Author's Note: I wasn't going to post the second chapter tonight, but because it's the sublime Demosthenes23's birthday and because she asked so nicely (as a good Canadian does J), here it is! The next chapter will be up shortly, but definitely not tonight!
Also, sorry about the glitch. I checked and it appeared for me, but so many of you wrote me to let me know that it wasn't showing up for you. Hopefully, this works now.
Whatever romantic, bohemian ideals she'd once held, Julia had quickly come to the conclusion that the profession of artist's model was considerably more difficult than it looked, and Julia quickly decided that those poor women in Europe had more than earned their paltry wage and that there was nothing romantic about the endeavor.
Constantly being reminded to expose her neck and arch her back and then hold it, she found herself requesting regular breaks-the last thing she needed to do was injure herself and have to answer questions about how it had happened-she never could lie to William very well.
This continued for several more sessions until Monsieur L'Artiste announced that he thought he had enough material to finish the painting on his own and would call her once the composition was complete.
Unbeknownst to her, as she got up to slip on her robe and redress herself, the clasp on her necklace had caught on the fabric of the divan and had fallen off as she sat up in her haste to put her clothes back on.
It wasn't until much later as she got ready for dinner that she noticed the necklace was gone, and frantically tried to retrace her steps from the afternoon in her mind. She frantically prayed that it was still at the studio and hoped it hadn't fallen off in the street where anyone would have quickly pawned it or even kept it for themselves.
But what if it wasn't? What was she going to tell William? There was no question that he'd notice that it was missing! Had he insured it? Would it be difficult to get a replacement? How difficult would it be to slip down to New York and pick up a replacement?
She took a deep breath, and calmed herself. She'd cross that bridge when she got to it. But she couldn't quite shake the feeling that something bad had happened or was about to happen. It was only a necklace, but why did the thought of having to tell William she'd lost it make her ill?
Something strange was going on with his wife. She was up to something, but William couldn't quite put his finger on it. When he tried to call her at the asylum to let her know that he was thinking about her, or went by to surprise her in the afternoons, she was often already gone for the day. She'd claimed various appointments, but she always seemed a bit nervous about it, and something nagged at him, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Still, he'd decided that he wouldn't worry about it too much-he knew Julia was faithful to him and that was all that mattered. She may be his wife, but she was still an independent person and marrying her didn't give him the right to control her –not that she'd let him anyway.
But the bad feeling he had never completely went away, and the whole scenario was reminding him of when she had begun distancing himself from her right before she left for Buffalo. Furthermore, he couldn't help but notice that something was particularly amiss that night at dinner. She seemed particularly quiet and withdrawn at dinner, not engaging in their usual banter of scientific matters-a topic she typically enjoyed.
Despite his repeated queries, she repeatedly assured him that all was well, and that she just had a headache, excusing herself for the night from the table and feigning sleep when he checked on her a few minutes later.
The nagging concern began to grow into full-blown worry, and grabbing his hat, he went for a walk around their neighborhood to clear his head. Here he decided that if she didn't tell him what was going on tomorrow of her volition, he'd confront her, and prepared himself that the news may not be what he wanted to hear.
Little did he know that he'd get his answer the next day without even uttering a word to her.
The following morning, he was informed of a murder at an artist's studio shared by multiple artists and sculptors, and William immersed himself into that bohemian world once again. Although he'd undeniably been intrigued by this subculture years ago, he hadn't dabbled in it since the days of Sally Pendrick-one of his greatest mistakes as a detective and as a man. He'd allowed himself to be seduced and played by Sally, and not only had he let a killer easily slip through his grasp, it had also been a factor in losing Julia to Darcy-something he wasn't keen to have happen once again.
Arriving at the studio, George briefed William about the facts as they knew them. The deceased was an artist by the name of Richard Partridge, and motive and potential suspects had yet to be established. Once William learned that the studio was a shared collective workspace occupied by several other artists and visited by untold numbers of clients, models, and friends, William groaned.
There would be no way he would be getting home at a decent hour tonight, and there would be no much-needed discussion with Julia.
Pushing his disappointment aside, it was paramount that he keep his wits about him, but the fear that he was about to be caught unawares again only grew within his stomach, and it took most of his self-control to keep focused on interviewing the various artists as well as get the names of their subjects and patrons.
Hours had gone by, and William had interviewed many of the artists and searched the various spaces for clues when he reached the room occupied by a Jean L'Artiste, who was furiously working on an important commission that must be finished soon according to the man and gave the constabulary his word that he wouldn't leave before speaking with them.
But if there was any good news to be derived from this exhausting day, it was readily becoming apparent that Mr. Partridge had been involved with another man's wife, and that the woman's husband was quickly becoming their prime suspect. He didn't condone violence, but he still felt for the man, discovering that his wife was involved with another man. He couldn't imagine how he'd react if he discovered Julia had been having an affair behind his back.
True to his word, it was late in the afternoon before the final artist of the collective studio, Monsieur Jean L'Artiste presented himself to William for an interview, and readily gave permission for the studio to be searched. Speaking with the man, William quickly ruled him out as a suspect, but still wanted to search the studio for anything pertinent that may have evidentiary value, and sent the man out.
After spending another hour going through the various cabinets and drawers, he collapsed in exhaustion onto a divan covered in silk scarves from the far east-no doubt it was a fetching backdrop for a nude of some sort. Looking to his left, he spied something metallic and shiny caught between the cushions and pulled out his handkerchief to get a better look at it.
Carefully picking it up lest it contain valuable evidence, he examined it further and immediately recognized it as a very expensive necklace. In fact, it was just like the piece he'd bought Julia in New York from Tiffany's-he was sure of it. He'd selected it for it's beauty and the way the amethyst stones complimented her skin, hair, and eyes; imagining her out at the theater with it accompanying a beautiful dress and later in their bedroom accompanying nothing but what God above had blessed her with. He'd recognize the piece anywhere.
As he examined the necklace, knowing it cost quite a few pretty pennies and wondering if a murderer may have left it in a hurry, George had entered the studio, and was examining the painting that the artist had just finished.
"Sir, I think you may want to look at this," George called out.
"Just a moment, George," there was something bothering him about the necklace. Just how many pieces were there like this in Toronto, let alone even made by the famous New York jeweler? William doubted it was a one of a kind, but he knew that there weren't many like it either-it's unusualness had most intrigued him.
"Sir," George insisted.
Putting the piece in his pocket, William stood up and walked over to the easel that George was gesturing to. The painting was of an exquisite nude lying across the divan erotically posed, and the model was none other than Julia. There was no mistaking it.
His Julia! His wife!
William felt lightheaded and as though he might pass out. Perceptive as ever, George immediately brought a stool over and pushed William onto it.
William just stared at the artwork, mouth agape in shock.
"I'll keep the other men out, sir. Take your time," he finished as he rushed out, giving William a moment to compose himself and keeping anyone else from seeing his wife in all her exquisite glory splayed out across a canvas.
He felt as though he'd been punched in the stomach and his still–beating heart had been ripped right out of his chest, dropping onto the floor and shattering into a million pieces.
He put his head in his hands and took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure before going back out to resume his investigation. He also tried to remain calm, and not jump to conclusions, but suddenly all of the "appointments" and withdrawal from his affections or questions left only one plausible explanation: Julia had betrayed him!