The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  ‘I would have answered it!’ Mrs Eddington shrugged, and left him to do it.

  Peter grabbed the receiver to stop the blasted ringing echoing all around the entrance hall and foyer. ‘Hello?’ He attempted to sound awake in case this was a business call. Who it was would determine whether or not Peter chose to wake up.

  ‘They’re beautiful!’

  It was Gabrielle, and she sounded really excited about something.

  ‘This is the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen!’

  You sent flowers, Peter received the memo from his conscious mind. ‘Excellent,’ he replied, shaking his head to get his wits about him. ‘That’s exactly what I ordered.’

  ‘It was very sweet . . .’ She lowered her voice to speak more intimately with him; he assumed she was at the nurses’ desk. ‘Especially after receiving your lovely email.’

  That’s right, you wrote an email too. ‘Well, I didn’t want you getting the impression I’m not thinking about you.’

  ‘You’d better not be thinking about me,’ she teased, just to confuse the issue. ‘You’d best be focused on that book, or I’ll never get to see you.’

  Peter felt it a good thing she couldn’t see the smile on his face.

  ‘How many more pages until you get to twenty?’

  ‘I’m not too sure.’ Peter had fallen asleep while editing. ‘About four, last time I checked.’

  ‘Do you think you can accomplish four pages today?’

  As Peter considered the query, he also saw flashes from the dream he’d been having. ‘I know what happened next,’ he uttered, surprised that he did.

  ‘So that’s a yes?’

  ‘Yes!’ Peter was so excited he just had to get off the phone and write it down.

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll see you tonight then.’

  ‘Yep, good deal,’ Peter agreed, not thinking about anything beyond getting to his keyboard.

  ‘I’ll come over after work, and as far as eating any place I like, I choose your place. Gotta go. Thanks again for the flowers.’

  ‘Wait a second. Gabrielle?’

  The call ended before Peter could change the arrangement.

  He set the handset down on its base, feeling uneasy. If he called back to explain why he’d rather take Gabrielle out, he might just stir up a rivalry between Gabrielle and Em that did not exist. Gabrielle had stayed here before without incident; but that was before Em had become Peter’s muse. ‘Well, I need another opinion on my work before it goes to Fabrizia, Em will understand that.’ He decided his need to seek a bathroom took precedence over all in this moment.

  After a shower Peter returned to the lounge where he’d left the computer, and sat down before it feeling refreshed and ready to push on.

  ‘Before you start . . .’ Mrs Eddington entered with a breakfast tray, and setting it down, she noted his page count. ‘Goodness, you must be onto something.’

  ‘I am,’ Peter said surely, ‘although I’m not entirely sure where it’s all leading . . .’

  ‘Just follow the characters, Ms Whitman always said.’

  ‘I have a growing list of those.’ He held up his notes to show her.

  ‘I didn’t realise you were writing non-fiction,’ she commented upon reading the list.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Peter was most curious.

  ‘Well, Reginald Pettigrew . . . and Em Jewel.’ She pointed to the name at the bottom of the list that had a question mark next to it. ‘They were real people. Well, not Em Jewel as such, as that was merely the pseudonym under which Lord Pettigrew painted. Was that the Em character you were talking about?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Peter had to laugh, after what he’d just read about the man. ‘Pettigrew was a painter? Seriously?’

  ‘Oh yes, a very famous one.’

  Peter was both intrigued and perturbed to learn this.

  ‘Ms Whitman paid a fortune for one of his works, “The Lovers”, at auction,’ she informed him. ‘It’s hanging in the sitting room.’

  ‘Wait, what? An Em Jewel painting, hanging in this house?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  With her assurance Peter was out of his seat, and headed across the hall. ‘I haven’t even looked in here,’ he realised, and opening the door he was taken aback. ‘Oh my God!’ It was the picture Penelope had described Nathaniel viewing in the studio in the first scene of her book. He felt like he’d just stepped into not only Penelope’s story, but his own as well. ‘Now this is really strange.’ The painting was so sensual, so beautiful, that Peter knew it had not been painted by the character Henry and Emeline had described. ‘What’s more, one of the subjects depicted in the picture looked remarkably like Emeline, although the figure equally could have been a man . . . and thus her brother?’

  More research was needed. In the library, Peter found one of his research books — Art Adrift: A Crisis in Painting, 1920–1940 and Beyond — opened at the section relating to works of Em Jewel.

  ‘It was here all the time.’ He assumed Mrs Eddington had preempted his need, and he returned with the book to the lounge room.

  As he ate his breakfast he read. The entry was more a critique of the artist’s work, calling Em Jewel a fresh, sensual escape from the cold modernist movement of the time. What was fascinating to Peter was the picture of Lord Pettigrew alongside his biography, which maintained he was indeed an art collector and critic prior to venturing into painting himself. Here was one of the characters of his story, a tall and otherwise unremarkable-looking fellow, with his nose high in the air. It was quite shocking to Peter, as he strongly suspected this ‘Proudfoot’ was a villain in his story.

  ‘This can’t be right.’ It hit home that the fanciful tale he was pursuing might well turn into an investigation. ‘This all happened eighty years ago.’ Peter doubted very much anyone would care; still, he couldn’t make accusations about a famous artist without having some kind of serious proof of a crime. ‘Well, at present this is fiction. It doesn’t have to be true, only feasible. Just follow the story, perhaps it is not leading where you think?’

  Peter placed the art book aside and picked up the journal of letters to reference Emeline’s last correspondence with her brother. In this letter the Lady advised her brother that a situation had arisen that left her no choice but to flee her charmed life and go into hiding. She feared he might never hear from her again, and if these letters were anything to go by, Emanuel never did. Thanks to Peter’s dream last night, he now knew the cause of Emeline’s woes.

  The secret the twins had been hiding, and the reason for the whole surreptitious affair surrounding their birth, was about to come to light.

  PLOT TWIST

  After the last performance of the tour, Henry had finally cleared Emeline’s dressing room of admirers and had gone to collect their fee from the theatre manager. He and Emeline were scheduled to head home first thing in the morning for a well-earned holiday. Alice was taking clothes from a rack and packing them into a chest, and for the first time since she’d begun her employment, she looked as if she took no joy in her work.

  ‘You appear woeful, Alice,’ Emeline noted in the mirror and turned about to view her. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

  ‘The tour is over, and so my employment with you has come to an end.’

  ‘But you have made a small fortune,’ the Lady made light of her woes. ‘You have earned a holiday, as have we all.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to go.’ Alice scowled at the notion.

  ‘We’ve been to so many amazing places, surely there is one you wish to return to and explore.’ Emeline turned back to the mirror to remove her jewellery, and Alice rushed to assist.

  ‘With whom? I am not fearless and respected like you.’ Alice removed the Lady’s clip-on earring, but brushed her hand gently against her mistress’s cheek. ‘I wish only to be with you.’

  Emeline gently took hold of Alice’s hand and the young woman dropped to her knees beside her.

  ‘Please, take
me home with you. There is no one else in this world I trust.’ Alice raised her large blue eyes to gaze up at her Ladyship. ‘There is no one else who I love.’

  ‘Alice, you are mistaken,’ Emeline insisted.

  ‘Do you not love me in return?’ Alice appealed, bravely.

  ‘I . . . I . . .’ Emeline was bemused by the query until Alice kissed her and she found herself unwilling to pull away. When their lips parted both women were smiling broadly at each other.

  ‘Please take me with you.’ Alice bit her lip.

  ‘That’s doing your job a little too well.’

  The women gasped, shocked to find Lord Pettigrew had snuck into the room while they were otherwise detained.

  ‘No wonder you reject my suit time and again . . . you fancy women!’ He gave a half laugh, no doubt thinking that explained everything. ‘But that will all end once you are married to me.’

  Emeline rose from her seat, furious. ‘When I threatened to call the police next time you shadowed my door, did you think me joking? Alice, run and fetch security for me.’

  ‘Yes, my Lady.’ Alice rose and moved past Lord Pettigrew, but he stopped her.

  ‘Her name is not Alice Roy.’ He turned her about to face Emeline. ‘Her name is Maggie Wright, and she’s an actress not a personal stylist. I know this, because I hired her from that theatre troupe you found her with. She and her associate put on a very good performance, don’t you think?’

  The Lady was taken aback, mainly due to the look of guilt on the young woman’s face.

  ‘I gave him back his money.’ The young woman broke free of his grasp and turned to Emeline. ‘Told him I didn’t work for him, I work for you.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you thought your little story about my harassment would see you free of me. Good help is so hard to find these days.’ The Lord shoved her out of the way once he’d made his point and approached Emeline. ‘So you see she only loves you because I paid her to.’

  ‘It’s not true!’ Alice insisted as the Lord backed Emeline up against her dresser. Despite how hard she pushed him away, he held his ground, and reached up inside her skirt, his delighted expression transforming into horror. ‘What’s this?’ He felt her up and then abruptly withdrew. It took him but a second to process his advantage and grin with glee. ‘You’re a she-male, a freak!’ He looked to Alice, who was puzzled by his remarks. ‘Obviously you never got intimate with his Ladyship.’

  Pettigrew turned back to Emeline to continue his snide assault, but was knocked unconscious by the empty champagne bottle she now held in her hand. ‘You should go,’ she said to Alice.

  ‘I’m staying with you,’ Alice insisted. ‘I don’t care what you are.’

  ‘I am going nowhere, I must cease to exist. When Proudfoot wakes up he will ruin me.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Alice appealed, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘You’re a good actress, I’ll give you that,’ said Emeline, in a detached fashion. ‘I thought myself a fairly good judge of character — until I met you.’

  ‘No —’ Alice wept, no doubt sad to see her plans exposed.

  ‘But now I see that all mankind are truly rotten to the core.’

  ‘Oh dear Lord.’ Henry entered and seeing the situation and Lord Pettigrew’s man, Mr Hugo Perkins, waiting right outside the dressing room, he closed the door swiftly. ‘What has happened?’

  Emeline looked to Henry with the fear of the devil in her eyes. ‘He knows. I must vanish.’

  Henry’s puzzled gaze shifted to Alice, no doubt wondering if that was why she was upset.

  ‘She was planted by Pettigrew,’ Emeline said coolly.

  Henry’s concerned expression turned hostile. ‘I told you to trust no one.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ The Lady began gathering her things.

  ‘Dead folks don’t tell secrets,’ Henry suggested and Alice gasped.

  ‘The chances of getting out of here are already slim,’ Emeline appraised. ‘Do you really want to up the ante?’

  ‘Well, how are we going to get you out of here?’

  ‘I have an idea.’ Alice wiped the tears from her face.

  ‘And why would we trust you?’ Henry objected.

  ‘What choice do you have?’ Alice challenged. ‘Just help me get Proudfoot to the lounge.’

  As Emeline and Henry exited, Emeline nodded to Mr Perkins and kept on walking, but Henry had a whisper to the gent. ‘You may wish to go get yourself a drink, your Lord may be a little while.’ He opened the door just enough for him to see Alice on top of the Lord on the lounge.

  ‘Oh yes, my Lord,’ she moaned as she writhed around on top of him.

  Henry closed the door and bid the gentleman a goodnight as he made haste to catch up with her Ladyship and see her into a cab.

  ‘Make sure she gets away safely,’ Emeline instructed him. ‘Then you must go home, Chester, Emanuel will need you.’

  ‘And you, my Ladyship?’ Henry would miss her terribly.

  Emeline smiled and then embraced her guardian. ‘All good things must come to an end, but it was fun while it lasted. Perhaps we shall meet again, my good man, you never know.’

  Henry watched the Lady Emeline Fairchild climb into a cab and drive off into the night. That was the last he ever saw of her.

  ‘Oh my God! This is amazing!’ Gabrielle set the last page down on the floor by the fire where she had been lying to read, and sitting up, she looked to Peter appearing gobsmacked. ‘I mean it . . . it’s really good!’

  ‘Phew!’ Peter, who was seated on the lounge re-reading some of his research, wiped his brow. ‘Thanks for reading all that.’

  ‘Thanks for writing it.’ Gabrielle retrieved her glass of wine from the coffee table and climbed onto the lounge next to Peter. She held up her drink to him in gratitude and had a sip. ‘So is that it?’

  ‘Oh no, there’s more,’ he assured her. ‘I’m still a little hazy on the ending, but I’m sure it will come to me.’

  ‘You’re doing it!’ Gabrielle shoved his shoulder, excited for him. ‘You are officially a writer.’

  ‘Yep, I am.’ Peter was grinning so hard his face hurt; he was actually really proud of himself. ‘My father must be rolling in his grave . . . his son giving up a promising medical career to be a writer!’

  ‘It’s your life.’ Gabrielle shrugged and placed her glass aside.

  ‘It’s taken me a while to figure that out, but now I have, I actually feel like I’m living, and not just going through the motions of existence. I don’t know why I didn’t pursue writing after my parents died; I guess I felt I was already too far along another path, or that I owed it to them to keep going with nursing? Thank goodness I met Penelope, or I’d still be asleep at the wheel of my own life.’

  ‘Well, success sure looks good on you.’ Gabrielle moved in for a kiss. ‘Love your work.’ Their lips met and she melted against him, whereupon a disturbance shot around the room.

  ‘Did you feel that?’ Gabrielle sat back to look around. ‘What was it?’

  It felt like an electrical wind had shot around the room, causing the lights to dim for a moment and it had left a vacuum in its wake that the open fire was still recovering from.

  ‘I don’t know, I missed it.’ Peter looked about warily, not wanting to suggest it might have been Em.

  ‘Do you think it’s Em?’ Gabrielle ventured, and Peter was stumped for what to say.

  ‘Is Grandma here?’ he asked, before realising the question rather answered her query.

  ‘It is Em!’ Gabrielle was delighted to conclude. ‘You think Em is jealous?’

  ‘Em has been known to be a bit protective of her creative channels,’ Peter admitted.

  ‘But according to what you’ve written, Emeline was a hermaphrodite who was more attracted to women than men,’ Gabrielle argued. ‘Or is your muse her brother? Is he a hermaphrodite also?’

  Peter grinned. ‘I don’t know.’

  Gabrielle shook her head, ashamed of him. ‘Y
ou are such a shitty liar.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait for the next instalment,’ he suggested, with a grin and Gabrielle attempted to hit him, but he grabbed both her arms. ‘I’m getting better at teasing though, you gotta admit?’

  ‘You are,’ she wholeheartedly agreed. ‘But you’re going to have to tell me what I want to know or I may get violent.’

  ‘Promise?’ Peter liked the sound of that.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Gabrielle moved closer and again the disturbance whipped around the room.

  ‘Aw, come on, Em,’ Peter appealed. ‘I’ve been working really hard.’

  ‘He has,’ Gabrielle backed him up on that, ‘and I’ll be gone first thing in the morning, I swear!’

  All was still and quiet.

  ‘Do you think that means we’re okay?’ Peter asked Gabrielle for her professional psychic opinion.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Could you get Grandma to ask?’ Peter suggested.

  ‘Grandma’s not here right now, but if I were in any danger she would be,’ Gabrielle reasoned, stealing a kiss quickly to test the waters. When there was no retaliation, they both melted into gratified grins and pursued their desire with abandon.

  It was not Emeline that Peter was following in his dream this evening, it was Emanuel. Peter sat in the back of a pristine vintage car, on a backwards-facing seat, opposite the Lord Fairchild. The vehicle’s windows were covered by curtains, and the Lord wore sunglasses and a hat to disguise himself. Emeline had always presented as blonde, but Peter suspected she wore a lot of wigs. Emanuel had dark hair, which he wore in a long crop, slicked back, but he was the spitting image of Emeline and might have been considered a very pretty young man, were his expression not so sour.

  ‘Society was bound to come seeking my sister,’ he was saying. ‘I had no choice but to sell the estate and vanish myself, lest we both be found. Not that I ever much cared for preserving the family honour, titles and so forth, as I would never marry and was bound to be the last of my name in any case. Thus, Chester arranged the sale of the estate and Lord Fairchild ceased to exist.’