luscious thighs and bury his cock as deep inside of her as he could go.
She sighed with lazy amusement. “Very well, Dougray, but remember, they are my most memorable quality.”
Moments later she heard the clatter of a brush striking the floor.
“Damn,” he swore, pacing in a tight controlled circle. “This is not working.” He looked at her, the less than angelic smile still upon her face.
Alexa stretched, lissome as a cat, her body fluid, morphing itself back into gently sloping hills and peaks. Dougray felt a distinctive and instinctive rush of heat, and he wondered more than ever how his long-dead idol had been able to ignore such a delightful distraction.
She reached for the satin dressing gown and belted it around her waist. “Posing for Dante always reminded me of sitting in class with the headmistress, who saw infractions everywhere she looked. I was always on my best behavior, and did my best not to sneeze nor draw in too deep a breath.”
Dougray saw in his mind’s eye the cluttered Blackfriars studio, Alexa’s body wrapped in a classical-style emerald gown sweeping to the floor as Rossetti completed his tribute to the narcissistic temperament of the creative mind, ‘Veronica Veronese’, her eyes lost in reverie as she searched for a melody as sublime as that of the bird who sang behind her.
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