The Master and The Muses

He turned to look at me, his expression curious. “You’ve truly not heard of him?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I have not.”

“His earlier works have been on exhibition at the Royal Academy gallery. I believe one or two still hang in a permanent wing at the insistence of one of the academy’s wealthy contributors.”

“His accomplishments sound most impressive. You must be quite proud.”

“I told you, Miss Bridgeton, he is gifted man. Not perfect, mind you, but bright and determined. He is a romantic at heart. His work is largely of women, using poetic imagery, religious stories and legends from which he derives his ideas. Though, in truth, his inspirations are his muses.”

“May I ask what you mean by ‘his muses’?”

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Miss Bridgeton. My brother has a deep, abiding love of women. A reverence, I daresay. Thomas regards women with the same awe that other men reserve for the stars, or a sunrise.”

“My, what a lovely thing to say, Mr. Rodin.” My eye caught the shadowy figures of a couple hurrying into the dense foliage beside the tunnel. There was little doubt in my mind what mischief they were engaging in. I forced my attention back to Mr. Rodin. “Are there many members in this brotherhood, Mr. Rodin? Any other models?”

“There are a handful of us—other artists like Thomas, me, in design…we also have amongst us a poet, a journalist and an author, as well as a few other individuals. You need not take concern, Miss Bridgeton. We are a close-knit group and very watchful of one another.”

A woman’s lusty sigh came from the other side of the wall. I kept my eyes on Mr. Rodin’s face. He continued, despite the distracting animallike sounds coming from nearby.

“There is a certain amount of pride in what we believe in, what we aspire to. Each of us has a purpose, a goal we want to achieve, but we are—”

“Oh, yes…yes, that’s lovely, guvner.” The woman emitted a loud sigh. “Here now,” she said, “let’s see what gift you’ve got for me.”

I heard the soft baritone of a man’s chuckle. “You are an eager one.”

Images of what the couple were engaged in leaped into my imagination and I licked my lips.

“—professional and discreet,” Mr. Rodin finished

My face felt flushed, feverish. I fisted my hands in my lap, trying to stay as detached from the events on the other side of the wall as it seemed Mr. Rodin was. I wanted to ask him if we should take our conversation elsewhere, but he appeared to be perfectly content and I did not wish to convey to him that I was as unsettled as I truly was.

“Discreet?” The word squeaked from my throat. “Oh, yes, an admiral trait, certainly.”

A deep-throated groan wafted through the flowers and I saw the instant Mr. Rodin recognized it. His mouth curled slightly at one side and he averted his eyes for a moment.

“Did you have any other questions, Miss Bridgeton?” he asked.

“Oh, dear lady! What extraordinary skills you possess!” the man growled from inside the bushes.

I turned my head aside, covering my mouth to hide my smile. I cleared my throat, loud enough, I hoped, to alert the couple they were not alone. It did not seem to deter them.

“There now, hold it still, guvnor. You’re plenty ready.”

“But I paid for an hour,” the man remarked with slight agitation in his voice.

“Is that my fault, then? Besides—” she cooed “—there’s no sayin’ that we can’t find us another lovely spot to ‘ave a go at it again, if you get my meaning?”

A deep chuckle followed.

I was so entranced by their repartee that I had all but forgotten Mr. Rodin was seated beside me. My eyes flickered to his steady gaze. “Oh, my, what is it that you asked, Mr. Rodin?”

His grin curled upward, deepening that delightful dimple. “If you had any more—”

“Ah…ah, oh, yes…there, that’s good, guvnor. Real good.”

The trellised latticework wall bowed inward with each punctuated sigh coming from the woman.

“—questions,” Mr. Rodin finished as he glanced at the heaving wall. He removed his hat and suppressed a grin.

“Perhaps we should leave?” I whispered, as the sounds of the couple’s passion escalated. I’d never heard such noises before. A warm, damp feeling formed at the juncture of my thighs. My palms, too, were moist—indeed, my whole body seemed to come alive listening to their lusty cries.

“Are you quite sure? Just when things are getting interesting?” Mr. Rodin smiled openly.

“I think before they get too much more interesting.” I stood, finding the backs of my knees weak.

“Very well, I could use a good walk myself.”

He offered his arm and we continued to the other end of the breezeway. As we reached the open lawn beyond, I took a deep breath of fresh air. I felt as if all the blood had drained to my toes.

“Are you all right, Miss Bridgeton?” Mr. Rodin patted my hand, still tucked through his arm.

“Yes, I’m—”

A man’s loud groan wafted on the breeze along with the music behind us. Few others were in the area as, by now, most people had taken to the dance floor.

I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m well, thank you. Um…might we resume our conversation? I believe you were about to answer my question regarding other models.” He cast me a side look.

“Of course. Models…Normally, our artists do not employ more than one model at a time. Once a theme is chosen, the artist begins to look for the face that will complete his vision.”

Mr. Rodin eased my arm from his and I felt awkward once more. We strolled together to the pond and watched silently as two swans swam by, gliding effortlessly side by side. I thought about the story of the ugly duckling that my sisters and I were told when we were young, of how the strange little duckling was turned into a beautiful swan. I felt such a complexity of emotions. In the wake of overhearing the couples’ tryst, I was more aware than before of my attraction to Mr. Rodin.

“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.