Unconventional Series Collection (26 page)

Jenny watched Mr. Ryder close the door and
feelings of anger and sympathy vied for preeminence. The man was impossible.
What was the darkness he had lived? His paintings had been done before he lost
his arm. And how did one paint both light and darkness into a picture?
Frustration made her clinch her fists at her sides and close her eyes tightly.
Suddenly, she remembered that Nate was coming over and rushed back to her room.

Setting out plates and utensils on her small
table, she replayed the encounter with Mr. Ryder. There was a knock on her
door, and she opened it to Nate. He handed her a wrapped loaf of bread and
said, "It just came out of the oven. Sister Theresa said to tell you
hello. Hey, you look serious. What's wrong?"

Jenny smiled at her young friend, and because
they shared everything related to artistry, recounted her visit from Jake
Ryder. The boy's eyes grew big. "He came here?"

"Yes. He apologized for his unkindness to
me at the gallery and asked that I not leave the school."

Nate grinned. "I knew he was a good man,
and see, even he knows you need to stay."

Jenny motioned for Nate to sit at the table and
she sat across from him. "Nate, he said I must combine light and dark in
my artwork. I think he was speaking symbolically. How can I do that?"

Nate gave her a bewildered look and finally
shrugged. "I don't know. Did you ask him to teach you? Because if he
teaches you—you can teach me."

"I asked him and he refused. He said I had
to live the darkness to become a gifted artist. But, Nate, I have lived in
darkness. Especially, after my mother and baby brother died. I don't
understand."

"I've lived in darkness, too." Nate
drummed his fingers on the table. "Jen, you've got to get him to teach
you."

"But he already refused."

"And you're giving up just like that?"
He snapped his fingers. "You told me you applied to the school three times
before you were accepted? The way I figure it, you need to keep asking Mr.
Ryder like you kept trying to get into the school."

Jenny lifted a bite of boiled potato to her
mouth. After chewing and swallowing, she patted her friend's mop of blonde
hair. "Nate, you're right. I've been acting like a frightened mouse. It's
time I roared." She giggled, "Well, at least squawked."

* * *

Ryder downed a shot of whiskey and looked at the
clock.
Damn, eleven in the morning and I'm already doing shots.
He poured
another. For three nights, since his visit with Miss Samson, he had dreamed of
eyes bluer than the seas of islands he had visited. In every dream, her eyes
had mirrored both worship and hurt.
Don't worship me, Jenny. I'm a bastard
of the first order.

A knock interrupted his angst and he called,
"Yes? Enter."

Clayton, his butler, opened the double doors of
the library and, with his usual impartialness, said, "Sir, there is a
young lady to see you. She rang the bell at the gate and when Peter told her you
do not receive visitors unannounced, she said she would continue to ring the
bell until you were told of her presence. She said her name is–"

"Jenny Samson," Ryder finished for
him.

"That is correct, sir."

Ryder downed the whiskey he had just poured.
"Let's see how determined she is. Show her to the sitting room and tell
her I am engaged in household duties at the moment."

"Yes, sir, as you wish." Clayton
closed the door.

Three hours later, his butler returned with an
update. "Sir, one of the parlor maids relayed to me that the young lady
said to tell you she wasn't leaving until you listened to the reason for her
visit."

Ryder groaned
. I know her reason because if I
were her age with her idealism, I would do the same thing.
He set his shot
glass down and mumbled in a half drunken stupor. "I might as well get this
over with. Thank you, Clayton. I'll take care of this now."

"Yes sir. Umm, sir, does that mean you'd
like the lady shown to the library?"

"Please." Ryder plopped behind his
desk, fingered his hair, and shook his head to remove some of the cobwebs.

Several minutes later, Clayton opened the door
again and ushered the persistent girl into the room. He announced, "Miss
Jenny Samson, sir."

Ryder gazed at her through glazed eyes.
"Please sit, Miss Samson. Would you like Clayton to pour you a drink?
Whatever you desire, we probably have it."

Very primly, she responded, "No, but thank
you."

Ryder turned his attention to Clayton and nodded
that he could leave. When the door closed behind him, Ryder said, "Please
step away from the door and come sit." He motioned to a chair in front of
his massive desk.

Miss Samson slowly approached and sat on the
edge of the chair.

"Do I make you nervous, Miss Samson?"
Ryder couldn't resist asking.

"Honestly. Yes."

He grinned. "I must say, even though I
prolonged our meeting hoping you would just leave, I wasn't expecting you
to."

"Mr. Ryder, I will get right to the point.
The reason–"

"Please call me Ryder and leave off the
Mister part. After all, since I can't seem to get rid of you, you might as well
address me more…intimately." He was pleased to see her turn scarlet.

Examining her hands as if they were somehow
crucial to their conversation, she finally looked back at him and began again,
"The reason for my visit–"

"–is because you're demanding that I teach
you to paint."

"No sir."

He raised an eyebrow.

"I am
asking
you to teach me. If you
refuse, then I will demand. If you still refuse, I will camp out on your
doorstep."

It took a second for Ryder's whiskey fogged mind
to assimilate her words and when he did, he laughed loudly. "So, there's
more spirit to the shy country girl who creates poetic paintings than I
imagined. Come stand before me."

A questioning looked passed across the girl's
face, but she obeyed and stepped to the front of his desk.

"No, Jenny Samson. Not there. Here."
He motioned to the space beside his chair.

Again, a questioning look lit her countenance,
but she stepped around the desk until she stood close enough that he could
reach and touch her. Swiveling his chair until he faced her, he found himself
looking directly at her small breasts and had a strong desire to reach and cup
them. Instead, he lifted his eyes to hers and rasped, "How determined are
you that I teach you?"

After watching her gulp, he smiled a devil's
grin. Perhaps he could scare her away.

She replied in the voice of a frightened girl,
"Very determined," but repeated more forcefully, "Very
determined."

Ryder looked back at her breasts. "If I
still painted, I would paint you…twice. Once with your clothes on looking like
the Virgin of the West, and then again with your clothes off, looking
like…" He didn't finish his sentence.

Jenny quickly stepped backward and he expected
her to turn and run. When she didn't, he lost himself in the depths of her eyes
now darkened to the color of a stormy sea. She merely said matter-of-factly,
"You've been drinking."

"I certainly have. How else do you think I
could talk to you so commonly?" He amended his words, "No, not
common. You could never be common, Jenny."

She replied. "I'll leave and return another
day when you are yourself."

Ryder laughed cynically. "What is 'myself'
sweet Jenny? 'Myself' died twelve years ago with the death of my…" He
clamped his mouth shut.

Suddenly, Jenny stepped within a hairsbreadth of
him. In a swift gesture, she touched the shoulder of his amputated arm. Softly
she said, "I'll come back another day and ask that you teach me. If you
say no, I'll begin demanding."

Before Ryder could react, she turned and rushed
out the door. He leaned back in his chair, still smelling her sweet breath that
had fallen across his face.

Ryder woke with one hell of a headache. He was
tempted to stay in bed and drink the day away, but he had a strange inclination
to not let Jenny Samson see him in an imbibed condition again. With everything
in him, he knew she would be returning within a few days; maybe today. He
needed to dismiss her and get her out of his life.

At eleven, the same as the previous day, she
arrived at his gate ringing the bell. Clayton made him aware of her presence
and he asked that she be shown immediately into the library. Rather than sit
behind his desk recalling memories of his obnoxious behavior the day before, he
walked across the room and leaned against the fireplace mantle. Clayton showed
Miss Samson into the room and announced her.

When they were alone, Ryder motioned to the
settee. "Please sit, Miss Samson." He couldn't help but notice her
simple country dress and matching bonnet. The gauche apparel was somehow
endearing. "Do you always wear bonnets, Miss Samson? Do you not know the
fad is cute petite hats decorated with…whatever."

"Yes, I always wear bonnets. My mother
loved them."

"Loved? Past tense? Is she dead?"

"Yes. She died when I was nine."

"So, you have experienced darkness."

"Yes."

"Well, there's your answer. Paint the
darkness into your art."

"I don't understand and wish for you to
teach me."

Ryder snorted, "How can I teach you about
darkness?"

"I don't know. But I'm asking you to
try."

"Not demanding?"

Jenny's lips tilted in a smile and Ryder's
heartbeat gained speed.

"No, not yet," she said softly.

Ryder turned toward the mantle, gripping it with
his hand. He didn't like that the plain country girl had his heart hammering.
He didn't like that his miserable world had been upset by her. Inhaling a
calming breath, he turned back around with a plan to scare her away.

"Very well, Jenny. I will teach you, but
you will not like it."

Jenny grazed her teeth over her bottom lip and
Ryder's heart hammered triple time. He said, "We will begin tomorrow at
this same time with me painting you."

At her surprised look, he continued, "Oh,
the painting will be rubbish because I cannot paint with my left hand, but I
will explain what I am doing while I go through the motions."

When a smile lit her face, he pounced.
"Your smile may be premature because I will only paint you wearing your
chemise and petticoat." He almost grinned before she answered because he
knew
the innocent farm girl would refuse. He could finally be rid of her.

* * *

Jenny blinked several times unsure of Ryder's
meaning. When he smiled devilishly, understanding slammed her. "Y-you want
to paint me?"

"Yes." He grinned. "In your
unmentionables."

"What does that have to do with painting
light and dark?"

"Miss Samson, since when does the student
question the teacher whom she almost
demands
teach her?"

Jenny narrowed her eyes.
Oh, I understand.
You think I'm going to run away in terror. Well, Ryder, I'm so desperate to
learn what you know, I'll play along with your game.
"Okay, Ryder,
I'll be here tomorrow at eleven."

The shocked expression on Ryder's countenance
gave Jenny some satisfaction as she turned to flee. Just as she passed through
the doorway, she heard him curse.

Jenny slept little that night and wondered if
she had jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Searching her undergarments
the next morning, she found her most chaste cotton shift; chemise indeed! It
almost covered her like a dress with its cap sleeves and rounded neck. Ryder
would see little more of her body than he did now. She would play his game to
show her determination and perhaps get a glimpse of the master at work.

At precisely eleven the next morning, Jenny
arrived at Ryder's home. The steward that answered her ring did not question
her. Immediately, he opened the gate and led her to the front porch. The same
staunch butler as on previous visits was waiting for her outside the front
door. "Please follow me," he instructed after dismissing the steward.

The butler led Jenny to the end of the porch and
down the side steps. He then followed a pathway to the back of the house past
beautiful fountains and flowering foliage and stopped before a small, artfully
constructed stone structure. He knocked on the door, cast Jenny a haughty glance,
and then swiftly walked back the way they had come.

Jenny inhaled a shaky breath just as the
intricately carved door was opened by Ryder. "Please come in, Jenny."

Willing her hammering heart to slow, she focused
on a canvas already set up in the room and stepped inside. Ryder motioned to a
curtain. "You can remove your dress there. When you return, please
position yourself on the settee I've placed in front of the blue
backdrop."

Jenny's feet felt glued to the floor and he said
in an irritated voice, "What are you waiting for? My time is
limited."

"What do you want me to do, exactly?"

As if speaking to a child, he said, "I want
you to remove your dress and stretch out in your undergarments on the settee. I
have positioned my canvas so you can watch my strokes and I will explain as I
work. Of course, if you wish to call off our lesson, I will not protest. And if
you're worried about me seeing you without your dress, do not worry. I have
painted dozens of nudes and I am not asking that of you."

Jenny glanced from the smirk on Ryder's face to
the settee and then to the canvas and awaiting paints. Inhaling yet again, she
nodded and walked behind the curtain. Slowly, with shaking fingers, she
unbuttoned the front of her dress and stepped out of it. Glancing down at
herself to be sure she was properly covered, she peeked around the curtain to
see Ryder with his back to her examining his paintbrushes. Quickly, she rushed
to the settee and sat stiffly on it. The cushion made a sound and Ryder turned
around.

* * *

Ryder's conscience was bothering him so bad he
was a heartbeat away from ordering Jenny out of his studio regardless of
whether she quit school or not. His plan to scare her into disregarding her
desire to be taught by him had backfired terribly. He heard a sound and turned
around. One look at Jenny and he was laughing aloud. She could have kept her
dress on with an undergarment as chaste as she was wearing."

"Wh-what's wrong?" she asked.

"Jenny,
that
is your
undergarment?"

"Yes."

Ryder stopped laughing and sighed. "Very
well. Sit on the divan; raise your legs up onto it and stretch out, like you're
getting ready to take a nap. And, for God's sake, remove the bonnet. No one
naps wearing a bonnet."

While Ryder arranged his brushes and paints,
Jenny obeyed. Surreptitiously, he watched her movements. When she set her
bonnet on the floor, he said, "Let your hair down before you lie
down."

Wordlessly, she began removing pins from her
hair and setting them beside the bonnet. When a rich mane of mahogany hair
cascaded over one shoulder and past her breast, Ryder cursed at his reaction.
She's
a homely chit. You've been without a woman too long. Time to have Madame Jones
send someone over.

He watched her lay back on the settee. She might
as well have been a slab of wood siding as stiff as she looked. Ryder rubbed
his forehead. Hopefully, this "lesson" would be humiliating enough to
send his pupil on her way, never to return.

"Listen Jenny, you need to relax. You look
like a stick of lumber. Think about curling up on a bed and luxuriating in its
softness. Think about happy days in the country. Think about the beau waiting
for you back home."

"I have no beau. And, at the risk of
sounding ungrateful, what does painting me like this have to do with learning
the secrets of great painting? If you think to scare me away, it will not
work."

Irritation crawled up Ryder's skin like pesky
insects. Stalking over to Jenny he instructed her to curl her legs, stretch her
arms over her head, and look sleepy. After following his instructions, she
looked worse than before. And after more instructions, he decided she was
incompetent and he would paint her as she looked. It would serve her right for
her persistence. Without thinking, because he always touched his models to lock
their essence into his spirit, he reached and smoothed his hand down her hair,
the only relaxed part of her body.
Mistake. Big mistake.

The silky strands clung to his hand and he
wanted to groan. Unable to resist, he combed his fingers through its thickness
and cupped the back of Jenny's head. Her eyes widened and locked with his.
Cursing, he twisted away and stormed back to the easel with its blank canvas.