Elizabeth Rolls - Delectably Undone!

Writers are often asked where their ideas come from. I suppose, like our dreams, they come out of the well of our subconscious. But how do we fill the well? As a child, I loved Greek mythology, but I also longed to draw and paint really well. An aunt had books of mythological paintings, and Id sit in the corner of my uncles study for hours imagining all the stories they told and dreaming about them. Finally, I realizedolder brothers are harsh critics!that my drawing skills were nonexistent and I needed another way to tell stories.

Names are essential. Without the right names I cant write the story, because I dont know who the characters are. So there I was, contemplating erotic paintings and all those Greek gods chasing nymphs around the Mediterranean Basin, and in strolled Evelyn, Viscount St. Austell.

Evelyn (pronounced Eve-lin) , was originally a mans name. Like Jocelyn, Hilary and Shirley it has crossed genders and become predominantly a womans name. But in the early nineteenth century, Evelyn was still a mans name. Ive no idea why my scandalous viscount insisted on being called Evelyn, but I wasnt prepared to risk an argument on the subject and have him stroll back into my subconscious with the story!

This story is for Anne, who answered so many questions
about painting murals, and for Tony, whose long-standing
friendship is unshakeable, even to the extent of
answering my very nosy questions about dreams.

And its for Smokey,
who snoozed by my desk for so many years and stories.

I miss you, old friend.

S he glanced back over her shoulder, smiling, face half hidden by the hood of her cloak. No words, just the beckoning smile, part innocence, all invitation. His breath came in hard and fast as he reached for her, touched the billowing cloak His fingers passed through it like smoke, and with a soundless sigh the cloak dissolved, taking with it the fading vision as he lunged forward. He tried to cry out but could not. And there was nothing except loss and yearning

He awoke into darkness with a jolt, his breath shuddering as he sat bolt-upright. Hed had a hell of a dream; at least he thought he must have. Sweat cooled on his body and his heart hammered. Yes. Something about a cloak. Onlyhe couldnt remember. Just that he had dreamedthat he had wanted something and it had been taken from him. The cloak had taken itor had he lost it? He lay down again and closed his eyes. As he drifted back toward sleep the thought flickeredsomething? Or someone?

Evelyn Fitzhugh, Viscount St. Austell, stared mutely at the murals adorning the bedchamber walls of his Grosvenor Square mansion. A line from Lionel Trehearnes letter asking for the commission sprang to his mind: You may find, my lord, that the style of these pictures differs somewhat from your expectations.

Hed been so shamed by that cold my lord that hed scarce noted the content. My lord from Lionel of all men. And the letter signed with a cool Trehearne . He deserved it, though, for what hed done, so Evelyn had swallowed it with as good a grace as might be, and gone ahead with the commission. Despite the gulf of class between them, son and heir of a viscount and son of a schoolmaster, Lionel had been like an elder brother to him once, and Evelyn had repaid that with a betrayal of trust so base that even now he burned with shame to think of it. Youth might explain folly; it did not excuse a failure of honor.

Now, faced with the murals he had commissioned, he recalled the content of that letter; Lionels style had changed. Fundamentally. Oh, the technique was recognisably his, the same economy of line that suggested shape and bulk with a few simple strokes of charcoal. But six years ago Lionels work, while brilliant, had not left Evelyn this short of breath. Yes, it had been erotic, but thisthis aching sensualitywas new. He swallowed, looking again at the slender nymph gracing his bedchamber walls. Who was she? Only blocked and roughly sketched in charcoal as yet, even complete her identity would remain a mystery. In each of the five pictures her face was hidden, shadowed by a cloak in one as she looked back over her shoulderin farewell? Her back was turned in the next as she melted into her lovers embrace and he bent to take her mouth. A veiling of soft tresses hid her face in the third paintinghow, with only a few strokes, had Lionel conveyed the silken glory of her hair? Evelyn swallowed. Lionel had entitled that one The Nymph, Worshipping at the Feet of the God, Administers the Kiss of Venus to Apollo. The cascade of curls might hide the actual moment, but the naked gods head flung back in imminent ecstasy, the taut corded muscles and the hand sliding through the tumbled locks to stroke the nymphs throat, a gesture at once possessive and tenderthere was no doubt as to what she was doing. Evelyns mouth dried and his heart hammered a slow, heavy rhythm. He hardly dared look at the next picturethe nymph surrendered in passion to her immortal lover.