Free The Crimson Bed by Loretta Proctor

wonder what happened to all that charming youth then!'
        'But at least you will remember how you were. And if you're anything at all like your dear mother, you will always look beautiful. Always.'
        'Oh, Papa, darling. I do so love you!' said his daughter, rising and putting her arms about his neck. He smiled and kissed her cheek and as she turned, looking far lighter of heart than he had seen in a while, he felt his own spirits lift a little. But sadness still weighed upon him to think that it wouldn't be long before she also left him and how very alone he would be then.
        He thought with sudden fierceness that if he had his way, he would keep her at his side forever. No man would ever be good enough for his dear little girl.

 
     
    Chapter 6
     
     
     
     
    Fred could not remember when he had last felt such impatience for anything. Generally, he took life slow and sweet – some might say in idleness. That face, though! It was like a siren song. It lured him back to Henry Winstone's studio despite his usual languor.
        He finished some commissions for his father, which had taken him to Threadneedle Street. Seen in the morning light, the whole area had become alive with frantic people hurrying to and fro, dodging carts, cabs and omnibuses that rattled and bumped along in all directions according to the driver's whim. A flock of sheep was being driven amongst all this rush and madness through Leadenhall Street to Smithfields. Their noisy and unrelenting disapproval at being prodded and pushed along streets full of ironshod vehicles and neighing, rearing horses added to the din and confusion. It was as if the poor creatures knew that they were being driven on to their deaths and their final re-appearance as cold, sliced mutton on a Sunday dinner plate. Usually, Fred found this noise and commotion horrendous. Today, his mind was so filled with the idea of meeting the lovely girl in Henry's drawing that he let the noise roll over him unheeded, untroubled by any of it.
        He found Henry in the brightly lit studio, preparing his pigments and inspecting his brushes. He greeted Fred with his usual warmth and enthusiasm.
        'Come to see your Blessed Damsel, have you?' he joked and proceeded to declaim:
    'The blessed damsel leaned against The silver bar of heaven.
    Her eyes knew more of rest and shade Than a deep water, even.
    She had three lilies in her hand And the stars in her hair were seven.'
     
        'By Jove, your memory's good!' Fred said admiringly. 'That's decidedly one of Rossetti's better poems. Some of his grinds are really rubbish. I still recall the evening round at Chatham Place, sitting out on his balcony and watching the sun go down and then everyone retiring indoors to recite our poetry to one another.
        'Oh, my memory's not that good,' said Henry. 'I wrote the poem down at the time. But you're right, it was a splendid evening. Gabriel knows how to have a good soiree. Strange though, don't you think – strange his not smoking or drinking or even whoring as far as I can tell. He actually sat and watched us quaff his wine and then drank water at the end of it. I've seen him sit smiling to himself in a cigar divan, tapping the table with his fingers, looking as detached about the gals parading before him as you please. The fellow's odd, worse than you. At least you'll enjoy a glass or two of bubbly. And I mean, he's an Italian, you'd think he'd be a bit of a libertine.'
        'I've told you before, not everyone has their brains in their bollocks.'
        Henry roared with laughter. 'Meaning I have, perchance? You know I love women. I can't help it. It's natural enough. And what's more, I have a feeling the fair Eleanor is going to turn your head and stiffen your cock and you'll get back to your normal self again. Hallelujah!'
        He now studied his palette with some dismay. 'Good God, I'd better clean this up or the tints will get muddied with the dried