The Master & the Muses (25 page)

“The academy turned down my application, Grace. They said I made a public mockery of the school and its teachings.
Can you imagine? Those buffoons blaming me for
their
lack of competency?”

“Is that the reason you were drinking last night?” I asked, softly tracing the muscled flesh above his heart.

“As good a reason as any,” he replied sullenly.

“May I ask you a question?” I laid my palm on his warm flesh, finding his steady heartbeat. This intimacy of conversing after sex was also new to me. Usually, a gent left his money on the table and was out the door without so much as a backward glance. This was far too serene, too comforting, the illusion of security it created.

“Of course you may ask me a question,” he replied, stroking my hair.

“Is showing at their exhibition your solitary goal? What I mean to say is, would you paint whether or not there was a venue to display your art?”

He took a deep breath and let out a sigh. “You have a point. Maybe I've been trying too hard to please others, instead of trusting myself.” He rubbed his knuckle softly along my jaw. “An old guilt complex, planted by my pious mother, no doubt. I was never good enough for them—my parents.” He had a wistful look in his eye.

“Do what you love, Thomas, and one day the world will take notice.”

“What a wise woman you are.” He kissed my temple. “You've helped me to see things differently.”

I pushed from the floor, suddenly ravenous. “I'll fix us a nice breakfast,” I said quickly. This newfound intimacy made me nervous. I dared not think about the dangerous waters I treaded with my heart. What Thomas did not know, and what I did not tell him, was that I was beginning to see myself in a different light. He'd stirred up a bevy of new emotions inside me, including the one I feared most…
love.

 

It wasn't that Thomas's romantic efforts were in vain. He was more than a friend to me in the next few months. We enjoyed
long talks. I taught him tawdry jokes and he taught me about art. Our common ground was in bed, for there we were equals in passion. He tolerated taking me back to my room above the pub each night as I refused to stay at the studio. I was not ready to open myself to such a commitment. Interestingly, it was where I lived that became the source of a bitter disagreement between us.

 

It had been nearly a full year since I'd begun posing for Thomas. One summer afternoon, I arrived to find a beautiful black covered carriage parked outside the studio. Assuming he had a guest, I tiptoed up the stairwell and peeked into the studio, finding it empty. “Thomas?” I found it strange that he would not have mentioned a guest, since he usually asked me to make a special meal for such occasions.

“Ah, Grace, there you are. Come in here, I have something to show you.” He stepped from the guest room into the hallway.

I raised my eyebrows. “Isn't that a worn line, Thomas, even for you?” I smiled.

“You give me no rest,” he teased, ushering me in.

“You know what they say about the wicked, don't you?” I volleyed back lightheartedly. I enjoyed the banter we shared. At first I wasn't certain if Thomas would accept my odd sense of humor, but he was quick to laugh and, now and again, let his dry wit show.

“Did you see the carriage outside?” I asked, curious, as I followed him into the room. “I thought you might be entertaining royalty.” My gaze was drawn to the beautiful dark blue dress that lay on the bed. The beadwork sparkled in the glow of the lamplight. A fur stole, handbag and feathered hat lay beside it. “This is lovely.”

“Do you like it?”

There was a certain amount of pride on his face as he looked from me to the dress. Perhaps it was for his new project.

“Do you know what today is?”

“Thursday, I think. Is this for your new project?”

He brushed his fingers over my hair. “What a fascinating idea, but no, I want you to try it on…see if it fits.”

“What are you painting?” I asked, giving him a curious look.

“It looks as though it will fit you.”

He was avoiding my question. I lifted the gown, holding it up to me as I turned to look at myself in the oval mirror in the room.

“Let me help you with the fastenings.”

“If this is a ploy to remove my clothes…”

“Grace, the dress. Please.”

He unfastened all of my buttons and helped me step from one dress to the other. I looked at him in the mirror. “What day is this?”

He grinned. “It is the anniversary of the day, Grace Farmer, that you came into my life. A soggy wench with a sailor's mouth and a passion—second only to mine—for port and warm scones.”

It was so unexpected, so thoughtful, that it caused my eyes to well. I dropped my face in my hands, overcome with emotion. His arms came around me and I turned, pressing my face into his chest.

“The dress doesn't suit you? We can find something else.”

“You made me cry.” I hid my face in the folds of his shirt. “Dammit, Thomas, I can't remember the last time I cried.”

“Well, blazes, Grace. Now's not the time to make up for it. It's a dress, not a proposal.”

He straightened, holding me at arm's length. “There, now scrub your face and get dressed. I have another surprise. There is one of those…those bustle contraptions. Do you need help with that?”

I shook my head. “I can manage.”

“If you're sure. I need to finish dressing. I'll meet you downstairs.”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “It's not a proposal, Grace,” I muttered, sniffing as I wiped my cheeks. Men like Thomas and women like me weren't the marrying kind, at least not until we were plenty ready. I stood and slipped the gown on and stared
again in the mirror. William passed by and whistled low. “It looks like it was made for you.” He smiled. “Do you need help with those buttons?”

I nodded and he helped me as I watched him in the mirror. “William, do you have any idea where—”

He kissed the back of my head. “Not a one, but Thomas is probably downstairs, annoying the coachman. Hurry along, if you pity the poor man.”

Thomas took me to dinner at an upscale hotel, followed by the opera. It was not one of the bawdy burlesque shows that the brotherhood was so fond of and where I might have felt more at ease than the box seats from which we watched the tragic story unfold. Even so, I was captivated by the grandeur and romance of the opera house and the high-society crowd.

During the intermission, the elaborately dressed crowd mingled over their drinks and jewels. Thomas handed me a flute of sparkling champagne. As long as he was at my side I could pretend to be more than I was.

“Lord Hoffemeyer, so good to see you,” Thomas said as a giant of a man and his wife approached us. He accepted his amiable handshake. “I stayed with Lord and Lady Hoffemeyer,” he said to me, though his eyes remained on the beautiful woman standing in front of him, “a few years back when traveling in Germany.”

“Thomas Rodin, I wouldn't have expected to see you again, especially not in a place like this. I had no idea that you had an interest in opera.” The tone in Lord Hoffemeyer's voice was strange.

“There are a great many things you don't know about Mr. Rodin, dear.” His wife smiled as her gaze assessed Thomas from head to toe. “How are you, Thomas? My, you are no longer the scrawny, youthful lad that the baron dragged home from the card game, are you?” She tapped his shoulder with her fan.

Thomas gave me a brief, sheepish look and took her proffered hand.

“Lady Hoffemeyer, it is a pleasure to see you again,” Thomas remarked, pecking her netted glove.

I caught the tick of her husband's jaw and wondered if Thomas had had an affair with the good lady.

“You promised to come back and see us, you naughty boy.” She pouted her ruby lips. “Perhaps we should get together while we are here in London.”

Her husband was looking at me with keen interest glittering in his eye.

“Forgive me,” Thomas said, suddenly remembering my presence. “Grace Farmer, this is the Baron and Baroness Hoffemeyer of Pomerania. Lord Hoffemeyer was integral in helping to fund the railway system in that part of the world.”

I smiled at the austere-looking man and placed my hand in his, allowing his greeting.

“Baron is just a political title, my dear. I much prefer Lord Hoffemeyer. Do you share Mr. Rodin's artistic passion, Miss Farmer?” he asked.

Thomas spoke before I could. “Grace is one of the models for the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, milord.”

He regarded me with greater interest. “Ah, yes, I should have guessed as much. You are indeed quite a lovely creature.” He turned to his wife. “Look at her, milady, isn't she exquisite? Wherever did Thomas find you, my dear?”

“We met at the Cremorne, milord,” I offered with a smile. I noted the way the man glanced at Thomas and then his wife.

Lady Hoffemeyer's penetrating gaze studied me and she licked her lips, before swinging her attention back to Thomas. “When can we meet, Thomas? As you know, we are most anxious to…visit more with you. We will certainly make it worth your while. And why don't you bring your friend along? We could get to know each other better—quite the little foursome in cards, we'd be.” Her dark eyebrows slipped upward in question.

Thomas's hand pressed on the small of my back. “If you'll excuse us, I've just remembered there is someone I promised to speak with.”

Thomas guided me away from the couple and through the crowd, stopping only long enough to retrieve his hat at the coat check.

“Thomas, what about the rest of the show?”

He said nothing, his jaw firm as he clung to my arm, nearly dragging me down the steps of the opera house. I jerked to a stop and he continued on a few more steps before he realized that I was not with him.

“What in blazes are you doing, Thomas?”

“I thought I made it clear I had someone I needed to speak with.” He planted his hands on his hips and stared at the long row of carriages, searching for ours. He motioned to me with his hand. “Come on, there it is. Hurry along.”

“Not until you explain to me what is going on,” I insisted.

“Now is not the time or place, Grace.” He wiggled his fingers.

“I am not leaving until…” The thought stuck me like a bolt. “You are ashamed of me. That's it, isn't it?”

“Don't be absurd.” He trotted down the remainder of the steps, glancing over his shoulder toward the door. “I'd like to go now, Grace…please,” he added as an afterthought.

Begrudgingly, I followed him down the steps and allowed him to assist me into the carriage. Once settled across from me, he tapped the roof and I waited as the carriage ambled along the cobblestone streets. Thomas's focus was on the window, his mouth in a firm, flat line.

“What is it, Thomas?” I asked finally, unable to stand the wait any longer.

“I'd rather not discuss it just now,” he replied.

I wanted to believe that it had nothing to do with me.

“You don't plan to tell me what happened back there?”

“Why did you have to tell them we met at the Cremorne?”

I recoiled in surprise. “Because we did.”

He made no response but continued to stare out the window.

“Thomas, if you don't explain your irrational behavior, I'm going to be forced to come to my own conclusions.”

He shook his head and gave me a long side glance.

“It is none of your affair. I only wish that you hadn't mentioned the Cremorne.”

“Why?” I asked, fearing I knew his answer had something to do with my profession.

“Because they now have the wrong impression.”

“The wrong impression?” I asked, stupefied by his remark. “You of all people are worried about impressions?”

“I do have a career that I am, with great opposition, trying to rebuild, Grace.”

“Well, then, Thomas, I suppose I should be grateful that you've gone to such lengths to provide me with the finer things in life, although I do not know what you hoped to accomplish with this charitable evening.”

He looked at me, his forehead creasing in a frown.

“I don't understand, Grace. Don't you wish to be better than you are? Don't you want to make something more of yourself? Your face now appears in portraits all over Europe. Don't you feel it's about bloody time you learned to act like a lady?”

He might as well have pointed a pistol to my heart. I hit the top of the carriage with my palm and it jerked to a stop. With a quick look outside I recognized the part of town we were in. It was not far from the pub where I lived.

On the corner, a brawl had erupted and patrons spilled out onto the street, taking bets on the outcome. The misty fog of evening mingled with the smoke and noise rolling through the narrow streets. Girls called on gents to see if they needed some company. More important, no one was making anyone feel like they didn't belong.

“I'll walk from here, Thomas.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” he fumed, blocking my arm as I reached for the door. “I can't allow you to traipse through Whitechapel in that gown. Let me take you back to the studio.”

“You're worried about your damn dress? Fine, Thomas.” I dropped the mink stole in his lap. “I always found you to be a bit
on the arrogant side, but I forgave it because I liked you. But not until this moment had I taken you for a snob.”

Discarding the pearl-tipped hat pin, which surely dislodged a curl or two, I pulled off the hat and gloves and tossed them on the seat beside him. With a quick work of my skirts, I managed to untie the bustle and shake it to my feet.

“What in blazes…Grace, what do you think you're doing?”

“I am giving back your charity, Thomas. I don't need it.”

“Oh, bloody hell. Stop this, Grace.”