The Colour of Love

The city that never slept was waking up. Only a little after dawn, the street was already busy with carts and horses doing early morning deliveries. The sun shone through a gap in the heavy purple brocade curtains. A treacherous cadmium sun heralding the new day, shining too brightly at the end of Emily’s life. The little studio was revealing itself by inches as the sun’s rays moved across the floor. First, the pile of blank and half finished canvases, a linen press crowded with more paintings, the floor spattered with paint like stars in the sky, over to the easel, and the couch. The studio couch was not the most comfortable place to spend the night, but it had served it’s purpose. Emily lay naked, covered by a large crimson red Spanish shawl, and the still-sleeping naked body of Baden Montague Vaughn. His breath was warm and soft, flowing over her breasts. As he began to stir awake, he tightened his arms around her, reluctant to face the moment when he would have to awaken to his new life. Emily gently stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, and he smiled sleepily. No, she would not cry today. At least, not yet, not until he had finally walked away from her world.
      The finished painting stood on the easel, paint dried, and waiting to be packed and taken away. It was a good picture, Emily knew it was the best she had ever done. She had poured her heart into every brushstroke, the colours she chose reflected the love she felt for the man she held in her arms. In the painting he stood next to the woman he was going to marry that very day. Lady Ophelia Fitzhugh had crossed the Atlantic to marry Baden, bringing her title and pedigree to the wealthy, parvenu Vaughn family as her dowry. She had brought a casket of gaudy jewels, handed down from one Fitzhugh woman to the next, through generations and centuries. Everything Emily Davies owned was in her studio. Her paints and canvases, a few props, and her skill as a portrait artist, although with very little reputation. All she had to make her fortune. And she would have given it all for just one more hour with Baden, the man who owned her heart.

      Emily remembered the first day she had met him, when he came to her studio with his fiancée, to have their portrait painted; a wedding gift to the couple from his father. Lady Ophelia was a typical haughty, spoilt, and pampered aristocratic woman. Emily noticed the doubt and hint of disapproval in Lady Ophelia’s cobalt blue eyes, especially when she looked at Baden. She was not a happy woman. She talked down to Emily in a clumsy fashion, trying to put the impoverished little portrait painter in her place. While Baden countered with a grave courtesy that was a little overdone, in Emily’s opinion. Lady Ophelia was certainly every inch a society beauty; skin of porcelain white, extreme tight lacing under a peach-coloured silk gown, large dilated eyes, and a sweet, slightly vacant expression; mostly achieved through artificial means, Emily meanly decided. The brim of her hat was wide enough to protect her pale complexion from the sun, but she also carried a white lace-trimmed parasol. She handed it to Baden, and for a moment he looked ridiculous, trying to work out how to hold it without compromising his masculinity.
      For a couple about to marry, they were awkward strangers with each other, not yet comfortable with the boundaries of each other’s bodies. Lady Ophelia poked around the small studio, examining each completed canvas with a critical gaze. Baden stood, still holding the frilly parasol, watching Emily as she placed a blank canvas on the easel. The expression in his deep brown eyes made her feel strangely small and fragile. The directness of his gaze was a little predatory and disturbing, or perhaps she was unused to being looked at so candidly. Lady Ophelia was taking no notice of her intended’s attention being focused on the little painter. She was sure of him, through the contract drawn up by her father and his.
      After that initial meeting, Ophelia came twice to the studio, reluctantly, to sit while Emily made sketches of her. Two sittings, each no more than a bare hour long with a break of twenty minutes in the middle, were all the society beauty would allow, while her maid was ordered to fetch frequent cups of tea for her mistress. Baden accompanied her each time, sitting close behind Emily and watching while she sketched as much detail as she could in the short time allowed. Twice he leaned close while he pointed out something small that could be changed in the drawing. Emily felt his warm breath on her cheek and once he lightly touched the back of her neck with his fingertips. She managed, just, not to shiver, but his delicate touch opened her heart like the petals of a flower and let him take up residence in that most secret part of her.
      Even as a young girl, Emily knew that she had chosen a precarious profession, dominated by men and male opinions. Her father, also an artist, had ensured that she had chaperones, so she need never be alone with a male sitter. But even then, several of them had found ways to get around the elderly aunts who sat, knitting, while Emily painted. But her determination was the final obstacle to her virginity that no man had ever managed to circumnavigate and now, in her 30’s, she was as untouched and heart-whole as a cloistered nun. Until Baden.
      Baden Montague Vaughn was the most beautiful man Emily had ever seen. Tall, slender, dark well-groomed hair, and a verdant moustache, with a mouche. He looked as though he would be more at home on the plains of the West, than in the salons and drawing rooms of upper class New York. For a man with plenty of money at his disposal, he dressed plainly. This was obviously a constant irritation to his fiancée, as every time she accompanied him to the studio, she would carp and complain about how dull he would look in the portrait, next to her.
“I’m not going to look like a clown just to please you,” he had said, smiling to soften the comment. But Lady Ophelia took it as an insult and, Baden told Emily, she refused to speak to him for most of a week. Not that he minded gaining some peace by not having to be dragged around ladies fashion houses and milliners in Ophelia’s wake.

      He came alone to the studio while Emily painted Lady Ophelia’s half of the picture. His presence was not needed, but he seemed to appreciate the haven of the little room, at the top of a four-storey apartment building. While Emily worked, he could sit and watch, passing brushes and paint tubes as she needed them. He would remove his coat, hat, and jacket and sit in his shirt sleeves, lounging on the couch, or, which made Emily nervous, he would sit on the floor at her feet. He asked her questions about her life, how she grew up with an artist father and learned to draw before she could read. She found herself telling him about her beloved father’s death, and how even his blank canvases and used paint tubes were claimed by his creditors, until, left with next to nothing, she threw away a possible marriage arranged by the well-meaning Vicar, and sailed across the sea to America. She told him things she had never spoken of to anyone, all the secrets of her heart that were never revealed to her father. In return, he told her of his misgivings about a life with Lady Ophelia. It was obvious that this marriage was none of his choosing. One day Emily laughed and asked who he would have liked to marry if he could chose. He said nothing, but looked at her, and the expression in his eyes was the key that unlocked the door of her heart.

      Far too soon, Lady Ophelia’s half of the painting was finished. Emily had painted a seascape behind the figures. Baden wanted her to paint them sitting on large boulders and Emily wondered if Lady Ophelia would approve. But as she refused to come back to the studio, Baden said she would have to put up with it. He had had a bad day with his fiancée. Another bad day in a week of irritations and arguments, and he was not as polite as usual. He snapped at Emily when she mentioned her worry that Lady Ophelia would not like the boulders in the picture. As she watched, appalled that what she had said had made him angry, he stalked out of the studio and she heard him clattering down the stairs. She put the paintbrush down and moved to sit on the couch. She honestly tried not to cry, but she couldn’t stop tears falling down her face. Her heart felt as heavy as one of those boulders, and, worried that he might not come back, the few tears turned into a flood.
      She sank her head onto her knees and gave herself up to grief. It was not just having offended Baden that hurt her heart so much, it was everything. Giving up the larger room for her studio meant she had to sleep in a tiny windowless box room at the top of the house. She grieved for the loss of the comfortable country cottage she had shared with her father, and their doughty housekeeper. She longed for the garden they had worked on, and how perfect it was just before she had to leave. She missed the village in England, where she knew everyone and everyone had a kind word. The city was far too big and crowded. She didn’t even know the people who lived in the same apartment building.

      Just as her grief was running out of steam and she was exhausted, she felt arms around her. Baden hugged her close, wiping her tears with his handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I was out of sorts and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. You’re the last person in the world I would want to hurt. I’m just tired of being the performing monkey in a circus with Ophelia as the ring-mistress.”
      He kissed her forehead, then gently kissed her face once, twice, and three times, moving closer to her mouth. Emily froze for a moment. His kiss on her lips was delicate and tender and Emily relaxed. Nothing to fear, a nice, friendly, affectionate touch. He touched the tip of his nose to hers and they both smiled. Emily began to move back, but he put his hand on the back of her neck. He kissed her again, a touch stronger and certain, and again. Emily’s heart was beating so fast she was sure he could hear it, holding her close in his arms. She wished he would kiss her again; she wished the moment would go on forever. He was not hers and never would be, but she couldn’t stop him even had she wanted to. Everything in the room was monochrome, but Baden shone in shades of gold with the sun behind him, vivid, and a little blinding.
      His lips on hers were warm and surprisingly soft. The tip of his tongue parted her lips tentatively, giving her a moment to pull away and end whatever this was. But she moved forward, leaning against him, letting his tongue enter her mouth. Her hand was on the back of his head, while they kissed and kissed with such passion, winsor deep red, she was overwhelmed. Before she realised it, while they kissed, his hands were unbuttoning her blouse.
“I will stop if you want me to,” he said quietly, stroking her skin above the top of her chemise.
Emily knew she was blushing bright red, but the touch of his hands were doing something she could not resist, even had she wanted to. “Don’t stop,” she whispered.
He smiled. “My darling girl,” he murmured, and he kissed her again, as deeply and passionately as before, while he opened her blouse and pulled it off. Her heart was at war with her head. While Baden’s fingers untied the laces of her corset, her father’s warnings were alizarin crimson in her mind. But the touch of Baden’s hands on her skin softened the shades magenta and warm rose madder. She undid the buttons at the side of her skirt.
“You don’t wear many petticoats,” Baden said, smiling, as he drew down her stockings, followed by her drawers. “She wears a dozen all at once. It will take a full day to get through them all. If I wanted to try,” he added, muttering.
Clad only in her thin knee-length chemise, Emily unravelled the purple madder silk tie from under his collar. He kissed and kissed her, his hands sliding under the cotton chemise while her trembling hands unfastened the buttons of his shirt. At length he realised she was having difficulty with the small pearl buttons and he put her hands aside and undressed himself, down to his knee-length drawers. As he pulled his socks off, Emily stopped him.
“I want to look at you,” she said, smiling. “I’ve never seen what a man looks like before.” She leaned over and kissed him. “And just think how much better my paintings will be if I know what’s under the shirt and trousers.”
Baden laughed and sat back. “Go on then, take a good look,” he said, watching her.
There was something quite arousing, and amusing, in the intense way she looked at him. Her hands followed, touching his skin with the very tips of her fingers, tracing the outline of the muscles. Her touch, as light as a butterfly’s wings, was driving him mad. He clenched his fists to stop himself from holding her hands. If she wanted to look, and touch, then she could. Her hands stroked his stomach and circled his navel, gently pushing the waistband of his drawers down. She leaned forward and kissed him wherever her hands had lingered. He moved his head back, leaning against the edge of the sofa. She undid the drawstring of his drawers, he groaned and slipped them off. Emily pulled off her chemise. They spent the afternoon exploring all the colours and coaxing out the shades in each other’s bodies. The little room was full of colour, exploding and shimmering like fireworks, though the world outside went on its way in shades of green, grey, and brown.

      A new pattern developed and Emily’s life became a kaleidoscope of vivid colours now that she shared most of it with Baden. The painting was finished but she made the excuse that it needed to air-dry for a while, anything to give Baden a reason to visit the studio. Not that he needed one; he arrived most afternoons with a small posy of flowers, a pot of honey, a box of cakes, or some other silly, small gift. On her birthday, Baden brought Emily an expensive bottle of rose perfume. Ophelia smelt it on him while giving him a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. After that, he carefully bathed when he returned home after an afternoon with Emily. Sometimes, after making love, they would lie wrapped in each other’s arms, and talk of everything and nothing. All the nonsense that lovers loved to indulge in, and the horrors. What if we had never met? What if I never see you again? What if she finds out? The whole world was reduced to the size of the small studio. Sometimes he stayed all night and they slept in Emily’s narrow bed in the box-room. Sometimes they went out and had tea in a common-or-garden café. He bought tickets for the back stalls of the theatre, the cheapest option. Though they often had to leave as soon as the play ended, in case people his family knew were in the theatre. Once they went to a gallery showing of another impoverished artist. But mainly they stayed in the studio, loving and being loved. They felt like they could live like that forever. They knew that it would all end in a moment.

      True to her vow, Emily’s eyes stayed dry while they dressed and set the room to rights.
“What will you do?” Baden asked, his eyes dark with grief.
“When you’re exchanging your vows,” Emily said, “I will be in Grand Central in Manhattan, catching a train.”
“Where will you go?”
Emily smiled. “I have no idea. I think I like the idea of going west. Maybe there will be a place for an artist in Texas.”
Baden hugged her. “I wish I’d never met you. No I don’t, I wish Ophelia never existed.”
“Darling, if she didn’t exist, she would not have come all this way to marry you, and your father would not have commissioned me to paint your portrait. And then we would never have met.”
Baden checked his pocket watch. “In three hours, I’ll be married.”
“But I will always belong to you,” Emily said, “and you will always be mine.”
He left then. Emily watched him out of the window. The was shining so brightly that she couldn’t tell if he looked up at her. But she waved anyway.

      Three hours went by quickly. Emily stood in the middle of the crowd on the platform waiting for the train for the first step of the journey to Texas. Her bags were beside her, her canvases and paints parcelled up and left in the luggage compartment. She stood still, barely noticing the people around her. They rushed by in smears of dull, subdued colours; mars violet brown, Payne's grey, and lamp black. Everything was muted and as sombre as a funeral.
      A hand touched her face, then grasped her shoulder and turned her, and Baden smiled down at her.
“I couldn’t do it,” he said. He spoke quietly but Emily heard every word in the middle of the noisy station. “I looked at my wedding clothes, all laid out on my bed, and they looked like they belonged to someone else. I didn’t want to live in a lie, so I wrote a letter to my father, quickly, while I was packing.” He laughed at the mad rush he’d had to shove as much as he could into a holdall. “He’ll tell her. I have a brother she’d like better than me, anyway.”
Emily had been staring up at him, barely believing what she saw or heard. She flung her arms around him and hugged him.
“What will we do? Where will we go?” she said, trying not to cry and attract attention.
“I’ve still got the wedding rings in my pocket. I could get a special license and we could get married. If you’d like to,” he added, suddenly not so sure. “I like the idea of going to Texas, but it’s a long way. We’ll have to go to Chicago first, and get married somewhere along the way.”
Emily’s eyes shone brightly, dark forest green and gold. “I want to marry you,” she said. And Baden sighed with relief. The train huffed and puffed it’s way into the station in clouds of smoke and steam: Chinese white, transparent white, pewter and silver. Baden took hold of her hand and led her to the first class compartments.
“I’ve only got a third class ticket,” she said discretely quiet as the dark-skinned burnt umber porter ushered them in.
“It’s all right, I bought first class tickets,” Baden said. “We may be eloping, but we’re going to do it in style.”
      Emily settled into a very comfortable seat next to Baden. She was shy and awkward in her shabby clothes, but Baden looked at her, his girl, with joy and pride in his eyes and she felt as though she wore cloth-of-gold and sky blue. Everything was flushed with light. Everything and all of life, was awash with the colour of love.