Happy Birthday to my best friend and fellow author, Midnight-hunter! *HUG* Hope you enjoy this little gift fic of mine, dear! :) With her permission, I'm sharing this with you! Enjoy! :)
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A/N: Inspector Cabanela x Detective Jowd do not belong to me; they belong to CAPCOM. The plot, however, is mine. :)
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It's New York City in 1886. The Gilded Age is in full swing and, in lower Manhattan, a painter named Jowd makes his living painting portraits of the wealthy, the Robber Barons and others of the quality. On this day, however, a man of means is going to enter his studio, wishing to commission him to paint a portrait... which will lead to something much more than he expects...
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Happy Birthday! Hope you enjoy your fic! :)
I'm firmly stuck in the Victorian Era at the present time-my NaruMitsu American Civil War AU's have taken over my writing life not that I'm complaining, mind you :) -so this is where I decided to set this story of Jowd and Cabanela. Jowd is a painter of portraits in Lower Manhattan and Cabanela is a man of considerable means who goes to him to have his portrait painted. Of course, it turns out to be so much more for them both! :)
Rating will be changed to Mature for sex scene in chapter 3.
Thanks to my readers and all those who have favourited, reviewed, story alerted, favourite author or author alerted me. I appreciate it more than I can say! :)
Special thanks to my beloved husband, DezoPenguin, for all his help, support, advice, nagging when necessary and encouragement! I appreciate it more than I can say! Love you!
Comments are appreciated and constructive criticism is welcomed.
Rated Teen, Romance, CabanOwd [Cabanela x Jowd]
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September 14, 1886
Jowd's Art Studio
Lower Manhattan
New York City
10 A.M.
I was finishing up a piece for Mrs. Findlay in my studio when I heard the door open, the welcoming bell chiming musically. I looked up, startled, my eyes flickering over to the clock on the mantel above the fireplace. It was 10 A.M. Who could be coming to my studio at this early hour? It was normal for customers to come to my studio in the late morning or the early afternoon but someone coming in this early was definitely unusual.
I put down my paintbrush, grabbed the rag that I had lying on the table specifically for this purpose and wiped my hands quickly, smoothing back my hair as I stood and raced to the receiving room that lay off to the right of the main door.
"Welcome," I said in greeting as the man entered the foyer and my breath caught in my throat when I saw him loping in. That was the best way I could describe the way that he moved: a loping stride albeit with liquid grace. I certainly hadn't seen others move this way before and I must admit that it intrigued me. He was also a very handsome man, which was something else that caught my eye. For some reason I couldn't explain, I was immediately drawn to him, my heart starting to beat faster.
I bit my lip. I'd never had anyone make my heart quicken like this before, and I'd been in business of painting portraits for five years now. I was curious as to what prompted this and it was with some degree of difficulty that I calmed myself enough that I could speak coherently. I had a potentially paying customer and I didn't want to let this opportunity slip by. I hadn't had a commission for awhile and this could be the one who would end the artistic drought I'd been in for the past few months.
"May I help you, Sir?" I asked politely, clasping my hands in front of me over my work smock. My trained artist's eye gave him the once over and I was quite pleased, in both the aesthetic and personal senses, by the man that stood before me. He had short brown hair with a white streak going from temple to temple, a rough, cragged face nonetheless that had a sweet smile upon cupid lips and beautiful chocolate brown eyes that seemed to be depthless pools of shimmering color. He was dressed in a black silk suit with grey cravat, black boots, a red scarf and a black duster overcoat, carrying an elegant ebony walking stick with a gold wolf's head with white kid gloves that looked like they were made of the softest leather.
While I was pleased to have a potentially paying customer, I couldn't help but wonder why he, obviously a gentlemen of considerable means judging by the way he was dressed, had chosen to come to my establishment in lower Manhattan. I knew that there were other more elegant places to have one's portrait done in New York's upper side-I had assumed he had come for a portrait since most who walked through my door did-and I couldn't help but wonder why this gentleman had come here, specifically.
"Yeees," he replied, drawing out the syllables in a mellow baritone which further startled me, "I'm loooking for someone to paint my pooortrait." Whatever else I had been expecting, that lovely, melodic tone had not been one of them.
I also found it curious that he would accentuate his words by drawing them out but, rather than it being an occasion for annoyance, I found myself more intrigued than ever. My heart, which had been beating more quickly than normal, now pounded double time and the sound was so loud in my ears I was surprised that he didn't hear it. I couldn't help the blush that I could feel rising in my cheeks as I tried to imagine where all this rush of emotion was coming from.
"You've come to the right place," I replied quickly, trying to gloss over the fact that I could feel my face getting hot again and I didn't want this distinguished gentleman to think that I was some kind of gap mouthed fool. "Might I ask what kind of portrait you are looking for?" I half turned, spreading out my arm as I indicated the different kinds of portraits I had available that were placed around the room. "I can do aquarelles, oils or watercolors; large or small or anything in between."
He looked around at the paintings in the various different styles I had indicated, going over each with a practiced eye. I couldn't help but stare as I watched him move slowly from end of the room to the other, looking at each piece in turn. There was something...magical about the way he moved so fluidly with that odd walk of his. It was almost as if he were dancing, somehow.
"I like thiiis one," he said at last, pointing with his walking stick to an oil portrait that I had done of a woman some years earlier. "I waaant one in this style."
I brightened; I'd always considered it my best work and I was pleased at the way his face seemed to light up when he looked at me.
"Very well, Sir," I replied, rushing over to the desk and opening a large black leather covered book and opening it to an empty cream page. "What is your name?"
"Cabanela," he replied quickly.
I frowned. "'Cabanela'? No first name?"
He shook his head, smiling. "Just Cabanela."
"All right." I shrugged mentally and wrote down his name. Cabanela.
"What is your address so I can drop by for the primary sketch?"
He gave me his address in Upper Manhattan and smiled at me; I could feel the oddest sensation race through me when his eyes met mine. They locked and held and I found myself hard pressed to breathe.
"When shall I expect yooou?" he asked, his eyes twinkling, almost as if we'd shared a private joke. I blushed again; I couldn't help it.
That's three times in one day, I thought to myself, trying hard to control the heat I could feel rising in my cheeks yet again. What is it about him that makes me feel so... odd?
I gave a polite cough and returned to the business at hand. "When can you receive me?"
"Tomooorow afternoon. I have sooome business to take care of first in the morning and, after that, I shall be free."
"Tomorrow afternoon it is." I picked up my quill pen and dipped the nib into the black ink, quickly writing in the date beside his name and address: Cabanela; Upper West Side, Manhattan. September 26, 1886. Preliminary sketch; oil portrait. 2 P.M.
I heard a soft whisper and looked up, with a start, to see him standing beside me; he was so close that I could feel the faint puffs of his breath on my skin. I had to admit that I was indeed startled to see him so close but, at the same time, I felt something... else that was distinctly odd and that I had never had happen before with any of my previous clients: I wanted him to be there. For someone I'd just met, the feeling was quite unusual, to say the least.
"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Cabanela?" I asked, hurrying to cover my nervousness at him standing so close to me.
He looked at me in silence for a few moments before he shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Nooo," he said at last, bowing slightly, that enigmatic expression on his face. "I shall expect you tomooorrow afternoon. I shall send my driver to cooome and pick you up."
"Oh, Mr. Cabanela, that's really not neces-"
He held up a hand and I fell silent.
"I insist." He tilted his head slightly to the right.
"Truly, it is very generous of you, Mr. Cabanela, but I-"
"I insist," he repeated in a tone that brooked no argument. I quickly snapped my mouth shut, cutting off my protest before I it had a chance to escape my lips. He'd insisted; who was I to argue if he wished to have me picked up?
Now that I thought about it, it was certainly more courtesy than many of my previous clients had shown me since most of them treated me little better than hired help. Hate it and resent it though I did, I gritted my teeth and forced myself to smile acquiescing to their selfish needs. I had to admit that I was feeling much better about accepting this particular job for Mr. Cabanela than I had of many others in the past.
He gave me a lopsided grin and I could feel my stomach flip over a couple of times when he did.
"Are we agreeed then? My driver will come and pick you up at 1:30 sharp; please be ready with whateeever you will need to bring alooong with yooou." His eyebrow raised slightly while I stared at him. "He is nooot a man accustomed to waiting and I am a very buuusy man, myself. Please dooo not be tardy."
I swallowed. "I won't. I'll be ready when your man comes to pick me up."
"Excellent!" He sounded pleased.
"May I ask his name so I will know that I am to go with him?"
"Hiiis name is Murdoch... Shannon Murdock. Heee's been in my service for mannny years and is quite a vaaalued employee of mine; heee's also an impatient man and not accustomed to waaaiting so please be ready when he comes for you."
I nodded once again.
"I'll be ready," I repeated. "I shall expect your man tomorrow afternoon at 1:30 P.M."
He smiled again and I felt that familiar fluttering in the pit of my stomach as I watched him glide out of the door, the bell chiming softly as the door closed with a soft clicking sound. Once he had left, I sagged against the table, trying to catch my breath.
I couldn't imagine what on earth had gotten into me and why I was acting like a foolish schoolboy with a silly crush. I didn't know, and was quite puzzled by it, but I wasn't going to worry about it at the moment.
Right now, I had a commission with a fine gentleman who was sending his driver to come and pick me up to take me to his home which was quite considerate of him, to say the least. With all of the materials I needed to lug about on my many trips to and fro from my clients' homes back to my shop during the process, it was nice not to have to rely on the streetcar to get around with all of that cumbersome equipment.
He certainly is a kind gentleman... A soft smile spread across my face as I made my way back into the room where I did my painting. And how considerate! Sending me his driver instead of making me fend for myself.
I sat down at the table and picked up my paintbrush again and continued working on the painting I had been when Mr. Cabanela had first arrived. I hummed softly to myself as I worked, the sworls and whirls of paint seeming to glide over the canvas... just like he did as he walked.
I stopped myself a moment and then shrugged and went back to painting, a smile on my face.
Little did I know, as I sat there that night painting, just how much my life was about to change after accepting this commission... and where it would lead me ever after.