His Dark Obsession (2 page)

Taking the steep, narrow steps two at a time, careful not to trip, Sarah came to a well-appointed entranceway with a long weathered wooden bench with room for a brass umbrella stand and hat hooks, to the right was a closed frosted glass door.
Mrs. Mildred Needham’s Studio of Virtuous Young Beautiful Women Artist Models
was written in crisp black letters.

Taking a steadying breath, Sarah turned the knob and entered the sparsely furnished parlor.

“Sophronia! You are late,” barked Mrs. Needham.

“Sorry, Mrs. Needham,” breathed Sarah, answering to the exotic name Mrs. Needham had chosen for her. When Sarah showed up on her doorstep a few months ago, Mrs. Needham had decried her black hair and
swarthy
complexion. Also detesting what she termed Sarah’s “heathen colonialist” name. Mrs. Needham rechristened her, Sophronia. So Sarah Grey of Dumfries, Virginia became Sophronia Greyson of…of…well…she couldn’t exactly remember where she was supposed to be from now. Mrs. Needham had mentioned it a few times but it was an odd sounding little place and Sarah would be damned…
dashed
if she could recall it.

“You are positively caked in mud,” snorted Mrs. Needham disdainfully, “and with an important new client expected any moment. He could open quite a few doors for us. Not to mention bring in a tidy sum.” The older woman buried her face in her white lace-edged handkerchief, the only spot of color in her unrelenting black widow’s weeds ensemble. Not that Mrs. Needham was a widow or a Madam for that matter. It was a necessary little bit of subterfuge in order to run her business.

Mrs. Mildred Needham’s Studio of Virtuous Young Beautiful Women Artist Models
provided female models for painters, theatrical posters, advertisements and the new amateur photographers. With London being a bustling, cultured city full of all sorts of artists and commerce there was always a great demand for females to sit for paintings and photographs. It didn’t pay much and it wasn’t entirely considered respectable work but it was better than domestic service or being a governess. Sarah found it exciting, except when she found it boring. The artists could be interesting and humorous but the sitting perfectly still for hours on end became terribly tedious.

Mrs. Needham was a good sort, if a bit dramatic. She treated her girls well and attracted a nice clientele. None of those shifty lot who only wanted a girl to pose stark naked for one of those French postcards. Mrs. Needham ran a clean establishment. Absolutely nothing scandalous. Of course, it depended on your definition of scandalous. Society had one definition. The art world had another. For the most part, her girls never posed nude but a classic, Grecian draping was acceptable under the proper circumstances. Proper being Mrs. Needham was paid the right amount of coin for the privilege.

Of course rumor had it Mrs. Needham was quite the loose tart back in the day. There were whispers she was the model for the famous painter Delacroix’s Odalisque…
the nude model
. The thought always made Sarah inwardly smile whenever Mrs. Needham lectured her about deportment and proper behavior. Sarah doubted if Mildred was even her Christian name. It was probably something far more scandalous like Maude or Millie.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Needham. I’m afraid the water-cart got at my skirts again,” mourned Sarah. Pulling at her sodden attire, as she told the half-truth. Hoping Mrs. Needham would be sufficiently distracted by her ruined skirts to notice her red cheeks and bright eyes. The absolute very last thing Sarah wanted was to arouse the curiosity of Mrs. Needham.

“Really. And how do you explain your tardiness?” asked Mrs. Needham crisply.

“Well see, it involves a dancing monkey and hurdy-gurdy player,” started Sarah, warming to her subterfuge...which again was only a half-truth she told herself.

Raising her palm up in warning, Mrs. Needham shouted, “Not another word, Sophronia.” Turning on her heel, she crossed the slightly worn carpet and pulled back the emerald green curtain separating the parlor from the private rooms. “Euphemia,” she called out. “Come here at once.”

After a moment, a delicate girl with reddish blond hair in a blue calico dress appeared. “Yes, Mrs. Needham.”

“Euphemia, do please take care of
this
,” implored Mrs. Needham with a sweeping hand in Sarah’s direction.

“Of course, Mrs. Needham,” said Euphemia with a curtsy as she grabbed Sarah by the arm and ushered her out of the room.

“The client will be here shortly. So do not dawdle,” called Mrs. Needham after their retreating backs.

Both girls giggled as they scurried along the back corridor, waiting till they were safely behind a closed door before bursting out laughing.

They were in the private salon which had been converted into a large ladies dressing room for all the girls. It had four full-length mirrors and several old wooden wardrobes filled with dresses. It even had some cast off costumes from the neighborhood West End theaters. Occasionally the clients requested a particular theme for their sittings and paid extra coin for Mrs. Needham to provide the props and costumes.

“You really need to tell her you hate the name Euphemia,” laughed Sarah. “It is truly dreadful.”

“You’re one to talk,
Sophronia
,” smirked Euphemia or more accurately Elma. Like Sarah, she was the recipient of a name change from Mrs. Needham. Elma was a “heathen Scot” from the Highlands. According to Mrs. Needham, Elma was cursed with garish red curls and similar to Sarah…a swarthy complexion. Mrs. Needham felt anyone not born within the borders of jolly old England was by default cursed with a less than ideal complexion usually described as
swarthy,
whether or not it was true, which in Sarah’s case it was not. Despite Mrs. Needham’s protestations, she was proud of the fact she could offer the gentlemen artists of London such a wide and varied selection of female models.

“Stop your teasing and get out of that dreadful outfit,” scolded Elma.

“What is the matter with my dress?” asked Sarah as she lifted her tweed skirt for inspection. “All it wants is a little brushing.”

The filthy London streets were a plague to any decent woman’s attire. A simple afternoon visit for tea would easily mean at least a full hour of vigorously brushing the bottom six inches of ones skirts to remove the dust and dirt. In Sarah’s case it was usually worse since she seemed to have a penchant for bumping into every water cart around the city, guaranteeing the simple dust became thick mud.

“You cannot be serious, Sarah!” laughed Victoria as she entered from the private drawing room.

Victoria was a favorite of Mrs. Needham. Statuesque with honey-brown locks, she came from a titled English family who had fallen on very hard times. Her rather unscrupulous father had tried to force her to sell herself in a gambling hall to settle the family’s debts. It was all very sordid. Victoria was crafty enough to escape him and seek employment with Mrs. Needham. As if being English and having an acceptable complexion was not enough for Mrs. Needham, Victoria was her real name! Fortunately, her disreputable father had the good graces to die shortly afterwards so Victoria had been with Mrs. Needham ever since. Despite her tragedies, Victoria was unassuming and always thoughtful and kind with the other girls.

“I think the dress suits the little savage.”

The same could not be said for Florence.

“Florence, please do not call Sarah a savage,” admonished Victoria as Florence sauntered into the room after announcing her presence with the sardonic remark at Sarah’s expense.

Florence narrowed her eyes at Sarah’s knowing smirk behind Victoria’s back.

Florence had taken an instant dislike to Sarah from the moment she arrived. Spreading rumors among the scullery maids and footmen that Sarah was a savage who would scalp them in their beds. No matter how many times Sarah tried to explain to the lower staff the difference between being an American and being an Indian native they still looked at her strangely and crossed themselves when she entered a room.

Sarah knew it was because Florence was bitter.

They were both petite with lush curves and thick black hair. If they were rivals for a suitor’s affections at a public dance, the similarity would be no bother but at an artist model studio, it meant a great deal. Until Sarah came along, Florence, or Florencia as Mrs. Needham called her, was in demand with the romantic classic artists who wanted drama and rich detail. Sarah’s more striking features and unique eye color had begun to draw away Florence’s regular clients. She was extremely resentful for it. No one really knew who Florence’s family was or where she came from but Sarah suspected it was someplace mean and low, like from a Dickens’ story. Florence might give the appearance of refined gentility but Sarah knew she was just aping her betters.

“You are right, Victoria,” said Florence sweetly, too sweetly. “Here, Sarah. Let me help you dress.”

Sarah eyed Florence suspiciously. At Victoria’s encouraging nod, Sarah reluctantly crossed the dressing room to where Florence was standing.

“How about I lend you one of my best dresses? Won’t that be wonderful? We want you to look beautiful, don’t you? Mrs. Needham did say it was an important new client,” rambled Florence with false enthusiasm as she roughly spun Sarah to face away from her and began to rip the jacket from her shoulders.

Sarah exchanged a confused look with Elma, who just shrugged her shoulders. Neither knew why Florence was suddenly being so nice.

Tensing, Sarah tried to pull away. “I’m sure I will be fine.”

“Nonsense,” answered Florence, smiling through clenched teeth as she clamped her finger’s down on Sarah’s upper arms.

Uneasy about Florence’s sudden beneficence but unwilling to cause a fuss, Victoria inclined her head. “Very well, Florence. I will see that Mary has the proper instructions for the refreshments Mrs. Needham would like served.”

“I’ll go with you!” offered Elma as she rushed after Victoria.

“No, Elma!” called out Sarah.

Elma mouthed a quick apology before disappearing through the front parlor door after Victoria.

“Really, Sarah,” laughed Florence, affronted. “You would think you were afraid to be alone with me.”

Giving a tense laugh in return, Sarah offered no other reply as Florence stripped her down to her thin cotton chemise.

Crossing to her personal wardrobe, Florence chose a beautiful magenta silk day dress trimmed with bright gold passementerie.

Reverently touching the dress, Sarah was impressed by the gesture. “Oh, Florence. I couldn’t. It is too beautiful.”

“Nonsense. Besides, I couldn’t possibly wear it. I’ve been seen in it too many times,” responded Florence nonchalantly. “Although I’m afraid my waist is
at least
two inches smaller than yours. We will have to tight lace you in order for it to fit properly.”

Sarah hesitated. Reluctant to break this sudden truce with Florence, she hated even the idea of tight lacing and had never tried it.

“Perhaps there is a different dress I could wear?” she asked hopefully.

Florence snatched the dress from Sarah’s grasp. Swinging violently away, she sniped, “Well, if my generous offer of assistance is going to be rejected with so little thought to my feelings…” Her voice laced with bitter disappointment, Florence let the rest of her words drop.

“Oh, please…please! I did not mean to offend! Please, Florence!” Sarah ran across the room to hug Florence around the waist from behind. “Please dear, please do not take offense,” begged Sarah. Sarah genuinely wanted Florence to forgive her. Not only for there to be the possibility of a future friendship between them but because she did not want Victoria to think she had been churlish.

“Very well,” acquiesced Florence. Sarah failed to notice her satisfied smirk. “You can wear one of my corsets. Yours is too shabby.”

“Whatever you wish, Florence.”

Sarah reluctantly let Florence wrap the whalebone-reinforced material around her ribcage.

“Brace yourself against the post, while I pull on the laces,” instructed Florence.

Sarah grabbed the soft polished edged of the heavy full-length mirror. Florence gave a sharp tug, almost knocking Sarah off her feet.

“Sarah! Brace yourself!” she admonished angrily.

“Sorry, Florence.”

Sarah angled her feet forward and held on tighter.

“Deep breath!”

Sarah took in a deep breath. She could hear the scrape of the ribbons as Florence pulled them tight. The fabric wrapped securely around her middle. At first it felt comforting, like an embrace. Florence gave another tug. Sarah glanced in the mirror. Her figure took on a pleasing hourglass shape. She was already that shape for the most part but this was more refined…more defined. Her waist took on the sharper focus of the ladies in the fashion magazines.

And oh my! Her bosom! Sarah was always a little shy about her bosom. There was something disrespectful about how it was so abundant. It seemed somehow wrong. Nice girls had small bosoms! She definitely did not look like a nice girl in Florence’s corset.
Goodness!

Then Florence gave
another
tug.