This Cold Country by Annabel Davis-Goff

the drawings of birds, animals—both real and fantastical—symbols, and emblems; she was aware of James watching her, but it did not detract either from her concentration or from the pleasure she felt. The drawings touched her in a way she did not quite understand.
    â€œThe cats are wonderful,” she said.
    â€œAren’t they? There must have been cats around the monastery or abbey to keep the rats and mice down. And some of the monks were amused by them, and some probably loved them.”
    â€œSleeping beside the kitchen fires.”
    â€œExactly.”
    Daisy turned over pages; the central pages were often of the Virgin and Child. She was surprised by the different ways artists had seen or imagined babies and small children. Some were drawn as though a child who Daisy herself might have held had sat for the sketch, some seemed to be miniature adults, some had heads strangely disproportionate to their bodies, others seemed a little too fat to represent the Christ child. Passing the original Corot sketch and some striking and slightly unsettling late-nineteenth-century self-portraits, Daisy found herself looking at an erotic drawing. It took her a moment to grasp the significance of the charcoal lines and to see the intertwining reclining bodies. It was the first time she had ever seen anything like it; she put her hand to the corner of the page to turn it, but hesitated, although she was keenly aware of James watching her.
    â€œSchiele,” he said. “That’s his self-portrait on the other page. He was a friend of Klimt’s—you saw his work a few pages back. They both died in 1918 in the influenza epidemic.”
    Daisy silently turned the page.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    For a moment, Daisy considered replying, “About what?” But she knew the response would be coy, not quite honest. And that James, too, would know it. And surely the whole point—having been given the opportunities of the war—of escape from her father’s rectory, an independent life as a Land Girl, her temporary incarnation as a guest at an upper-class house party, was to make the most of those opportunities, to ensure she would not have to return to the limitations of the world she lived in before the war.
    â€œIt’s not what I—expected,” Daisy said, waiting for James to ask, “What did you expect?” But he merely nodded, and she was grateful.
    Daisy continued to turn pages and James watched her silently.
    â€œUndo your blouse,” he said after a moment or two. “Just a couple of buttons, so I can see your collarbone.”
    Daisy was excited by his request. Her limited experience with male admirers had, up to now, been the urgent groping and pleas of overheated youths, far too close to home; their awkwardness and their ignorance inspiring neither desire nor affection, their lack of control so clearly putting her in charge. Even so, Daisy sometimes, for a moment, could imagine how it might be with someone she loved. The assuredness of James’s voice, the coolness of his request, was erotic. The distance at which he sat necessitated her keeping only her own actions and emotions in check.
    She took a deep breath and started to unbutton her blouse, pausing when the top two buttons were open. She drew back the fabric from her neck and turned her head a little to one side.
    â€œLovely,” James said. He came no closer to her, but his eyes did not move from hers and the slight smile never left his lips. He said nothing, Daisy said nothing, and the silence continued, not uncomfortably, until the door behind her opened and a male voice said, “So there you are.”
    Daisy jumped a little and dropped her hands from the neck of her blouse to her lap. She felt a blush rise to her face, and shame at the blush rather than the act that had precipitated it-—which she still considered innocent—made her awkward.
    â€œWe thought everyone had gone