The Master & the Muses (30 page)

I knew he meant what he said. Every ruthless word. Would one night of satisfying his request be worth not seeing Thomas thrown in jail? As for me, I knew how to live on the streets. I'd
been doing that all my life. “If I go with him, it will be okay, Thomas.”

Thomas rushed to my side. “No, Grace, I won't let you go. I've been at that woman's mercy and it is not pleasure.”

I glanced at the baron. Blood showed on his teeth as he sneered at me. He knew what he was doing. He knew he could get what he wanted if he put Thomas at risk.

“We have no choice, Thomas,” I said quietly.

“We don't?” He nodded toward the terrace, where a break in the dancing had brought several guests outside for air. He raised his voice loud enough to be heard by the crowd. “I'm afraid, Lord Hoffemeyer, you'll first have to explain Grace's torn dress to the ton.”

I returned Thomas's smile.

“You think your pathetic low-life testimonials will stand up against my word? The truth is, I never wanted her, anyway,” He pointed at Thomas and his voice boomed, “It was
you
that I wanted back in my bed!”

A collective gasp was emitted from the terrace.

Lord Hoffemeyer turned in surprise as several men rushed down the steps and captured him by his arms. “I want you off my property, you vagrant…you whore,” he spit as they hauled him away.

 

Thomas took me back to the studio that night, offering me one of his old dress shirts to wear to bed.

He looked up at me as he poured us both a port. “Did you see Hoffemeyer's face? I think you broke his nose.” He handed me a glass and settled into the chair across from me. I curled my feet under me and drew the afghan up around my lap. “We're fortunate there were witnesses on the veranda,” I said, holding the glass between my hands.

“You don't think I could have taken him on?” He smiled.

I wanted to ask Thomas about his relations with the Hoffemeyers, but suspected it was a life experience he would sooner
forget. “You're an artist, Thomas, not a fighter.” I raised my glass to him. “Nonetheless, I salute you, my brave knight.”

He touched his hand to his chest and nodded. His smile teased me, tempting me to walk over and snuggle in his lap. I switched topics. “What will become of him?”

Thomas sighed. “If they discover he's engaged in relations with other men here in London, he will be imprisoned. But a man like Hoffemeyer has many affluent connections, I'm sure.”

“Can they arrest you, based on what Lord Hoffemeyer said?”

Thomas shook his head. “No, there is no proof and that was some time ago, in a different country. I was young, experimental, fearless. Hoffemeyer's in for a long night. Our men in blue may not be the most expedient, but they are most thorough.”

I had few possessions back at the apartment, but with Hoffemeyer's threat to destroy Thomas's paintings, I wondered whether to go collect them tonight. “Perhaps I should go see to collecting my things from the apartment?” Thomas shook his head.

“It can wait until morning. I would rather know that you are here tonight, so I can keep my eye on you.”

“I had no idea the penalty for buggery was so severe. What about Frank Woolner? Does anyone know his sexual preference?” I asked.

“I've known Frank a very long time, Grace. He's careful, and always has been, in his relations. We keep a close eye on each other.” He sipped his port and looked into the fire. “None of us has really thought twice about Frank's preferences. That's the beauty of the brotherhood—age, gender, sexual persuasion—they don't matter. The brotherhood is only interested in a person's artistic passion.”

I thought about how true it was that the brotherhood always seemed to rally around one another when the need arose, and I wondered, being left now without a place to lay my head, if I, too, would be watched out for? I could not—rather, would not—stay at the studio, not under the present circumstances, but it hadn't occurred to me that I might have help from the brothers.

Thomas held his glass between his hands and stared at me, his eyes softening, and the intensity of his gaze caused my bones to dissolve. “What are you thinking, Thomas?”

His mouth quirked. “I'd forgotten how utterly beautiful you are and how, if the circumstances were different right now, I would do my damnedest to get you into my bed.” He tipped back his port and drained the glass.

I couldn't let that happen, no matter how much I wanted it. “Always the rogue, my Thomas,” I said finally. “You can hardly take a breath without making a woman swoon, can you?”

He gave me a wicked grin. “Did I make you swoon that day, Grace? Here? Do you remember?”

I shifted in my chair, remembering the memory of his tongue and his head between my legs. I sighed and looked away.

“Did I, Grace?” he asked quietly.

He set his glass aside, dropped to the floor and came to me on his knees. He gently grabbed the collar of my shirt and drew my face to his, so close I could smell the port on his breath.

I forced myself to look in his eyes. “Why are you doing this, Thomas?”

“I just want you to remember when we were together. I want you to remember how good it was.”

My lips burned to meet his, but I did not dare. I knew where it would lead.

“Why, Thomas? Why do you want me to remember?”

His eyes lowered to my mouth and back to meet my gaze.

“Because I can't forget,” he said softly.

“Thomas?”

Thomas leaped to his feet and turned toward the entrance.

“Helen?”

“Surprise.” She gave him a firm smile.

I stood and placed my glass on the mantel. It was time I should go.

“Oh, please don't feel you must leave on my account.”

She was staring at Thomas but speaking to me.

The sound of the door slamming downstairs drew her attention away for a moment.

William bounded through the door of the studio, stopping short when he saw Helen. “Thomas, there was a bag downstairs, I thought perhaps Helen—”

“Hello, William,” she said with a polite tone.

“Helen,” he responded, darting a glance at Thomas and then me with barely a stitch on.

“Will, be a good man and go hold your carriage for me,” I said, slanting the none-too-pleased Helen a look. “Your husband came to my rescue tonight, Helen. Don't be too hard on him.” I looked at Thomas. “I'll get my clothes.”

“Grace,” Thomas said, “there's no need for you to leave, not after what you've been through.”

“I'm fine, Thomas. I'm sure that you and Helen have a lot to discuss.”

Helen followed me into the hallway and I was nearly run down by William flying up the stairs with Helen's bags. I wasted no time retrieving my things from the guest room, aware that Helen was marking every minute I remained in her house. Much to her discomfiture, Thomas walked me down to the carriage.

“You'll be all right?” he asked.

I leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you, Thomas. I think you're about to face someone far tougher than Lord Hoffemeyer.”

He stood by the carriage, looking as though he wanted to say something, and then slammed the door, causing the horses to bolt forward.

I'D PURPOSELY WAITED A DAY OR TWO FOR HELEN
and Thomas to have some time to clear the air, before heading back to clean the studio. I met Thomas rushing out the door, head down, in a great hurry.

“Thomas?”

“Don't speak to me, Grace. Not now.” He climbed in his carriage and didn't look back.

I spotted the bags at the top of the stairs. It didn't take much to figure out that Helen was leaving. I found her in the studio. She held a sketch of herself in her hand. “He won't miss one,” I told her. “I have several that he doesn't even know about.”

“It was too much responsibility for me, I think…being his muse.” Helen looked at me. “May I ask you something?”

I shrugged.

“You've known Thomas for some time.”

I shook my head. “Some days it seems like a lifetime, others, I am not sure I know him at all.”

She nodded. “At what point did you know you loved him?”

I looked at her and laughed.
Love?
How could she possibly un
derstand what I felt? I tugged out my hat pin and dropped my hat on the table. “You have a misguided notion, Helen.”

“Do I?”

I regarded her, wondering if she blamed me for her and Thomas's problems. I realized then that she didn't understand him the way I did. “A man like Thomas has many models—many women he calls ‘muse.' I was never your rival, nor were any of the other women who model for him. His mistress is the ever-changing, ever-demanding passionate affair he has with his art, his work.” I could see she did not believe me by the look in her eyes.

“I have spent a lifetime in the company of men—many, many men. I see the same problem all over. Women struggle to compete with a man's passion, instead of allowing him the freedom to explore his mistress. The secret is being available when he grows tired of her and turns his eye your way.”

“Is that enough for you, Grace?” she asked. “Don't you want more from someone than that?”

“To be utterly worshipped, treated like a goddess for a few moments with no strings, no false promises? Who would want more than that?” What I couldn't tell her is what it did to me to see someone I cared so deeply for become consumed by his notion of “the muse.” “His muses,” Thomas called them. They inspired him; he worshipped them entirely, believing that the mutual passion they shared somehow translated to his painting. I could have tried, but she wouldn't have understood.

William came in and kissed Helen on the temple. It surprised me that it took me so long to see how he felt for her. Still, knowing them for as long as I had, I knew the division this had to have caused and the pain both of them must be silently suffering. I could sense the tension in the house and hoped that time would heal them and allow them to be as close again.

“The carriage is ready. How about you?” he said.

“Yes, I'm ready. Goodbye, Grace.”

He escorted her to the carriage and ran back upstairs for one last look around the studio.

“I came to say goodbye, Grace.”

“You're all set, then?” I asked.

“Tell Thomas goodbye for me.”

I smiled. “I will.”

He studied me a moment.

“You knew, didn't you? How I felt about Helen?”

“I suspected it for some time, but I kept your confidence, William. Are the two of you going to be okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “I've loved Helen from the first day I met her, Grace. I just didn't know what to do about Thomas. I am his younger brother, but it seems I have spent my life taking care of him.”

“I meant are you and Thomas going to be all right? I have no doubt that Helen is going to make you a fine wife. I just don't want you to forget your brother is a—”

“Yes, a good man. I know.” He smiled and hugged me. “When do you suppose he'll wake up and see what a good woman you are?”

I smiled and looked down at my hands. “Thank you for that, William.”

After he left, I brought a rug to the balcony to shake out the dirt. Helen and William's carriage was just pulling away. Down the road stood Thomas, dressed in his finest coat and top hat, talking to a dark-haired woman in a fancy black coach.
A new muse.

“When indeed, William?” I said softly.

 

It was time for me to move on again. I suppose that by now I should have been more used to it. Perhaps the events of recent days had caused me to want to settle down more than ever, or perhaps Thomas had simply spoiled me for other men. I did not want to think that I would never find another man like him, and yet, part of me knew that to have a man like Thomas would be a constant bout of heartache. I was getting too old for such things. My body, not as youthful as it once was, longed for the security
that came with having the same man's arm around you every night, a man who understood and accepted all the subtle changes that came with age, and found you beautiful anyway.

But I knew that it would not be long before Thomas had another muse in the studio, one more beautiful than the last, one that inspired his passion, would become smitten by his attention, perhaps entice him to marry again. I did not deceive myself into thinking that he and I had the type of relationship built to create a long-lasting commitment. We enjoyed each other's company as much precisely because there were no ties.

I'd spent the night back at the apartment, gathering my few belongings, and at dawn, the cook came to me with a note that had been delivered to the door.

I took a deep breath and released a sigh of relief. “I'll have a note for Dobbs to deliver for me,” I said to my cook.

The cook twisted her fingers as she looked at me. “Do you have something to say?”

“If I may speak freely?”

I nodded.

“Mr. Dobbs told me that they plan to release Lord Hoffemeyer no later than tomorrow morning. He has requested Dobbs meet him at the station as he plans to come here before he leaves for Germany, mum.”

“Has the messenger left?” I asked.

“No, mum, he's waiting for a response.”

I gave the boy my response and, within the hour, Frank was helping me load my things in the carriage. I asked the cook to stay in the kitchen, hoping that her warning was a sign of her camaraderie. As it was, though, I paced Frank's house both night and day for a full week. I never again heard from Lord Hoffemeyer and I hoped that Thomas hadn't either.

Frank and I fell into a comfortable arrangement, and we nurtured a friendship based on true companionship. Frank did most of the cooking, although he allowed me to do a thing or two in the kitchen. There was only one topic that we did not discuss and that was Thomas. Although he never spoke of it openly, I think he knew the feelings that I harbored deep inside for his friend.

After several days of sequestering myself at Frank's flat, I felt as if I couldn't breathe. I needed to get out, so I went down to the gardens to check in on Deidre.

It felt good to walk in the gardens again, although some things had changed. There didn't seem to be as many familiar faces. The theater troupe that once performed daily had disbanded. Poverty and illness had taken its toll on the populace.

There was a stiff breeze this evening along the river walk—a preview of colder weather to come. Men, women and children huddled near bonfires built along the old boardwalk, and tents made of blankets served as temporary shelter until the authorities moved the homeless along. I thought of how Deidre could have been among them by now, how it could have been me had Frank not taken me in. I knew Deidre wouldn't have minded taking me if I had nowhere to go, but I knew, too, that her
position at the pub was her meal ticket and I wasn't going to take that from her.

I wrapped my shawl tighter around me, looking out across the Thames as the sun broke through the gray clouds, sending a brilliant shaft of light down the middle of the river. I lifted my hand, shading my eyes from the intense reflection. At the bottom of the embankment, I noted a man seated beside a tree. He had a small easel and seemed oblivious to anyone else as he painted.

I sauntered down and stood behind him, studying his work.

“I'm not doing portraits this week,” he said, not looking up.

“I was just admiring your landscape.” I said, looking over his shoulder. “Do you paint for a living?”

“Does it look like it?” His tone and expression were caustic.

I raised my eyebrows. “Well, you've certainly developed the attitude, at any rate.”

He did not respond.

“You might consider a touch of cadmium red just there.” I suggested, pointing to the spot.

He looked at me then, his pale gray eyes and scraggly beard making him look like a fierce, primal warrior. I could not place his dialect.

“Are you an artist?”

“Me? Good Lord, no! But I have done a bit of modeling, if you would like me to introduce you to some artists I know. I would be most willing to arrange it.”

“Modeling, you say?” He continued to paint without looking at me.

“Your work is good. Perhaps if you were to tamp down that attitude of yours a bit and learn from a good mentor, you'd be exceptional.”

“Now you're a critic?” he said.

“No, but I am a fair judge of talent. I believe you're good enough to perhaps get the Exhibition one day.”

He snorted. “The Academy's Exhibition?” His brogue was thick—Scottish, if I were to hazard a guess.

“Where is it that you hail from?” I asked.

“Pembroke, Wales.”

He stood then and wiped his hand on his shirt, then, and stuck his hand out to mine.

“Have you been in London long, then?”

“Nay, only a few weeks,” he said. “I do portraits here and there. They bring in enough to keep me at one of the boardinghouses a few blocks down the road.”

“Have you eaten?” I asked, fingering a bag carrying a few coins that I kept in the pocket of my skirt.

“Aye, miss, 'tis kind of you to ask.”

“I'm sorry, I don't believe you stated your name.”

“Oh!” He grinned sheepishly, removing a tattered tweed cap. “The name is Edward…Edward Rhys. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Is there an address that I might give my friend where he might reach you?”

He looked around and tugged the cap down over his unruly dark blond hair. The style itself gave a certain old-world manliness to his solemn looks. “When the weather is good. I'll be here in the gardens,” he answered.

“Well, then, Mr. Rhys, I'll tell him to look for you here.” I gave him a smile and a nod and turned to go back up the hill and make my way to the pub, hoping to have supper with Deidre if she was not too busy.

“Wait, lass!” he called after me. “You didn't tell me your name.” He had a handsome smile that might well give Thomas a run for his money where his younger models were concerned.

“It's Grace.”

“Aye, then, Grace. Good day to you until we meet again.” The words gliding off his tongue warmed me like a fine brandy on a cold night.

“Grace!”

Startled, I turned my attention up the hill and saw Harriet, one of the barmaids from the pub, running toward me. Fear was
etched on her young face and a cold feeling of dread gripped my stomach.

“It's Deidre, she's in the maze. She won't wake up.”

I grabbed her hand. “Show me.” I turned around and found Mr. Rhys staring at me. “I may need your help! Come quickly.”

Deidre's face was chalk-white, her blank eyes ringed with a purplish hue. I dropped to her side and shook her shoulders, but she was limp as a rag doll.

“Grace.” Mr. Rhys tried to pull me away, but I fought him off.

“Deidre! Can you hear me?” I shook her again.

“Grace.” Mr. Rhys's voice was low, calming, a contrast to Harriett's uncontrolled sobbing behind us.

Mr. Rhys knelt by her, sweeping aside her collar to rest his fingers against her neck. It was then that I noticed the angry marks on her neck. Mr. Rhys placed his palm over her eyes, closing them. He took off his jacket and gently laid it over her.

“I'm going to get a constable, Grace. I must ask that you not touch her.”

What seemed like hours passed before we were allowed to leave the gardens. When the authorities were satisfied with our stories, they said she'd be given a Christian burial in the poor man's cemetery, unless we could afford otherwise. None of us had the means to finance such an undertaking, so we watched them take her away on a cart.

Mr. Rhys offered to walk Harriet and me back to the pub, but I declined, needing to be by myself. Harriet went back to work, and I trudged up the familiar steps to my old room feeling as if I carried rocks on my shoulders.

The stench in the alleyway below hadn't changed as I pushed against the door, hunting for a lamp in the semidarkness and finding the tin of matchsticks to light it. I stood in the center of the small room. It did not look different, but it felt different. I closed the door, slid the latch into place and tucked a chair beneath the curved door handle. Tears welled in my eyes as I spotted Deidre's shawl. She must have gone out without it. I picked it up
and hugged it to my chest as I lay down on the bed and cried myself to sleep.