Flaming June
Sir Frederick helped her to her seat, arranging the soft and luxurious dark brown and russet- coloured rugs on which she was to sit, to help protect her from the cold marble beneath.
She was already a little weary, although the walk from the house had been short. These unaccustomed, heavy midday meals always brought on a lethargy she found hard to shake off. The afternoon heat was intense, and she experienced a feeling of relief as she leant backwards, placing her head on the back of the seat, and tucking one hand behind it for support. With a lazy, twisting movement, she curled herself up, with one leg bent beneath her.
She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and felt her muscles relax. Sir Frederick was fussing around her, covering her exposed calf with the soft, semi-diaphanous material of her dress. The toes of her right leg were resting on the white flagstones, and she accepted the welcome shade afforded by the cloth as it fell in folds around her.
Was there a hint of lust in the old man’s hand as he arranged the material, or was it purely a fatherly gesture? Did he think of her as the daughter he had never had, or as a lover? Of this she was unsure.
After enquiring as to her comfort, she sensed him moving off, no doubt to the seat in the shade of the large oak tree. The bench on which she was reclining was in an elevated position to this, situated in front of the ornamental lake. She was slightly concerned by the probable view her companion would have of her, positioned this way. No doubt her body would appear foreshortened, making her right buttock and thigh appear out of proportion in relation to her head.
But her lethargy prevented her from moving.
As she continued to recline thus, her mind alighted on the circumstances of their first meeting twelve years ago, and of their relationship since. Her looks were what had originally attracted him to her, of that she was in no doubt. He had fallen for her flawless white complexion and delicately chiselled features. For her long limbs, her large violet eyes, and her abundance of golden chestnut hair. But surely there was more to their relationship than just her physical attractiveness? Although originally laughing at her desire to become an actress, had he not introduced her to the most influential people in the profession? And more importantly, had he not paid for her much needed drama and elocution lessons with Mrs Dallas Glyn and Mrs Chippendale? Although she could now proclaim her lines on stage with the most clipped of upper class accents, she still felt awkward in “polite society”. She blushed at the remembrance of some of her most inappropriate choices of subject matter. She could now speak like a lady, but she knew that she had not become one, neither had she become a very successful actress.
The name Miss Dorothy Dene did, however, have a more satisfactory ring to it that plain little Ada Pullan.
She was roused from her reveries by the sensation of a slight but welcome puff of wind as it tried to lift the folds of her bright orange dress, and she became faintly aware of the momentary, gentle ripple of the water behind her head. The sun was already beginning to burn the exposed skin of her neck and forearms.
But still she did not move.
While she was positioning herself on her chosen seat, she had noticed that a branch from the nearby oleander tree had broken off and had landed in the water close to her head. As she lay there now in the humid air, she pictured this wondrous shrub, standing resplendent in its large ornamental Grecian urn. She remembered how Sir Frederick had ordered the gardeners to wheel it out from the orangery to a position beside the lake after the last frosts, and she could imagine the whole process being reversed at the beginning of autumn – Sir Frederick fussing in his usual manner in case anything got damaged.
She was greeted with a fragrant, heady and soporific scent as the oleander branch moved ever nearer to her on the surface of the water. The droning of a bee, as it drowsily drew nectar from the flower, was having a narcotic effect on her. She was being drawn towards the edge of a sensuous semi-consciousness. Had she not heard somewhere that the oleander plant was poisonous? If she lay here for any longer, would she find herself on the edge of sleep or of death?
But still she did not move, even when the bee alighted on her for a moment, producing a prickling sensation through the gauzy material of her garment.
The heat of the afternoon sun was increasing, along with her dreamy languor. The sun’s rays were now licking like flames through the semi-transparency of her brightly coloured dress, burning her skin beneath as it smouldered in the folds of gauze. Surely a white garment would have been more appropriate on a day such as this?
But she was still prevented from changing her position. She was drifting off to a place where the smallest sounds were both magnified and more distinct, and where the sun produced bright circles of coloured light behind her closed eyelids. Was the urgent call of the blackbird for her alone, warning her to steer clear of the jaws of slumber?
‘Dorothy! Come along now my dear. I think that we have both had enough for one day.’
She felt the dry, bony hand of her elderly companion as he grasped the fleshiness of her upper arm – an ice cold grip on her sunburned skin. As she was helped to her feet, she was aware that she had lost all feeling in the muscles of her inner thigh, and she fell against him as she tried to find her footing.
‘You have been sitting out here for too long. Come and sit out of the sun, and enjoy some tea with me. The servants are on their way with it now.’
She turned her gaze towards the house, to see a well presented team of minions carrying out a table and an extra chair, together with a large silver tray laden with delicacies. Welcome as the sight was, it was not however what was of immediate importance to her. Neither were the comments made by Sir Frederick as he cast a critical eye over the painting resting on the easel before his chair. His immediate concern was the effect produced by his rendering of the folds in the drapery: whether he had managed to produce a combination of both motion and repose. She was not interested in this aspect of the material, but of what it revealed beneath. Surely their Queen would not be amused by the President of the Royal Academy’s latest work!
In spite of the best efforts of Sir Frederick Leighton – and of the two stalwart ladies of the stage, Mrs Dallas Glyn and Mrs Chippendale – to rid her of what was considered her “singularly unpleasant Cockney twang”, she forgot herself for an instant. As she approached the painting more closely, her worst fears were confirmed.
CONT.
Sir Frederick helped her to her seat, arranging the soft and luxurious dark brown and russet- coloured rugs on which she was to sit, to help protect her from the cold marble beneath.
She was already a little weary, although the walk from the house had been short. These unaccustomed, heavy midday meals always brought on a lethargy she found hard to shake off. The afternoon heat was intense, and she experienced a feeling of relief as she leant backwards, placing her head on the back of the seat, and tucking one hand behind it for support. With a lazy, twisting movement, she curled herself up, with one leg bent beneath her.
She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and felt her muscles relax. Sir Frederick was fussing around her, covering her exposed calf with the soft, semi-diaphanous material of her dress. The toes of her right leg were resting on the white flagstones, and she accepted the welcome shade afforded by the cloth as it fell in folds around her.
Was there a hint of lust in the old man’s hand as he arranged the material, or was it purely a fatherly gesture? Did he think of her as the daughter he had never had, or as a lover? Of this she was unsure.
After enquiring as to her comfort, she sensed him moving off, no doubt to the seat in the shade of the large oak tree. The bench on which she was reclining was in an elevated position to this, situated in front of the ornamental lake. She was slightly concerned by the probable view her companion would have of her, positioned this way. No doubt her body would appear foreshortened, making her right buttock and thigh appear out of proportion in relation to her head.
But her lethargy prevented her from moving.
As she continued to recline thus, her mind alighted on the circumstances of their first meeting twelve years ago, and of their relationship since. Her looks were what had originally attracted him to her, of that she was in no doubt. He had fallen for her flawless white complexion and delicately chiselled features. For her long limbs, her large violet eyes, and her abundance of golden chestnut hair. But surely there was more to their relationship than just her physical attractiveness? Although originally laughing at her desire to become an actress, had he not introduced her to the most influential people in the profession? And more importantly, had he not paid for her much needed drama and elocution lessons with Mrs Dallas Glyn and Mrs Chippendale? Although she could now proclaim her lines on stage with the most clipped of upper class accents, she still felt awkward in “polite society”. She blushed at the remembrance of some of her most inappropriate choices of subject matter. She could now speak like a lady, but she knew that she had not become one, neither had she become a very successful actress.
The name Miss Dorothy Dene did, however, have a more satisfactory ring to it that plain little Ada Pullan.
She was roused from her reveries by the sensation of a slight but welcome puff of wind as it tried to lift the folds of her bright orange dress, and she became faintly aware of the momentary, gentle ripple of the water behind her head. The sun was already beginning to burn the exposed skin of her neck and forearms.
But still she did not move.
While she was positioning herself on her chosen seat, she had noticed that a branch from the nearby oleander tree had broken off and had landed in the water close to her head. As she lay there now in the humid air, she pictured this wondrous shrub, standing resplendent in its large ornamental Grecian urn. She remembered how Sir Frederick had ordered the gardeners to wheel it out from the orangery to a position beside the lake after the last frosts, and she could imagine the whole process being reversed at the beginning of autumn – Sir Frederick fussing in his usual manner in case anything got damaged.
She was greeted with a fragrant, heady and soporific scent as the oleander branch moved ever nearer to her on the surface of the water. The droning of a bee, as it drowsily drew nectar from the flower, was having a narcotic effect on her. She was being drawn towards the edge of a sensuous semi-consciousness. Had she not heard somewhere that the oleander plant was poisonous? If she lay here for any longer, would she find herself on the edge of sleep or of death?
But still she did not move, even when the bee alighted on her for a moment, producing a prickling sensation through the gauzy material of her garment.
The heat of the afternoon sun was increasing, along with her dreamy languor. The sun’s rays were now licking like flames through the semi-transparency of her brightly coloured dress, burning her skin beneath as it smouldered in the folds of gauze. Surely a white garment would have been more appropriate on a day such as this?
But she was still prevented from changing her position. She was drifting off to a place where the smallest sounds were both magnified and more distinct, and where the sun produced bright circles of coloured light behind her closed eyelids. Was the urgent call of the blackbird for her alone, warning her to steer clear of the jaws of slumber?
‘Dorothy! Come along now my dear. I think that we have both had enough for one day.’
She felt the dry, bony hand of her elderly companion as he grasped the fleshiness of her upper arm – an ice cold grip on her sunburned skin. As she was helped to her feet, she was aware that she had lost all feeling in the muscles of her inner thigh, and she fell against him as she tried to find her footing.
‘You have been sitting out here for too long. Come and sit out of the sun, and enjoy some tea with me. The servants are on their way with it now.’
She turned her gaze towards the house, to see a well presented team of minions carrying out a table and an extra chair, together with a large silver tray laden with delicacies. Welcome as the sight was, it was not however what was of immediate importance to her. Neither were the comments made by Sir Frederick as he cast a critical eye over the painting resting on the easel before his chair. His immediate concern was the effect produced by his rendering of the folds in the drapery: whether he had managed to produce a combination of both motion and repose. She was not interested in this aspect of the material, but of what it revealed beneath. Surely their Queen would not be amused by the President of the Royal Academy’s latest work!
In spite of the best efforts of Sir Frederick Leighton – and of the two stalwart ladies of the stage, Mrs Dallas Glyn and Mrs Chippendale – to rid her of what was considered her “singularly unpleasant Cockney twang”, she forgot herself for an instant. As she approached the painting more closely, her worst fears were confirmed.
CONT.