The Miss Fotheringays and the Faun (The Miss Fotheringays Investigate Book 1)

by Florrie Boleyn

  “Comfortable, Grace?” he said, smiling at the girl beside him and letting his eyes slide down her figure. She was rather slimmer than he liked a girl to be, not nearly as rounded as Millie Budge had been - now there was a corky girl - even though at first glance the two girls were similar; about the same height and shape. But Millie had had pert little breasts of the sort that quite made a chap’s hands itch to grab, whereas Grace, well, Gervais supposed one would have to describe Grace as 'elegant'. Pretty nice in the flanks, he would have assumed - and hoped to be able to determine for sure during the course of this photographic session, if he could only steer old Madame Ravilious the way he wanted - and he was pretty sure he could; steering married ladies was something of a hobby of his.

  Grace enjoyed the drive. It was a rare event indeed for her to drive instead of walking, and she had never in her life driven in a smart turn-out like Master Gervaise’s. She felt quite the grand lady, sitting up beside the Master, and instinctively held herself up, smiling down in a condescending way at the various sheep and cows in the fields that bordered the lanes. She didn’t quite have the nerve to do the same to the actual people they met, when they approached the town, but at least she tried to look as if riding in a smart gig was something she was accustomed to every day, and she did it so well that it was rather a shame that most people were in church or chapel when they passed along the High Street.

  Mrs. Ravilious at the Rectory was delighted with their early arrival, and ushered Grace straightaway into the studio while Gervais gave his orders to Hobbs, who passed them on to the knife and boot boy, promoted to the rank of groom for the occasion since the official Rectory groom was sitting well back in church, supported by a pillar and allowing his eyes to droop until the Rector should be finished with his work for the day.

  “Now this is the scene, Grace dear: this bowl represents the edge of a pool, and you are a wood nymph about to take a drink from it.” Grace nodded. “Really!”, Mrs. Ravilious clasped her hands together, “you are so like! For you know I had the idea for this composition, this photograph you understand, when I saw a truly wonderful painting by Mr. Burne-Jones, and really, Grace, you could not be more like the girl in the painting if I you had been twin sisters!” A thought struck Mrs. Ravilious. “You don’t have any sisters, or cousins perhaps, in London, do you?” Grace shook her head; she was still too unsure of herself to venture into unnecessary speech. “No, of course not, it is simply a marvellous coincidence - although, who knows? For it always seems to me that coincidences are sent by the gods to guide us,” said Mrs. Ravilious, laughingly, “although do not be repeating that to my husband!” She trilled again. “So - in the painting the nymph, Psyche, was, er...unclothed, but of course we will not be attempting anything of that nature today! Not with Gervais Weston...no, certainly not today, although...” a calculating look came into her eye, “...it could well be... in the future, perhaps..., but anyway, not today.” Grace smiled tentatively, trying to hide her nervousness. Perhaps it had not been such a good idea to agree to this photography lark, although it had sounded very exciting when she had first heard of it, and she had been so flattered to hear that the ladies thought so much of her looks, when most of her life she had sighed under the distinctively unflattering epithet of 'Carrots'.

  “However,” continued Mrs. Ravilious, “despite the limitations of clothing, I think we should try to get as dégagé an air as possible, so if we could let your hair down, Grace dear, and perhaps loosen - oh dear, does your pretty dress not loosen? It is rather restricting, but perhaps you would consent to wear a silk gown of mine? I am sure we could pin it... gather it where necessary, and that would...” Talking volubly all the while, Mrs. Ravilious led Grace upstairs to her bedroom, where she helped her out of her print cotton and into a pale blue silk dress. “Now this,” said Mrs. Ravilious, belonged to my grandmother. Isn’t it just wonderful? Such a change from today’s fashions!”

  “Was it her nightdress?” whispered Grace.

  Mrs. Ravilious trilled musically again (such things were actually taught in her milieu and as a girl she had practised her laugh to the notes of a piano). “No, this was the sort of thing they had for day wear. Almost incredible isn’t it? And here we are with our layers of stiff petticoats, and whalebone corsets and even cages back in fashion, I understand - although not yet here in Rotherford, of course.”

  Grace looked at herself in the mirror. To her she seemed dressed - or undressed - for bed, but the feeling of silk next to her skin (apart from her shift and bloomers of course) was quite splendid, and with her hair down and her shoulders and arms quite bare, she considered that she really felt like a wood nymph. She thought Elwy would like to see her like this and smiled, but then the next thought - of what he would say and do if he ever knew that she had dressed like this to have her photograph taken with Master Gervais - drove the blood from her face. She put out frantic arms to reclaim her print dress, but Mrs. Ravilious had no intention of losing her model and guided her implacably out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the studio, where Gervais was waiting.

  Gervais’ eyes widened as he saw Grace enter. Now that was something like, he thought. And the girl had a lot more in the chest than he had conjectured now that she was out of that constricting, heavy cotton dress. He felt a familiar tightening in the pit of his belly and smiled his most charming smile. “Quite beautiful,” he said. “There’s a picture of one of my ancestors, ancestresses, should it be?” he laughed gaily, “hanging on the landing at the Manor; she’s wearing a dress just like that one.” That made Grace feel somewhat better and she sat composedly enough on the chair Mrs. Ravilious pointed her to.

  “Now you, Mr. Weston,” she said.

  “Oh, call me Gervais,” he said cheerily, “everyone does - you too, Grace!”

  “Me, sir?” said Grace, shocked. “I couldn’t possibly!”

  “No, I suppose the mater wouldn’t like it. Pity. But you were saying, Mrs. Ravilious?” He turned his boyish charm full on to the Rector’s wife. “How would you like me to dress, or undress?” He flashed an oblique look at her, calculated to tease and invite, but he had reckoned without the Artistic Temperament - Mrs. Ravilious was far too absorbed in the creation of her scene to notice the looks thrown out by her models.

  “I think you are dressed very nicely,” she said, evaluating the possibilities of his attire. “If we can only remove your neckcloth, and perhaps loosen the collar of your shirt.”

  “I could take it off, if you wanted,” offered Gervais.

  Mrs. Ravilious looked startled, but considering. “Would you really?” she said, and looked from one to the other of her models. Perhaps it was something in Grace’s face that made her, of a sudden, remember her husband and his position as Rector of a small town. “Perhaps not,” she said regretfully, lamenting the impediments to artistic fulfilment inherent in being a Rector’s wife.

  Gervais laughed again, and his eyelid flickered in the ghost of a wink. “One day,” he smiled at Mrs. Ravilious, who was about to speak, but caught the smile and the flutter of the eye and paused, taken rather aback. Was this good looking young man jesting with her? He seemed to be treating her as... as a young man would treat a young woman. No! Impossible! But... Mrs. Ravilious’ heart gave a little jump in her breast, and she swallowed. Gervais saw the movement. Got you! he thought.

  “So,” said Mrs. Ravilious, collecting her wits. Suddenly the room seemed rather warm; even young Grace, who was undeniably a little underclad, had a flush to her cheeks. “So, let us begin. If you, Grace, would kneel here, as I explained to you, and if you, er, Gervais would stand here, but lean forward as if to raise up the nymph. Yes, quite. The look, Gervais, should be one of imperious desire, if you can imagine such a thing. Oh I can, I can, thought Gervais. “And you, Grace, should look up at him, a little startled, but not unwilling. Yes! that looks very good, and, as you see, I have a mirror here, angled to throw extra light from the window onto the subject, so let me just l
ook at the pose through the lens of the camera...” Mrs. Ravilious disappeared under the black cloth that covered the camera apparatus and Gervais looked down at Grace. Grace looked away, down at the bowl of water which had, she could see, little specks of lint floating in it. Gervais, from where he was posed, had a pretty good view of the swell of Grace’s breasts, and he could see her nipples clearly outlined against the silk of the dress. God, the girl was excited, he thought, this dressing up lark was doing the job for him; she’d be putty in his hands on the drive home. He was getting pretty excited himself, and if she would just bend forward a bit more... “How does it look?” he called to Mrs. Ravilious.

  There was a muffled response from under the black cloth. “I think it’s quite good.”

  “Do you not think that perhaps the nymph should be reaching into the water?” he suggested. “Maybe cupping some water into her hands to drink?”

  “Now that is an interesting suggestion,” replied the black cloth, “could you try it, Grace, while I watch the effect?”

  Grace changed her balance to cup her hands and reach forward into the bowl, and Gervais almost groaned aloud.

  “Splendid!” cried the black cloth. “Now if you could both just hold that pose for some seconds. I will count slowly to twenty and we will hope that is enough. Hold quite still, now!”

  Waiting for someone to count to twenty 'quite slowly', is really rather a long time to hold a trying pose, and Grace could feel the tension in her back and thighs. Gervais could feel the tension in quite another part of his body, and was longing to reach a hand down into the open neckline of Grace’s dress. Not yet, he told himself, and himself answered Now, now!, in an urgent growl.

  Mrs. Ravilious stopped counting, emerged from the black cloth and announced a few minutes’ respite while she changed the plate for another exposure. Grace leaned back on her heels and stretched her arms; Gervais whimpered silently.

  Mrs. Ravilious carefully inserted a new plate into the apparatus and then smiled at her models. “I think that will be wonderful, but you know I have just remembered that in Mr. Burne-Jones’ painting, the young man - he is actually meant to represent the pagan god Pan - has his hand on the nymph’s head. Would you just try that, Mr Weston, er, Gervais?”

  “Pleased to,” said Gervais easily, and waited for Grace to get back into position. Once she was bent, cupping the water again, he manoeuvred to get the best view of her bosom and then reached out a hand to her head. The moment of contact was almost electric - he felt quite a shock, and the girl felt it too, he was sure, there was a rising tide of rose over her breast and her cheeks were flushed.

  “That looks excellent,” said Mrs. Ravilious, once more under the black cloth, and Gervais cleared his throat.

  “Should my hand be on her head, do you think, Mrs. Ravilious - Margaret, if I may?,” he smiled at the camera, “or should it be on her shoulder?”

  “By all means try the hand on the shoulder,” agreed Mrs. Ravilious - as he thought she might.

  “I’ll move my hand slowly so you can tell me to stop if you see something you like,” said Gervais, who was certainly seeing something he liked and was, by this time, absolutely determined to reach it. Slowly he moved his hand down the side of Grace’s face and onto her neck, brushing back the tress of russet hair that lay there. Then his hand lightly moved along to cup the roundness of her shoulder. Her skin was warm under his hand, and trembling slightly, which didn’t surprise him, he was trembling a little himself. He looked down at his hand, so close, so close to that all-tempting breast...he could feel her flesh quiver, he could swear the girl wanted it as much as he did...he heard the sound of the camera aperture shutting and took his chance, sliding his hand the last remaining inches down into the opening of the silk dress, feeling Grace move away which, given the awkwardness of her position, only brought her breast in closer connection to his grasping hand. There was a gasp from Grace, a sudden movement, and, by the time Mrs. Ravilious had extricated herself from the black cloth, Gervais was lying on the floor with the imprint of Grace’s clenched fist marking his cheek - my god but the girl had a powerful punch for such a slight little thing!

  Grace was standing up, shaking with rage and with tears on her cheeks.

  “What? What?” gasped Mrs. Ravilious, who had missed it all.

  “He touched me,” said Grace, through clenched teeth, “he put his dirty hand on...”

  Mrs. Ravilious hands’ flew to her cheeks, “Oh my dear, I’m sure he didn’t mean... did you, Mr. Weston?”

  “Of course not,” said Gervais, gathering his wits, “I was just trying to help her to stand up, I’m sure she must be pretty stiff.” I know I am, he thought, although the effect was diminishing rapidly.

  “There now,” said Mrs. Ravilious, “he didn’t mean it, I’m sure. Dear Grace, come with me, and let’s get you changed, and then we can all have a nice cup of tea before you drive back...”

  “I’m not going back with him,” said Grace, “I wouldn’t trust him not to try it again.”

  “Oh dear, dear, dear,” said Mrs. Ravilious, “come along, do. I’m sure when we have all calmed down a little... a nice cup of tea... my husband will be back at any moment I’m sure and then we can... we can... oh dear, Grace, would you mind awfully not saying anything about this to my husband? He would undoubtedly think my photography not such a good idea, and...” Mrs. Ravilious looked pleadingly at the girl as they reached the haven of her bedroom.

  “I wont say anything,” said Grace. “No-one believes a servant girl, anyway.”

  “I believe you, Grace dear,” said Mrs. Ravilious, “although perhaps Mr. Weston did not really mean to...” She looked at Grace’s firm chin and gave in. She nodded. “I expect he did mean to,” she whispered, “but I promise you it won’t happen again.”

  “I’m not coming again,” said Grace. “I’ll be lucky if I’m not turned off for this anyway.”

  “Turned off?” said Mrs. Ravilious. “From your employment at the Manor, you mean? Why should you be turned off?”

  “That’s always the way if you don’t do what the Masters want you to,” said Grace. “You give in or you go. The only way to keep your place is to keep out of their way, so’s they don’t get a chance to maul you.”

  “Oh, my dear!” gasped Mrs. Ravilious, shocked. “I had no idea!” There was a sudden commotion down in the hall, and the sound of voices, “Oh dear,” said Mrs. Ravilious again, “I expect that is my husband, although...” she paused, “it sounds like ladies’ voices...” Her face brightened. “I do believe that is the Miss Fotheringays I hear talking with William! Miss Harriet and dear Effie - now what a relief! They will take care of you, child, and see you safely back to the Manor, I’m sure.”

  Grace nodded. She hadn’t been looking forward to walking back to the Manor alone; who knows if Master Gervais wouldn’t be waiting for her somewhere along the path. Now that he’d made his move, there was no reason for him not to push it to a conclusion.

  * * *

  “So,” said Harriet, briskly, as the three of them reached the centre of town, “shall we take the direct route to the Manor and turn left here, Grace, or shall we carry on down to the river and go along the bank past the pottery?” She paused on the pavement and looked intently at the girl. There had been no opportunity to talk at the Rectory, what with Dr. Ravilious holding forth on the rug in front of the fire - blocking the heat from everyone else, as Effie had noted, in the general male manner, rattling the change in his pocket with one hand and with the middle finger of his other hand posed on his third waistcoat button. He seemed intent on adding a coda to his morning’s sermon under somewhat more comfortable conditions than those that prevailed in the splendid, Victorian Gothic, extremely cold church.

  “I’d rather go down by the river, if you don’t mind, M’m. I don’t want to run the risk of being caught by Master Gervais.”

  “Being caught, Grace?” queried Harriet.

  Gra
ce nodded, her face flushed. “Again,” she said.

  “The photography session?”

  “Made a grab for me, he did, the dirty beast. If my Elwy finds out what he did, he’ll murder him.”

  Harriet’s eyebrow rose, “Not a good idea,” she said, “it is proving difficult enough to extract Elwin from one murder charge. I think it is best if you do not tell him what happened at the Rectory.”

  “Um,” said Effie tentatively, “what did exactly happen? I mean, if it doesn’t upset you to... one would not wish to pry, of course... but...?” She looked hopefully at the girl.

  Grace’s eyes fell. The trouble with men behaving dirty was that it made you feel dirty too, as if it were your fault. She quite understood that it was better that Elwy shouldn’t know about it, but there was another reason for not telling him - he might think she’d been encouraging Master Gervais. There was never no telling with men, and she’d felt bad already, seeing the way he’d looked at her when she’d said she was going off in Master Gervais’s carriage. There was a lump in her throat; he’d been right, too. She shouldn’t have done it. She knew what he was like; all the servant girls knew it was best to keep out of his way. Only Millie had laughed and said he was alright - and Millie was dead, murdered, and who knows if it wasn’t Master Gervais as done it? Grace didn’t trust him an inch, not after this morning.

  “Don’t press Grace,” said Harriet to Effie, after Grace had been silent for some moments.