30th January, 1891 — Exhibition of Art, Hogsmeade Memorial Ballroom

Sometimes Ester actually sat for respectable men. Sort of. Most of her friends in the art world were interested in making better business than the pursuit of art itself often afforded, which showed (explicitly) in their subject matter... but occasionally she would find herself posing at an atelier for something higher brow.

She still, admittedly, had a breast out in this one - it was a scene from antiquity of some kind, full of beautiful women lounging in flowery gardens in free-flowing Greek dresses, probably on Lesbos - but nevertheless it was all rather more tasteful than usual. She too was here for business reasons (perhaps another artist would like the arch of her eyebrows or her brazen poise) which meant she was in no hurry at all. It had taken her a while to find, but there she was, just about recognisable in it. Though she was not sure he had done justice to her mouth.

Someone else had just moved towards the frame. Ester regarded them for a moment, too tempted for words, and soon sauntered over to stand beside them, tilting her head at the painting - and then sidelong at them, with an innocent smile.

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The annual art exhibition was amongst Ailsa’s favourite events of the year. Granted she usually only made it through half of the rooms before her attention span drifted and new design ideas came clamouring into her mind but she enjoyed the bustle of it all, the beauty of the art and the very earnest discussions that went on about what it all meant.

Truthfully she much preferred to live with the mystery and so by-passed a pair of young men eagerly reaching a conclusion about the meaning of what seemed to Ailsa a very accomplished charcoal of a chimneypot and instead stopped in front of a rather risqué painting of several women lounging around a garden in various states of undress. Ailsa was immediately enraptured.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She asked rhetorically of the dark haired woman who had appeared at her side so quickly Ailsa assumed she was some sort of guide, or perhaps an art critic. “We could all hope to live so freely, don’t you agree?”

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Ester hummed, half-critically, at being asked for her opinion of it, though in truth she had already marked down the credit for beautiful being entirely down to her involvement in it. She had helped arrange the other girls, after all, besides being in it. She did have an Eye.

And this genteel woman of society - delightful red hair; she knew an artist or two who would go mad for it, and with her figure - was looking at it in precisely the right way, too. 

“Oh, indeed,” Ester crooned, as if she could personally be any freer without wandering around town like a reborn Lady Godiva. “It would be quite the ideal world, I daresay, if everyone shed just a little of their inhibitions.”

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Ailsa nodded along emphatically as though the woman’s words were the wisdom of Solomon and turned to glance at the painting once again. Then and only then did she notice what had been staring her in the face. Quite literally as the other woman’s eyes were firmly on her.

“Oh my,” she said, eyes wide and thrilled, quite as though she were meeting Elizabeth Siddall herself rather than an anonymous artist’s model who had no compunction about lying around semi-nude. “How silly of me not to notice, my dear, you look quite sensational!”

Quite suddenly Ailsa had a dozen questions come to mind, some more pressing than others, and she settled with what seemed the most important to her mind.

“How on earth do you keep such a glorious figure?”

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   Ester Montgomery

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Ah, so she had gotten there in the end! (Ester would have been a little offended if she had not.) As it was, her smile broadened in satisfaction, and she waved away any apology for the delay. It was quite refreshing to be praised so highly in polite society.

“Oh, psht,” Ester said, clicking her tongue between her teeth with simmering, clearly-put-on modesty. “I won’t pretend I don’t have to work for it,” she trilled conspiratorially - and she was reliant on keeping her figure for her work, but her lacklustre diet in favour of a drug dependence did not sound so charming an answer. 

“But perhaps I should be asking your secrets instead,” Ester returned, meaningfully eyeing the woman up and down. She suspected this woman was a little older than she, but had suffered no ill-effects for it, and she supposed she could afford to trade a compliment. “Your proportions are quite perfect.”

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Though she had been a married woman for over thirty years now there was still a flutter of pleasure that was always ready to ripple through Ailsa’s body whenever she was complimented by another. Ewart was her soulmate, of course, but what woman didn’t enjoy flattery, and from such a lovely creature as the model, and who would be able to prevent themselves from flushing like a schoolgirl when eyed quite so appreciatively?!

Wait. Model?

Oh, what an idea!

“My secret is quite an open one. I design and make corsets – not like those terrible constricting things some ladies insist on forcing themselves into for the sake of society – but beautiful ones, for any figure, though I find once a woman feels she looks beautiful then she becomes it,” Ailsa babbled, her philosophy on beauty a well-trod topic for any that knew her. She looked Ester up and down again, delight on her face.

“I hope you don't mind me asking this, my dear, but how much would it be to hire you?”

The very thought of those proportions in one of her designs was glorious, and she could borrow a camera from someone and would soon have a proper catalogue which, as her oldest daughter had pointed out, would certainly help her sales. It was perfect!

  

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Ester’s eyebrows rose in unexpected interest as it turned out the woman was a designer. Fancy that. And she did so like meeting anyone artistic - not to mention that Ester, given her own line of work, had quite the vested interest in undergarments.

And she had been on the lookout for all kinds of painters and photographers today to attract any sort of work she could, but she had not entirely expected it here. “Oh, I don’t mind at all,” she remarked, no shame in her smile - although she did privately have to wonder whether this woman had any conception of the usual work she was hired for, and whether that would affect her enthusiasm here - “- and of course that depends on what you would have me do, but I’m sure you could afford me.” She sounded quite the successful businesswoman, after all, and if this modelling job was as cushy as it sounded Ester was hardly going to turn it down. She’d modelled for too many tight-pocketed men to care. “And I would so love to see your designs, Mrs...?”

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“Fraser, but please call me Ailsa,” she replied merrily, taking the other woman’s hand in hers, not quite shaking it but still holding on in a way that conveyed both her excitement at making a new friend and her utter lack of boundaries where it came to touching people she didn’t know.

It usually worked out perfectly fine. Usually.

“You must come soon. Or I could come to you?” Ailsa paused, took a step closer to the other woman and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’ve never done this before so I’m not sure how it works but now I’ve met you I know I shall be able to rely on your expertise… I’ve been looking for just the right woman to try this with.”

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   Ester Montgomery

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“Oh I shall, Ailsa,” Ester returned, entirely surprised by the way Mrs. Fraser took her hand but hardly offended by it. “I’m Ester.”

And business was business, after all, and perhaps she would even get a corset or two thrown in for her troubles. Though by the sounds of it, modelling was not nearly all she would be doing; Ester’s smile spread wider and wider as Mrs. Fraser – Ailsa – proved herself rather bold. To be propositioned in broad, sober daylight was rather something. Ester was touched.

“Oh yes, you can rely on me,” Ester assured her, sure she would enjoy this one. “Of course I’ll have you come for – to me,” she added. “I’ve had some experience at this, so I promise you’ll be quite comfortable.” And a little privacy would not go amiss, particularly if this woman’s husband was knocking about and unaware of these inclinations. “Here, have my address.” Ester plucked out a calling card – nothing too indiscreet about it; a perfectly respectable card to be found upon one’s person – and curled it into Ailsa’s hand, letting her own hand linger upon it rather longer than necessary this time.

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   Marlena Scamander

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Ailsa pocketed the card – or would have done had she been paying attention and had not, instead, just dropped it to the floor blindly – and wondered when she had ever made such a fortuitous meeting. Well, Ewart, of course, but Ester seemed handpicked for her very purposes. Beautiful and willing to take her clothes off for money: it was a type Ailsa had doubted she would ever find though, admittedly, the notion of having someone model for her had barely occurred to her until about half an hour ago.

“That’s perfect, I’m always coming somewhere or other so it’ll be a pleasure. Until then my dear!”

And Ailsa departed with a spring in her steps, plans in her mind, an unexpected residue of gin on her fingers and, sadly, no calling card in her pocket.

  

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