The Master & the Muses (13 page)

I glanced at her. “What about Mr. Mooreland?”
Oh, please let Deven not have already begun flirting with Amelia!

“I find him rather cute, don't you?”

“Shh, now. Do you want him to hear you?” I scolded. I eyed her, uncertain whether to pursue the topic. My curiosity bade me to speak. “Has…Mr. Mooreland ever made advances toward you, Amelia?”

Her mouth gaped open and she pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Oh, my heavens, no! Oh, I—I wouldn't know what to do.”

The tension in my stomach subsided most happily. “It's all well, then, Amelia. You want to give yourself plenty of time to explore
the strange world of men. There is much to be learned.” I patted her hand as if I knew one farthing about the subject. I offered her a smile and turned my eyes to the road.

“SARA, SHALL MR. MOORELAND BE ABLE TO GET
us to the theater on time?” Amelia gave me a fearful glance. It was opening night for the new theater and it was suggested that one should arrive at least a half hour before the doors opened to ensure a good seat in the gallery.

“I am quite sure, my dear cousin, that when he puts his mind to it, Mr. Mooreland can accomplish much.” More than once, I had replayed the memory of his face as he presented his challenge to meet him at the pond.

“You have our tickets?” she asked, shifting forward on the edge of the buggy seat, straining to see farther ahead.

“Yes, Amelia. I have them here in my bag.” I followed her gaze, noting the number of carriages dropping off passengers at the side entrance. The crowd awaiting entry seemed to be growing, stretching closer to us as we sat in the carriage.

“Do you think it's nearly big enough, Sara? Look at all the people.”

“They said the Globe holds over fifteen hundred seats, Amelia.”

Scores of couples hurried down the street, swerving around our hansom to meld into the crowd. I took note of their attire,
watching the feathered touring hats of the elite bobbing up and down as though alive in their pecking. Taking one last look at my blue silk skirt, jacket and matching blouse, I tapped Amelia on the knee. “Here we are. Hold tight to my arm, and try not to get separated.”

After graciously helping us from the carriage, Mr. Mooreland tipped his hat and gave me a wink, then told me that he'd be at the pub down the street until after the show.

I squeezed my cousin's arm as we were pulled into the throng of anxious theatergoers buzzing about the Wych Street entrance. Many were already taking nips of refreshments brought from home, a combination, I suspect, of ale and ginger beer. Like giant butterflies, women fluttered their fans as they waited in the stifling heat. When at last the doors opened, we were jostled about like cattle being steered in a chute. I fought to hold on to Amelia's arm. Caught off balance, I lost my footing when a chap rushed forward, shoving me aside in his haste to meet his chum.

“There now, I've got you, miss.”

Two arms hooked beneath mine, preventing my fall. “My sincere thanks…” I struggled to glance over my shoulder to see my savior's face and could see only that it was a man. He lifted me upright and I was immediately swept into the current, moving me toward the narrow stairs to the gallery above. I searched for Amelia, at the same time unable to dispel the mesmerizing scent of sandalwood and the soothing voice of the man who'd come to my aid.

“Sara!” Amelia called and, finding my hand in the throng, grabbed me around the waist and pressed close. “I feel like I am being herded into a stall.”

We reached the top and stood, briefly scanning the rows of seats. People were scrambling to find the best seats, in some instances, pushing one another aside to claim their spot.

Amelia spotted two seats down in front. “There's two, hurry!”

She grabbed my hand and steered me through the crowd. Two men stood between our goal and us. “Excuse me.” I glanced at them, and smiled. “Are these seats occupied?”

The man facing me peered around his companion's shoulder and smiled. “I'm afraid they are, miss.” His face was friendly, with bright eyes and a wide smile.

“My apologies,” I stated, and reached for Amelia's hand.

“Wait,” the other man said quietly. The sound caught between my shoulder blades. I'd heard that voice before…in my ear.

“Please, why don't you and your companion take these seats? We have decided we would prefer to sit higher.”

His voice suited him. An austere-looking man, he was dressed elegantly in a brocade frock coat and pristine white cravat and shirt. Ruffled cuffs peeked out from beneath his coat, and his ringed fingers perched on a walking cane.

He was an imposing figure in height, with a presence that was difficult to ignore. His eyes were intense, glistening with a spark of challenge. A firm jaw and equally firm mouth with a bare shadow of beard held me captivated.

“Sara?” Amelia nudged me. “What shall we do?”

I blinked from my reverie. “I'm sorry, that's terribly kind, but we couldn't—

“I insist.” He waved his hand toward the seats. “John, go find us seats there in the fourth row,” he said to the man he was with.

“Thank you, Mr…?” I stated, gently prodding Amelia to her seat. I followed behind and he stood his ground, offering a charming smile as we met face-to-face.

“The name is Thomas Rodin. I hope you didn't turn that lovely ankle of yours with that nasty fall.” His smile was easy, uncomplicated, as if he had all the time in the world to speak with me.

“So you are the man I should thank.” I pretended that I had not already recognized him from the shaving cologne he wore.

“My pleasure.” He bowed. “I love saving beautiful women.” The corner of his mouth quirked.

My knees felt odd. “Perhaps I should sit. The show is about to begin.”

He took my hand as I sat, offering a gentleman's kiss to the back.

“I don't believe I caught your name?”

“That's because she didn't give it to you,” Amelia blurted.

“Amelia! Mr. Rodin just gave us his seat.”

“No harm, the young lady is quite right. I'll bid you good-night and enjoy the show.” He gave a nod and a hint of a smile before he made his way to the seats farther up in the gallery.

“Imagine, asking a woman's name and in a theater of all places,” Amelia whispered.

“Imagine,” I mocked with a smile and nabbed a quick glance over my shoulder, finding the mysterious and handsome Mr. Rodin looking at me from his seat.

Before the first act was finished, there were people standing in their seats, whilst others craned their necks to see over those who stood up to stretch their legs. The benches were narrow and most without backs, except for the last row against the wall. I did not complain, as there were so few opportunities for the theater. And for a shilling, we could not be choosy.

The air was stagnant in the upper gallery, although the sunlight roof did offer a bit of ventilation. The city had, in the past few days, been caught in the ruthless jaws of an early heat wave, causing the usual stench near the river to worsen and permeate the air.

I hoped that Amelia did not regret her choice to accompany me.

“Does this performance have an intermission, Sara? My throat is parched. Do we have any of Mama's lemonade left?”

I checked the one jar that we'd both been sipping from during the first act. If we were to have anything for the second we would have to pace ourselves. “Just a sip, Amelia,” I cautioned, holding the jar out to her. She reached for it and it slipped from her gloved fingers, crashing to the floor.

I watched in horror as the liquid trickled through the floor-board cracks to the patrons below. I knew by the screams when it had found its mark. I was humiliated beyond reproach. “Come on, we must find Mr. Mooreland.” I grabbed her hand and carefully stepped over the dozens of pairs of legs as we picked our way to the exit at the top of the stairs.

Poor Amelia was in tears.

“All will be well, Amelia. It was an accident. I am sure it happens frequently,” I consoled her.

“I assure you the audience below has seen much worse.”

I turned and found Mr. Rodin and his companion coming toward us. A cloud of faceless “Shh's” rose from the audience seated nearby.

“Let's get to the stairwell, Miss Cartwright.”

Mr. Rodin placed his hand on the small of my back, urging me toward the stairs. We paused at the top step.

“It's a shame for you to miss the show. Perhaps if you wait here a moment the chaos will die down,” he said. “However, between you and me, that was the most excitement I've seen all night—on-or offstage.” He grinned.

I found myself smiling back in response. “Thank you for your kindness, Mr. Rodin. It is getting late and we must be on our way.”

“Perhaps I can offer you a ride in my coach?”

“Thank you again, Mr. Rodin, but we'll just find our driver and—”

“And where would he be?” he asked.

I chewed the corner of my lip. “In one of the pubs. He was meeting us after the show.”

“Well, then, I shall help you find him. The pubs are not safe places for two beautiful young women to be at this hour.”

“But you'll miss the rest of the play,” I stated, curious why he would go to such lengths to help us.

“You would save me, Miss Cartwright, from dying of utter boredom.” He held out his arm to me.

It seemed my choices were to continue to argue with him or simply accept his gallantry. “Very well, Mr. Rodin.” I smiled, tucking my hand in the crook of his arm. “I appreciate your assistance.”

“And now, since I have saved you both from an embarrassing fate worse than death—”

Irate voices wafted up the stairs as a woman and her companion stomped up the stairs to the street level. The woman sobbed
uncontrollably into her gloved hand, her sodden blond hair sagging around her shoulders.

Mr. Rodin tugged my arm gently, pulling us into the shadows of the upper stairwell.

“The theater will see to the cleaning of your wife's fur, monsieur,” the manager tried to calm down the angry man. “It was an accident.”

“You can be certain that you will be hearing from my lawyers. I will see this theater closed within the week. That commoner's gallery has no more scruples than a pack of hounds. I want the culprits who did this to my wife found and restitution made for her humiliation,” the man bellowed.

I heard Amelia's gasp from over my shoulder.

I held my breath, hoping that our departure was not ill timed. We could not afford a scandal. Neither of us would be allowed away from the farm again.

“Breathe, my dear,” Rodin whispered.

In the half-darkness of the stairwell, I was aware that he'd turned to face me, shielding us from the view below. Perched a step above him, our noses nearly touched. His eyes were penetrating, as if able to see the struggle warring inside me. Here I was skulking in the shadows with a complete stranger and all I could think of was doing things with Mr. Rodin that I'd only ever allowed Deven Mooreland to do. What kind of woman did that make me?

“How much longer must we stay here, Mr. Rodin?” I asked, forcing myself to peek over his shoulder. His hand came to rest at my waist. I brought my eyes to his. He brushed his thumb back and forth over the fabric and I admit to entertaining the naughty thought of his making the same gesture a few inches higher.

“Just a moment longer. They'll move on.” He offered that calm smile. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“No! Quite well, thank you,” I responded, my breath hitching as his hand drifted higher.

“Excellent. Now, young woman, tell me your name or I shall be forced to bring the manager here.” His hand now rested on my ribs. Just a simple extension of his thumb and—

“You tease, Mr. Rodin,” I responded breathlessly.

“Really? So you are calling my bluff?” He raised his eyebrow.

I could barely force my mind to think beyond his hand poised just beneath my breast. My cheeks warmed. I was lured by the ease with which his harmless flirtation had turned to subtle seduction. Surprised even more how I welcomed it.

“My name is Sara Cartwright,” I said, fighting the urge to press into his palm.

“Sara, what a lovely name. It suits you, as does this color,” he said softly, studying my face. “You are in fact, Sara, what men in my world call a ‘stunner.'”

“Is that a compliment, Mr. Rodin?” I asked.

“The highest, I assure you.” He smiled, then glanced over his shoulder. “I think it is clear to leave.”

He took my arm and led me down the remaining steps. I dared not look back at Amelia, knowing she had to have disapproved of everything she'd heard. I had blatantly broken every rule of etiquette tonight and I was grateful she was behind me, unable to see Mr. Rodin's hand.

We stepped out into the evening air, as thick and stifling as it was inside and heavy with the stench of filth.

“Perhaps you would be safer to wait here and let us go search for your driver,” he offered. “What is his name?”

“Mr. Mooreland, Deven Mooreland. He's wearing a plaid cap,” I called as he and his friend walked down the street toward the pubs. My gaze was drawn to Mr. Rodin's confident gait with his broad shoulders, his erect stance and long-legged stride.

We waited for what seemed a long time when finally we saw Deven, with Mr. Rodin and his companion, striding toward us.

“Your driver, Miss Sara?” Mr. Rodin asked.

I peered at Deven's face, saw the unmistakable sheen to his nose, and knew he'd been drinking. “That's Mr. Mooreland, to be sure. Thank you again for your kindness.”

“I'll go get the hansom.” Deven held up his finger. “It's just down the street.”

“Go on with him, John. I'll wait here with the ladies.”

He gave Amelia a smile. She raised an eyebrow and turned her attention to her playbill.

“Miss Cartwright, I would like to ask you something.”

Mr. Rodin turned so that he stood between Amelia and me. In the murky light of the gaslamps, his eyes glittered with excitement.

I nodded, captured by something I could not name. It was a feeling of anticipation and adventure. A slow thudding began in my heart.

“Have you ever considered being a model?”

Shocked by his statement, then realizing that he was likely only teasing me again, I shook my head and gave him my friendliest smile. “By that I presume you mean for an artist?” I'd never before been to a museum, but I would sometimes sneak my uncle's news sheets and had read about a small band of artists who were stirring up trouble within the Royal Academy. Could this man be involved with them somehow? The mere thought of standing in the presence of such a prominent figure in London's society prompted me to prod him further. “Are you an artist, Mr. Rodin?”