Violet was pinning her hat on when a quiet tapping on the window alerted her to Orlando's arrival. Giving a couple taps in response, Violet took one last look at herself in the glass before turning to leave. As she opened the door, though, Violet was met with the stern-looking housekeeper, Mrs. Connolly, whose short stature somehow managed to block her exit. Not to be easily detoured, Violet continued to pull the door shut behind her, which put the two women right up against each other. Mrs. Connolly, unfazed, stood her ground.
"Is there something you need before I go, Mrs. Connolly? It is my night off, remember?"
"Are you off with the window washer again?" Mrs. Connolly had to look up slightly to interrogate.
"Yes, I am," Violet attempted to, politely, get around the little woman.
"Do not forget that you represent this house and its inhabitants wherever you go outside of here," Mrs. Connolly eyed Violet's perfectly proper evening attire disapprovingly, "Also do not forget curfew is nine o' clock. Any later and I hope you like sleeping outside in the cold."
"Yes, Mrs. Connolly. Now if you please I wouldn't like to keep my friend waiting," Violet replied curtly.
Mrs. Connolly took the smallest step aside to allow Violet's passage. Now in a huff, Violet kept her eyes forward to avoid any other interruptions. She had grown fond of these weekly excursions with Orlando and was not about to let that be ruined by someone else. Ever since he had photographed her, Orlando had been inspired by Violet's zest for life. They took walks everywhere, looking for inspiration for their next art session. Orlando wanted to do an entire exhibit based on women's pleasure, but neither of them quite knew how to undertake such an endeavor. Not to mention how to find a rich sponsor interested in Orlando's work.
The brief encounter with the surly housekeeper was forgotten once Violet saw Orlando, who always had a smile for her. His tall, sturdy personage awaited her presence in his usual spot, under the basswood tree. Violet noticed his formerly tattered frock coat had since been mended, most likely by his mother. Its charcoal color against his tawny skin made him look like one of those mysterious cads mothers always warned daughters about. However Violet knew Orlando to be none of the sort. On the contrary, for all his shocking artistic ideas, he was quite gentle. In him, she felt a kindred spirit, one also curiously in pursuit of passion. Once Violet was by his side, she looped her arm in his as they set off to their evening destination.
"I hope you will not be offended by tonight's surprise, but I couldn't pass up the chance," Orlando claimed excitedly.
"I think you know if would take a lot to offend me. What is it?" Violet chortled.
"There is a French film being shown in the Back Avenue's cellar."
"Sounds very secretive. How did you manage to get tickets?"
"It was a gift from a recent tryst. Quite unexpected actually," a grin slowly grew on Orlando's chiseled face.
"Ah, I see," Violet had made inferences about Orlando's natural proclivity towards men, though not aloud. "Is this not commonplace for you?"
"Not at all! Do you take me for a hedge whore?" Orlando looked taken aback until he let out a loud guffaw.
"No, my dear Orlando, I would never. I am merely jealous of someone else getting your attention," Violet flirted in spite of Orlando's possible persuasion.
"Ah, but you are my muse! My one and only. I would regret tarnishing you."
"Maybe I want to be," Violet countered.
Orlando stopped suddenly, mouth agog at what Violet had just said. She looked up at him, hands planted on her waist, without batting an eye in uncertainty. Ever since Mrs. James had returned, Peter's visits had lessened somewhat. Orlando still visited once done with the windows on Wednesdays, but they only were able to go out once a week. Violet knew these men admired her, but she wanted more. She wasn't just a statue to be looked upon, but a body to touch, to feel, to explore. Violet had been loved, however briefly; now she wanted to be used. She adored being his muse, but wanted to give him more; as muses were wont to do with their masters.
"Worse comes to worse, dear friend, I can always be polished after a good tarnishing," Violet winked as she took his arm to continue their jaunt.
"I am far less worried about you taking offense over tonight's entertainment now," Orlando laughed.
The rest of their walk to the secret cellar was spent more or less in quiet contemplation. While Violet delighted in conversation, she was not one to fear the depth of silence. Especially not when in the presence of Orlando, who, like a typical artist, could become suddenly quiet for some time. His muse imagined that was when a new idea had been conceived in his mind; the silence that followed allowed it to grow. She would've given much to know his thoughts, to provide further inspiration or guidance, but feared being a nuisance instead.
"At last we have arrived!" Orlando exclaimed as he guided the maid to the bar door.
Violet followed closely behind Orlando for fear she would lose him in the hustle and bustle of the bar. She noticed only a few other women present among the dimly lit room full of men. Orlando took her hand in his, so she could continue her observations. It was not a grand place, but there seemed to be a few middle class men there. Orlando led her to the bar where he nodded to the bar keeper who began to pour an ale.
"Would the lady like one as well?" the bar keeper asked.
Orlando looked questioningly at Violet, who met his gaze with a devilish grin.
"Whiskey for me, please," she ordered, then handed the artist a coin for it.
