Immortal Muse (40 page)

With David, she had a chance of a full life. With David, if she dared one day to give him the elixir, she had a chance of having a partner who could share eternity with her. With David . . . if she could rid herself of Nicolas.

“Let's go out for a bit,” he said to her, his breath warm against her ear. “Our last morning in Paris . . .”

They went out in to the fog, which was quickly burning off as the sun lifted over the city. Notre Dame cast its long, spired shadow across the plaza as they crossed the Seine. They wandered north, crossing the Seine again to the Right Bank, and turning eastward. “Where are we going?” David asked her.

“Nowhere,” she told him. “I just want to see if someone's here . . .”

They walked through an archway of the Louvre near the pyramid, and turned right toward the Jardin des Tuileries. Camille found herself smiling: Etienne was there, with the sparrows creating their intricate ballet around his uplifted hands. “Look,” she told David. “That's the man I wanted you meet yesterday.”

David laughed with delight. He already had his camera out, zooming in on the image. “Now that's lovely,” he said. “You know him?”

“A little,” she said. They walked closer. “Etienne,” she called as they approached, as the birds flitted away, startled. The old man turned his head. He smiled.

“
Enchanté
, Camille—good to see you again!” he said in French. “Did you come to feed the birds? Is this the boyfriend?”

“
Oui
, this is the boyfriend,” she acknowledged, staying in French. “His name is David.”

David heard his name and held up his camera. “Ask him if he minds if I take pictures.”

Camille relayed the request, and Etienne shrugged, pretending to brush his white hair into place. “Tell David he should be careful. A face like this might crack his lens.” Camille laughed gently; she nodded to David. He crouched down a few feet from them, as Camille dragged a chair to sit alongside Etienne, as he wordlessly handed her the paper bag with the honeyed birdseed. She dipped her hands in as the sparrows rose from the grass expectantly, fluttering around her fingers as she lifted them, as Etienne did the same alongside her, as she heard the click of David's camera.

“He loves you, you know,” Etienne said as the birds danced in the air before them. “I can see that just by looking at him. See the way his eyes dance as he watches you, like he's afraid that you'll be gone if he looks away too long? The two of you are tied together. Don't you feel that?”

“Certainement,”
she acknowledged. She glanced at David through the flurry of sparrows. He looked up from the camera and winked at her, grinning. “I do.”

“Then life is very simple for you,” Etienne said. “You stay with him, and continue to love him, and you'll be happy.” He nodded toward the birds. “It's no different with them: as long as they're fed, they're happy.”

“As long as there's no cat waiting to eat them,” Camille answered.

Camille could hear the melancholy coloring her voice, but Etienne only chuckled. “None of us can ever know when the cat will spring—so it's useless to worry about it,
n'est-ce pas?
You should pretend there are no cats.”

“But there
are
cats,” Camille protested. “Pretending they aren't out there doesn't make them vanish.”

Etienne shrugged, sending the birds on his hands fluttering away momentarily. “Then I would remember that most birds are faster than any cat, and take comfort in that. Either that, or make friends with the nearest dog.” He lifted his eyebrows at that, pursing his lips comically.

She allowed herself to laugh with him. The birds, startled, flew away as one as David's shutter clattered.

1814

“W
ELL, AS SAMUEL Johnson reputedly said: ‘What I gained by being in France was learning to be better satisfied with my own country.'” Blake chuckled grimly at that. “Our Mr. Shelley will undoubtedly discover that to be true as well. But perhaps you would know best, having spent as much time in Paris as you did, and by virtue of having a French mother.”

Emily—as Perenelle called herself then—nodded to Blake at the admission. She'd maintained an erratic presence in Paris as Madame Lavoisier, especially after Robespierre himself was guillotined a few months after Antoine—she found it hard to believe that, after centuries, Nicolas was at last dead. But the habit of cultivating new identities was one she couldn't break—with or without Nicolas, she would always need other people to become. She'd moved to London as Emily Pauls, a student of the fine arts supported by a modest trust from her deceased parents: an English father and French mother, so as to explain her accent, which years in Paris had brought back.

There, as she had done before and as she would do in New York City almost two centuries later, she associated herself with a loose collection of artists and intellectuals of all description: the poet Lord Byron, the young Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, daughter of the bookseller, the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley, and the painter JMW Turner among them. Before, that strategy had always been used to evade Nicolas; now, it was simply because she'd not yet found a specific soul-heart that truly called to her, and until she did, she could subsist on several smaller ones. Eventually, she knew, she would come to crave the nourishment from a truly intimate relationship with a single person, a person whose green heart had potential that she could tap and expand, and take into herself.

Soon. She would have to find someone soon. Again. But not yet. She could wait. She could be patient. She would choose the right one—because
this
time, perhaps, it could truly be a relationship for the ages.

She had all the time in the world to make her decision.

Among those in her circle was William Blake, whose green heart was perhaps the most verdant of all of them, but also the most troubled. Even some of his friends referred to the man as “insane,” and his recent trial for treason, accused of having cursed the king while assaulting a soldier, hadn't helped that impression even though he'd managed to be acquitted of the charges. Since then, however, Blake had found difficulty selling his books and illustrations, and the few reviews he'd had from critics were uniformly vicious.

Still, she found that she enjoyed the man's company and the temporary comfort his green heart could afford her, despite his sometimes loud raving about angels and visions, and his moodiness.

Adding to that was the presence of his talented wife, Catherine, who helped with the engraving and coloring of Blake's illustrations. Catherine's own green heart was quiet and small but solid, and the love she had for Blake was still palpable, long decades now into their marriage. Emily felt that the Blakes had what she herself wanted—at least partially. Catherine gave Blake unbiased support and kept him working despite the darkness in his soul. The couple was childless in their long marriage, but Catherine appeared not to be jealous of the attractive and young Emily, but instead treated her almost as she might a daughter.

In his late 50s now, Blake's hair had gone gray and receded well back from his forehead. His features had thinned as well, and the flesh of his hands was covered with fine wrinkles. But his dark eyes burned with intelligence and keen wit, and his observations were sharp. His passion for his work drove him despite the financial difficulties in which he and Catherine found themselves. For that alone, Emily wanted to be around him. She wanted to taste that green heart and make it glow even brighter; she wanted his soul-heart to lose its bitterness and rage.

Even if Emily had thought of having Blake as a lover, she would have changed her mind after a comment he'd once made to her, when Emily asked Blake if Catherine ever worried about her being around him. He'd snorted through his long nose. “A mistress never is nor can be a friend. If you agreed that we should be so, you and I could be lovers; when it was over, we'd be anything
but
friends. You're my friend, Miss Pauls. I intend for you to remain so, and Catherine fully understands that.”

She liked and admired the relationship Blake and Catherine had too much to tear Blake away from Catherine, even though she knew she could.

No, she would not take Blake's green heart for her own. She would steal occasional nourishment from it, but Blake belonged to another muse.

Emily was in the Blake residence now. The cheap flat was full of books and paper. Blake's current project—a heavily illustrated book of his poem
Jerusalem
—was scattered about in various states of completion. She and Blake were sitting at a table; Catherine puttered about between their room and the kitchen.

But this was one of Blake's better days, and they weren't talking of angels or visions or his deep and dark moods. They were instead discussing the recent flight of Percy Bysshe Shelley from both London and from his pregnant wife Harriet, and the fact that sixteen-year-old Mary Godwin had accompanied the young poet into France. “I fear that Miss Godwin has been seduced by Mr. Shelley, or worse,” Catherine said as she set tea down before them. The teapot was old, the painting on its sides flaking away, and the cups were chipped, but the smell of the tea was strong and good. Catherine poured them each a cup and passed them out. “Why else would he have fled so precipitously, and why else would she have gone with him? As for Mr. Shelley's poor wife Harriet, why, she's big with child.”

“And the good Mrs. Harriet Shelley was, like Miss Godwin, only sixteen when
she
eloped with Shelley,” Blake interjected. “Or so I'm told.”

Catherine shook her head. “I never took Miss Godwin for that type of person. She seemed so innocent.”

China rattled as Blake took a sip of the tea, drawing it loudly between his teeth. “Every harlot was a virgin once,” he said.

“William!” Catherine said. “Such language in front of our guest.”

“Well, it's true enough,” he answered, scowling at the hand Catherine placed on his shoulder. “God can hardly scold me for speaking the truth, however baldly. Miss Pauls, have I managed to offend your delicate sensibilities?”

“Not as yet, sir,” Emily answered with a laugh. “But I would counsel you not to contradict your wife, as she's far the wiser of the two of you.”

“Ah!” Blake glanced from one to the other of the women. “It would appear that I am sadly outnumbered on the field and should now retreat for my own safety. However, that's not my inclination. I must say that Miss Godwin has made her bed and she must now sleep in it—which I suspect she is doing most enthusiastically.”

“Honestly, William!” Catherine exclaimed.

“I take it, then, that you don't believe that there are times when one must retreat rather than stand,” Emily commented to Blake. “Or that there are situations where a person must follow the inclinations of passion despite what others might think.” She glanced pointedly at the pages of
Jerusalem
piled haphazardly across the table.

Blake caught the glance as Catherine chuckled and reached across to pour herself more tea. He scoffed. “I confess that I admire our Mr. Shelley's work, and I will acknowledge that he possesses a certain genius.” Emily nodded in agreement as Blake spoke—Shelley's green heart was vast, if erratic and infected with other more earthly passions that made her wary of him. “However, I
cannot
condone his abandonment of Mrs. Shelley, no matter what passions Miss Godwin may have incited in him. He has obligations both legal and moral toward his wife, who is after all soon to be the mother of his legitimate child, and he has recklessly and shamefully abandoned both of them.” He banged his fist softly on the table as he took a breath; crockery chimed in response. “Would you disagree?”

“I'm only saying that I can sympathize with our wayward couple. Mr. Shelley has never made it a secret that he was unhappy in his marriage. You and I have both heard his comments on many occasions, and we've also both seen how he and Miss Godwin found great comfort in each other's company. I understand why they would run off together and I find it hardly surprising. I would also point out that there is a considerable difference between understanding and condoning.”

“If you don't mind my saying so, that's a very
French
attitude.”

“As you've pointed out many times, Monsieur Blake,” she said, allowing her accent to color the words, “I
am
half French.”

“Which means you're half right in this,” Blake retorted. “Mark my words: this will not end happily, and we will find Mr. Shelley slinking back to London and his wife very soon, leaving poor Miss Godwin behind and entirely disgraced, and perhaps with child herself.”

“And being entirely
English
, no doubt you're entirely wrong about this,” Emily answered. Catherine hid her laugh behind her teacup, but Blake was scowling again. Emily patted his hand, and—grudgingly—Blake managed a tepid smile. His gaze slipped past and above Emily's head and fixed there, his head tilting as if he were listening to someone the rest of them could not hear.

“I understand,” he said, but he was still looking somewhere beyond Emily. Then he shook himself and his regard returned to her. “The angel says that it's better to murder an infant in its cradle than nurse an un-acted desire.” Blake said. “So perhaps God agrees with you.”

Emily pressed her lips together and patted Blake's hand again, glancing once at Catherine, whose expression had gone solemn and concerned. “God created France as well as England, so He knows everything,” Emily answered lightly. “He also gifted us with the capacity to both love deeply and to create well, and we'd be poor worshippers if we didn't fully utilize those gifts. I trust that we all have a purpose in His world, even Mr. Shelley and Miss Godwin.”

“And
your
purpose, Miss Pauls?” Blake asked. His eyes flicked away again, looking past her and back. Catherine's hands stroked her husband's shoulder comfortingly. Emily resisted the temptation to look over her shoulder, knowing she would see nothing there. “The angel would like to know if you understand your purpose.”

“If your angel could tell me that, I would be happy to act upon it,” Emily told him. “Perhaps one day I'll know.”

 * * * 

Emily gave
Byron a last kiss before leaving the bed, pulling her chemisette down as she lifted the covers. The cameo pendant on her necklace had fallen behind her on its chain; she adjusted it as she stood. Byron watched her languidly, a faint smile on his face as he contemplated her.

“What are you thinking?” she asked him.

“I'm imagining you with Shelley,” he said. “Or Turner—I suspect you'd be able to tempt that recluse out from his shell. Or perhaps Blake. Yes, yes, old Blake is the one. You seem to like him well enough, and he's mad enough for you. You're Blake's lover also.”

“You'll only have your imagination for that scenario, I'm afraid,” she told him as she began to dress. “I would never dream of betraying Catherine.”

“What about the good Mrs. Shelley? Did you betray her as Mary Godwin has? Ah, never mind—your blush gives you away, my dear. At least with me you needn't worry about betraying a wife.”

“No,” she said curtly, tucking in the red curls of her hair, “I'm not betraying a wife, only all the other women you've known.” Byron's love affairs and his behavior had scandalized half of British society. Had she been cruel, Emily would have said something about Augusta Leigh, Byron's half sister, who had been delivered of a daughter only a few months earlier—the rumors were currently swirling concerning the true identity of the child's father. But she only smiled. “I'm well aware of your reputation, George. And as for your having a wife, I understand that you and Lady Milbanke have been seeing quite a lot of each other. You seem well suited; perhaps she'll become Lady Byron soon?”

“So you listen to that vile society gossip, do you? Why, I swear that I detect a certain tint of jealousy in that lovely voice of yours.”

Emily laughed. She turned from the mirror. “Hardly. You may flatter yourself if you like, Lord Byron, but I have no designs upon you at all, other than for the moments we sometimes share.” She slipped on her petticoat; with the new fashion, fewer women were using stays and corsets, a trend that Emily relished, though the English dresses were frumpy and frilled in comparison to those in Paris. The fashion in the embattled Napoleon's court was for simple, flowing, and high-waisted gowns.

“You, Miss Pauls, are entirely without shame or guilt.”

She took her dress from where it was draped over one of the chairs in the bedroom. “Neither of those are attributes I can afford to have, I'm afraid, and since it's to your advantage, you should be glad of it. Here, will you help me with the buttons?”

“I am glad, indeed,” he said as he slid out from under the covers. Emily looked at his body appreciatively; Byron was slim and well-toned, and the lines of his face were like those in a classical painting. And his green heart—his was a rare one, and in another time she might have been indeed tempted to make it hers alone, but she was afraid to commit herself so completely to one person again. With Nicolas finally gone from her life, she had promised herself that she would take her time and find the perfect match. “By the way,” Bryon continued, “I have someone you really must meet: a friend of mine I met in Edinburgh who's studying to be a physician: John William Polidori. He happens to be in London and I have a luncheon appointment with him later today, if you'd like to come along.”