Chapter 1: City Manners

"It will be splendid to have a fine, strong young man about the house, Mr. Brandywine," said Mrs. Dalrymple, as she took Corky's hands in hers.

There was something unnerving about the half-smile that darted across her face as she looked at him sidelong. Corky didn't quite remember the moment when he had agreed to become a boarder at Mrs. Dalrymple's house, but the landlady certainly appeared to consider it a done deal. And indeed he could think of no reasonable objections. The room she was offering was large and well-appointed, the address fashionable, the rent surprisingly low. Mrs. Dalrymple herself was a fine woman, a widow of some means, with a bright, vivacious manner. In the firelight, her pale skin took on a rosy glow. Stray strands of crinkly russet fell from her loose bun to run along the delicate skin of her neck.

Mrs. Dalrymple stepped still closer. At this angle, her decolete gown revealed the rotundities of her sizable and well-separated bosom. Corky bit his lip with the effort of maintaining eye contact.

"Are you quite well, Mr. Brandywine?" the widow inquired with a concerned look. "You look terribly flushed!"

"Oh, quite <cough, cough!> quite all right," Corky assured her hastily. "Just a little warm. Nothing, really."

"Well, at any rate," she said, "it will be good for the girls to have a man about the house."

"The... girls?"

"Oh, my two daughters," she explained. "Beatrice and Maggie. Delightful children. I'm sure you shall get on quite famously with them." She leaned out the door of the room. "Maggie, Beatrice!" she called, "Come and meet our new boarder!"

She returned to Corky's side and confided, "They're dear, good-hearted girls, but with no one but an old woman to keep an eye on them," (it took Corky a moment to realize she was referring to herself) "they do tend to become a trifle wild and willful at times. It will be ever so much better to have a firm, masculine hand available when they stray."

With nary a sound of warning, two young ladies burst into the room, grabbing the door frame to check their momentum as they skidded around the corner.

"Girls, decorum, please," Mrs. Dalrymple said without rancour, as her daughters patted their hair down, panting slightly.

"Sorry, mother," grinned the shorter of the two, her eyes never leaving Corky. She looked more like a sister than a daughter; her cheeks were freckled where her mother's were pale, and her figure had not yet fully ripened into the lush curves of the elder Dalrymple, but otherwise she might be the mistress of the house herself, displaced by two decades of age.

The taller sister kept silent, her straight dark hair a striking contrast to her sister's reddish curls, her great dark eyes downcast, save for quick shy glances at the new tenant. Her ivory skin was lightly flushed from the exertion of her recent sprint and from the presence of the young male stranger.

Corky gazed at the girls with dismay. The notion that he might be called upon to fulfill a role as disciplinarian for these spirited females, his juniors by a bare handful of years, struck him as impossibly absurd.

"Mr. Brandywine, allow me to present my daughters," the widow said formally, "Margaret and Beatrice. Girls, this is Mr. William Brandywine, an art student who is going to be staying with us this year."

The dark haired girl--Beatrice--curtsied prettily, and mumbled indistinct greetings.

Her sister opened her green eyes wide and stepped forward. "An artist! You're really an artist, Mr. Brandywine?"

"Well," stammered poor Corky, "not really... or, or, or rather not yet..."

"That's a terribly romantic occupation," the girl exclaimed eagerly. "Do you think you should like to paint me? I'm sure it would be great fun."

"Oh, no it isn't!" Corky assured her hastily, "I'm afraid posing for studies is terribly dull work. You must be perfectly still for an hour or more, no matter how sore or cold you get."

"La, wouldn't it be a sight to have Maggie standing still for five minutes," said Beatrice, and giggled.

"I can stand still for just as long as I choose," exclaimed her sister indignantly. "But why should I get cold?" she asked Corky.

"Well..." he answered, "for figure studies, it's traditional... that is, in a classroom setting it's really not terribly... that is to say for, for, for purposes of artistic reference, the model will generally..."

"You pose NAKED!" stage whispered Beatrice.

"Nude, dear," her mother corrected her firmly.

Maggie blushed a little, but didn't look as displeased as she might. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed. "Is that really quite proper?"

"Now Maggie," answered Mrs. Dalrymple, with an indulgent smile, "I'm sure Mr. Brandywine has enjoyed the sight of dozens of nude young ladies over the years, many nearly as pretty as yourself; and is none the worse for the experience."

"Mrs. Dalrymple!" Corky exclaimed, "I have only been at art school a single week!"

"Ah, but I'm sure your social life has not been without the charms of many an unclad young temptress," answered the widow coolly.

Corky was indignant. "It certainly has not! If you must know, my exposure to the fairer sex has been... limited up to this time, but I assure you that, even were that not the case, I would treat the ladies of my acquaintance with the respect and modesty due to a gentlewoman!"

Did the woman truly mutter "What a pity?" So soft was her tone that Corky wasn't certain. A moment later, though, she spoke more clearly.

"Mr. Brandywine, you must forgive my rash words." She seated herself on the duvet, and drew Corky down beside her, turning her slender shoulders toward him, and passing her arms about his neck. "Do my manners seem extraordinarily free to you, William?" she asked.

"No, no, not at all, Mrs. Dalrymple!" he lied desperately, feeling a bead of perspiration run down his temple. He was ashamed of his recent outburst, and painfully aware of the uncomfortable prominence in his trousers. The two daughter seated themselves in flanking chairs, Maggie watching the conversation with an expression of barely suppressed glee, Beatrice with rapt concentration.

"I spoke imprudently, and I hope you did not take offense," the widow continued as her nails tickled at the base of his scalp, sending chills up his spine. "I was simply overcome by my delight at finding such a fine, well-bred, and handsome boarder to fill out a household that has been too-long given over entirely to the weaker sex. You see, a woman becomes used to the presence of a man about the house, to perform the necessary masculine duties."

Corky's spine stiffened and his face blanched. He wasn't certain exactly what she meant by this, and he hesitated to speculate.

"Why, only last Sunday, I was forced to carve the roast myself! "