The Master & the Muses (28 page)

He kissed my shoulder. “Perhaps, but none of them nearly as lovely as yours.”

“Oh, for God's sake, Thomas. Stop it,” I demanded.

“Stop? Stop what?”

“Stop putting thoughts in my head that I am dearer to you than I really am. We have known each other for too long and in truth, we have only used each other when one of us is lonely. Hasn't that been the way of it?”

“Grace, didn't you hear me? Weren't you listening when I said—”

“I know.” My voice lowered as I pressed my hand to my mouth. “I know. There is no need to tiptoe around me. I will always care about you.”

When there was no response, I turned to look at him, finding him staring at me with a puzzled expression. My hair, partially braided, hung loose in his palm.

“Is that what you think? Do you really think I've spoken these words to anyone else? Yes, we've both had our share of lovers—do not look away from me, Grace.”

He came around the bed and knelt in front of me. “I swear to you that I have never had what we share, beyond the bed—this bond we have—with any other woman. And I fear, though I believe you already know, that I never will have. You have spoiled me, Grace, but I cannot change the way things are.” He studied me. “And maybe if things were different, we might have never met.”

Too raw was the notion that we were his ideal of the tragic Shakespearean lovers, destined never to be together. My view of things was clear and, for his own well-being, Thomas's view should be as clear. What good were his heartfelt confessions to me now? They would not keep me warm in a cold bed while he slept at Helen's side. “Perhaps, but we shall never know, shall we?” I leaned toward him, brushing his hair over his ear. “I will be nothing more than a dear memory in your old age.”

He shook his head, grabbing my hand. “No, Grace, you are the only woman I have ever loved.”

“Loved? Oh, dear God.” I held up my hand. “If you care even just the tiniest bit for me, Thomas, you will not say another word. Just go…go now.”

“But Grace…”

“I beg you, Thomas. Go.”

“But the painting? No, you must understand—”

I pushed him away and scooted off the bed. His words raced after me like tangible things, nipping at my heels. “I'll speak to the baron about the painting. Perhaps someone else could—”

“That is
my
work,” he thundered. “I will be the only one to finish it.”

He followed close behind as I picked up his clothes that had scattered when he'd tossed them in the throes of passion. I spun on my heel and dropped the clothes in his arms. “Perhaps later, but not now, Thomas. I beg you, please leave.”

He dressed slowly, eyeing me as I doused all the kerosene lamps, save one. He gathered his paint box and tools, and reached for the painting.

“Please leave it. It isn't dry anyway, and the rain will ruin it.” I had pulled on my dressing gown as if the normalcy of it would somehow put things back to the way they were before.

“When will I see you again, Grace?” Thomas asked as he pulled on his coat. “I will need to finish the portrait in order for us both to receive our payment.”

“I'll send word when I am ready. Goodbye, Thomas,” I said quietly. “Please tell the desk clerk I'll be staying here tonight.” He leaned forward to kiss me and I turned my head. If he didn't leave soon I would not be able to hold in the storm of tears that were about to be unleashed.

“Good night, Grace.” He hesitated in the hall and turned, starting to speak. I closed the door gently and leaned against it. I squeezed my fists and gulped for air as the sobs crawled up my throat. I'd never hated my life more than at that moment. I hated my past, hated what I'd done, hated the choices I'd made.

I strode to the window, flipped open the latch and shoved it open against the torrent of rain and wind. The onslaught of water sprayed my skin, soaking my gown. Flashes of lightning, followed by loud crashes of thunder, drowned out the strangled sound of my anguished cries.

 

Four weeks had passed since I asked Thomas to leave. I was at the mercy of Lord Hoffemeyer's kindness in allowing me to stay on at the apartment, having convinced myself that eventually I would be able to muster the courage to face Thomas again. Until
such time, I took advantage of Lord Hoffemeyer's accounts and bought clothes that I never thought I would wear. In addition, I'd heard from Watts that Thomas was selling off some of his paintings at public auctions. I asked him to keep me informed of where and when Thomas took in his paintings, but made him swear not to tell Thomas. I felt responsible for Thomas's losing out on his commission, as I hadn't yet contacted him about finishing the painting. I'd kept it, propping it on the library shelf, amongst the rest of Thomas's paintings that I'd purchased anonymously with Lord Hoffemeyer's money by sending Dobbs to the auctions.

“Dobbs has brought you another one, Grace.”

Lord Hoffemeyer, in town only for a few hours, leaned the painting against his small writing desk. I stared at it, seeing the quality of Thomas's work diminish with each project. “Thank you.” I placed a chaste kiss on Lord Hoffemeyer's rosy cheek. He grabbed my arm and his grip eased. “When do you think you'll see Thomas again…to finish my portrait? Don't you think the poor man has suffered enough?”

“I don't know what you mean, Lord Hoffemeyer.” I pulled my arm away and gave him a side glance.

“I saw the way he looked at you that night way back at the opera, Grace. I could see how he felt about you.”

I laughed. “Apparently, Lord Hoffemeyer, you haven't heard the news about Helen. She's going to have his child. I would guess they've married by now.”

“What is apparent to me,” he said, looking at the library walls that featured my private shrine to Thomas's paintings, “is that you still have feelings for him.”

“It doesn't matter, does it?” I had considered that this obsession with his painting would drive me mad. Still, I held on to the thread that many of the paintings, though haphazardly done, portrayed a nude seated on a rose-colored couch, and that caused me to believe that he thought of me often.

“If you want something badly enough, my dear, you must keep
after it, no matter what it takes, no matter how long.” Lord Hoffemeyer stood in front of me, his hand cupping my cheek as his dark eyes held mine. I wondered if he was talking about me or himself, but I could not bring myself to ask him. Instead, I eased away and held up the new painting, looking for a spot to hang it.

“I'll send Dobbs in to hang this.” He looked around the room. “I'm not sure there is a spot left on the wall.”

“I'll just do a bit of rearranging, then,” I offered brightly. “How were the bids on this one. Did Dobbs say?” I stared at the blurred oil-painted image. It was another nude seated in a chair, looking over her shoulder. But the face was obscure, as was the background. “Perhaps you could take one of these home with you?” I offered, waving my hand at the numerous paintings.

“I would like to see the two of you reconciled. His workmanship has changed. I know you see it as well as I do, Grace. His reputation with the ton is weakening.”

“They refuse to see his talent,” I offered, holding the painting at arm's length.

“Yes, well, he isn't helping matters, writing his biting public exposés on London society and that scandalous poetry he calls art in the radical news sheet he's started up. What is it called…?
The Germ?
Even the name belittles his intent.”

“They are jealous,” I said in Thomas's defense. I'd heard rumors and seen a copy of the news sheet, too. In addition to the decline in the quality of his art, it seemed he was doing all he could to be as contradictory as possible.

“I don't need to tell you that his reputation for being a troublemaker is becoming public knowledge. People are refusing to buy his work.”

“It's a small obstacle. People are fickle, milord. He just needs to find one good subject, and he will win the hearts of the critics again.”

“He's never had them, my dear,” Lord Hoffemeyer reminded me.

I put the painting down. “When must you return to Pomerania, Baron?”

“In a few days. Oh, I nearly forgot. A messenger was at the door when I arrived. I hope you don't mind that I took the message for you.” He pulled out a folded piece of paper, sealed with Thomas's wax imprint.

I opened it and read Thomas's eloquent handwriting—a matter of particular pride with him.

THREE DAYS LATER, I FOUND MYSELF ON THE
doorstep to Thomas's studio. I cautioned myself that I was playing a game I would never win. But if I could not have Thomas in any other way except as his housekeeper, then so be it. I'd allowed him into my heart that fateful rainy morning long ago and pitiful as it might have seemed to some who knew me, I think most knew of my true feelings for Thomas and therefore understood.

William answered the door, and I didn't have time to hide my surprise. “I had not expected to see you here, William. How are you?”

He ushered me inside. “It is good to see you, Grace. I'm well, but I am concerned about Helen. I cannot tell you how good it is to know there will be another woman at the house.”

I smiled, taking off my hat and hanging it on one of the hooks in the hallway. “Women tend to get a bit out of sorts as their time draws near, William. I'm surprised you were not aware of that.”

William looked back at me as we headed up the stairs. “I am indeed familiar with a woman's travails, but I thought women with child gained weight—Helen seems to grow thinner by the day. She is tired frequently and not eating well and I'm hopeful your
cooking, excellent as I recall, will help to put some meat back on her bones.”

Mrs. Rodin was young and impressed me just as I thought she would. She was frail-looking and kept to herself, often preferring to stay in her bedroom or read downstairs in the front parlor. She seemed intelligent but rather lost. I attributed it at first to her pregnancy, but later I noticed she behaved differently—more independently—when Thomas wasn't around than when he was.

I also noticed that the brothers did not stop by with the same frequency they used to, and when they did, Helen claimed to be indisposed. Perhaps most disconcerting, however, was the tension I felt between Helen and William. They seemed to tiptoe around each other whenever I was there.

Still, I did my job as was requested, and left the drama of Thomas's household to him. He was, as always when he put his mind to a task, absorbed in his new research. He'd leave early on the days I arrived and not return until I'd left the studio. In many ways, between the three of them, I felt as if I was cleaning house for a group of ghosts.

I did try to converse with Helen about her health. I tried pleasantly to ask how things were going, reassuring her that Thomas would come around when he was done with his research and he could focus again. Apparently, she did not like my meddling, as upon my next cleaning day, she asked to borrow my coach and driver for the day. Of course, I told her she could, but she did not tell me where she was going or why, and I did not ask, certain I would only succeed in agitating her again.

Several hours later, William ambled into the kitchen and leaned over the stove, inhaling the scent of the lamb stew I was cooking.

“That smells heavenly, Grace. Is it about ready?”

“It is ready now. Has Helen returned? She borrowed my coach and driver this morning.”

William looked puzzled. “She didn't say where she was going?”

I shook my head. “I didn't think to ask. She is a grown woman, after all.”

“Perhaps, but I don't like the idea of her traipsing about in her condition.”

“William.” I smiled, spooning a generous amount of stew into his bowl. “Women are stronger than most men think. I've known women who work the fields, have a child, and are back out in the field the next morning.”

“Go on.” He looked at me with disbelief as he took the bowl from my hand.

“It's true,” I said, serving myself. “She probably needed the fresh air. It seems she has been sedentary at Thomas's request. Maybe she decided to go out and find something for the nursery.” I sat down on one of the work stools in the kitchen. William pulled up another, propping one foot on the bottom rung as he held the bowl under his mouth.

It was nearly impossible to look at him and not see a younger version of Thomas. It seemed surreal to be sitting in Thomas's kitchen discussing his child with his brother, and it made me realize that my heart had not yet healed. I wondered if it ever would completely. I took a bite of my stew and looked to change the conversation. “Tell me what you are doing these days, William.”

“I just returned from Florence recently. I was there to study the architecture and visit the Uffizi. It is quite remarkable. The ancient architecture and the parks inspired me. You should visit it one day. I think you would enjoy it, Grace.”

I laughed quietly. “Perhaps, but for now, my inspiration is more confined to making sure Thomas doesn't run out of his Prussian blue.”

William chuckled. “My brother can be quite particular about some things.”

I sensed there was more that he wanted to say. “Thomas does have his way of doing things, doesn't he?”

“I don't wish to complain, Grace. He has been more than generous funding my studies as he does, encouraging my designs, discussing the possibilities of how I can use my skills. He has been most patient with me.”

“He is a good man, your brother,” I agreed.

He nodded, placed his empty bowl on the table and folded his hands on his lap. “It's how he treats Helen that I disapprove of.” He shook his head. “I have no right to speak out against him, of course, but were she my wife, I would not leave her every day to go tromping in the woods in search of a background.” He slapped the butcher's table beside him. “There, I've got that off my chest. And I would appreciate it if this stayed between us, Grace.”

Little did he realize that I hadn't spoken to Thomas in many weeks, nor did I see that changing for the better anytime soon. “Your confidence is safe with me, William, but in his defense, doesn't he have to make a living as well as care for his family? You should know that research takes time. Look at your own situation. You're still gathering research in order to produce the one project that will make the world take notice.”

He sighed and nodded. “You have been my brother's friend for some time, haven't you?”

“A few years, yes,” I replied.

“Then you would say that you know him fairly well?”

I shrugged. “You are his brother. You know him better than anyone, I would think.”

“No, I don't think so. There are times when I'm not sure that is true. He thinks differently than I do. Sometimes his choices, the things he says and the things he does—I don't agree with.”

I eyed him as I took another bite of stew and wondered if we were still talking in generalities, or if he was referring to something or someone more specifically. I did not press the topic further, and once he finished eating, William thanked me for the stew, and went to his room.

Later, after I'd done some washing and strung a line across the end of the studio near the kitchen, William, freshly shaven and looking admittedly dashing, stuck his head in the studio door.

“I'm off, Grace, to meet some people for supper. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

I glanced out the double doors to the balcony, realizing that
the day was waning. It would be dark soon and Helen hadn't returned with my carriage. “I was going to ask if you might give me a lift home, but I wonder if one of us should stay until Helen returns.”

I saw the look of struggle in William's eyes. “This meeting has been set up for several weeks. They are potential clients with an upholstery business and are interested in my designs. Perhaps I should cancel and reschedule.” He rubbed his jaw.

“Not at all, William. I can stay on a while longer. She's bound to be home soon.”

He wrote down the name of the hotel where his meeting was. “If you should need me. It is impossible to reach my brother.”

I bade him good luck, stuffed the note in my pocket and finished with the wash. Sometime later, I sat down at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and, laying my head on my arm for just a moment, promptly drifted off to sleep.

 

I awoke in semidarkness. I walked to the balcony door and saw my carriage in the street below. Checking the bedroom, I found Helen sound asleep. Not wishing to disturb her, I eased the door shut and went on home.

I was exhausted from the rigorous cleaning I'd done that day. I'd asked myself more than once why I stayed on as I did. The plain truth was because I felt at home there. The brotherhood—Thomas, even William—trusted me and showed me that they appreciated my efforts. In the past, I'd delighted when they threw their impromptu get-togethers to celebrate even the smallest accomplishments. The wine flowed freely, they ate and talked until all hours on topics I've never understood, nor likely ever would. They referred to Thomas as the “old man,” a name given to him due to his being in his mid-thirties, and he would laugh. But there'd been no such get-togethers since my return to the studio. I thought about what William had said about Thomas being gone so much at a time when his very fragile wife would no doubt appreciate his company. I would not say anything to Thomas, as I
had given William my word. However, I had a feeling that a storm was brewing and that the young Mrs. Rodin might well be in the eye of it.

 

I poured my nightly glass of port and shuffled wearily across the high-polished hardwood floors of my little apartment. Lord Hoffemeyer had been most generous with me, and never asked anything from me in return. Of course, I had nothing to offer him except companionship when he was in town, and even then, he'd never placed me in a compromising position, or caused me to question his intent.

I slid open the pocket doors leading to the library and lit the oil lamps, placing them where the light would best illuminate my private Thomas Rodin collection. Taking my port, I sat down in the plush, overstuffed reading chair and released a tired sigh. I let my eyes scan the paintings, hung from the chair rail to the ceiling—side to side, top to bottom. I thought about Lord Hoffemeyer's comment last time he was in town, about how my feelings for Thomas hadn't changed. He seemed as bent on seeing us reconciled as I sometimes felt. It seemed that Lord Hoffemeyer and I were Thomas's only support. But it was a support sheathed in silence—the more I heard the critics badgering him, the more of his paintings I bought. I dreaded what it would do to Thomas's pride if he ever found out.

 

Overtired, I slept later than usual and, knowing I was not scheduled today to go to Thomas's, I took a leisurely bath and washed my hair. I had not been to the Cremorne in some time and I wanted to see how Deidre was getting on. I'd just finished a light supper when there was an urgent knock on my door. The knock issued again, and more fervent this time. I knew it wasn't Lord Hoffemeyer. He was on business in Germany until Saturday. “I'm coming,” I called. The only other person who knew where I lived, besides Thomas, was Deidre.

I opened the door and Thomas swept by me in full stride, walking into the front room.

“Is he here?” he called from the other room.

“Is who—Lord Hoffemeyer? No, he doesn't stay here, Thomas. Our relationship isn't like that.”

I followed him down the short hall and into the room, seeing him about to open the library doors. “I'll ask you kindly to stop this tirade and tell me what is going on.”

He dropped his hands to his sides, still facing the door. “I thought perhaps you were in a hurry to get home to your wealthy companion yesterday.”

His tone was surly, yet from what I could tell he hadn't been drinking. “Did you have a purpose in coming here, or did you just have a whim to insult someone, Thomas?”

He pushed his hands over his hair, clamping his head as if frustrated. “Have you got anything to drink, preferably something strong?”

I had, of course, his favorite port in the parlor. “Go sit down, I'll bring us something.” I hurried back, decanter and glasses in hand. “What is troubling you?” I asked as I began to pour. “Have you been up all night?”

He nodded, rubbing his hand over his face. He looked at me then, as if he just realized where he was. I'd never seen a face so filled with loss. His eyes were rimmed with dark circles and they were red from crying. “Thomas, where have you been? What has happened?”

“Helen…lost…” He stumbled on his words, dropping his chin to his chest. “Grace, the baby is dead.” His face crumpled in pain and he grabbed the filled glass, tossing it down his throat.

The decanter slipped from my grip and I caught it with my other hand. “Oh, God, no, Thomas.” I eased down beside him on the floral couch. Everything around us was the picture of perfection and order—the colors, fabrics, pictures on the wall—and none of it belonged to either of us.
We
were the only familiar things to each other in the room.

He rubbed his eyes and his face looked drawn, years older than he really was.

“William found her on the floor by the bedroom door when he got home from his meeting. She'd already lost a lot of blood.”

“Helen…good Lord, Thomas, what about Helen? Is she all right?”

He nodded. “She's going to be fine.”

I shook my head, retracing my steps from the day before. “She asked to borrow my coach. Of course I told her yes. She didn't offer where she was going, how long she'd be gone. I didn't think to ask, Thomas. I told William to go on, I'd stay and wait for her. I must have dozed off, waiting, and when I woke up, she was home, sleeping soundly in her bed. I saw no signs that anything was amiss.”

He stared at his hands clasped in his lap. “There is no way anyone could have prevented it, save perhaps Helen herself.”

“What do you mean, Thomas?” I frowned at his words. “What woman can anticipate such a thing?”

“She fell while visiting her mother and refused medical attention, Grace.”

His weary face turned to mine and I could see the questions in his eyes, but I had no answers.

“Is this my punishment, then? For not being good enough for her? Not being there when she needed me?”