When it was Bridget who accompanied Eugenia to a sitting, however, it was a different matter entirely.
Gregor found a thousand reasons to rearrange Eugenia’s skirt, draw her gown a little lower on the shoulder, loosen her hair so that it spread out like a mantle. Eugenia could not find it in herself to protest. For one thing she was unsure of what was normally permitted a figure so authoritative as a painter.
For another she experienced a forbidden pleasure at his touch.
He was altogether mercurial. One morning he placed a spray of freshly plucked mistletoe on her lap. Another he ignored her entirely. Sometimes he sang as he painted, songs in Russian, that by their yearning tone Eugenia decided were love songs. Sometimes he addressed Bridget as if Eugenia was not present.
“Why should
