Harpies, Part Two

As an experiment I decided to try and write a chapter of a more "traditional" regency for the Avon Fanlit, since this appears to be what the people are crying out for. Thus there was research. I decided that my story would center on the painting The Grand Odelisque (seen above). There is great controversy over who the model exactly is and for what purpose it was painted given the the Romantic and leading into the Orientalism movements were in their infancy at the time. Also, Ingres was by natire a painter of court portraits. All very interesting. Other than the commission was ordered by the Queen Consort (and Napoleon's sister) of Naples at the time. Apparently to hang in complement with a painting he alegedlly did for her of a nude woman sleeping. No one seems to know the whereabouts of that painting. Here is Queen Caroline:

Personally, I think she looks a bit like the painting but is it possible that they used one body and her face? That's the premise of my ridiculous story. By the way Murat went on to paint The Roman Baths and Recling Odelisque with Slave among other famous works, most of which are housed in teh Louvre. Incidentally, poor Caroline never recieved her painting. She had conspired against her brother and fled to what was then a part of Austria with her children to avoid her husband's fate of beheading.


This story has been on the boards less than half an hour and has better scores then my last one has had in a week. I'm so disappointed in women.
Oh, and I thought you might enjoy viewing a ballgown from 1815 as I had no idea wht they looked like myself. Very boring compared to what I had thought. And while this snippet does not describe THIS dress (which resides in the Met) it is from a ladies' fashion peridoical from 1815.

EVENING DRESS.
Dress, of White Satin, tastefully trimmed with Sky Blue Velvet, a handsome Plaiting round the Neck, a Balloon Sleeve, looped up with narrow Blue Velvet; Band, fastened in the front with a Pearl Clasp. Pearl Necklace, Earrings, and Bracelets; long White Gloves; Silk Stockings; and White Satin Shoes, ornamented with silver. The Hair in braids in the front; full curls behind, fastened with a comb, worked with pearls. Admired as this publication has ever been for the taste displayed in the Dresses, yet we have no hesitation in saying that this one, for simplicity and elegance, far exceeds all others we have ever witnessed.

Well, here we go, prepare to be underwhelmed and possibly just ill. Remember that Regency is so not my thing.

Title: The Odalisque

Hook: (I had a very strict 150 character count here so forgive the triteness) His ideal woman exsisted only in an artist's sketch book. Until she stepped out of the pages and into his heart.

Summary of Chapter: His obsession had come to life. She was flesh and blood and beautiful. But could reality live up to fantasy?
When it appeared all intrigue and deception had left her life, a man claims he dreams of her, loves her….but only as The Odalisque. (Yes, I know. Shut up.)

Chapter One (incidentally, all names, locations and the general premise of lady takes Ton by storm, gentleman vows to undo her were all picked by NOT me)

London, Spring 1815

The Duchess of Alderman's Annual Ball

"Did I mention my step-mother was to attend?"
Demian looked at the Earl of Frasier with interest. It was the first interesting thing that had happened all evening at the Duchess of Alderman's ball. The Ton flocked each year because the elderly Duchess held the ear of Prinny and none wanted to run the risk of an insult. It was rumored the Prince Regent himself would appear.
"I'd heard her Ladyship was about and making quite a stir. Whatever did you say to lure her from Sussex? I thought she was rusticating quite happily."
"She was. I'm more than happy to leave her to her hobbies. I certainly have bigger concerns with this dashed Battle we fear approaching. She likes the sea, says the climate is as close to Italy as is available here in gloomy old England. She putters in the garden a great deal and reads."
"Sounds dreadfully boring," the Earl's interest had been momentarily piqued by the idea of a new face amongst The Ton but it waned quickly at the idea of a bookish dowager. His thoughts turned to a feminine figure, lush and ripe with promise, reclining on a bed, having fallen asleep awaiting her lover. Her dark hair-.
"I suppose you are dreaming about your fantasy girl again, seeing as I have been trying to tell you of Isabella for a good five minutes," observed Richard. "Shall you never get her out of your mind? First it was your obsession over the sketch book and now the damn painting. I hear you've emissary has been hounding poor Ingres mercilessly for the identity of the model. There is many a dark haired beauty here tonight, nay in all London who would be more than please to make your fantasies come true.
Damien simply sighed. His friend would truly never understand, he not understanding it himself, the obsession he had begun for the true identity of the model in the sketch book he owned. Last year his Mr. Franks, a most trustworthy and well-connected art dealer, had approached him with what he described as a one of a kind piece that he had been consigned. It's shocking asking price had meant nothing to Damien once he had examined it.
The sketch book was filled with page after page of a woman, in the nude in various reposes. The damnability was that in every sketch her face was blank. Normally not a fan of the new Romantic style, he was surprised when he spent more and more time with the book, studying each line, each curve, each mark.
"Ever so sorry. What about her," he inquired out of boredom. He poured his watery lemonade into a convenient plant and set the fragile cup on a passing server's tray.
"Oh, quite Italian. Intelligent, reads ad writes three languages, plays chess with great skill, wicked sense of humor. Her year of mourning for father has long past sense and I practically had bribe her hear with promises of botanical gardens, boxwood hedges and whatever other plants she cares to see."
"Why so interested?"
"Oh, I'm hoping to marry her off. I'd feel like I had preformed my duty as step-son. I hate to think her alone."
"Very altruistic of you. Well, the Duchess' wig is quite making my eyes water, didn't anyone tell her that fell out of fashion years up on years ago. If you decide to seek solace later in a glass and games, I shall be at Whites." He made for the stairs after bidding goodnight to his hostess and sneezing rather indiscreetly as the powder on her wig.
In truth, despite the early hour he was anxious to get home. Just as he was leaving his newest painting, the "The Valpincon Bather" had arrived. He looked forward to it joining Monsieur Ingres' "Girl after bathing". He was more than anxious to return and compare the subjects to ensure they were the same woman. He had heard of the marvel that was Monsieur's "La Grande Odalisque", unveiled last year at an exhibition at The Paris Salon. The damnable Little Dictator had made it quite impossible for him to personally view it thus he had Mr. Franks send a French painter to copy it brush stroke by brush stroke.
"Ah, there she is. Do wait a moment and be introduced to Isabelle, Damien," his friend asked.
A beauty of the first water had arrived at the top of the stairs. A hush rippled through the ballroom for a second before it begin to buzz in earnest telling who had already met and entertained the mysterious Countess.
She was not young, she was not old. Thirty, guessed Damien. Still considerably younger than her late husband had been and with her inheritance, she would still be considered a prime catch. She was dark, bespeaking her Mediterranean heritage. Olive skinned, black hair, dark eyes. Her figure a bit fuller than those of the English society maven as dictated by the fashion of Italy. Her looks were complemented by the gauzy ivory gown and pearls she wore.
She appeared uncertain at first, then her face breaking into a radiant smile when she saw Richard coming forth. "You told me this was to be a small gathering, Richard. Shame on you," she scolded fondly.
"Sorry, darling, or shall I introduce you as my dear Mother?" He kissed her lightly on the cheek.
"Don't you dare, you saucy pup or I shall thrash you like a
school boy."
"By the way," Richard tossed over his shoulder," Isabella, the Dowager Countess of Frasier, this is my oldest and dearest of intimates, Damien, Earl of Coulter. May I interest you in some perfectly horrid lemonade, Bella?" Richard made to take her arm to lead her to an introduction with the Duchess.
"Would your ladyship do me the honor of this dance," Damien blurted out. So uncharacteristic was his forwardness and clumsy delivery, Richard stopped in his tracks and simply blinked at him.
"I should greet the hostess, I believe. I shall be happy to add you to my dance card for…Oh my." And before she knew it, Isabella was whirling about the dance floor.

# # #

"I know you," the Earl informed her. Neither preamble nor polite chatter with this man. He was staring down at her intensely, as though his dark hair and gray eyes did not make him intense enough.
She smiled easily at him. A woman with nothing to hide. "Have you been to Italy recently, my Lord," she inquired breezily.
"No, not since my Grand Tour in ninety-eight. I do know you," he repeated. Not a question, just fact.
"I have lived in Italy my entire life, Sir. I am sure you've confused me with another. Do not let it trouble you." Perhaps he would let it go now. It would be impolite of him to press further.
"That is where you met Edward's father, is it not? Rome?" H was looking more puzzled by the moment.
"Yes, the English climate did not agree with him in his later years. He took up residence there."
"And we have never-."
"Have you been to Sussex recently," she cut him off. He was like an old dog with a bone. And she did not enjoy feeling the clamp of his muzzle about her.
"No," he replied slowly. He was barely listening now, studying her so relentlessly that she was afraid they were attracting attention.
"I have not left it during my mourning. The dance comes to a close. Perhaps you could return me to Edward?" She went to take his arm, in the process she was forced to shift the slight trail of fabric from her skirt, allowing the back of her neck be exposed to him. Straightening, she took his arm and made to move from the floor.
He stopped and turned to her, she saw him swallowing hard, a bead of perspiration forming on his brow,
"I did not recognize you clothed, your ladyship," he said
in wonder.
She made a hasty exit off the floor. He pursued.
"It is you? The Odalisque? I would never have truly known had I not seen the birth mark on the back of your neck." He reached to touch it and she slapped his hand away with her fan.
"Sir, this is most improper and if you do not desist immediately, I shall inform my son-in-law of your advances." She moved quickly toward the doors to the ladies retiring room. Again he pursued.
"I would not have known your face, but you body, your birthmark, the curve of your neck, they are as distinctive as a snowflake."
"I beg of you to leave me alone, sir. I've developed a headache and must ask Richard to escort me home. Good evening." She turned, almost in tears to hurry away.
"I dream of you every night."
She stopped in her tracks. "I must go," she said quietly, not even turning to face him.
The Odalisque. Here. She must be his in life as she was in portraiture. Richard said he had hoped to make a suitable match during The Season. Damien was quite sure he would be suitable.

Crap, right? But these Regency Women are eating it up with a spoon. Anyway, run along to www.avonfanlit.com, register, scroll through and find me and give me a five please.. You already read the thing so you might as well help me out.