Rodin's Lover (19 page)

“The critic compared me to him. To Rodin. That is the third time I’ve heard it.” Her jaw clenched. “I’m not sure what to do. I think I need to get away. Gain some room to think.”

Jessie put down her tool. “I’m visiting my parents soon.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You are still invited to come, if you wish. We’ll spend time in Peterborough and London. We cannot miss the Salon, now, can we?”

Camille hugged her. “I would be so grateful.”

Jessie wrapped her arms about her. “We’ll whisk you tidily away, then. I can’t imagine attending Salon without you, at any rate. My parents will be thrilled to meet this talented Camille I always speak of.” Jessie glanced at their new addition to the atelier. Minou batted the bottom edge of the bedsheet, which served as a window covering. “May we leave the kitten in your brother’s care while we are on holiday?”

“Certainly.”

“I’m afraid we will leave as early as next week. Does that suit you?”

“I hoped you would say that.”

T
he ferry moved out to sea and the Calais port disappeared behind a curtain of fog as if erased from existence. The town, even France herself, became a mere memory.

As would
he
, or so Camille told herself.

She sucked in a lungful of briny air and closed her eyes. To be adrift at sea, cool fog coating her skin and no solid sense of earth beneath her feet, reflected her mood.

She floated in a space between.

The foghorn blared its melancholy cry. Her eyes fluttered open to a scene of a packed deck, passengers in an array of hats and overcoats to shield them against the wind. Jessie sat beside her, thumbing through a novel. Camille picked up her own book, a guide of Roman antiquities. She studied the classical sculptors even if she did not wish to emulate their style. There was always more to learn.

A half hour passed and she moved to the bow. The sun burned away the mist and in the distance, the chalky cliffs of Dover stood like a ghostly fortress, a great dividing wall between sea and civilization. Black water and bleached rock imprinted their image on her mind. Perhaps she would paint a watercolor when they arrived; she had been assured they would have all the supplies they needed to sketch and paint. What luck the Lipscombs had, to be so well off.

Jessie had spoken fondly of her parents, particularly her mother. Camille couldn’t imagine a mother who caressed her hair, left cheerful
notes on her pillow, a loving woman who celebrated each of her accomplishments with kisses, special cakes, and tea. Jessie had it all.

Camille gripped the railing. Wind whipped through her skirts and over her skin. But she did not need any of it—she only needed her work. Her needs and emotions could be channeled into clay and rock, a beautiful container for her sorrows and triumphs, her reflections.

A hand touched her shoulder and she turned.

“We’ll be docking soon.” Jessie held her hat to her head.

“What if your parents don’t like me?” she asked, suddenly timid.

Jessie looked taken aback, then touched Camille’s cheek with her free hand. “Impossible.”

Camille smiled for the first time that day.

The Royal Academy at Burlington House stood exactly as Auguste remembered it: a proud building with two arms that hugged its central courtyard. Clouds draped the building’s spires, poised to sweep over the facade and cover it completely. London possessed every variation of cloud cover, from soft mist to soupy fog laden with soot. He had thought Paris had unending cloudy days before he visited the dreary isle. At least he enjoyed English tea and crumpets slathered in clotted cream. His stomach rumbled at the thought; he hadn’t eaten much in days.
Sa féroce amie
had departed to Peterborough without so much as a word.

Auguste still couldn’t believe he had followed Camille to England. She ran from him, yet he could not let her go. When her defenses had melted in his arms, he had known what he must do—make her feel secure in his love, somehow. She feared depending on him. Christ, he had done everything he could for her and would always. Couldn’t she see that yet?

Monsieur Gauchez at
l’Art
magazine had tried to put Auguste’s requests off, but he had insisted the editor include a drawing of Camille’s bust of Paul and an article about her in the next edition. Gauchez agreed, only with a bribe of drink and an advanced preview of a sketch Auguste planned to submit for the contest to win Victor Hugo’s monument. Whatever it took to help her. She could not seem to help herself.

Rodin stuffed his right hand inside his trouser pocket. His fingers brushed aside a few shillings. He checked the other and found the crinkled missive from Mademoiselle Lipscomb. After some persuasion, she had agreed he could visit Wooton House, her family’s estate. He had leapt at the invitation to dine with the Lipscombs, when it finally came. He shuffled his feet over the cobbles and the bottom of his shoes scuffed against the slick stone. Would Camille be angry with him for coming? Had he taken it too far, following her all the way to England? But she had left without explanation, and now her absence tortured him. He needed to be near her or he might . . . He might what? He cursed at himself. He must control this passion somehow. He acted like a madman, gripped by an illness he could not shake.

“Auguste Rodin,” Gustave Natorp called through a crowd gathered around a juggler.

He turned to meet his former student, now friend. They would view the exhibit at the academy together. Gustave had no inkling Auguste had traveled to London to be near Camille, and it would remain that way.

“Have you got a shilling for the entrance fee?” Gustave asked, slightly out of breath. His hair had thinned considerably, exposing an almost pointed dome of a head.

“Yes. Shall we go?” Rodin stuffed the letter in his pocket once more, and with it, his anxiety.

The Lipscombs’ house towered at the end of the lane. Camille would call it more of a museum than a home. Monsieur Lipscomb had made a fortune in the London Coal Exchange a few years back and had capitalized on the opportunity. Camille felt strangely alone in the rambling rooms and halls, a solitude she found at once comforting and disorienting. A cozy country home suited her far more.

She had been working on a new concept for a piece, but the viscous images flitted through her mind and whirled through her dreams just out of reach. She tapped her pencil against the tabletop. Though Jessie was reading on the sofa, her eyes darted from the page to Camille’s profile every few minutes. She pretended not to see her friend’s furtive glances. She knew whatever it was, Jessie would share it soon enough, though it made her ill at ease.

After an hour, Jessie snapped her book closed. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“I know. I have caught you staring at me all afternoon.” Camille looked up to find Jessie’s face carved with worry and her eyes contrite. “You look like a naughty schoolgirl. What have you done?”

Jessie sighed. “I’ve been meaning to tell you all week, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

Madame Lipscomb stepped into the room, her pale flowered gown swishing around her feet. A straw hat with pink ribbons perched on her head. “I’m going into town before our guest arrives. Care to join me, ladies?”

“No, thank you. I’d like the chance to speak with Camille in confidence.” Jessie gave her mother a knowing look. “And then we’ll need to tidy up.”

“Of course, dear. I won’t be long.” Madame Lipscomb disappeared through the doorway, her mules clicking on the honey-colored floors.

“Shall we walk?” Jessie asked, standing.

Camille chewed her lip. She had seen the glance between mother and daughter. Jessie was not dramatic and never teased. She wondered what could warrant such behavior.

After donning her hat, Camille followed her friend along the stone path through the Lipscombs’ garden. They crossed beneath a trellis threaded with vines, through a thicket of white tea roses and scarlet carnations, fuchsia foxgloves with their bell-shaped heads and spotted centers, and a dozen varieties of flowers she could not name, all arranged to perfection. Camille moved ahead, beyond the formal garden to a field of tall grass bursting with cornflowers, their indigo blooms vivid as the summer sky overhead. She freed her skirt from a prickly bramble and plucked a stray English daisy.

Jessie stopped beside her. “Beautiful, isn’t it? It’s still hard to believe our change in fortune sometimes. Wooton House has become a real home, ever so quickly.”

“Out with it, Jessie.” Camille pushed through the tall grass. A flurry of tiny white-winged moths ascended from their resting place, fluttered around her head, and scattered.

“I have received a letter from Monsieur Rodin. It arrived in the post a week ago.” She watched her face for telltale signs of emotion.

Camille shielded her eyes from the sunlight and looked out over the garden. “Oh?” She forced a light tone. “And what did he have to say?”

“He suffers. The man is quite in love with you.”

“He doesn’t love me. He lusts for me, and the moment I call myself his mistress, he will discard me.” She pitched the bloom to the ground.

“I know you care for him.”

Camille crossed her arms over her chest. “My art is what matters. Above all else, it comes first. This . . . thing between us is inconsequential. I refuse to behave capriciously and throw away my opportunities. He must remain my teacher and nothing more,” she said firmly. “I came here in part to escape him. It’s best I don’t see him.”

Jessie cringed. “Then you won’t be happy with me—or Mother. She invited him to join us for dinner, and to stay with us, tomorrow evening.”

“Why would you agree to it?” Anger throbbed in Camille’s temples.

“I know how you feel, but you must also consider how I feel. And my parents,” she added. “He is my teacher, too, and my parents admire what he has done for me as an artist. They wish to thank him personally.”

A zephyr rolled over the field, and the flowers swayed and bent their heads to the force greater than they.

Camille threw her hands in the air and stormed past Jessie.

“Wait!” Jessie hurried after her, skirts rustling in the grass.

Blood pounded in Camille’s ears. Auguste pursued her! Yet despite her anger, unbidden pleasure streaked through her limbs. A foolish pleasure, she chided herself. She had nothing to gain by giving in to her . . . heart. Oh, God. Her heart.

An image flashed in her mind. One of flowing fabric, movement like the sway of golden grass. She raced toward the house for her pencil and paper. Another flash came, of his face, his hands.

The spark of inspiration slipped through her fingers.

By the time Auguste’s carriage arrived, Camille had disappeared into the garden with her sketchbook. The remainder of the afternoon she spent in her bedroom with the day’s post from France. She refolded a
letter from Paul. He would join her and the Lipscombs on their jaunt to the Isle of Wight next month. She couldn’t wait to see him. Her brother had ached to travel his entire life and would now have the chance.

The clock dinged the hour. Ready or not, it was time to dine—time to face Auguste. She touched the jeweled comb in her hair. She couldn’t put off joining the family a moment longer without offending her gracious hosts.