Kitabı oku: «The Master and The Muses», sayfa 2

“Perhaps you’d like to see some of my brother’s work?” he asked, his eyes on the birds. “It might help convince you that my intentions are honorable.”

“Oh, Mr. Rodin,” I said, not wanting him to think me immature or indecisive. “I do believe you are being truthful. Please understand that I am interested—very interested. It’s only that my family is not entirely agreeable to the idea of my modeling for an artist—any artist.”

“I could speak with them, if you like,” he offered.

I held up my hand. “Oh, no, that would not go over well, I’m afraid. My family’s opinion of artists is much worse than even Madame Tozier’s.”

He frowned. “That is a problem.”

He looked away and I feared he was about to end our association. “However, perhaps I could meet you at the gallery sometime and you could show me your brother’s work?”

He glanced down, a smile lighting up his face. “Splendid. Yes, that would be most enjoyable.”

I breathed a quiet sigh. “Wonderful,” I replied, offering him a smile in return.

“Can you meet me on Saturday, then?” he asked, removing his hat. A slight breeze lifted an errant lock of hair, blowing it across his forehead. My fingers twitched to brush it from his eyes.

“Oh? So soon?” I fretted over whether I could quickly devise an adequate excuse to get out of my Saturday chores. “I—I’m not sure I can make arrangements on such short notice.”

“Your family?” he asked.

I nodded. He faced me then, and rested his hands on my shoulders. “I cannot deceive you into thinking that the members of the brotherhood are saints. We are flesh and blood, young and sometimes reckless, and we have the same drives as all men.”

He searched my face for a moment. “Please go on, Mr. Rodin.” I was grateful he held me upright, as my knees threatened to buckle.

“But our passion does not make us unsavory characters to fear. It is embracing that passion that gives the world its beauty. Do you understand?”

“I think so.”

“And do you fear me, Miss Bridgeton?

I considered his question. “No, Mr. Rodin. I hardly know you, but in truth, I am far more afraid of how to explain my absence at dinner tonight to my family when I get home.”

“Meet with me on Saturday. We can visit the Royal Academy gallery and you can judge for yourself whether you think my brother is worthy of your consideration. Afterward, if you are curious to know more, maybe you’d like to see his studio. I would be most happy to oblige the visit on Thomas’s behalf. I think you will find the studio a welcome venue of artistic expression.”

“I am rather a bit of an artist myself in that I write poetry,” I admitted, precariously considering his offer.

“I knew it.” He grinned. “Then I shall see you on Saturday?”

I swallowed, my confidence wavering. “I don’t know, Mr. Rodin.”

“Come. Let me get you a lemonade while you think on it.”

He offered his arm and, for that, I would gladly think on any subject at great length, but I knew that it was getting late and my family would begin to wonder of my whereabouts.

We walked back to the main path near the dance floor where the crowd was thickening as the shops closed for the day and the city dwellers looked for respite from the heat.

I waited as Mr. Rodin approached a vendor, studying from behind how well he carried himself. As he waited in the line of thirsty patrons, a buxom woman with thick blond hair wound haphazardly atop her head touched his shoulder. He whirled in surprise and caught the woman in a great bear hug. They spoke for a moment, and she left. He paid for our drinks and headed back, offering me a broad grin as he handed me the glass. The drink was ice-cold and soothed my parched throat.

“Thank you,” I said, and glanced at the woman now engaged in speaking to another man.

“Someone you know?” I asked lightly, sipping my drink.

“Jealous?” William teased.

“Oh, no, I…of course not.”

He smiled and sat down beside me. “Please, Miss Bridgeton. Forgive my teasing, I meant no harm.” He glanced at the woman and took a long gulp of his lemonade. He made a face as he smiled at me. “And they claim whiskey burns going down.” He smacked his lips and blinked. “The woman’s name is Grace Farmer. She is an old friend, who occasionally models for the brotherhood. An excellent cook and a fine woman, though gravely misunderstood, I fear.”

“Why is that, and by whom?”

“By virtue that she is a ladybird, I suspect. But only those who know her understand her character and the heart of the lady that she truly is.” He stared at Grace a moment more before he drained his glass. “Besides, my brother lusts after her hair. It is an artist’s dream.”

I tried not to let it bother me that the brotherhood kept relations with prostitutes. That would not bode well where my family was concerned. Bad enough that models were already questioned for their promiscuous behavior. But perhaps she was the only woman with a jaded background.

My hand crept to my fiery red tresses as I wondered what his brother would think of my hair. I kept it swept up most of the time in a loose coil atop my head. I promptly moved my hand away so I would not reveal my concern to Mr. Rodin. “It’s getting late and I should catch one of the ferries back across the river.”

“I’ll escort you to the dock,” he offered.

We walked in silence to where one of the passenger boats lay docked in wait, filling up with weary passengers.

“Thank you, Mr. Rodin. It’s been a lovely evening.”

“Wait,” he stated, and reached for my cheek. His thumb grazed the side of my mouth, sending a shiver down my arms.

“Bit of your ice cream. You want no telltale signs giving you away.”

He could have wiped the ice cream on his trousers but instead he licked it from his thumb. I gave him a hesitant smile, wondering how best to explain his part in my detainment to my family.

“You didn’t say whether we can meet on Saturday.”

“I’ll try, Mr. Rodin,” I responded. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to—”

“I know you’ll need to make arrangements. But please try, Miss Bridgeton.”

I took the boatman’s hand and climbed into the boat.

“I will do my best, I promise.” He walked on the dock alongside me as I made my way to the back of the boat.

Squatting down, he peered at me beneath the safety rails. “Say you will try very hard.”

“Mr. Rodin.”

“Miss Bridgeton, please. What I offer you could well change your life and that of your family.”

I looked up, taking notice at that comment. In my world, art was a foreign thing, the value of it linked only with the great masters, not burgeoning new artists breaking the rules of convention. But I had to ask myself if I was willing to settle for conventional for the rest of my life. Was going against the wishes of my family in order to satisfy my curiosity worth the risk of possible alienation? My German father could be a stubborn and willful man at times.

In truth, I could not offer Mr. Rodin any certainty I could meet him again. Still, I wanted to see him smile once more. “Oh, very well, then. What time?” I called, my voice sounding almost desperate. I glanced around me, confronting the curious look of a woman and her husband.

“Splendid! Ten o’clock,” he volleyed back.

I raised my hand, waving goodbye. “I’ll see you then,” I shouted. I lost sight of him as he made his way back up the dock toward the garden. I dropped my hand in my lap and felt like a foolish ninny wondering if he ran straight back to Grace Farmer. Of all things to think of! I had a much more important task ahead of me in devising a plan to escape my mother’s watchful eye on Saturday.

Chapter Three

MY STOMACH, PRONE TO PANGS OF NERVOUSNESS, had given me trouble throughout the night. When the pain was severe, I was barely able to eat and my mother could tell in an instant if I was worried about something. Mr. Rodin seemed to be going to great lengths to convince me of the validity of this “brotherhood of artists” and the more I pondered my options, limited though they were, the more my stomach gave me issues.

“Did you take your laudanum, Helen?” my mother asked as she cleared away my breakfast bowl, half-full with my porridge. I had waited to come in for breakfast until I knew my sisters and papa were out doing their chores.

“Yes, Mama,” I replied, following her into the kitchen. I had not the gumption yet to tell her that I was going to be gone for the day. I knew that I could not simply tell her the truth. She would not permit me to leave. Besides, I was still debating the wisdom of meeting Mr. Rodin alone. But if I was to achieve my independence, I would first need to find out more information. Until I knew more, there was no reason to involve my family.

“I’ve been invited to…a picnic today.” The lie stuck in my throat. I busied myself with washing the dishes.

“That’s lovely, dear. I’m glad to see you getting out. Who will be going?” she asked, tucking her rolling pin in the cupboard.

She looked at me with such delight that it made my stomach burn. My mother, I think, saw me as a recluse, though she never said the words aloud.

“Some of the girls from the shop.”

“And will there happen to be any gents there?” Her eyes revealed the hope that there might be future marriage prospects involved.

I tried to keep my smile genuine. “It was not my invitation, Mama, I cannot say.”

“Where is the picnic?”

My mind went blank. I had been unprepared for further questions. I scolded myself mentally. “Um…the Cremorne,” I lied again, my stomach protesting my deceit.

She patted my cheek. “Well, it sounds lovely, and it would do you good to get out a bit more. So I shouldn’t plan on you for supper, then?” she asked.

I shook my head. “You best not wait on me tonight. I will be sure to catch the ferry by ten o’clock.”

“Perhaps I should send your papa down to the dock to fetch you. I don’t like the idea of you without a chaperone, especially at that hour.”

“I’ll be fine, Mama. None of the other girls will have their papas meeting them. I’ll be fine.” I hastened to gather up a few items before she could think of more questions to ask.

“Helen?”

I heard my name as I headed down the front path and turned to find her holding my parasol out to me.

“Your skin, you know how you burn. Don’t forget to use this.”

“Thank you, Mum. Stop fretting now. I’ll be fine,” I assured her.

The morning was brilliant, the sun warm on my face as the boat ferried me across the river. The stench was the only thing marring my delight at having managed to get away from the house with so little inquisition.

I hurried along the cobblestone street wishing I could afford the carriage ride, so I would not be wilted by the time I reached Mr. Rodin. I rounded the corner of the gallery and there he was pacing out front. He stopped and checked his stopwatch. Having no such luxury of my own, I took my time from the toll of Parliament’s new clock tower. “Mr. Rodin,” I said breathlessly, forcing a smile as I slowed to a respectable pace.

“Miss Bridgeton.” The peel of the tower bells sounded. “Splendid, you’re right on time.”

He offered me his arm and we went inside. The Royal Gallery was quite beautiful, room after room of high-polished floors and great high ceilings. Pictures were hung in ornate gold frames, stacked next to one another on the walls at eye level and upward.

“You want to be able to get the spot at eye level,” Mr. Rodin explained. “That’s how you know the committee approves of your work.”

“And where is your brother’s work, Mr. Rodin?” I asked, searching the wall as if I would recognize his work when I saw it.

“Third row from the top…over there. It’s a brilliant piece. It should have been lower. But my brother has issues with conforming to the committee’s wishes.”

He smiled at me when I gave him a questioning look.

“Thomas quit the academy under protest of the teachings here. He’s never really quite gotten back on track with the committee. He doesn’t have a number of highly influential friends, as I mentioned.” He looked at the painting. “Truthfully, Miss Bridgeton, I think deep down he wished the committee would judge his work on its own merit, and not on Thomas’s reputation.”

I studied the painting as best as I could from my vantage point. It was a lovely portrait of a woman barely covered by a luxurious blue drape. It was the light in her eyes that struck me the most. They seemed so full of life.

“You mustn’t let this influence your decision, Miss Bridgeton. Often in life, it is the geniuses who are the least understood.”

“Oh, I do understand that.” I slanted him a glance and he returned it with a smile. William’s solid belief in his brother’s work was what made Thomas’s painting stand apart from the rest. I knew little about Thomas Rodin, the artist, but the more time I spent with his brother, the more I came to revere him and the more I desired to meet him. I began to realize, too, that wherever there was opportunity to be around William, I was more than willing to take whatever risks were involved.

We came to a statue of a nude male reclining, as though relaxing in a meadow on a pleasant day. Every muscle was intricately carved, portrayed with lifelike precision, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the size of his phallus lying limp against his leg. Having never before been privy to the human male form, I silently wondered if it was realistically proportioned.

“Artistically enhanced,” Mr. Rodin’s voice issued at my side.

“Oh, I wasn’t—” I started.

He raised his eyebrow.

My cheeks warmed and I looked away.

“Dear Miss Bridgeton, when it comes to art, only an intelligent person would have such questions.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rodin, but how did you know?” I asked.

“Your face reads like an open book,” he replied with a smile.

“I’m sorry, I suppose you find me quite naive.”

“On the contrary. I think your innocence suits you beautifully.”

“You have a wonderful way of making me feel at ease with myself, Mr. Rodin.” I smiled.

He touched my arm. “I want you to feel comfortable in asking me anything. I know already that my brother is going to be as enchanted with you as I am. Your deep-set eyes and that flaming red hair—you’re precisely what the brotherhood has been looking for.”

“You flatter me.”

“Miss Bridgeton, flattery has nothing to do with it. I am trying to convince you to model for us.”

“Us? Do you paint also?” My heart raced a little faster at the thought.

“Me? No.” He smiled. “I leave the painting to my brother.”

As we walked through the remaining rooms, I was impressed by Mr. Rodin’s knowledge of art even though he claimed not to be artistically inclined. It seemed he was forever comparing his brother’s works to the early works of Michelangelo.

After the tour of the gallery, we took in the gallery’s floral gardens. Mr. Rodin plucked a rose from a trellis and handed it to me.

“Thank you,” he said, “for coming today.”

I held the flower to my nose, breathing deeply of its sweet fragrance. “Thank you for asking me. It’s been a lovely day.”

“And do you yet have any concerns or questions that you’d care to discuss with me?”

I studied him a moment, hesitating still to agree to his proposition, knowing it would take far greater convincing of my family than of me. “I beg of you one more day to decide.” My voice tinged on pleading, afraid that my request for delaying my response might change his mind.

He regarded me with a dubious look.

“Please, Mr. Rodin. I am humbly flattered. However, you must understand I’ve never received such a proposition before.”

He smiled, though it appeared guarded. “Of course.”

I offered a sigh of relief and smiled. Looking away, I held my stomach as I attempted to quell my nerves.

“Are you certain all is well, Miss Bridgeton?” he asked

I held up my hand. “It’s…I’m fine. Perhaps a little ginger soda would help.” I knew that I would need to take my medicine soon.

As he searched for a vendor, I scolded myself for getting so nervous.

Mr. Rodin did not press me further for an answer. We spoke on other topics and later that afternoon, he summoned a carriage and escorted me to the ferry.

At the dock, he handed me a card with his brother’s name and address on it.

“If you make your decision, this is where you’ll find me.”

“Thank you again, Mr. Rodin.” I smiled. “I promise to think about it.”

The next day at work, a young boy came into the shop, self-consciously removing his cap as he pushed forward to the counter where I stood. In his arms, he carried a bouquet of lovely flowers. “There’s a gent outside. He paid me a whole shilling. Says I was to give these to the prettiest girl in the shop.” He glanced around and shrugged. “I guess that’d be you, then?”

I took the flowers and thanked the boy, checking the card tucked inside. I held it toward the light so I could read it.

Dear Miss Bridgeton,

Thank you for the lovely afternoon.

W.R.

“Miz Bridgeton, was that a customer at nearly closing time? Remember it is the Sabbath, we must close early, and I have much to do.” Madame Tozier’s eyes grew wide when she saw the flowers in my arms. “From a secret admirer?”

I tucked the card inside my apron.

“Oh, these? No, a young boy brought these by…for the owner.”

“Was there a card?”

“No, Madame. He indicated that the man who sent them wanted to express his thanks.” My mind frantically searched for recent sales. “He mentioned something about a traveling hat for his wife.” It was as good as I could do on short notice.

She looked puzzled. “No name?” Then her eyes brightened. “Oh, Mr. Smythe!”

Relieved that my lie was validated, I nodded, encouraging the deception further. A sharp pang in my stomach reminded me of the stress I caused myself.

I was glad the shop had closed early. After graciously declining Madame Tozier’s invitation to join her Sabbath celebration, I enjoyed the walk through the park for the chance to clear my head.

“Miss Bridgeton!” A familiar voice called from behind. I turned to find Mr. Rodin hurrying toward me. His face was flushed from running.

“I took the chance that you might be closing the shop early due to the Sabbath.” He smiled and I felt my knees grow weak. I am not sure at what point I had begun to fantasize about Mr. Rodin and myself. Perhaps it was merely the fact that no man had ever paid so much attention to me before. Yet he seemed genuinely interested.

“I wondered if you’d had a chance yet to consider my proposal.”

I appreciate your patience, Mr. Rodin, and your tenacity.” My fingers tightened around my parasol’s handle.

“My brother says that I am like a dog with a bone once my mind is made up on a matter.”

His enchanting grin bolstered my confidence. “I am happy that you have not given up.”

He stood before me looking quite dapper in his dark trousers and tan jacket. His wavy hair was brushed back behind his ears, accentuating his chiseled jaw. In his eyes, I saw a palatable hunger.

Although I knew fully that it was not proper for a young woman to accept such a proposal, I had no reason to fear Mr. Rodin. My fear was that his resolve might weaken if I answered no again.

He pulled a long-stemmed rose from behind his back and handed it to me.

Charmed, I took it from him, touching the delicate petals to my mouth as I breathed in its lovely fragrance. Twice, no, three times now, he had given me flowers.

“You received my flowers?” he asked, tipping his head.

I hesitated, trying to find the best way to explain what had happened. “I did, thank you. However, I regret to have to tell you that I gave them away. I am not allowed to accept gifts at the store.”

“Duly noted. I could see where a woman of your beauty could cause problems in that area.”

I averted my eyes. “Please, Mr. Rodin.”

“I mean every word, Miss Bridgeton,” he stated.

He studied me for a long moment, tapping his hat against his leg and then smiled.

“Well, it remains whether I can persuade you to visit the studio.”

I could not have told him no had my life depended upon it. “Very well. Though you realize it is inappropriate for me to accept your invitation without a chaperone.” His eyes raked over me and I admit I quite enjoyed it. There was something daring in the line I was about to cross.

“I believe you have a good head on your shoulders, Miss Bridgeton. I give you my oath, I will be a gentleman.”

I took his proffered arm, hoping he would not be too much of one. I had dreamed for the past few nights of what it would be like to have his mouth on mine. I looked away, feeling my face flush again.

Mr. Rodin and I walked leisurely through the park to the line of carriages awaiting passengers. He assisted me into a two-seater, settling in close beside me.

“Cheyne Walk,” he told the driver.

The open-air carriage jerked forward and I popped up my parasol to stave off the afternoon sun.

“Will your brother be at the studio?” I asked, keeping my eyes on the road ahead. I dared not look at him. Already I felt brazen at accompanying him without a proper chaperone.

“If he isn’t, he will be shortly. He did mention meeting with some of the brotherhood this afternoon.”

“Do you live at the studio with your brother?” I gave him a brief side look. He had a handsome profile, and I noted a cleft in his chin that I had not seen before.

“When I’m in London, yes, I stay with Thomas. It was a little hard at first getting used to his quirks.” He chuckled. “Thomas paints when the mood strikes him—night or day.”

I smiled pleasantly. I had apparently much to learn about the eccentric Thomas Rodin.

The carriage jostled down the cobblestone street, the sun overhead causing me to grow warm. I had bathed and dressed in one of my best gowns, donning a hand-me-down corset I had received as a gift from one of the girls at work. Still, the heat beneath the layers of clothing was suffocating.

At last, the carriage came to a stop in front of a tall, narrow, two-story stone flat. A small balcony looked out over the street from a set of French doors. It was simple, clean and neat, and appeared to be in a good district, putting my mind at ease in that regard.

Mr. Rodin helped me from the carriage and ushered me up a few steps to a painted red door.

“Here we are.”

Inside, I allowed my eyes to adjust to the murky foyer. The entry was narrow, with a small room off to the right. I peeked inside, finding the room void of furnishings, but its floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with books.

“The brotherhood are voracious readers,” Mr. Rodin said, leaning over my shoulder. “Come, I’ll show you the studio. It’s upstairs.”

He placed his hand on the small of my back, gently guiding me to the dark mahogany stairwell. Allowing me to go first, we walked up a short flight to a landing and took a sharp right turn to proceed up another set of stairs.

I brushed my palm over the ruby-red wallpaper. It had a raised, velvety texture that I had never seen before. “This design is lovely.”

From behind, his hand reached up to rest beside mine. “Do you like it?” he asked.

I tried to ignore his close proximity, how the sound of his rich voice reverberated inside me. “The color is so elegant, like a red wine.” I looked over my shoulder and caught his pleased smile.

“That was my inspiration.”

“Your inspiration?” I asked, surveying the beautiful wall covering.

“This was one of the first designs I sold to a manufacturer right here in London. Granted, it’s for a very limited clientele, but it’s a start.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “Doubtful my designs will ever hang in the academy.”

“There are more homes in this world than museums or galleries, Mr. Rodin,” I responded without hesitation. He lowered his hand, brushing it against mine in the process.

“Thank you, I’ve never thought of it that way.”

I moved onward, more aware than ever of his presence behind me. At the top of the stairs was a wide hallway. Directly across from me was an open archway leading to a large room. To my right the corridor stretched past four more doors to the end of the hallway and a window festooned with delicate lace curtains. A putrid smell came from the larger room ahead and I lifted my hand to my nose. “Oh, goodness, what is that smell?”

Mr. Rodin laughed. “Thomas would tell you that’s the smell of money.”

He lightly touched my back, urging me forward.

“You’ll get used to it. It’s the linseed oil and cleaner for the brushes,” he said over my shoulder. “You certainly smell far better.”

“Mr. Rodin.” A giggle escaped my lips. He eased around me, his chest brushing my side. I held my breath, unnerved at my body’s reaction to him.

“Come in.”

He waved me into the room and I stood a moment, letting my eyes adjust from the dark hallway to the fused afternoon light in the spacious room. It appeared as though a wall had been removed to create a massive combination studio and study. One end of the room was cluttered with easels, props and a lounge chair draped with beautiful gowns. It looked more like the backstage area of a theater than an artist’s haven. At the other end sat a writing desk and another set of shelves holding collectible exotic items and more books. There was an ornate, black marble front fireplace flanked by a grouping of overstuffed chairs. Directly opposite the fireplace, Mr. Rodin had opened the French doors leading to the balcony. Papers pinned to canvasses fluttered in the summer breeze.

“Feel free to look around,” Mr. Rodin said as he puttered around the room.

An errant sketch tumbled past me and kissed my toe. I reached down to pick it up at the same time as Mr. Rodin. Our fingers met briefly and my heart faltered. I let go of the paper, not wanting him to see the flush of my cheeks.

“Have you painted before, Miss Bridgeton?” He held the paper loose in his hand, his eyes steady on me.

I suppose his question was not out of the ordinary. Most well-bred women in London included painting, poetry and music in their list of abilities. “I’ve only written a little poetry. Dreadfully novice, I’m afraid.” My eyes drifted to the sketch in his hand. Done in charcoal, it was the picture of a nearly nude woman reclined on a chaise. A drape thrown haphazardly over her legs. I looked away, scanning the pictures stacked against the wall, and wondered if I would be asked to pose nude.

Without comment, he placed the sketch on a stack of others on the desk, weighing them down with a thick book.

“Who do you read?” he asked, watching me as I inspected the stacks of paintings leaning along the wall. In one group alone, there were as many as a dozen paintings with various backgrounds, but the same woman’s face. “I read most anything, Mr. Rodin. But I have a particular fondness for Dickens.”

He chuckled. “A fine fellow, Charles.” He glanced at the floor. “A bit zealous, but he means well.”

“You know him?” I asked, wide-eyed.

He shrugged. “We had him over to dine one evening. He has some definite ideas on social reform.”

I searched his face wondering whether or not to believe him. I’d begun to think that perhaps Mr. Rodin had not been embellishing on his brother’s notoriety. “Did your brother paint these?” I asked. Mr. Rodin walked up beside me. “They all look like the same woman.”

“Yes, these are the same woman. Thomas can be a bit possessive once he chooses a subject.”

There was an underlying tone in his voice, though I could not pinpoint it exactly. Sadness? Frustration? His breath tickled the back of my neck. The woman in the paintings was undeniably beautiful. How could I compare to such beauty? “Do you think he will find me suitable?” I touched the collar of my blouse nervously.

I became aware in an instant of my ardent feelings for Mr. Rodin. While it was one thing to dream in the privacy of my room, it was quite another to deal with my desire while standing in a room alone, next to him. He had kept his word, remaining the perfect host, the consummate gentleman, and the realization of what I had agreed to illuminated my thoughts. I had hoped for, perhaps secretly wished, this would happen, that we might find ourselves alone, able to address the growing admiration I felt for him and I was nearly certain he felt for me.

It was both exhilarating and frightening to realize that I had just made the first big decision of my adult life.