The potions and medicines that I had been given upon my arrival here have been tapered off as my mind continues to clear. Now I receive nothing in that regard save the instruction of Kwai Chang and the kind ministrations of the Lady Sidrah.
Till later, yours,
Jaimy
Chapter 17
The next morning, the bell of La Basilica de San Francisco el Grande tolled long and insistently as Paloma and I groaned and got out of bed, dressed, and tumbled downstairs to help Ramona make breakfast for the House of Goya.
The steaming food is on the table—huevos revuelto, salchichas y chorizo picante, pan plano, y café fuerte. The students came in, with Amadeo and Asensio looking a bit worse for wear. Ah, young men off for a night on the town, and then the inevitable morning after, same as it ever was . . . except that Amadeo has a small cut over his left eye. What’s with that . . . ?
Afterwards, we clean up, and Paloma heads off to make the beds, while I go to the studio, ready to grind more paint. But I soon find that is not what I will be doing today, oh, no . . .
Upon entering, I notice right off that the model Jorge is not in attendance—the robe hangs slack over the edge of the dressing screen.
Hmmm . . . I guess it is going to be my turn now . . . Oh, well . . . Hand me the robe.
It is my turn, in a way, but in another way, it isn’t.
A chair is set up on the model platform, and when Goya enters, he points and motions for me to go sit in it, which I do. He comes up and stands before me. He gestures toward my hairpiece. I catch his meaning and take it off and put it aside.
He pats my shoulder in a kindly way and says, “Pull your shirt down over your shoulders, chica, so as to expose your neck—a very fine neck, I must say. Lift your chin, and face that way . . . not so far . . . That’s it . . . Hold that.”
He turns to the others.
“So, mis estudiantes, commence your drawing of this lovely face. Remember, the gesture, the tilt of the head, the planes of the face.”
As they start scratching away, I look off into space and hold the pose.
Ha! This is easy, I’m thinkin’. All I have to do is sit here while they toil away, and I do not even have to grind paint! Ha! Take that, Carmelita! Lovely face! Did you catch that? Ha!
The euphoria lasts about ten minutes. Then my bum begins to get a bit sore and I feel the urge to rutch around to get the buttocks in a more comfortable position, but I can’t. My hip bones, which seem intent on grinding their way through the softness of my rump, are relentless. I flex, but it does no good.
Then my nose starts to itch and I cannot scratch the bloody thing. Why did it not want to be scratched before? Why?
I must distract myself, else I shall be seen as a worthless scrub, not even able to sit for a simple portrait.
Maybe I’ll just write a letter to my sweet sister Amy, if only in my mind:
Miss Amy Trevelyne
The Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls
Boston, Massachusetts, USA
Dearest Amy,
You cannot possibly guess, Sister, where I am right now, much less what I am doing. I know, I know, you think me to be atoning for my sins in the penal colony in Australia, but I am not there. No, suffice to say I am in Madrid, Spain—can you believe it!—and am sitting as a model for portrait study in a very fine art studio. You might ask Mr. Peet if he has ever heard of a Señor Francisco Goya, the Maestro of this establishment.
Yes, dear one, I shall tell you of just how I got here when we are both once again snugged up in that wonderful hayloft at Dovecote. I can smell the warm hay now . . . Ummm . . .
It is actually a very pleasant house in which I now find myself, mostly. True, one of the students here, Señorita Carmelita Gomez, is a bit of a bitch, but I can deal with that. After all, didn’t I deal with one Clarissa Worthington Howe in the past? So I am definitely an expert in that sort of thing.
There are three male students here, Amadeo, Asensio, and Cesar, and they are very nice—for right now, anyway. Very courtly—that Randall could take a lesson . . . How is that rogue, anyway? Still with Polly Von? I hope so, and I hope he’s being good, which I doubt.
When I first got here, I was thinking of resting a bit, then stealing enough provisions to put me back on the road again, but I shortly changed my mind when I found that Señor Goya was court painter to the royalty of Spain, and I might be able to gain some information that could be of use to my country . . . or countries. I hear that Goya is going to the palace very shortly, and he always takes helpers with him . . . hmmm . . .
Anyway, so here I am, hired as housemaid and sometime model, so I might as well stay put.
I must tell you that my poor James Emerson Fletcher has run into a bit of trouble, both legally and mentally, all because of me, of course. He is in Rangoon, in Burma, undergoing treatment. Heavy sigh . . . Oh, why didn’t Jaimy find a nice girl early in his life, one that would make him happy? Instead he is condemned to suffer the slings and arrows of misfortune because of his association with my troublesome self. Why?
Ha! That heavy sigh must have been heard and touched the Master’s heart, for a break is called! Gracias a Dios!
More later, dearest Sister . . .
I get up, stretch arms and shoulders, flex poor buttocks, and then walk around to see what has been done with my face in the way of art.
Both Amadeo and Asensio have done strong, forceful drawings. Asensio’s is a bit more elegant, and I smile on him for that—I think of Lisette de Lise when I gaze upon it. Amadeo’s effort is more . . . well . . . macho, I think is the word. He makes me look as if I am, very shortly, going to do something naughty. He looks at me as I gaze upon it and he gives me a knowing smile. Macho, indeed. Well, we shall see, Señor . . .
Cesar’s is equally well done. It is softer than the others, and he has taken my bodice down a little lower than it actually was, revealing a cleft between my br**sts, a cleft he has not yet seen. Ah, the imagination of a male youth, I swear.
I give him a wink and then pass on.
Señorita Carmelita Gomez’s drawing, on the other hand, is much more severe. She has portrayed me with pinched nostrils, frown, and gimlet eye. Oh, well, Carmelita. Thems that likes me, likes me, and thems that don’t, can kiss my—
“Pose, please,” orders Goya, and I am back up on the platform yet again.
So, Amy, I am back again in position. As I sit here, I think on the drawings I have seen. They are different from the portraits back in Boston, which were static, with poses held rigid. These are more vibrant. There is more movement in them. I shall take note and learn some new ways of doing things. I shall—
“Stop moving, girl,” snarls Carmelita. “Can you not sit still? Is it too much to ask?”
I realize my head has been drooping and I jerk it back up. “Pardon, Señorita. It shall not happen again.”
Back again, Amy, having just been chastised for nodding off—good Lord, Amy, I could use a nice reclining pose just now. Just lie back and doze . . .
No, now, I must stop that! Must do my job!
Ahem! Back on the line.
Anyway, dear Sister, during the last break, I spotted a piece of paper tossed into a trash can and pulled it out. It was a false start on a sketch by one of the students, but it did have an untouched area about six by ten inches on one edge. I gingerly tore out the clean piece and set it aside.
Seeing me do this, Amadeo asked, “Why do you need that, Jackie? Will you write your love a letter?”
I smiled secretly, blushed, and said, “Something like that.”
I do, Amy, have a bit of a plan in my mind . . . Ah, another welcome break. Till later, Miss Trevelyne.
Your Loving Sister,
Jacky
Later, after the day’s toil is done—yes, the portrait session had ended and I had been sent back to grinding paint—we once again gather for dinner. The places are set, the wine poured, the food served. As we pile into it, I sense a bit of tension about the table and I am afraid I am the one who sets it off.
“Tell me, Amadeo, of the painting sessions at the palace,” says the English spy in me. “Can it be that you actually go there and paint the royals in their own quarters?”
“We used to.” Asensio sneers. “But now the Master paints the French invaders. We will go there next week to paint King Joseph of Spain! Napoleon’s brother! How Spanish is that?”
“Now, Asensio,” warns Señor Manuel Garcia from the head of the table. “We will have none of that, young man! No politics at this table!”
But Asensio will not leave it be.
“Pardon, Señor,” he says, his eyes burning. “But must we put up with the insults of the Afrancesados? Is it not enough that French soldiers march on our streets? Abuse our citizens? That—”
This is too much for another of our number. Carmelita speaks up, “Napoleon brought some good things to Spain! He has abolished many of the old bad ways! He should be thanked for that, at least! No more will people be burned at the stake!”
“True, Carmelita,” retorts Amadeo. “Now they will merely be tied to that same stake and shot. Same sorry end.”
“Bastante! You will all stop this talk or you shall be sent from this table, and the Maestro will be informed! Do you hear me?”
It is plain that Señor Garcia is angry, so the voices at the table subside, as does mine.
Eat your mush and hush, Jacky, and stop stirring up trouble!
Chapter 18
It is a Saturday afternoon and things are quiet at Estudio Goya. There are no classes, but there is some work to do. I have been shown how to stretch and prepare canvases for future paintings, and I work at that through the morning hours. After what proves to be a light lunch, I am left on my own and I coax Paloma—please, Sister, just a little while—into the empty studio, to start on a small watercolor portrait of her. I put her in a pose very much like the one I had just sat for, but just the beginning outline sketch is all I get done, for I perceive she is anxious to be off to enjoy her brief few hours of freedom. It was, after all, payday, and I myself have eight reals warming in my vest pocket.
I had noticed many small brushes standing about in pots and had asked Amadeo if I might make use of some of them—with the watercolors only, Amadeo, of course, never the oils, oh no . . .
I manage to get the basic stuff down—shape of her head, slope of shoulders, some background color—then I lay the paper aside to dry, thank her, and wave her off to the town. She is gone in an instant. As would I be, Paloma, were I in another place, in another town.
After I wash the brushes—an easy thing to do with the watercolors, not so easy with the oils—I wander around the studio and look at the works-in-progress that sit on five of the easels. Goya was so pleased at the drawings the students had done of me that he directed each of them to do a painting of the same pose—except this time, he set up a canvas of his own and had me put on a more elaborate top with my mantilla over my head and draped around my shoulders. They have been at it for the better part of a week and most are almost done.
As I walk around, I give the paintings my own critique. Cesar’s is coming along, a little weak in the shadows of the face, but then he is young. Carmelita’s is competent, but I find it is rather cold, emotionless—perhaps it helps if one actually likes what one is painting. Asensio’s is excellent, with good vibrant color, but Amadeo’s is the best of all the students’—perfect resemblance with a mischievious glint in the subject’s eye. I get the feeling he liked painting me. When I first assumed the pose in costume, he said, “Olé, Jack-ie! You are now at least half a Maja!”