Author's Note: Next chapter should see this story wrapped up! Thanks for your kind reviews!
He made his way back to the studio of Monsieur L'Artiste, intent on settling the score and getting answers.
Flinging open the door without knocking, he was glad to see that the man was there and relieved to see that Julia was not.
But the damned painting was there, prominently displayed, and as he approached it, he was unconsciously mesmerized by his wife's beauty. It wasn't just her body that captivated him, beautiful though it was. It was also her erotic pose along with the look of rapture on her face that made his heart ache all the more. He remembered how Rembrandt had once painted his mistress Hendrickje Stoffels as the alluring Bathsheba, and William believed that only a lover could portray a woman that way. Which was why there was no question in his mind that Julia and Jean L'Artiste were lovers.
Weren't they?
It wasn't until the other man coughed that William snapped out of his reverence and paid the artist any heed.
"Exquisite and stunning, is she not, Detective?"
"Indeed, she is," William replied coldly, trying to resist the urge to knock the man out then and there. It took just about all of his self-control, but he managed.
"What can I help you with? I thought Mr. Partridge's killer had been caught. Nasty business, that," the artist supplied with an insouciant shrug.
"Yes, sleeping with another man's wife is indeed a nasty business. Affairs of the heart are quite insidious that way," William retorted.
"Richard was a fool-an artist should know to never dip your brush in the pot of your patron. That's why I don't involve myself with married women-I'll paint them, maybe flirt with them, but I save my affections for the girls at the cafes and the occasional model. It's easier that way."
"And this woman here, surely she's married-look at her rings," William gestured to the band of gold on the woman's (Julia's) hand. "That didn't stop you from having a dalliance with her. Or does she mean nothing to you, just another conquest perhaps?" William found himself becoming inexplicably angry at the thought of Julia being tossed aside- even by another man.
"A beautiful woman, Detective, and had she not been a patron, as well as married, I would have pursued her."
"But you didn't?" William asked.
"No, of course I was tempted, but this is a woman who only has eyes for her husband, and what a lucky man he is-to have such a beautiful woman present an erotic portrait to him for an anniversary gift."
William stared at the man, dumfounded. The portrait was his anniversary gift? The man wasn't having an affair with Julia?
Monsieur L'Artiste continued, "But alas, how does this portrait relate to the murder of Richard? I don't see how they're connected?"
"They don't appear to be, Monsieur L'Artiste. It seems I was mistaken, but I'm assuming she's on her way to pick up the portrait now," William asked, gesturing at the artwork.
"As a matter of fact, she's here now," a decidedly feminine voice replied from the door.
William spun around, but not that he needed visual confirmation to know that it was Julia-he'd know her voice anywhere. They stared at one another for a long moment before William broke the gaze.
If Monsieur L'Artiste had noticed anything strange about their interaction, he didn't make any mention of it.
"A most beautiful composition, ma'am. Thank you for your time Monsieur L'Artiste-I'll see myself out," he finished as he tipped his hat to Julia and took his leave before Julia said anything else to him.
He walked as quickly as he could, attempting to put as much distance between him and Julia as he could lest she come after him. He wasn't ready to talk to her-there were things he still needed to process.
The immediate question on his mind of course was if Julia and the artist had not had a sexual liaison, why was he still angry with her? Why did he still feel betrayed?
He'd meant to walk around the park to gather his thoughts in peace, but it was not long before he found himself at his Church instead. Undoubtedly it was time to make confession to Father Clements and gain perspective on things. Perhaps that would help clarify matters.
William wasn't sure when it had happened, but what had begun as confession had quickly turned into marital counseling. He'd recounted his concerns and fears over the past few weeks and how they'd culminated in the horrible events of yesterday at the artist's studio when he'd found the necklace and portrait.
"That sounds quite traumatic, William. How did you feel once you discovered the necklace and the portrait?"
"Betrayed. Hurt. Deceived. Anger." William replied. "In fact, I'm still angry."
"Well, hurt and anger are more than understandable. But let's be specific here. How were you betrayed? Is it because she posed nude for another man?"
"Yes."
"Do you believe her capable of having relations with another man without your knowledge?"
"I don't know. I wouldn't have thought so. In fact, I just came from the studio-the artist says they didn't have relations. He had no cause to lie, in fact, he didn't know that the portrait was of my wife."
"I see. You haven't spoken to her about this yet, have you?"
"No, I have not."
"Then I think this is a discussion you need to continue with your wife. Might I remind you that there is no divorce in the eyes of the Church, William? Is a civil action where she is free to legally but not morally join with any other man really what you want?"
William's only response was a deep and broken sigh as he pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate the massive headache he'd had since yesterday.
He still wasn't ready to talk to Julia, but Father Clements was right; whether he wanted or not, he had to have a discussion with Julia before they did too much damage to one another.
Upon, leaving the artist's studio, Julia had been furious that William had pretended not to know her, and how quickly he had left, but Julia had to concede, the conversation they needed to have should not take place at the studio.
She'd stood outside the studio's doorway for several minutes, listening to the conversation between Monsieur L'Artiste and William, and had been dumfounded to hear that William believed her to be having an affair! How could he believe such a thing? How could he think she would even do such a thing?
And as hurt as she was that he was jumping to the most inappropriate of conclusions, she knew that he was hurting more, and that since she was responsible for this whole debacle, it was her responsibility to set matters straight at once.
There had once been a time when she would have fled, leaving William before he could leave her. But not this time-that action had only made matters worse, and she'd sworn to herself and William that she'd never do it again.
In order to heal the rift, things needed to be said-the sooner, the better. This meant that a confrontation was imminent, but how did you do that if your husband wouldn't engage?
You would give him no choice. Picking up her pace, she went as quickly as she could to the station, where she would lie in wait for William-for however long was necessary. A plan quickly began to form in her mind.
Upon her arrival, she was relieved to discover that William had not directly returned to the station, which allowed her to set up.
Telling George that no one was to walk into William's office under any circumstances and he was most assuredly not to tell William that she was waiting for him in his office, she closed the door and lowered the blinds.
Unwrapping the brown paper that covered her portrait, she prominently displayed it on one of his bookshelves in a spot where he couldn't miss it.
Clearing his worktable and spreading out the blanket and pillows he kept in his office for when he slept there, she turned off the lights, keeping only the lamps on, setting as much of a mood she could possibly create in the space. Her work complete, she began to undress until she wore only what he referred to as his favorite outfit: hair loose and flowing and the jewelry he'd bought for her in New York. She laid herself out across the table and waited. Hopefully, it wouldn't be too long before he returned, and hopefully George Crabtree wouldn't let her down by keeping everyone else but William out of the office.
They really did owe George big for putting him through this.
It wasn't too long before she heard George greeting William and apprising him of details in a rather loud voice-warning her that William was on his way.
She could barely make out William's reply as he walked toward his office, his steps announcing his arrival just before the door latch released.
She assumed the position to match the portrait (she'd had plenty of practice) and held her breath. There was no way he wouldn't react to her in her current state. He wouldn't just walk away again-would he?
Certainly your nude wife in your place of business was worthy of attention was it not?
She was about to find out.
After he'd left the Church, he'd walked back to the station, to finalize the details on his report on the murder investigation of Richard Partridge, and to gather his thoughts and prepare for what would undoubtedly be quite the confrontation with Julia back in their hotel suite.
By this hour in the late afternoon/early evening, the day shift was trickling out and the station was largely quiet, and most of the other constables had left. George updated him on the most recent events-albeit quite loudly and then suddenly announced that he was going to be in the armory if he needed him.
Puzzled at George's behavior, William still didn't give much thought to it-the Constable's behavior was often unusual and besides, William had other things to contemplate-such as the poor state of his marriage. Shrugging the thought off, he opened the door to be greeted by the most sublime and shocking of sights.
Emulating the pose from her portrait (which was now prominently displayed on his bookshelf), Julia lay across his worktable, in his favorite outfit of hers-naught but her feminine attributes and jewelry.
Standing in his doorway in a stupor for several seconds, he slammed the door behind him and walked over to the table. His first instinct was to take her at once, doing so to drive all memory of the past day and a half from his brain, but he forced himself to remember that he was angry with her as he took in the sight of her.
Taking a deep breath (wincing as he inhaled her unmistakable scent), he asked her but one question.
"What on God's Earth do you think you're doing, Mrs. Murdoch?"