The Master & the Muses (23 page)

“Very well, Mr. Rodin. I will come by tomorrow and we will discuss your proposition further.”

“Splendid. I look forward to it.” His eyes darted to my forehead and he reached up, almost by instinct, to brush a wisp of hair from my eyes.

He blinked, aware, it seemed, of being too forward. He drew back his hand.

“Until tomorrow, then?”

I nodded. “Until tomorrow.”

I watched as he trudged down the slope to the waiting passenger boat.

“Oh, Mr. Rodin,” I called to him. “What shall I wear?”

He turned and hesitated a moment, then lifted his arms.

“Good lady, you may come dressed however you wish, or in nothing at all! I leave the choice to you.”

I chuckled. He was a handsome but cheeky rogue.

I GLANCED UP AT THE STATELY STONE BUILDING
and checked the address again. Not terribly far from the Cremorne, it was situated in one of the districts known for housing various artists and poets.

“Miss Farmer,” a voice called from above, and I looked up to find Mr. Rodin, his hand raised in greeting.

“I'll be right down.”

I could not count the number of times I'd had to wait for a man. Yet, I had the distinct feeling that this meeting was about to change the course of my life.

The door opened and he stood there in a similar shirt to the one he wore last night, but wearing a vest this time, which fit marginally within the scope of current fashion.

“Miss Farmer.” He smiled, opening the door wide.

“Mr. Rodin.” I stepped into the foyer, pausing a moment to let my vision adjust to the dim light inside.

“I am glad that you decided to pay me a visit. Come, the studio is upstairs.”

I followed him up the two flights of stairs. “Right through here,” he said, ushering me through the open door.

The large room which I assumed to be the studio, was like a world unto itself. I glanced over my shoulder and Mr. Rodin smiled.

“It's a bit of a mess. My apologies.” He set to picking up papers that were tossed on the floor. “I quite often forget all else when I'm involved in a project. A hazard of the artist at work, I'm afraid.”

He grinned and I found his humility utterly charming. “Make no apologies on my account, Mr. Rodin. In general, I've learned that women are the ones who keep a house in order. Men are simply there to provide the means for doing so.”

He stopped and looked at me.

“What a pitiful view of romance you have, Miss Farmer.”

I looked at him squarely. “I rarely see romance in my line of work, Mr. Rodin.”

“Ah, yes, well, I suppose that is true.” He looked around, appearing to search for something. “Feel free to look about. If you have any questions, I'll try to answer them as best as I can.”

“May I?” I placed my bonnet and bag on a nearby chair. I'd chosen to wear my best dress. One given to me by Deidre when she grew tired of it. It was a pale shade of gray and went well with my fair skin and blond hair. I did not apply paint to my face as a rule, other than a bit of color on my lips from time to time. Unable to afford such luxuries, I carefully rubbed my lips with pomegranate juice, instead.

“If you'll permit me to say, Miss Farmer, you look exceptionally beautiful by the light of day.” He stacked a pile of papers, most of which appeared to be sketches, on the corner of the desk.

“Thank you, Mr. Rodin.” I stood at his easel, studying the small papers tacked on the corners—intricately drawn leaves and flowers with words too small to read chaotically scribbled off to the side.

“Nature features prominently in most of my work. I believe there is much we can learn by studying its colors and patterns. Don't you agree?” he asked from across the room.

I tried to imagine the process it would take to create something of such beauty. Admittedly, I had trouble conceiving of where to start.

“You are a talented man indeed, Mr. Rodin, if you can look at this blank canvas and imagine a work of art.”

“I suppose it takes a person predisposed to seeing the possibilities,” he answered.

I ignored his remark, asking instead, “And how do you choose your subjects, Mr. Rodin? Or do your subjects choose you?”

I flipped through a group of painted canvases leaning against a wall. A shadow appeared over the place where I stood. I looked over my shoulder and found him standing close behind me.

“Sometimes I find them, and sometimes…they find me. I believe in fate. Do you?”

I glanced at him, knowing if I allowed, I would again be caught in his piercing eyes.

“I believe in what I can see and what I can touch.”

“That is interesting. You impress me as having a more spiritual side,” he said.

I folded my arms over my chest and pinned him with a challenging look. “And what, pray tell, Mr. Rodin, ever gave you that idea?”

There it was again. The look I had seen last night—peeling away the layers, splaying me open—looking into my soul.

“Stop it,” I said, disturbed by the intensity of his eyes.

“I do not want you to be uncomfortable, Grace. I want you to feel at home. In fact, after some thought, I've decided that if you agree to sit for my project, I'd like you to move in.”

“Mr. Rodin!” I brushed past him and picked up my hat and purse. “I am
not
in the habit of taking up residence with men I barely know.”

He looked completely baffled. “And yet you would give yourself to any stranger for a single night of
paid
passion?”

“
Sex,
Mr. Rodin. Let's be blunt. The men I accompany are not paying me for passion,” I answered coldly as I prepared to walk out. I had determined by the sparseness of his surroundings that
I would not be making much in the way of an income if I were to stay. I was willing to work for a smaller wage, but not for a man who did not, at the very least, respect me.

“My apologies, Miss Farmer…Grace. Please don't leave. Allow me to make up for my blatant wrong.” The tone in his voice was apologetic.

I paused at the door. My pride, all in this world that I truly possessed, was bruised. “And how do you think you will manage that, Mr. Rodin?”

“Allow me take you out this evening,” he offered. “To a nice dinner, where we can discuss things civilly.”

I shook my head. “I'm sorry. I have other plans. Perhaps another time.” I hurried down the stairs, not stopping for a carriage until I'd put distance between us.

I cannot say what disturbed me about his offer. Perhaps it was the ease with which he assumed I would accept. It was obvious that Mr. Rodin, try as he might, understood as little about my world as I did his. That alone was reason enough not to proceed any further with this silly notion.

Was I simply afraid of being as intricately scrutinized as the leaf drawing I'd seen?

I'd grown accustomed to being a ghost, to providing a service and then fading into the woodwork. There was something off-putting about Thomas Rodin. He was the type of man who could easily break my heart if I got too close.

 

Bloody hell, I could not get the man out of my mind.

“Come on, Grace.”

Mr. Willoughby was one of my regulars. He smelled like peppermint and cigars. His hands were rough, demanding, as he dropped his trousers in the shadows of the isolated breezeway, shoved up my skirt and lifted my leg around his thick middle.

“Do you like art, Mr. Willoughby?” His hot breath panted against my neck as he pumped his hips against mine with laborious intensity.

“What in God's name are you rambling about, Grace? Art? Hell, I could care less! You're starting to sound like my first wife!”

Why I'd not recognized him sooner for the slob that he was suddenly rankled my ire.
His first wife?
How many did he have?

“I'm sorry, Mr. Willoughby,” I said, pushing him from me. “I cannot see you anymore.”

He stood before me, his sausage peeking from beneath his protruding potbelly.

“But…you can't! I forbid it, Grace. I paid good money for your cunt tonight.”

I handed back his money. “Mr. Willoughby, perhaps you best pull up your drawers and heed my words. Do not pester me again or I shall be forced to visit your good lady. Number three, is she?”

“Five,” he muttered, visibly disgruntled as he hiked up his pants.

“Five, then.” I brushed my skirts down and looked at him with new eyes. “Mr. Willoughby, if you showed as much fervency with your wife, you may yet be saved from adding a sixth.”

He frowned, pressing together his bushy gray eyebrows.

“Do you think so, really?” he asked, adjusting his beaver-fur top hat. “I've always had a fear she would find me perverted. You know, a bit
naughty.
”

Mr. Rodin's offer to model for him, if it took me off the streets, was looking more and more tempting. “Certainly, you could be no worse off for at least making the effort. Who knows, perhaps you will find Lady Willoughby enjoys being a bit ‘naughty.'”

It was clear that the possibility had not crossed his mind. “By God, perhaps you're right.”

Mr. Willoughby grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down with enthusiasm. He hurried from the alcove where we'd met on several occasions these past few months. He wasn't the only man in London who kept his wife on a glass shelf, when he should be taking her to bed for a good poke. Maybe if they all heeded my advice, the whoring business would not be as thriving a trade.

I took a deep breath, letting out a sigh. I was tired and I wanted something better. Perhaps Mr. Rodin's offer was it.

 

I went back the next day unannounced. Dark clouds hovered over the city all morning, keeping the sun at bay. It was just my luck that they decided to open up, producing a torrential rain, as I waited in front of Mr. Rodin's studio flat. Worse, I'd told the carriage driver not to wait. I pounded with desperation on the front door, hoping that someone would answer.

“Coming!” I heard a man's voice call from inside. The door swung open and a gent closely resembling Mr. Rodin peered at me through weary eyes. He squinted, trying to see who'd awakened him on a Saturday morning.

“Excuse me. I was hoping to speak to Mr. Rodin.”

The man rubbed his fist over his eyes, blinking a couple of times, then looked down at me again. Oh, yes, by the stark color of those eyes, he was related, there was no doubt.

“Was he expecting you?” he asked, stifling a yawn.

“No, not today. I wonder if I may prevail upon your kindness, sir. I am getting soaked to the skin.”

He looked up at the sky as if realizing for the first time that it was raining.

“My apologies, miss. Please step inside.”

I hurried into the small foyer. There was barely enough room for the two of us. There was a closed door behind me and, with exception of the front door, the only other exit was the stairwell leading upstairs. I brushed the rain off my shawl as best I could.

“I'm William Rodin, Thomas's devastatingly handsome younger brother.” He smiled. Apparently, charm ran in the family, too. William took my hand and shook it.

“And you must be?” he asked.

“Grace. Grace Farmer,” I replied.

“Oh, yes, Grace. Thomas mentioned something about you the other night.”

“Oh, really? I hope it was favorable.”

The front door opened then, and the latch plowed William in the stomach before he could move.

“Dammit, Will. Sorry.” A soggy Thomas Rodin squeezed into the entryway.

“Did you find scones?” Will asked.

I pressed my back against the wall, trying to make myself as small as possible.

“Blast, Will, can you move out of the way, it's impossible—”

His face came up as his body pushed against mine.

“Miss Farmer?” He grinned and the delight on his face made me glad I'd decided to return. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

Indeed, as was the sensation of his body so close to mine. I could imagine how well we would fit together.

And you're here to get a real job, Grace.

“The door…if you could just move a little to the right…” William pushed at the door with one hand and reached for the bag in Thomas's hand with the other.

“Are they still warm?” William asked.

Thomas reacted, as would any brother, reaching up to bat his brother's hand away—and accidentally caught my breast in the exchange.

“Pardon me, Miss Farmer, but as you can see, my brother is a tyrant with few manners. We let him out of the barn every other weekend. It was my turn this week to keep him.” He smiled and I found myself enjoying their good-natured banter.

“Mr. Rodin…”

“Please call me Thomas.”

His face remained mere inches from mine. My eyes dropped to his tempting mouth, mentally tracing his full lower lip that begged to be nibbled.

“Almost got it.”

William shoved the door shut behind his brother's back, projecting him forward. Luckily, my body prevented him from hitting the wall. I turned my head to the side, feeling Thomas's warm breath against my cheek. “Mr. Rodin, I've been considering your proposal.”

I took a deep breath as Thomas moved past me. He held up the bag, out of his brother's reach.

“Tea and scones?” He smiled. “Come, Miss Farmer.” He reached for my hand and pulled me up the stairs behind him. “Our very lives may be at stake until my brother has his breakfast.”

It was the first time I'd ever felt a man could also be my friend.

 

Six months. At times, it felt like six years. Thomas Rodin could be the most aggravating man on earth. Surly, meticulous in his work, he quite often went hours without saying a word and then suddenly he wanted to do nothing more than talk my ear off.

The topic of my staying at the studio as some type of permanent arrangement never came up again. I came early of a morning and left in the late afternoon, unless one of the members of the brotherhood sold a painting and so created just cause for a dinner celebration. I was often invited to these impromptu, joyful events and was told I was the prettiest of all the brotherhood's previous models, but I suspect their admiration had more to do with my skills in the kitchen. Thomas, however, enjoyed parading me about town, showing me off as the next famous face in the art world.

“The
Mona Lisa,
” he said, “has met her rival.” I admit the attention was flattering, but my previous experiences made me wary that such fame could last, or that even Thomas's infatuation with me would last. I didn't deceive myself into thinking that I was his first model, or that I would be his last.