The Master & the Muses (33 page)

“It not about whether or not you have a muse, is it, Thomas?”

He shook his head. “Grace, if you have a point, please get straight to it. I have a carriage waiting.”

“It's the thrill of the hunt, I think. You aren't inspired by
the muse.
You're inspired by the challenge of what you think you cannot obtain and are, in the process, Thomas, blinded to what you already have.”

“If this is about Sara, Grace, she is a happily married woman. I am doing this as a favor to a friend while he is on a research trip. Nothing more.” He kissed my cheek and gave me a puzzled look. “I swear I don't know where you get these ideas. My hope is that a few weeks in the country will serve to inspire my painting again. Don't let Frank near the kitchen. He's liable to burn down my house!”

 

A few weeks later, I was not surprised when I came out from the kitchen with a cup of tea and found Edward standing in the studio, his back toward me, looking down at a portrait of Sara.

“Edward?”

“Hello, Grace,” he said, not turning around.

“Thomas is still out at the farm.” I set the tray with my tea on Thomas's writing desk.

“Yes, I know, I just came from there.” He laid the painting down and faced me. His face was drawn. He looked haggard.

I held the teapot up in silent offering and he waved it away as he grabbed a chair and drew it to the opposite side of the desk.

“I came for your advice, Grace.”

“I think we're going to need something stronger,” I said, going to Thomas's special cabinet. Fortunately, he'd spared two bottles of fine Scotch whiskey from his previous tirades. I selected a bottle and grabbed two glasses, pouring a finger in each. I slid one across the desk to Edward and held up mine in a silent toast.

“What happened?” I braced myself, both mentally and emotionally, for what was my greatest fear—that Thomas and Sara had somehow rekindled their relationship and they wanted to make it a permanent arrangement.

“I feel that I can speak frankly with you.” His burr was thick. “In view of your…well, your profession.”

I sighed and tipped the glass back, swallowing the contents whole. My eyes watered as the heat seared my throat. I poured myself another glass and Edward quickly downed his portion, slamming it on the desk for me to refill. This, I had a feeling,
wasn't easy for him. “Go on, Edward, I've been expecting this,” I stated with a heavy sigh. I leaned back in my chair and held the glass to the light, eyeing the amber color, wondering how much of it would obliterate Thomas from my mind.

“I love my wife, Grace.” Edward stared at the table, playing the rounded edge of his glass along the tabletop. “I am willing to do whatever it takes to make her happy.”

“You're a good man,” I said, my thoughts growing pleasantly hazy.
But you are no match for the likes of Thomas Rodin.
“If you don't mind me asking, why would you go away and invite Thomas to stay there?”

He shook his head. “I suppose there were many reasons. I knew they shared a past. I wanted her to be happy and maybe part of me needed to know if she was over him.”

I nodded, understanding his logic.

“I came home early to tell her how I'd missed her, how much I loved her, and I found the two of them in the library.” His gaze met mine. “She was sitting on his lap, bare as the day she was born.”

“And Thomas?” I wanted to close my eyes to shut out the image, but curiosity held my gaze to Edward's.

“Fully clothed.”

I uttered a quiet sigh of relief. “What happened next?” I took a sip of my whiskey this time, needing to understand what it was that Edward needed from me. A friend to listen? To bed me in retaliation? “Did you quarrel with Sara?”

Edward shook his head. “Nay, Grace. You need to understand, things had not been good between us.” He looked away for a moment and then back to me. “I'm not exactly the type of man to do what I did, but for her I would do anything. Christ, Grace, it had been ages since I'd seen that beautiful look on her face. I was mesmerized, watching the two of them for a moment before they knew I was there. So lost in her pleasure—”

“I understand,” I interrupted, not needing to hear a detailed description. “What happened, then?”

“I pleasured her with my tongue,” he remarked, tipping back his glass and taking a healthy swallow.

As the image of the three of them leaped into my mind, I downed the second glass without a thought. At that moment, I had never been more envious of another woman in my entire life. “So—” I coughed “—the three of you…?” I left it open-ended, unable to bring myself to suggest what I thought came next.

“Nay, 'twas no more than drawing a screaming climax from her,” he stated blatantly.

I stared at him in silence.
What should I say? Well done?

“I came here because you seem to know Thomas.”

I laughed aloud at that. “It seems that everyone, including Thomas, thinks this is true, but I do not pretend to understand him, Edward. I'm sorry if that's why you came, but I cannot help you.”

“I came to ask you if Thomas is the type of man who would be selfless enough to share a woman with another man.”

“You mean you're thinking of asking him to live there, with you?”

“Aye, if it's what Sara wants, I will manage,” he said, tipping his glass to his throat and emptying it. He shook his head as the whiskey found its mark.

“What about what you want, Edward?” I asked. The Scotch had given me just enough courage to speak my mind openly.

He frowned as he poured more liquor in his glass and held the bottle up to me. I shook my head. I needed to keep my thinking straight.

“I want to make a good life for Sara. I want to have a family with lots of wee bairns running around. I want to make her happy, and then I'll be happy.”

“And she knows this?”

“I've not had the chance to tell her just yet.”

“Did she tell you that she had feelings for Thomas?”

“Nay, not recently, though I know they were once lovers when she was here,” Edward said.

“It seems, Edward, that you and I have a similar problem. You want your wife back and I want Thomas.”

“You and Thomas? I had no idea. I'm sorry, Grace, this must have been hard for you to hear.”

I waved his apology away. “I have lived through worse things, and truthfully, Edward, what I feel for Thomas, I fear, may be one-sided.”

“I'm sorry for Thomas, that he is too thickheaded to see what jewel lies within his grasp.”

My eyes watered and I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I thank you for that, Edward, but you came here to ask my advice. And I would advise you to go to your wife and not only tell her how you feel about her, but show her and keep showing her every day. Include her in everything, and together build that life you want so badly.”

“And what about Thomas?” he asked, pushing from his chair, a new determination lighting his eyes.

“Let Thomas figure things out on his own. It's about time he did.”

Edward captured me in a fierce hug, lifting my feet off the floor.

“Oh, gracious,” came Frank's startled voice from the doorway.

Edward set my feet to the floor. “Edward was just leaving, and Frank, I need your help with something.”

“My thanks to you, Grace.” Edward took my hand and kissed it, nodding to Frank as he left the studio.

I went to the double balcony doors and watched Edward climb into his carriage. I had a feeling that Sara would not be able to resist the determination and adoration of her husband, and it would not be long before Thomas returned to the studio. Frank's voice brought me out from my thoughts.

“I trust you're going to explain every sordid detail of what just happened.”

 

I had packed all of my worldly belongings in a single trunk. With Frank's help, I'd sent the painting to the academy for deter
mination for entry into next Spring Exhibition. Frank had encouraged me to sign my name, but I insisted Thomas's should be on it. Finally, Frank took the brush from me and signed
PBR—G &T.

“There,” he said. “Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood—Grace and Thomas. Surely the old man won't find fault with that!”

I had also asked him to book me passage on the next steamer to America.

Frank handed me the portfolio with the one-way ticket inside.

“Are you sure about this, Grace?” he asked.

I gave him a wobbly smile. “I trust I won't need it, Frank. But I hope you understand my reason for doing this. I will gladly repay you once I am employed.”

“God help us, let's pray our Thomas has a brain in that head of his.” Frank hugged me and sniffed, looking away.

A few days later, a messenger delivered two envelopes to the studio. Nervously, I tore open the one bearing Thomas's handwriting.

The other note, stamped with the seal of the Royal Academy, I tucked in my pocket. I grabbed my wrap and pulled it up around my neck to ward off the unusual chill in the air. Then, I summoned a suitable coach to be sure we were covered in the event of a downpour.

The carriage jostled through the streets, leaving the brick cobblestone and stench of the Thames, easing into a gentle rocking motion with the soft dirt beneath the wheels. I watched blindly out the window, wondering what was to become of Edward and Sara, wondering if seeing the love between the two of them, if seeing their commitment to make their marriage work, would
spark something inside of Thomas. It was, after all, the second time he'd lost a muse to another man.

Still, I had to be realistic. Thomas could as easily respond the same as he always had, expecting me to be there for him until he found another muse to pursue.

As difficult a decision as it was, I knew if he had not changed, I would have no choice but to leave him; either that, or forever remain a ghost in his life. I would never have any real substance. He asked me once if I didn't deserve better. I had finally realized that I did.

Thomas was standing outside on the circular rock path leading to the front door of the cottage. A white mist hovered over the quiet pasture beyond the house. It was an idyllic setting for a young couple to raise a family, as I prayed would be the case for Edward and Sara. Still, I felt sad for Thomas, knowing how he would miss his walks along the rolling hillsides.

The coach shimmied to a stop and Thomas's smile was tight, unreadable, as he handed his bags to the coach driver. I pressed my face close to the window, studying the cottage with its sloping roof and ivy crawling up the trellis to the windows above. A movement in one of the second-floor windows caught my eye, and I saw Sara standing there, wrapped, it looked as if in a sheet, her hand pressed to the glass. Behind her, Edward came into view, pulling her into his embrace.

I scooted away from the door to make room for Thomas to get in. I laid my bag purposely on the seat beside me.

“Good morning, Grace.” He settled himself across from me and smiled as if being picked up from such liaisons was a normal event.

“Good morning, Thomas. I trust your visit to the country was pleasant?”

He leaned forward and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Of course, fresh country air is always invigorating.”

A chuckle escaped my throat. “How are Edward and Sara?”

He shoved open the window, slipped his hand out and slapped
the side of the carriage. His eyes scanned the view beyond the window. “Fine,” he said, as the carriage jerked forward. “They're going to be fine.”

He turned to me then. “It was good of you to come, Grace. You didn't have to, you know.”

“I know, Thomas. I wanted to,” I replied, avoiding his steady gaze by looking out my window. A few seconds of silence passed and I heard him sigh. “What is it?” I asked, giving him a side glance.

He shrugged, his hands clasped between his knees. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Us. Here we are. Together again. Neither of us seems able to stay in a relationship for very long.”

“Speak for yourself,” I stated softly. “Besides, I thought you'd already decided that you weren't the type to settle down.”

“Do you think people like us can ever find true happiness?” he asked.

I thought about it a moment and looked at him. “I suppose it depends on your definition of happiness. I mean, what is happiness after all, but being in the company of good friends and able to pursue your passion?”

He regarded me intently. “You know me well.”

“I should think so after all this time, but frankly, Thomas, there are days when I don't feel I know who you are at all.” I swung my gaze back outside and thought of the ticket in my bag, unable to imagine leaving London, leaving him. I was grateful for the friends we shared, for having seen the passion of his art fulfilled. But what, then, was
my
passion?

“Grace?”

“My mind was wandering, sorry.” I looked at him and, though I noted he was aging, he was still as fit and handsome as the day we met. That seemed a lifetime ago. The question of my passion continued to niggle at my brain.

“What is it, Thomas? You have that gleam in your eye. The one that makes me think you'd like to undress me.”

A slow, wicked grin curled up the side of his delectable mouth. The shadow of his unshaven face made him look more roguish than ever. Without contest, he was a breathtaking man. I realized then what made my body hum, what caused my heart to race—what made me believe that
anything
was possible. My passion—my deepest desire and dream—was
Thomas.