I crack an eyelid as the morning light pours through the eastern window of Amy Trevelyne’s lovely bedroom at Dovecote. Amy sleeps next to me, her face in sweet repose. Heh-heh, I chuckle to myself, the wickedness rising up in me once again. We’ll fix that!
Getting out of bed, I briefly visit le pot de chambre, wash hands and splash some water on my face, then go to Amy’s top bureau drawer, where I know she keeps sundry notions—pins and stuff. Sure enough, there is a paper of good sturdy hairpins. I take two and go to my seabag and take out a long leather tube, remove the cap on the end, and slip the rolled-up canvas it contains into my hand.
On the wall facing the foot of Amy’s bed, there is a charming painting of a fluffy white feline looking smug on a pink pillow. I take the painting down and place it on the floor, and where it once hung, I pin up the painting, a cat of a very different sort.
It is, of course, the painting that Amadeo Romero did of me when I was a student and sometime model at Estudio Goya in Madrid—The Naked Maja. It was Amadeo’s version, not Goya’s, which did not look like me at all. Amadeo felt that Goya, that dog, had a former mistress in mind when he painted his, but Amadeo’s was spot on in the way of resemblance. At the bottom of the painting, Amadeo had lettered, in faint but very clear lettering, La Maja Virginal. Con todo mi amor. Amadeo Romero, 1808.
Mission accomplished, I slip back into bed next to Amy with a certain amount of anticipatory glee.
Again snugged in, I peer up over the edge of the covers and look at the painting in all its golden glory. The warm morning sun plays over the picture, illuminating the nude figure of the girl lying serene on a couch, rich draperies all around. Oh, Amadeo, you did such a fine job. Fine job, indeed, as the girl looks exactly like me. No mistake, and no wonder, since I did pose for it, and for many other paintings of a like nature when I was at Estudio Goya.
I give Amy a gentle nudge. She had been lying on her side, facing me, and we had spent the night so entwined.
“Good morning, Sister. It looks to be a very fine day.”
She moans and turns on her back. I bury my face in the warmth of her neck and wait till she comes fully awake.
“So what do you think, Sister?” I say.
“About what?” she says, confused and blinking.
“About that.” I cut my eyes to the painting. “Is it not a good likeness?”
She follows my glance and her eyes finally focus. Then she lets out a long shriek and flies from our bed, as I stay there curled up and convulsed in laughter. There are few things in this life that I find more enjoyable than shocking Miss Amy Trevelyne’s Puritan soul to its very core.
Amy rushes to her desk and withdraws her chair from under it and jams it under the doorknob so as to deny anyone entry into her room.
“You’ll find that simple wedges are more effective for that sort of thing.” I chortle.
Aghast, she whispers, “What if anyone should see that! Randall is due home soon, what if—”
“I did think of showing it to Randall, as a matter of fact, but I thought Polly Von might object. She is of an easy-going nature, just like me, but maybe when her Randall is involved, well . . . maybe not . . .”
“That . . . that is so . . . wicked!”
“No, it isn’t. It’s just me. A hank of hair, a piece of bone, and some skin. That’s all. What’s the problem?”
She squeals and buries her face deeper in her pillow.
“Actually, I was thinking of displaying it over the bar at the Pig. To improve business, like. Add a touch of class. I think it would look rather grand. What say you on that?”
She peeks out from under the pillow, her eyes glaring up at me. “They will surely shut you down for that! In a minute!”
“Who are ‘they’?” I ask, all mystified.
“The Boston Army for Women’s Suffrage, that’s who!”
“The women I saw you marching with the other day? I thought the lot of you were for suffrage—votes for women and all. I was even thinking of joining.”
“It’s not only that. It is also a temperance union—and against the selling of alcohol in any form. If women succeed in getting the vote, they will use it to shut down the taverns. That’s why the men are so dead set against it!”
“Wot? And I thought the men were just being mean in denying women the vote. They can be petty and mean, you know, especially when they’re gathered in groups, like clubs and fraternities and such.”
“No, Jacky, that is the way of it,” she says. “Please, please, keep that picture hidden out of sight!”
“And I have just bought a tavern,” I say, wondering. I give her a poke in the side. “Have I been sleeping with the enemy, then?”
“No, I shall now resign from the BAWS, due to conflict of interest, in that I love you—for all your transgressions against propriety, morality, and common sense—more than any political organization.”
I think on that, then say, “Aw, that’s sweet, Amy, that is. But, no, you shall not. You believe, as I do, that women have the right to vote, to own property in their own names, and to enjoy all the rights and privileges that men have. So continue to march with the BAWS . . . and keep me informed as to what they are up to.”
“What? I am to be a spy?”
“Just a fly on the wall, Sister, that’s all.”
Her eyes peek up over the edge of her pillow and gaze again upon the painting. “How could you do such a thing? I just . . . cannot imagine it.” She pulls the pillow back over her face.
“You mean pose like that?”
“Yes, Jacky, that is definitely what I mean!”
“Well, later you can get out your pen and paper and I shall tell you. Then maybe you will understand why I did it and, perhaps, find it in your heart to forgive me,” I retort. “But just a bit of the story, for we’ve got to get back to Boston. Me, to check on the workers’ progress at the Pig, and you, my dear,” I say, planting a kiss on her cheek, “to graduate from the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls!”