ROMANOV AUTUMN
Chapter Sixteen

At precisely three o’clock, Jack met Bridget in her dressing room. He was blushing furiously, his heart racing. Never before had he been exposed to a naked woman, with the exception of his mother and completely by accident. The thought of having to sketch those delicate features was terrifying, but also very exciting at the same time.

Bridget sat waiting at her vanity, wearing only an emerald green and black kimono. Jack stood in the doorway, not quite certain of what he should do or say. It was bad enough she initially attempted to flirt with him, and though he knew she and Harry had a connection, he wasn’t quite sure Bridget was over him yet.

"Well, don’t just stand there, you silly boy. Come in! Come in!" Bridget exclaimed, and Jack entered, shutting the door behind them for privacy. He took a seat against the back wall of the room, which gave him plenty of space between himself and the leading actress.

Jack blew out his breath and tried to ignore the fact that his cheeks were rosy from embarrassment. He didn’t want to give her any reason to mock him, especially since this was a difficult enough situation. He barely opened his sketchpad when she immediately dropped her kimono, revealing her completely naked body. He gaped in awe, his mouth hanging open.

He went to reach for his charcoal, but the case slipped from his lap and crashed to the floor. Bridget merely chuckled as he scrambled to pick up his supplies, blushing so badly, he felt as though he had sunburn. Eventually Jack managed to relax enough to steady his sketchpad against his knees, and kept telling himself over and over again that nudity was a form of art. After all, didn’t the famous sketchers and painters of the past draw naked figures or sculpt them?

If he were to be a true artist, he wanted to be able to express himself without hesitation.

"Where would you like me to pose?" Bridget asked after a few moments of awkward silence, and Jack felt his cheeks warm again. She raised her dark eyes curiously, and for a moment, Jack found himself at a loss for words.

"Er…" He cleared his throat. "I think sitting at your vanity and leaning your chin in your palm would be…um…" He swallowed, his throat very dry. "Very nice." He coughed, apologizing afterwards. Bridget sat as instructed, crossing her legs, and smiled.

"Like this?" she asked, and he nodded. Bridget leaned her chin in her palm, tilting her head ever so slightly. Jack felt a bit faint as he put the charcoal to a blank sheet of paper. The initial drawing, of course, would be the most difficult part of the task. Once he had to make copies, that wouldn’t be nearly as hard.

He wet his lips and began to sketch quickly, his deep blue eyes moving up to her figure and back down to the paper. Bridget said nothing as he worked, merely smiling wistfully at him.

Charcoal sketches came so easily to Jack, and he found himself more than halfway done with her portrait at half past three.

"I do wish you would smile," Bridget told him after a while, and Jack felt his cheeks grow warm again with embarrassment. "I do not understand why artists must feel the need to be so serious all the time."

Jack sighed softly, attending to the angle of her long, flowing hair, and glanced at her again. "We’re so serious because drawing takes a great deal of concentration," he replied. "Especially when one’s career depends on it."

Bridget looked a bit startled by his response, and said nothing for the rest of the session. When he finished, it was a little after 4:30, and he initialed the very bottom right hand corner JD, August 30, 1898.

Bridget covered herself with the kimono after he told her to come and look at the drawing if she liked, and she peered over his shoulder, taking the sketchpad out of his hands. He bit back a squeak of surprise when she kissed his cheek, quite pleased by the result, and swept back into her private bathroom.

Jack sat very rigid in his chair, touching his cheek with one hand and holding onto the sketchpad with the other. He shook his head after a moment and stood, scurrying out of the dressing room as fast as he could.

Mr. Gleeson met him a few moments later, with Mr. Atwood at his heels.

"This kid’ll make it someday," Mr. Gleeson chortled, clasping a large hand over Jack’s shoulder, and Mr. Atwood raised an eyebrow, pursing his lips.

Jack folded his arms; he liked the new manager, but he half wished his work would be criticized from time to time. He was no Leonardo Da Vinci, Degas or Monet…he was merely a fifteen-and-a-half-year-old ruffian.

"Thanks," he replied. "I tried to make her look as natural as possible, doing something she’d normally do at night by herself. She doesn’t look as stiff as the advertisements in some of the ladies’ magazines these days."

The two men stared at each other and then back at Jack, who smirked. "Not that I read them," he insisted, "but my guardian I was living with last year had a whole stack of them in the parlor, and I couldn’t come into the parlor without passing by."

Mr. Gleeson rubbed his mustache just as Harry rushed in, looking breathless. "Is Bridget ready?" he asked, and Jack blinked.

"I’m here!" Bridget cried, her high-heeled shoes clacking along the floor. "I’m sorry, love…the drawing took a bit longer than we thought." She pecked a kiss on Harry’s cheek, and glanced at her employers. "Jack’s attention to detail is exquisite, you know." She put on her wide-brimmed hat, allowed Harry to take her arm, and both left the building, saying good-bye to the others.

"See you later, Jack," Harry replied, waving his hat at his friend in the meantime.

"Ahem." Mr. Gleeson cleared his throat loudly and turned to Jack. "You’d best get home and work on the rest of those sketches. I want at least fifty finished first thing tomorrow, all right? And tomorrow is an early call, because the three of us are going to take a little visit to our mansion."

Jack nodded, accepting his portfolio back, and slid it under his arm. He didn’t go straight home after work, but decided to take another trip to the beach. He walked for a good half hour, letting the sea breeze soothe his sinuses. He’d been feeling considerably better since his most recent asthma attack, but often woke unable to breathe through his nose properly.

A seagull did a dive for his head at that moment, causing him to curse loudly, waving his portfolio at it. The seagull squawked angrily, missing him by an inch as it zoomed towards a clam on the beach, snatching it up in its beak. Jack watched as it flew off, open-mouthed, and then began muttering under his breath. He sneezed twice as he stepped onto the boardwalk, nearly running straight into a lamp post afterwards.

He was grateful when he arrived home and received a letter from Mrs. Logger at the front desk. "Thanks," he replied, recognizing the return address on the envelope at once. Dashing upstairs to his empty room, he flopped down on his bed and tore open the seal. Inside was a two-page letter from his sister in her neat cursive handwriting. Jack fluffed his pillows and leaned against them to be more comfortable, and removed his shoes.

After taking a few eucalyptus leaves from his bedside table, he began to read.

Dear Jack,

Esther and I were thrilled to receive the letter you sent us, and that you are safe and well. I am nearly finished with school, and received high marks all the way through, though not without quite a bit of effort, I assure you. However, I fear my French will always be a bit awful; I am barely fluent, much to Esther’s disgust. She feels I am being too lazy, and not putting enough effort into studying, but honestly I am! Languages just do not come easily to me.

Esther herself is doing quite well, though there is no question age is catching up at last with her. She has retired from the dress shop, and I am taking her place in the summer. She is currently knitting by my side, watching me write to you, which is rather annoying, I’ll admit.

I do wish you would come home, Jack…we both miss you dreadfully. However, I am sure traveling the world is much more exciting than putting up with a baby sister and a crotchety old lady. (I’ve been whacked over the head with a thimble.)

Jack laughed at Olivia’s little additions to certain sentences, and continued to read the letter with genuine interest. She seemed to be doing quite well without him, though he still felt a tiny bit of guilt for having left Wisconsin so abruptly.

He’d barely gotten to I give a kiss to your cheek, dear, and I hope to hear from you very soon when Mrs. Logger came in with a tray for dinner.

"You must be famished." She chuckled, watching as he stood to greet her, and received his thanks. "Did you have a good day?"

Jack nodded. "Yes," he replied. "I have a lot of work to do tonight…fifty drawings by seven tomorrow." He set the tray down on the desk, and she clucked her tongue, smiling at him. She eventually left, and the room returned to its usual stillness. He could hear laughter from the streets below, as residents of Los Angeles began to make their way home from work, or starting on their nightly activities.

He spent over three hours sketching, and by the time he’d reached his twenty-fifth, his hands were aching. Jack set his sketchpad aside, realizing it was only eight o’clock, and groaned inwardly. Massaging his knuckles, he stood to stretch, just as Harry popped his head in.

"Back already?" he asked with a laugh, and his friend came to sit down at his desk.

"Hands cramping yet?" Harry pointed to the pile of sketches at the edge of the bed, and Jack rolled his eyes.

"What made you guess?" he asked, cracking his knuckles, and grimacing as he tried to wave them up and down. "I have twenty-five more to do. Want to help?"

Harry snorted. "Yeah, right," he replied. "I’d probably be fired if I added my own personal touches. Sorry. You’re on your own."

Jack sighed heavily, sharpening a fresh piece of charcoal. "Wouldn’t be surprised if I decided to give up art altogether after this," he said, and Harry leaned forward, his dark eyes raised with amusement.

"I highly doubt that, Dawson," he said. "Once an artist, always an artist."

Jack smiled, rubbing a hand over his face.

"So, how are things with Bridget? It sounds like you two are really getting serious…I was surprised when you came to pick her up earlier today."

Harry chuckled, adjusting himself in the chair so he was sitting more comfortably. "What’s your definition of serious?" he asked, and Jack raised an eyebrow.

"When I talked to Mr. Gleeson the other day, he called you two lovebirds, so clearly he sees something pretty deep going on."

Harry snorted. "Please," he scoffed. "We haven’t done it or anything, if that’s where you’re going with this conversation."

Jack set his portfolio aside, running his fingers through his sandy hair. Even with the window thrust open wide, the room was still sticky in the late summer heat, and he knew sleep would be almost impossible to come by that night. Luckily, though, the humidity wasn’t nearly as bad in California as it was in other parts of the country.

"So I guess you’re in for the night?" he asked, and Harry nodded.

"Early day tomorrow," he said. "You and Ed are going to see the mansion, aren’t you?"

Jack nodded. "Yeah. Be curious to see who lives there, actually. But being in a carriage on a forty minute drive with our two bosses is going to be great fun." He rolled his eyes, picking up his portfolio again.

"Ah…well, you’ll survive." Harry winked. "Don’t let me stop you," he said, pointing to Jack’s supplies. "I’m going to have a shot and pass out. See ya." He waved, and after waving back, Jack turned his attention back to his sketches. He didn’t finish the entire fifty until eleven, and his eyes were drooping with exhaustion by that point.

He went downstairs to make himself a cup of tea, and said good night to Mrs. Logger before going back up to bed.

Jack lay awake for a good while despite his exhaustion, watching as the moon rose higher and higher in the sky. He saw another shooting star amidst the street lights, listening to the sound of a sad hymn being played on the parlor piano.

Chapter Seventeen
Stories