The Master & the Muses (32 page)

I cupped his unshaven face and kissed him, sensing his frustration, and slowly gave way to his desire. He flopped back on the bed, his hands covering my breasts as I rode him furiously.

“Yes, Grace,” he hissed, his hips bucking as he thrust upward deep into my core.
“Yes, my love.”

I did not let the words linger in my brain. I gave them no time to touch my heart. My climax overtook me in a blinding rush,
causing me to scream his name out loud. His eyes, glittering with lust, never left mine as he drove into me, spilling his seed.

He pulled me to his side and tucked me beneath his arm. “Stay with me tonight, Grace.”

“You're in my bed.” I smiled, sliding my hand over the sheen of his firm stomach.

“Then ask me to stay.”

I fought the urge to ask him why he wanted me to go with him, now—at the last minute—instead of asking me when his plans were made.

“I don't think that's a good idea. Not tonight.”

He looked at me in surprise. “Aren't you going to miss me?”

“Did I say that?” I tugged the hair on his chest.

“Ow, wench.” He frowned, but mischief sparkled in his eyes.

“Moody rake,” I tossed back.

“I am not moody.”

“Oh, please.” I rose on my elbow and looked down at him. “Concede at least to that, Thomas. There is no doubt you are, on occasion, unbearably moody.”

“It is, I suppose, a creative hazard.”

“Which you have elevated to an art form,” I teased, offering him a grin.

He turned onto his side and I wished there was a way that I could have captured the expression on his face. I saw in his glittering green-blue eyes delight that I had not seen for a long time. It made my heart swell with unwarranted pride that I might have something to do with it.

“Come with me to Rome,” he said again, teasing me with a kiss.

“Thomas, you said you would not ask me twice.”

“I lied.” He grinned. “Please Grace, think of the fun we'd have.”

I was afraid if I went with him that whatever we'd created here might end forever there. I had to leave him
wanting
to come back…hopefully, to me. “I'm sorry, Thomas. I can't.”

He looked flustered. “Why not? What's keeping you here?”

You. Us.
“I just can't go,” I stated flatly.

He swung his feet to the floor and sat with his back to me. I reached over to trace his lower spine. He stood up.

“I don't understand.”

I don't understand it myself, Thomas.
“I don't know how to explain it.” I pushed from the bed and put my arms around his back. “I will be here when you get home.”

I sensed the tension in his body dissolve and he pulled me into his embrace. We stood holding each other until a knock sounded on the door.

“Cake's done,” Woolner hollered through the closed door.

Thomas's laugh rumbled against my cheek.

“Happy Christmas, Thomas,” I said quietly, pressing my ear to his chest, memorizing the beat of his heart.

“Happy Christmas, Grace.”

FRANK WENT NORTH TO SEE HIS FAMILY OVER THE
holidays, graciously inviting me along. He did not feel that I should spend the holidays alone, watching over both his apartment and the studio.

He kissed my forehead and eyed me. “Are you certain you don't want to come meet my family? God knows my mother would be pleased if I brought a woman home.”

“Thank you, Frank, but I told Thomas I'd keep an eye on the studio.”

“And what else are you planning to do with your time?” His eyes did not mask his curiosity.

“Well, I won't be pining away after Thomas, if that is your meaning.”

“Good girl. He's a scallywag, Grace. Honestly, I don't know what you see in him.”

“I thought you were the one who told me to be patient with him?”

“That was before he left you and went to Rome,” Frank huffed.

I hadn't told Frank that Thomas wanted me to go with him. I had my reasons and it was better to let things play out as fate saw fit.

“Let it go, Frank. It's Christmas,” I said. I had plans to pull out the painting of me that Thomas had nearly finished and see what needed to be done to complete it. I didn't want any negative thoughts muddying that process.

“You're right, sweeting.” He hugged me. “I'll be back in a week, unless things get excruciatingly boring! Happy Christmas, darling.”

As it was, Frank did return earlier than expected and we spent New Year's Eve on the town celebrating in true Frank Woolner style. On more than one occasion since the holidays, I'd gone by the studio, finding it undisturbed and void of either Sara or Edward. Though I found it a bit strange, I thought little of it. Perhaps Thomas's plan was working and Edward and Sara were spending more time with each other away from the studio, or perhaps she'd changed her mind and gone back home.

The weeks passed and before I knew it, it was nearly the end of January. Frank and I had received only one letter from Thomas since he'd left. My trips to the studio had grown less frequent as I spent more time studying and soliciting Frank's help with touching up Thomas's painting of me.

“You have a keen eye,” Frank stated, looking over my shoulder as I dabbed light on the high point of my shoulder. I'd been careful not to change the foundation of the painting.

“Do you think he'll appreciate that I've tried to finish it?” I asked, glancing up at Frank.

“Oh, heavens, he'll have a fit, but after he looks at it—really looks at it—I don't see how he could possibly be angry.” Frank kissed the top of my head. “What do you plan to do with it?”

“I haven't given it much thought. Just show it to Thomas and see what he says.”

“Hmm,” Frank patted my shoulder. “I'll get us some tea.”

 

Watts stopped in unannounced while Frank and I enjoyed our afternoon tea and a new recipe for biscuits that he'd brought back from his family's cook. Watts's amber eyes glittered with keen
interest as he helped himself to a biscuit and spread it with orange marmalade. “So, I assume the two of you have heard about Edward and Sara?”

I finished swallowing my tea. “Um…no. We haven't seen anyone from the brotherhood recently. What happened?”

“Seems they were married in Wales over Christmas.”

I stared at him. “Married?” I repeated to make sure I'd heard him correctly. “That is awfully sudden, isn't it?” That explained why no one had been around when I went to the studio.

Watts waved his biscuit at me. “Not to my way of thinking. I saw how that woman eyed him the first night Thomas brought him to the studio.

“Have you heard from Thomas?” I asked. “Does he know?”

Watts shook his head. “I haven't had a chance to go by and see him yet. He just asked me to see to it that the next issue of
The Germ
gets out.”

“You mean he's back from Rome?” The news startled me and my gaze swerved to Frank, who seemed to be studying his teacup intently.

Watts glanced from me to Frank. “He got back about a week ago. I thought you knew. When I saw Frank the other day, I told him—” He clamped his mouth shut, realizing the tension he'd unintentionally created.

“Frank?” I asked. “Did you know he was back? Why didn't you tell me?”

Frank stabbed Watts with a furious look and sighed, turning his attention to me. “I thought…hell, I hoped that he would have contacted you himself by now, sweeting.”

I sat back and dropped my biscuit on my plate, no longer having an appetite. Why should things be any different? “Well, you know our Thomas. He's probably deep into a new project.”
Or has a new muse.
“But what about Edward and Sara? Did they stay in Wales?”

Watts perked up, happy to have the topic steered away from me. “Here's the strange part. They've been living in the farmhouse
that Thomas owned. The one he was saving for a communal brotherhood studio, someday. Guess that's no longer the case,” he stated, popping the last bit of his biscuit into his mouth. He licked his fingers and rose, taking a sip of tea to wash down his food. “I've got to run. Just came by to pick up your article, Frank.”

Frank went to his desk, found his script and handed it to Watts.

“Let me know what you two hear about Thomas,” Watts said.

Frank walked him to the door and had a sheepish look on his face when he returned to the dining room.

“I'm sorry, sweeting,” he said softly.

“Thomas's acreage? Why would he give that up…and to Edward?”

Frank shrugged. “The studio was his and William's dream. I think after what happened between him and Will, his heart wasn't in it anymore. Edward was his protégé and has nothing. Maybe he decided to give it to Edward out of charity, or he just didn't care. I don't know any better than you why Thomas makes the choices he does.”

“You're probably right, Frank, and I would be wise to stay out of it and mind my own business, right? But I'm concerned why he wouldn't have contacted any of the people closest to him.”

Frank considered my words. “You know how the critics have been riding him. Thomas doesn't respond well to criticism.”

“I want to go check on him. Will you come with me?”

“Let me clean this up and we'll head over to the studio straight away.”

 

The pungent stench of stale liquor hit Frank and me when I opened the door.

“Thomas?” I called, easing the door fully open. The door brushed an empty bottle of port, sending it rolling across the wood floor, smacking the wall.

“Oh, dear,” Frank muttered under his breath.

We found Thomas seated at his writing desk. Hundreds of
pieces of wadded pieces of paper were flung around the room. His cupboard storing his port hung open and it was empty, the bottles strewn about the room with used glasses perched next to them.

“Ah, there you are! My last two friends in all of London and quite possibly the planet.” Thomas tried to stand, but his boot caught on the table leg and he fell back in his chair with a rousing thud.

“It's a bit early for port, isn't it?” I moved about the room, gathering up the bottles. Frank took a trash receptacle and silently began picking up the garbage scattered around the room.

“Don't start with me, Grace. God knows I don't need another woman harping on me, telling me what I should and shouldn't do.”

I continued to carry used dishes to the kitchen, stopping long enough to put on a kettle for some strong tea. “You have me mixed up with your critics, Thomas,” I said.

“Oh, no, Grace. The critics, now
there
is another matter entirely. I'm talking about my muses, Grace.”

I glanced at Frank, who just shook his head.

“They're all the same. Luring me to them like sultry sirens.” He grabbed at the air as if mimicking being pulled in. “Their beautiful smiles, porcelain faces, swanlike necks…sucking me under until I surrender to their passion.”

“Good God,” Frank muttered, tossing another paper wad in the trash.

“Then, bam!” He smacked his fist to the table, bringing my head up. I exchanged looks with Frank.

“I'm suddenly not around enough, or doing more of this, not enough of that. ‘Take me here, Thomas. Let's stay in, Thomas. Isn't it too early for port, Thomas?'” he bellowed, swerving his bleary-eyed face to mine.

“You are nasty when you're drunk,” I stated calmly.

He lifted his hand and looked at Frank. “You see? I cannot please them. What is a man to do, Woolner?”

“Help me get him to the kitchen,” I said, taking Thomas under the arm.

“You needn't worry, Grace. I have sucked the place dry. There is nothing more for me to drink and I have absolutely no money to buy more. Oh!” He gave me a sardonic grin. “And no one will buy my paintings.”

Frank and I escorted him, listening to his jabbering all the way to the kitchen sink. I started the pump and got a steady stream of cold water rushing from the spout. “Put him under.”

I suspect the Pope in Rome heard his colorful testimony. He still had a lot of fight left in him. Frank held him as best he could and I shoved his head under the water.

Thomas's hands flailed, his words gurgling as he tried to speak.

“It won't do any good to cuss, Thomas, we can't understand you,” Frank advised.

Thomas slammed his palms against the sink. “Enough!”

Frank and I walked him to his chair in front of the fireplace. As I set to the task of getting Thomas to remove his sodden clothes, Frank built a warm fire. I grabbed a throw from across the back of a chair and tucked it around his naked shoulders.

“Drink this.” I shoved a cup of strong tea into his hands.

“Hair of the dog?” he asked, raising his bloodshot eyes to mine.

“Straight strong tea, Thomas.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened that made you do this to yourself?” I asked, sitting down across from him.

“I'm going to go see if I can drum up something for him to eat,” Frank offered.

Thomas stared at me. Only one other time had I seen him look as bad as he did now.

“My father died while I was in Rome. I didn't know about it until I got home.”

“I'm sorry, Thomas.”

“I haven't been in touch with my parents for years. William was always the one who kept us connected, and well, now…I
haven't heard from him in so long.” He paused to stare at his teacup.

“I came home and found a note from Sara, telling me that she and Edward had gotten married. They came by the studio a few days later to gather their things. Edward didn't know where they would stay and I understood them not wanting to stay here, so in a moment of weakness, perhaps pride—” he shrugged “—I told them they could have the cottage. They might as well. What good is it to me anymore?”

I nodded, not wanting to ask the question pressing my heart. I summoned my courage, needing to know. “This was more than you expected, wasn't it?” I asked.

Thomas's hair, dripping wet, was matted to his head. I rose, took the towel from his shoulders and began to rub it over his head, drying his hair.

“I don't know, Grace. I thought I knew what I was doing. The truth is I don't know how to live without my muse.” He laughed quietly.

Which one, Thomas?
I thought, staring blindly into the fire. I realized then, that until today he'd never called me his “muse.” Had our relationship gone beyond that of a master and his muse? Did he consider me more of a confidant, a friend, or simply a set of comforting arms when he could not appease or be appeased by his “muses”?

“You'll find another muse, Thomas, and you'll begin to paint again,” I said.

 

It was not long before I had moved back in with Thomas, taking care of him as I'd always done. He went in and out of his moods, drinking less, but still drinking to get through them. He'd started writing poetry with Frank's guidance and tried his hand with a few short stories. But the critics were ruthless, calling his style “lascivious and novice.” In a desperate attempt to show the academy he was still viable, he produced a painting that the committee called “the desperate ravings of a man who has never quite
made the level of his peers who graduated from the academy.” He was growing more discouraged and I, right along with him.

I came home one day, after I'd peddled a couple of Thomas's original works on the street and gotten enough money to pay for some food, to find him in the studio, stuffing his clothes into a bag. “Where are you going?”

He glanced up. “Oh, Grace, I'm glad you're here. I received an invitation from Edward to take an extended visit to the country. He says the hills are awash with color and they have a garden that is in full bloom. He feels that it will be good for me, perhaps inspire me to pick up a brush.”

He turned to me and held my shoulders. “I know this is sudden, but Edward needs me now. He's heading to India on research and would feel better if Sara was looked after while he was away.”

“Why doesn't she come here?” I asked.

“Because the country and the fresh air is not
here,
Grace.” He smiled snapping his bag shut. “It's
there.
”

“And what about me?” I asked, tipping my head.

“You're not alone here. You have Woolner and the rest of the chaps. I know you're in good hands.”

It was at that point that I realized, I think much as William had, that I was going to have to step away from Thomas's shadow. I was going to have to give up caring for him, and either he would fall flat on his face or he would find another to take my place, as I had taken William's.

“I'm going to tell you something, Thomas, and it may change the course of our friendship, but I need to say it just the same.”

He stood, jiggling his bag beneath his hand.