See you next Wednesday?

The scent was overpowering. A pungent odor, sweet with the aroma of burnt toast and a hint of rotten eggs that was making her nearly nauseous. It was a particular smell that at first felt disgusting, but after smelling it more, it started feeling nice, a comforting odor: the smell of home, the smell of Edinburgh.

Elspeth was in a rush; her small heels were clicking sharply with every step. She was questioning her choice to walk to the artist's home instead of catching a carriage. Her petticoat was getting all muddy, and her waistcoat was too heavy for the summer weather, making her overheated and sweaty. “Hopefully, he won’t notice,” she tried to reassure herself while walking as quickly as possible to arrive on time for her session with Nasmyth-a popular scottish painter of landscapes and portraits. Nasmyth has been commissioned to paint her portrait, and this was their first session together.

When she finally arrived at the artist’s home, she was really impressed by the building. It wasn’t her first time going to the “New Town”- how it was named, the new Edinburgh area where a lot of new buildings were being built for some of the most respectable families of the town- but his house was particularly eccentric. Richly worked wrought iron fences had been molded into detailed and intricate shapes to shield the house from the street. At the entrance, two snake-shaped iron statues were holding torches and creating the base for an arched alley. On one of the balconies on the front facade, Elspeth could see many scraps of canvas, probably the remains of some painting that Sir Nasmyth dismissed in one of his raging moments. The footman let her in the house and walked her through one of the house's many rooms on the first floor. He then left her there while going to fetch the artist, and asking for some tea to be brought up.

Elspeth was sweating; it wasn’t the first time she had been in a man’s house without any company, but it was the first time she had to pose for a painting, and she did not know what to expect. She kept reassuring herself that she was nicely dressed; she combed her hair into a soft bun and curled her front locks to frame her face. If not for the mud and the sweat patches under her armpits, Elspeth looked as perfect as she could be. While waiting for Mr Nasmyth she started walking around the room. It must have been the painter study as many canvases were lying around the room, some in the ground and some on pedistalles, some empty golden frames waiting for the painting they were going to frame, colorful wood pallet with crusted dried colours and paint brushes inside a dirty jar were on top of a small wooden table. She started looking and the canvases, some of them were work that the artist must have started but not finished yet, she could see the small black thin lines of a “guide drawing” while some areas were already covered in paint, waiting for the dark shadows that were going to define the subjects.

Her mouth started feeling dry, and her insides started twisting from the discomfort. Her eyes were stuck looking at the necked body of the painting that captured her attention. The painting was portraying a woman who was lying naked on a draped thin sheet on the floor. The portrayed woman was staring at the viewer with a strong and luxurious eye as if she were inviting the viewer to lie down next to her. Elspeth hoped she did not have to sit naked for hours as for that woman, but then she reassured herself, thinking that that woman must have been a prostitute who was getting paid for working as a model while Elspeth was the one who commissioned her painting.

The door slammed, and with a jump, Elspeth turned around, looking guilty as if she was a child that just been caught in the middle of doing something wrong. The artist Alexander Nasmyth entered the room with a white canvas under his arm and some paper rolls in the other hand. He walked quickly to the center of the room and sat in one of the armchairs while dropping everything he was carrying on the side of it. Finally, he gestured for Elspeth to sit on the sofa in front of him and spoke.

“Good Morning, my lady. I have been informed that you don’t have a chaperone with you today. I have asked my maid to sit with us, hoping that would make you more comfortable and no one could spread bad words on your honor.”

A small lady had followed him into the room and sat on a small stool next to one of the pedestals.

“That is really thoughtful of you, mr Nasmyth, thank you.”

“You can call me Alexander, please. I like to build a close, friendly relationship with my subjects. It makes them relax and see the time posing more similar to someone visiting a friend than sitting boringly and uncomfortably for hours… But let’s talk about the painting, dear…Elspeth, if I may?”

“ You may. I want a painting that represents me, but not a classical portrait. I would like to be inserted into some mythological representation. I have been told that you are one of the best painters for such subjects.”

“You have been told well...you have been told very well.”

Alexander was in his forties but still a handsome man; Elspeth could not deny it. His eyes were a deep, almost black, brown, but his skin was pale, giving him a mysterious and predatory look. His eyes moved everywhere over her figure, absorbing every detail of the woman in front of him, studying her physiognomy to gather inspiration for the painting. His thin lips were tormented by his teeth that were biting them while he was thinking and concentrating. Elspeth felt there was something familiar in that man, some kind of old attraction that was linking the two. Could she have loved him? Could he have been the masked man she fell in love with when she was younger? Nearly twelve years have passed since that day. She could not remember his voice clearly, and she had never seen his face since every time they had always been wearing masks. His figure might have changed in that long time, but the gestures and his greedy gaze suggested to her that he was that man. If he was, he did not look like he remembered her. She tried to recompose herself and not show her broken emotions.

“Could you please turn your face sideways? I would like to portray you as the mythical Dido looking at Aeneas' departure with grief before meeting her terrible fate.”

Alexander was looking at Elspeth's beauty, and she reminded him of Dido’s as soon as he laid his eyes on her. She looked like the strong, determined, and independent queen that Virgil described in the Aeneid. But deep down in Elspeth's eyes, he could see the signs of a tragic and romantic heroine, some old grief still hidden behind her pupils; she was perfect for the part of queen of Carthage. Not to speak about her beauty, Elspeth looked perfect, her eyes of a nice chestnut shade, her golden hair looked like they were a frame for her small and delicate face, and her light brown skin gave her an exotic look. Elspeth was most certainly one of the most beautiful women Alexander had ever portrayed. While Elspeth was moving into the position that the artist requested and mimicked her to, he asked.

“Where are you from, Elpseth, if I may ask? I can not think your beauty is of Scottish origins. When did you move to Edinburgh?”

She has been asked this question many times, so she was prepared to act the part as usual.

“My mum is the duchess of Berwich in Spain, thus my features. She married my father, and we lived in Cheshire until my father tragically died. My mum moved back to Spain, but relatives of my father would not let his only heir leave their land, and so here I am living with Earl Fitz-Stuart, cousin of my father, here in Scotland.”

“I see…”

Alexander recalled the gossip, of a few years ago now, about the Earl's graces. It was murmured that he set aside his sick wife and got involved with one of his prostitutes. She had moved in with him, and she now attended all of the high society events as the attendee of the Earl. But now he actually knew the other side of the story. Elspeth was not who the society thought she was, and it must have hurt her to know everyone thought she was a woman of the street. He decided not to ask her that question, as he didn’t want to be one of the causes of her distress.

“You remind me of someone I knew when I was younger...” he pointed out with a nostalgic tone.

*

It was a dark night, and the torches were lit up and were casting hard shadows on their bodies. After the masked ceilidh, they decided to get some fresh air outside the pub, while other people were trying to find some hiding spots to consume their paid love. The couple has been meeting at the Old Dog Pub in Cockburn Street every Wednesday for two months now. They had never seen each other's faces, as they were wearing masks as required by the pub. They spent their time chatting with each other, and he would pay her for that, as her time was precious. While chatting, they spoke about their secrets, emotions, and deepest fears, getting more and more fond of each other. Their time together, although paid, was their way to escape reality and create a safe place for each other, a loving space for intimacy. They loved each other, not in a carnal way but with the deepest affection and the strongest invisible thread that was keeping them together. They longed to see each other on that weekly meet-up, to finally get to speak with someone who could truly deeply understand them.

That night, however, was going to be their last, at least for a few months, as he was leaving for “the grand tour”. An expedition around Europe to discover the beauty of the ancient civilization. He was most excited for it; he could not wait to absorb that beauty and to internalise the techniques for his paintings. He was speaking with her about it with a dreamy voice, when something caught his eye. A fresh scar could be glimpsed under Sarah’s hair locks, just at the back of her ear.

“How did you make that?” he asked while sensing her stiffening under his arms.

“One of my clients, he likes it like that.”

He knew her job was to lie with other men, and he never did anything to stop her, since she did not have any other means of living. But all the time Sarah spoke about her clients, he felt guilty: in her eyes, he was probably one of them, not feeling any affection for him or any preference.

“Surely you can tell him not to cut you..”

“No one would take a no as an answer from a woman, especially not from a prostitute. He also pays quite a big deal since he his one of the highest in society. It pays well…”

While she was saying that, he could see her eyes getting watery. He dried them with his thumb and kissed her behind the mask. In that moment, she broke, and started sobbing in an inconsolable way, as when a newborn cries for milk but there isn’t anyone that can feed him.

They often spoke about her life—how she never wanted that job, how her father, desperate for money, sold her to one of the “houses.” He knew what her fate would be, but still decided his life was worth more than hers. He failed her. He betrayed the love she had for the one person who was meant to protect her. After that, she stopped trusting men—except for the masked man who spoke to her tenderly every Wednesday, sharing secrets and dreams.

She started frantically speaking about the client that has marked her with that cut as if she were a mare object. She was scared and trembling, shaking like a leaf on a tree. Sarah started histerycally asking him the same question: ”Would you take me with you?..Would you take me with you?”. He tried to console her—held her close, whispered soothing words to calm her—but nothing worked.

He opened his leather pouch, handed her the money for the night, and walked away. He never saw her again.

*

The white thick scar on Elspeth’s neck was smooth at the touch. Has soon as he saw it, he went to touch it, knowing now who he had in front of him. He smoothly, gently touched it. Elspeth did not object, but her eyes were wide open, scared and surprised. Alexander mouthed something, but she could not hear him. He said it again, still in a whisper so that the maid could not hear him: “Come with me...”.

In that moment, Elspeth knew she was looking at the man she loved and the man that broke her heart exactly as her old dad did back then when she was fourteen. She was not going to melt under his arms; she was stronger now, she knew she was worth more, and that invite to go with him arrived twelve years too late. She let him stroke her hair and crying for forgiveness.

“ Please, Sarah, come with me..I’ll take you with me. Leave with me.”

She knew he was speaking, crying from his heart. She stood up and went to leave the house. Looking behind her, she asked:

“See you next Wednesday?