The Master & the Muses

by Amanda McIntyre

  Fresh perspective? I had taken part in nearly every fantasy Thomas had ever designed in his head, proving without a doubt he had an endless imagination.

  “Is this your way of saying you are…tired of me?”

  “Oh, muse, of course not.” He kissed my nose. “But it will be good for you to find out what it is like to pose for another artist. It’s a professional courtesy to share one’s model.”

  “A professional courtesy, nothing more?” I asked.

  He tipped his head, studying me. “Do you doubt my intent?”

  “No.” I looked away and his hand caught my chin, forcing me to look at him.

  “Do not ever doubt me,” he said with a calm sternness. I’d never seen that look in his eye before, almost as if I had betrayed him by questioning his decision. He smiled then, and his expression softened as he lowered his head to kiss me.

  “It would be inhospitable of me not to share you. He has already asked and I told him that you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” I replied quietly, my thoughts caught between disappointment and my desire to please him.

  “Perhaps you need convincing, my muse.”

  He kissed me again lightly, teasing this time as he eased his palm over my stomach, sliding his fingers between my thighs.

  “John is quite an interesting fellow. Well traveled. I’m certain he’ll keep you amused with his stories.”

  He kissed me again and I knew he was luring more than my body to be at one with him.

  “What will happen to our—” I swallowed hard, pulling his face to mine in a fierce kiss as my body trembled with pleasure “—our afternoon tea?”

  Thomas grinned, bracing his arms as he moved over me and nudged my legs apart.

  “You mean our afternoon fuck?” he whispered in my ear.

  Lately, he’d begun slipping naughty words into our lovemaking and he knew how they aroused me. His cock teased my opening. I couldn’t resist him and he knew it. I wrapped my arms around his waist, smoothing my hands over his firm buttocks, and pulled his hips toward mine, urging him to fill me. Satisfaction sparked in his eyes and he knew he’d gotten his way.

  “I’ll simply make sure—”

  He slid into my slick heat with a shuddering sigh.

  “—that John has you home,” he said, kissing me once more as he withdrew partway, “before afternoon tea.”

  He lunged deeper, emitting a lusty sigh. He was a scoundrel. A wicked, wanton scoundrel and I could not say no to him.

  I wrapped my legs around his hips, holding his body to mine, caught up in our frenzied coupling, and as we came together, I scolded myself for having doubted his suggestion.

  Later, as he dozed with me curled beneath his arm, I watched the light of day turn to murky shadows of twilight and thought about how my life had changed. It had been months since I’d last seen my family. In that time, Mama had had another birthday, as had one of my sisters. I was now living out of wedlock, with a man who loved me with his body, yet thought nothing of offering me as a prop to another man, with the belief that it would improve our relationship.

  I shut my eyes, overwhelmed with my thoughts, softly fingering the curls on Thomas’s chest. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps my absence would leave a hole in his daily life and by so doing, he would be spurred to commit to more than just living together. I looked up at his handsome face, thinking how easily he slept at my side. I hoped desperately that this would prompt a proposal of a different kind, as I had missed my monthly and wondered if I might be carrying his child.

  My flesh was numb. The portrait was supposed to be of a young woman lying in a river. The background had been painted and I, dressed in a gown that I understood was found in a secondhand shop, was to lie in repose partially submerged in a warm bath for hours, while John painted me. I was able to forgive John for the horridly musty stench of the wretched gown, but less forgivable was his failure to keep the water warm, as he had promised. Daily, for over a month and a half, I’d spent four to six hours in tepid water. I’d watched for my monthly and, when it did not come again, was pressed to tell Thomas, but chose to wait until I was sure.

  The painting was at a critical point. John was as immersed in what he was doing as I was in the water. Though the water had grown cold, I lay there thinking that I could endure it a few moments more. However, those few moments turned to minutes and those minutes to even longer. He did not break for a meal, nor offer me anything to drink. I sensed myself growing numb and bent my fingers to encourage the blood flow.

  John cleared his throat in way of reprimand, indicating that I should not move.

  “Your eyes, shut your eyes,” he said from behind his canvass wall.

  I took a deep breath, clasped my hands over my chest and fought the urge not to ask him how much longer he would be. Instead, I tried to think of other things.

  My thoughts turned to Thomas, wondering what time it was and if he would fetch me soon. I thought of my family. I thought of Mama and what her reaction would be to the possibility I was with child. The image of her face swam in my mind as I remembered how we laughed while hanging laundry on a warm summer’s day. My mind wandered to when I was young, playing hard all day and falling asleep on my bed—totally, utterly exhausted…

  I could not remember right away what had happened. One moment I was in the studio and the next I was lying in a white bed, surrounded by four white walls. I struggled to keep my eyes open. I was aware of people’s voices, but my strength was gone, and every time I tried to answer a question, the darkness would suck me back into blackness.

  Then I felt a hand holding mine.

  “Stay with me, my muse.”

  It was Thomas’s voice. The harder I tried to respond the more the blackness held me tight, trying to drag me down.

  “I swear I’ll never do such a thing again.” It was Thomas. Where was I? How long had I been here?

  “If you can hear me, Helen, squeeze my hand.”

  I tried as hard as I could, but the effort was too much.

  “She moved her hand.” Thomas’s voice was excited, returning the faint squeeze. He urged me to move my hand again.

  “Thank God,” another man stated, although I did not recognize his voice. The blackness was tugging at me again, draining my energy, pulling me back to sleep.

  My body was listless, but when I was finally able to hold my eyes open, I realized I was in a hospital room, a sheer curtain surrounding my bed.

  Thomas, seated at my bedside, held my hands. He smiled and the look of relief on his face warmed my heart.

  “You’ve returned to me, my muse,” he said, his blue gaze steady.

  “I feel so weak,” I said, trying to smile. “How long have I been here?”

  “A little over a week,” he responded.

  There was no one else in the room, but I remembered the voices. “My family, did you send for them? Did they come?”

  He rubbed his fingers over my knuckles. “No, I didn’t send for them, Helen. The doctors didn’t want a lot of visitors until they could assess your situation.”

  I let the sting of wondering if they would have come even if they’d known drift from my mind. “What is my situation? What happened, Thomas?”

  “The doctor says you succumbed to exhaustion, brought on by lack of sleep, proper nutrition…and your pregnancy.”

  There was my confirmation. My gaze darted to Thomas. “How is…the baby?” I whispered through a dry throat. My voice cracked and it hurt to swallow.

  “Unharmed.” He lifted my hand to his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t know for sure, until now.”

  He shook his head. “Well, there is no question now, you must marry me.”

  I blinked, unsure of what I heard. “This is not the time for frivolity, Thomas.”

  “Who here is being frivolous? I meant what I said.”

  Still drowsy, I answered, “You don’t mean it, Thomas. You don’t even believ
e in the sacrament of marriage.”

  “Preposterous. I’ve decided that we should be married and at the earliest possible date, provided you don’t mind that it won’t be lavish.”

  “Because of the baby?” I asked, needing to know that it was more than guilt prompting his sudden decision.

  “Helen. I care deeply for you. We get on well together. You are my muse. You’re carrying my child.” He grinned at me with that charming smile. “Does a man need any more reason than that to marry?”

  What about love?

  Then the thought struck me that perhaps where others required those words to convey their feelings, Thomas showed his love in less conventional ways. He had not given me any false promises, and he was showing how much he cared for me and for his child. What more could I ask for from anyone? “If you are sure this is what you want,” I replied, taking his hand.

  He stood and leaned down to kiss my forehead. “Of course it’s what I want.”

  A few weeks later, after I’d gained some of my strength back, we were married in a small country church with only the groundskeeper and his wife as witnesses to the union. I had to sit for much of the ceremony, still too weak to stand for extended periods. I wondered how I was going to manage carrying a child.

  Thomas preferred the wedding to be private, telling William there was no need to cut his latest research trip short to come home for it. Thomas was still not talking to John after all that had happened.

  It was not the ceremony of my dreams. No reception, no celebratory dinner surrounded by friends and family. Thomas took me to Brighton, at the suggestion of the doctor, where we stayed in a beach cottage owned by a friend. He never mentioned whom, but I suspect, by virtue of some of the belongings in the house, that it belonged to John’s family.

  Though I had lost a great deal of weight, which raised concerns about my ability to carry the baby to term, the warmth of the sun did wonders for my spirit and I felt my strength returning daily.

  Thomas’s confidence was encouraging, as well. He would sketch constantly. His favorite subjects were the bay, the sailboats dotting the horizon, and me. We laughed and made love, took walks and, while he spoke little of the future, I felt our marriage was secure and that the arrival of the child would serve to create the bond between us as a family.

  In the weeks following, after we had returned to London, Thomas stopped sketching and turned to reading. He took an avid interest in photography, a new form of artistic expression breaking ground in France. He spent long hours in the bookshops at Holywell, bringing home postcards and books depicting exotic pictures of men and women engaged in various forms of sex.

  As my body grew round and soft, Thomas’s appetite for these exotic images increased. I could see him becoming restless and, while I tried to show my contentment in sitting by the fire and knitting things for the baby, I could not help but worry that we had not spent much time together in recent weeks.

  “Thomas,” I asked, noting his absorption in the book he was reading. “Have you thought of any names?”

  His focus remained on his book. “Names? Names for what?”

  I lay my knitting in my lap and stared at him, perplexed. “Why, for your son or daughter.” I chuckled quietly. “That must be a very interesting book if you’ve forgotten that I am carrying your child.”

  Thomas slammed the book shut, laid it on his lap and stretched his hands over his head. He gave me a lopsided grin. “I’m no good with names, my muse. I will let you decide.”

  He tapped his fingers on the hard leather cover of the book, staring down at it as if pondering whether to return to his reading.

  “Perhaps we could name him after your father, if it’s a boy.”

  “No,” he said decisively, slapping the book.

  “Your mother perhaps, if it’s a girl?”

  His eyes rose and held steady on mine. “Perhaps we should come up with something unique, instead of hanging a used name on him.”

  “Or her.” I smiled.

  “Yes.” He yawned. “Of course… Would you mind awfully if I ran down to McGivney’s? Some of the brothers are meeting for a game of darts.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun,” I said as I put my knitting aside. “Let me get my shawl. I’d like to get out.”

  He rose and came to my side, placing his hand on my shoulder. “It’s dreadfully loud and smoky down there, my muse. And odds are that the brothers will have been drinking and you know how they get. You can barely stomach their antics when they’re sober.” He laughed and kissed the top of my head. “I won’t be long, but you needn’t wait up. You need your rest.”

  “Then I guess we’re through with discussing names?” I asked, watching as he put on his heavy jacket to walk the few blocks down the street. He plopped his hat atop his head and smiled over his shoulder.

  “I have no doubt you will find the perfect name for the child.” With that, he hurried down the steps and out the front door.

  I glanced at the book he’d left behind and prayed that Annie was not working tonight.

  Chapter 7

  I COULD NOT TELL IF THOMAS WAS CONTINUING to grow more distant, or if I was growing distant from him. He was once again ecstatic about painting. However, when I asked him to tell me about his new project, he refused, saying only that it was going to set those bastards at the academy on their ears.

  He would rise early, summon a carriage and would often be gone until after dark. When I’d offer to fix him dinner, he’d respond by saying he’d “gotten a bite at the gardens,” or “run into an old friend who owed him a meal.” I had no viable reason to mistrust what he told me. Nevertheless, I grew more despondent, knowing that my figure was not what it once was. My concern was furthered when Thomas, claiming the bed was no longer big enough for us both, resorted to sleeping in the guest room.

  I was grateful for the days when the cold London rain would keep him captive at home. On those days, it seemed there was nothing amiss between us. We would chat as we sat near the fire—him with his book and me with my knitting. And I would scold myself for my needless worry.

  “Helen, my dear, what would you think of hiring a housekeeper? Someone who could help tidy up the studio, maybe do the cooking? They wouldn’t live here, unless you wanted them to, of course.” He glanced at me over his book. We’d never had a servant in the house; Thomas thought it to be a sign of the blasé wealthy.

  With him having not sold a painting in a while and with a child on the way, I wondered how we would afford it.

  An idea popped into my head. “I could send for one of my sisters. I’m sure that Mama could talk sense into Papa, once they learned of my condition. Her compensation could be room and board,” I offered, quite enthusiastic over the idea of having a sibling to keep me company while Thomas was away.

  Thomas nodded and then shut his book soundly. “Good, I’m glad you’re receptive to the idea. However, that won’t be necessary. I have already acquired a suitable candidate. She is a fine woman. I’ve known her for some time. She’s a good friend to the brotherhood and familiar with the studio. I won’t have to teach her what not to touch, how to clean brushes.”

  My heart sank. “I see that you’ve put much thought into this. Are you planning to tell me who this woman is that you’ve decided on?”

  “Of course. Her name is Grace Farmer.”

  “From the Cremorne?” I gaped at him in surprise. He looked at me.

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Not really. Your brother ran into her one night at the gardens. He told me about her.”

  “William took you to the gardens, did he?” Thomas smiled and raised his eyebrows.

  “That was when he was trying to convince me to model for you, and that’s not really the point of this conversation, is it?”

  He shrugged. “What did he tell you about Grace?”

  “That she was a friend to the brotherhood, misjudged by people because of her profession,” I said.

  “And what do you
think of her?” he pressed.

  “She’s a prostitute.”

  “People have to eat, Helen. I’m quite certain Grace has the protocol not to bring her clients here.” He chuckled.

  I felt he was mocking me. “I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to trust her, Thomas. And how exactly did you happen to find that Miss Farmer was available for this position?” I turned the small baby blanket I was knitting between my hands, trying to stay calm.

  “Well, strange as it seems, it was William who suggested it when I told him I was looking for someone to help out around the house.”

  “Oh, really, William? How thoughtful.” I sighed, averting my eyes from his.

  “Is there a problem between you and Will?” Thomas asked.

  I swung my gaze back to his. “I haven’t seen William in ages. I haven’t seen anyone. If you remember, I have been confined to this house like a bird in a cage,” I cried.

  He wore the expression of a man at his wit’s end with what to do with his pregnant wife.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas, I have these episodes.” I sounded foolish, perhaps petty, but I did not care. I was over four months with child and feeling bloated as a sick cow. “Tell me that you aren’t the least bit attracted to her.”

  He smiled. “Is that what this is about?”

  He set aside his book, knelt at my feet and rested his hands on mine.

  “Your concerns are unnecessary, Helen. I have hired her to clean the studio because she knows what to do and I trust her implicitly with the task.”

  I stared at him, realizing that he had never asked me to clean the studio. I shoved aside my concerns, reminding myself that he was doing this to help me.

  “I thought,” he said, “that perhaps it would be good to have someone here to help you as your time draws near.”

  I looked down at our interlaced fingers and realized that it had been ages since he’d shown me any sort of intimacy. “I miss you, Thomas,” I said, quietly brushing my hand through his unkempt hair that I so loved. He raised my hands to his lips, placing there a lingering kiss.