This rejection could have filled me with dread and despair, yet it had the opposite effect. I began to get an inkling of the endless possibilities ahead of me. And none of those possibilities included the dreary Miss Pruit and her feeble tool.
“Over the knee!” my governess commanded.
I looked her firmly in the eye. “I shall do no such thing. You’ve no longer authority over me.”
She looked furious, but impotently so. “Perhaps your parent will have something to say about that!”
“Perhaps, but I doubt it. I am of age, no longer a girl for some time, and I shan’t be treated as one. If you think that you alone, or with the help of the silly Matilda can implement any punished, or what you so inadequately inflict and have the nerve to describe as such, then by all means, make your move, Miss Pruit. I guarantee you, though, that you will find me changed.”
Something in my face must have told her that even with the help of several Matildas, she would not have her satisfaction. Grumbling, she retreated to another part of the house, defeat apparent in her posture, yet I noticed a bit of grudging acceptance on her face.
Things would be different for me, of that I was convinced.
Vita had given me a new lease on my own life. Tomorrow I would begin by purchasing art supplies. And on the weekend, I would visit Gladys’ estate as myself, Miss Dorianne Gray. Whether accepted or not, I felt a new-found strength that I knew would stand me in good stead.
Retreating to my room, I laid in bed, my bottom hot and sensitive, running my hands across my backside, savoring every delicious sensation, reviving for myself the memory of my day with Vita and all that I had endured, both pleasure and pain.
Yes indeed, my life would be different. From now on, my desires would be fulfilled!
Chapter Twenty
When morning broke, I was dressed and cheerful. I kissed the obstinate Miss Pruit on the cheek, which startled her, and handed Matilda a few bob for herself. Both of them eyed me as if I’d lost my mind entirely, but I felt far too pleased to incorporate their negative insinuations into my mood.
I traveled to the Marble Arch by carriage, then decided to walk the few blocks to the supplier. There, I purchased tins of color, jars of oil, sable brushes, and several bamboo brushes from the Orient, a palette on which to mix the paint, an easel and an assortment of frames, asking that the canvas be stretched for me and shipped immediately with the other goods. I also purchased a jar of India ink, and took a quill used for drawing as well as several fine brushes with me.
The day was truly glorious. The sun shone brilliantly, painting all of London, even the dreary parts, with a life-affirming glow. I strolled the streets, nodding to the ladies and gentlemen I passed, a peaceful smile on my face. I had not, in some time, felt this happy and free. I had a purpose, as defined for me by Vita. I knew where I was going.
I visited The British Museum, looking with delight at the Elgin Marbles, the Rosetta Stone, the various sculptures and carvings and paintings adorning the galleries. Never had I appreciated this beauty before, not in this manner. Previously I had come here, seeing these works as from afar. They were “Works of Art,” created by masters, not something I myself might aspire to achieving. Now, though, I entertained fantasies that I might one day create a work that would please me, if no one else.
I began to envision a collection of paintings, each accompanied by a piece of writing, poetry perhaps, which would elaborate on and illuminate the visual works. While I thought of this, I opened a sheaf of sketching paper I’d purchased and took out the ink and quill. Absently, I began drawing, copying the bronze figure of the Satyr before me. I sketched his broad chest, the hairy lower portion of his body, those elfin ears, cloven hooves. The phallus and testicles. The lines of the sculpture were easy to reproduce, and I discovered a natural talent for such imitation.
“A fair impression,” came a voice from behind me.
I turned abruptly. There stood Lord Henry Wotton. For once, I was pleased to see him.
“Lord Henry! Imagine seeing you here.”
“What, you think I have no interest in the finest works mankind has produced?”
“Forgive me,” I said, “but that was not my implication. I simply meant, I’m delighted to see you.”
“Are you?” He looked amused by the idea, yet there was a warmth to his eyes that I found comforting and appealing.
“Indeed. You were most kind to me, er, to my cousin the other night. Dorian was particularly upset. Lost love will do that to a man.”
“And to a woman. But as to your cousin, some love might come across his life, and purify him, and shield him from those sins that seemed to be already stirring in spirit and in flesh.”
“What an odd thing to say!” I commented, a bit unnerved by his analysis. “You speak as though you know Dorian’s innermost secrets. I shan’t imagine my cousin capable of anything particularly sordid.”
“Oh, perhaps not sordid, which was not my reference. More…misguided. Those who are out of touch with their own natures are often misguided, don’t you agree, Miss Gray?”
I thought for a moment. Lord Wotton was saying much the same thing Vita had said. Formerly, I should have thought him pompous, and rejected the substance of his statement for the tone in which it was delivered. I returned my blackened quill to the page and continued to sketch. “As you say, Lord Henry, one should be true to one’s nature. Take this Satyr, for instance.
His is a duel nature, and I suspect he must be true to both.”
“Indeed,” he said, seating himself next to me. “That would appear to be the case. On the other hand, both animal and human nature dictate that he be of the male gender.”
I paused. “Yes, that is so.” I waited for his point.
Lord Henry, though did not pursue this discussion. Instead he began discussing with me the drawing I’d made, identifying the lines I had sketched well and, thankfully, omitting comment on those that needed work. The omissions spoke loudly, though, and I certainly saw where I was lacking, which actually inspired me to study in an effort to increase my knowledge. “You’ve a natural talent,” he said. “You need instruction, and discipline, but those are obtainable.”
Hearing this set my mood on an even more positive upward swing and made me feel very kindly toward him.
We spent the afternoon together, and I found him far more congenial than on previous occasions. In fact, I suppose if truth be known, I bordered on liking the man.
As the guard rang the bell to indicate the closing hour,
Lord Henry offered me a ride in his carriage, back to my home. I accepted gladly.
The ride was a pleasant one, until our coach crashed into something very suddenly. I was thrown forward, onto my knees.
Lord Wotton leapt out of the carriage to see what was the matter.
In the moments that passed while I righted myself, a terrible argument ensued. Lord Henry raised his voice to the heavens, yelling some of the most outrageous things, the tone and manner not that of an English gentleman at all. I was so startled, I leaned out of the window to see what was going on.
There, on the pavement, stood a ruffian and his three cohorts. Brazen, they were. Two of them had hands on hips in an insolent manner, the third has his fists raised. The fourth, though, was lifting a weapon. I was shocked by this! Lord Henry faced them alone! Surely he would be injured, perhaps severely.
In a second, I leapt from the carriage. I pushed my way between the thugs and ordered them in no uncertain terms to desist. “You’ve no right to terrorize us! And to form a gang to do it! Where is your decency?”
One of them laughed. Another looked sobered by my words.
The third lowered his weapon, although he still seemed angry. And the forth simply turned away.
“Hiding behind a woman’s skirts, is it?” the one who laughed said.
Lord Henry raised a fist, but I would have none of it. “Stop it this instant! All of you. Act like gentlemen. You are in the presence
of a lady, Miss Dorianne Gray, and I insist you behave accordingly!”
The rogues departed, more, I sensed, from boredom, and perhaps because of the gathering crowd than for any reason connected with my message or tone. Once they were halfway up the street, Lord Henry took my arm, quite roughly, and pulled me back to the coach and inside.
“What is the matter with you?” I asked, pulling my arm from his grasp.
His face was livid. He turned to me and spoke in the most severe tone—I had never been addressed in that manner before. “In future, Miss Gray, you will mind your own business and not interfere in my affairs.”
“Your affairs, Lord Wotton, are also mine when I am a guest in your carriage! Besides, they would have beaten you to a pulp!”
“If that were the case, and I doubt very much such would have occurred—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Did you not see that there were four of them? One with a weapon?”
“I saw that there were four. Three weaklings, and one so fearful he needed a tool. My driver and myself would have taken them easily.”
I paused for a moment. “I did not think of the driver. I suppose it narrowed the odds a bit.”
“You did not think at all, which can be an admirable quality in a woman, or the bane of a man’s existence!”
“Well, it shall be neither to you. I was simply doing what I could to help in a situation that seemed overwhelming. If my help is not appreciated—”
“It is not!”
“Then I shall not offer it in future. And, in fact, to ensure that such does not occur again, from this moment on, I insist that you do not appear in my presence!”
“The queen has spoken!”
The man was infuriating! I opened the door of the carriage and stepped out. “I shall relieve myself of your odious presence at once.”
“Not very likely, for you are still a woman, and it is my duty to escort you.”
“Duty be damned! I’ll not have you in my company at all!
Please leave me alone, or I shall be forced to call for a constable.”
Lord Henry slammed the carriage door after me. “Miss Gray, you are wilful and stubborn, and I should thoroughly enjoy having you under my control!”
“Rest assured, that shall never happen, Lord Wotton! Not in this lifetime!”
He shouted up to the driver, and the carriage sped off.
In my fury, I began walking, not even knowing where. My pace was astonishing, and it was some time before I realized that the sky had darkened and I was in a part of London where I had not before been.
This knowledge, dawning on me quite suddenly, unnerved me slightly. I glanced in every direction and realized quite quickly that I was alone. As I rounded a corner, the noise of a drunken crowd, and wild music emanating from a pub met me. I glanced at the wooden sign above the door, into which the name of the place had been etched: The Sticky Wicket. I determined I would enter there and have one of the men engage a carriage for me to take me home.
At that very moment, though, the door of the pub burst open, and a man flew out, landing at my feet in a puddle, splashing mud on my skirt. It was Lord Henry Wotton, and he was highly inebriated!
Chapter Twenty-One
“You are a sight for sore eyes, Dorianne!” he said, slurring his words mightily, then belching in a most revolting fashion.
“And you, sir, are a drunken sot!”
His coat was stained, by I presumed ale, which he stank of, and his eyes were bloodshot, not that they could focus very well. I was of a mind to leave him lying in the gutter; the thought appealed to me. But as I stared at the man at my feet, he began to look utterly pathetic to me. And, in truth, my temper had cooled with the descending temperature. It was late by this time, and the air chilly; I longed for home and bed. Despite detesting the repulsive Lord Wotton, I felt some perverse loyalty to a man of my class, and could not see leaving him here to be beaten and robbed, although again, the notion of that did not exactly upset me.
I bent to help him to a seated position, which proved difficult. Several fellows from the pub came out just then and helped me bring him to his feet. He could not stand without swaying, and it seemed impossible to have him upright without a prop, which turned out to be me.
“Would you be so kind as to hail me a transom?” I said to one of the lads, a Scottish fellow of considerable girth, wearing a kilt.
“Aye, lass, it would be my pleasure. You’re fellow, here, he’s had a wee too much of the barley. Don’t be hard on him, though. I’m sure something weighs on his mind, else he would have been with you.”
I ignored the comments, concentrating instead on keeping Lord Wotton standing. It seemed an eternity before a small coach pulled up. The driver and the Scotsmen loaded Lord Henry into the cab, then one of them helped me up also. Lord Henry had hardly sat back then he fell to the side. Even before I’d given the driver his address, the man was asleep. I had little money, and the Scotsman would take none of it, but he did accept my profuse gratitude.
Once we reached the address on Regency Street, Lord Henry’s French manservant, Pierre, came to the rescue. The three of us—the driver included—practically carried the sooty man upstairs to his bedroom, Pierre complaining all the way that a lady should not be in a gentleman’s bedroom—he might as well have been an English nanny, for he was unlike any Frenchman I’d encountered!
While Pierre returned to the street with the driver to locate Lord Wotton’s hat, I took the opportunity to study my nemesis’ bedroom. The room was large and well-proportioned. There was a huge Italian cassone, with its fantastically-painted panels and tarnished gilt moldings. A satinwood bookcase was filled with dog-eared volumes. On the wall behind it hung a Flemish tapestry where a faded king and queen played chess in a garden while a company of hawkers rode by carrying hooded birds on their gauntleted wrists. A small rosewood Méredienne stood against one wall, with a matching rosewood dresser, which completed the furnishings.
There was also, of course, the large Germanic bed on which Lord Henry lay in his filthy clothing, snoring. The bed was a four poster, made of solid heavy wood, dark enough to be ebony. Other odd pieces of masculine presence were apparent here and there. Overall, though, the place looked Spartan, which surprised me.
A forest green velvet curtain hung from the ceiling. Thinking I would have a look down to the street to see what was keeping Pierre, I pulled the drape aside. There was no window behind, and what I saw shocked me. A portrait! Nearly identical to the one I possessed, but the subject was female—me! I moved close to examine my own visage. This painting, like my own canvas, had altered, that was clear—the features were mine, as surely as they were when Basil had painted them, which must have been at the same time he painted the other.
I stood in awe for long moments studying the portrait, in truth flabbergasted that it existed at all, and astonished that it was so like the other—it was like looking in a three-way mirror. One a male turning into a female, the other a female turning into a male. My head began to spin, and certainly questions came to the fore about my identity!
But other questions were prominent too: Why had Basil done a second painting, of Dorianne, in secret, and not told me of its existence? When had Lord Wotton taken possession of it? And, more importantly, why were these paintings altering and what did this all mean?
I heard Pierre on the landing and dropped the velvet. “Mademoiselle Gray, I have secured for you the coach. If you please, I shall see to Monsieur Wotton now. May I escort you below?”
He led me to the carriage and paid the driver to take me home. All the way I pondered the strange occurrences of this day and night. I had gone from loathing Lord Henry, to feeling kindly toward him, to experiencing an attraction, to hating him, to having him elicit my sympathies, enough that I did not abide by my first instinct, which was to let him rot in the gutter.
For the life of me, I could not understand myself. But many of Vita’s words returned, and although I did not understand h
er meaning, I somehow felt that regardless of how confused I was at the moment, the universe just might be unfolding as it should.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Over the next few days I found myself spending more and more time alone in my attic room, painting. The changing portrait captured my attention, and I strove to recreate it in its various stages of transformation. Another object that caught my new-found artist’s eye was the leather dildo I’d purchased from Vita. Using the latter as the basis for my model, I did ink drawings, creating bodies to fit the phallus. I began with my own, using the portrait and combining it with the dildo, but soon the images surrounding the rawhide cock took on other shapes. I sketched several gentlemen of my acquaintance, including Basil, Sybil and her partner and probable husband at the theater, several of the artists who appeared at Basil’s atelier, various servants I’d met, like Pierre, the Captain at Vitas, Vita herself, various and sundry servants—Matilda looked superb with a cock! It was a wonderful release, imagining all these people naked, or at least the ones I hadn’t seen.
One afternoon, though, I was struck suddenly by the fact that I had not done a drawing of Lord Henry. The notion of recreating him in ink seemed impossible, for some part of me insisted that I discover what he looked like beneath the worsted suits and linen shirts. I put that project aside, and continued on with my sketches.
I found my own work both satisfying, and yet I also saw what each drawing or painting lacked, and felt a direction—to make the next one even more like the image inside my head.
The weekend finally arrived, and I had Matilda pack my things for my visit to the country home of Gladys Monmouth. At the last second, while Matilda was out of the room, I slipped Dorian’s outfit, and the leather dildo, under my own clothing.
Darker Passions: The Picture of Dorian Gray Page 12
