The Master & the Muses

by Amanda McIntyre

  So it was that I was placed on a block with several other girls of about the same age, in the middle of a large, dark building. I could see nothing beyond the lamps framing the platform. I could hear the sound of an auctioneer, the intermittent baritone voices of men calling out their bids. I never knew the face of the man I was sold to, but he kept me in a small room, with no windows. He fed and clothed me, gave me books to read, and when he needed me—“for medicinal purposes” as he called it—a bag was placed over my head. I had no concept whether it was night or day. Too frightened by the threats to my life and my family, I didn’t think about how long I’d been held captive. I began to focus on my opportunity to escape. It came one day after my captor made a routine visit. He’d improperly shut the door, not minding to listen for the latch to drop before he left. Whether it was intentional or a mistake, I took full advantage and slipped out unnoticed.

  I was one of the lucky few. It was not until some months after I’d gotten away that I began to hear of others like me. I passed by mothers and fathers wandering the streets, searching for their daughters, desperate for answers. I could only shake my head, not wanting to reveal what I knew for fear of being found by the unsavory characters who’d once nabbed me. I did think of my family, wondering if they remembered me, but I was not their little girl anymore. I was changed and not for the better. As such, I blended into the fray, a ghost on the streets, surviving how I could.

  Call me callous, and perhaps my heart is as leathery as an animal’s hide, but I am here, some ten years later, alive and breathing, and that is all that matters.

  I waved to Deidre, who was on the dance floor with a handsome gent I’d not seen at the gardens before. Deidre and I had met here as I had most of the small circles of women who worked the gardens. We were a close-knit group, watching out for one another. I tapped my foot, enjoying the music and watching the dancers. A shiver crept over my shoulders and I glanced up, looking as you do when you feel you are being watched. Seated on the opposite side of the dancing platform was a young man dressed in clothing depicting an era gone by. The frock coat he wore was made of rich-looking deep green silk brocade with fine beadwork on the collar and cuff. I noted a flutter of white lace protruding from the cuffs and the large white cravat at his neck. His hands rested comfortably on the walking cane he had perched between his legs.

  I’d not seen him before and surely he was a gent I would remember. He had the face of a poet, that look about him indicating he was an observer of life and people. His hair was a thick mass of unruly waves, indicative of one who cared little about what was in fashion but who knew what suited him.

  I watched him silently scanning the crowd, his piercing, dark blue-green eyes roving across the crowd, perhaps searching for the character of his next poem. Intrigued, I stared at him, safe in the anonymity of the crowd, until finally he turned and met my gaze.

  My breath caught. Surprise was not something that I experienced much anymore. It was as if he could see right through me. I felt naked before him.

  “Grace?”

  A man’s voice brought me out of my stupor and I blinked, seeing the smiling face of Jack Adams, one of the stage actors in the Cremorne theatrical troupe.

  “You look faraway. Didn’t you hear me?”

  I smiled, blinking again, feeling strange, as though I’d just looked into the eyes of providence.

  “I asked if you would honor me with the next dance,” he said, offering a short bow.

  I smiled. “Of course, dear. Forgive me.”

  I took his hand and he swept me into his arms, gliding me across the dance floor. I was aware of the music and of the swirling throng of dancers, but my mind could not forget the mesmerizing look in the stranger’s eyes. I searched for him as we glided around to where I’d first seen him, but the bench was empty. My eyes skirted the fringe of onlookers, knowing he would have stood out, but he wasn’t there, either.

  “Are you well, Grace? You look pale, as if you’ve seen a ghost.” My partner smiled. “Do you need to sit for a spell? Shall I get you a refreshment?”

  I nodded. “Perhaps that would help.”

  He held my arm, guiding me to one of the tables at the edge of the platform. All around me, patrons sat laughing over a pint, indulging in an ice cream.

  I pressed my hands to my cheeks, checking for a fever. There was none, yet I could not overcome the strange effect the man had had on me.

  “Here we are, Grace. There’s little that a pint won’t resolve, don’t you agree?” Jack guzzled his drink, his eyes scanning the women timidly standing near the platform, hoping to be asked to dance.

  “Go on with you, Jack,” I said, slapping his arm. “I just need to rest a bit. I’m likely just overcome by the stench from the river. I should be used to it by now.” I leaned toward him, nodding in the direction of a lonely young girl. “There, the pretty one with the dark tresses. I saw her looking at you.”

  “Truthfully?” His eyes darted toward the woman and back to me.

  “Yes, go! Skedaddle before another beats you to it. She’s a beauty, she is.”

  “If you’re sure,” he said, his face turned to keep an eye on the woman.

  “Yes, go,” I reiterated. He tossed me a smile and sprang from his chair.

  “Hopefully she’ll say yes,” I muttered. I didn’t want to see Jack’s kind heart squashed.

  I watched over the rim of my glass, quietly breathing a sigh of relief when the girl smiled and nodded. Jack glanced back at me and raised his eyebrows, offering me an enthusiastic grin. I raised my glass and wished him well. Feeling better, I scanned the crowd again for my handsome specter. I was about to give up when I spotted him walking along the boardwalk, beside the river.

  Curiosity—a fault for some, a virtue for others—pushed me from my seat. I wove through the crowded bay of tables.

  When I emerged from the throng, panic struck my heart as it appeared I’d lost him again. I began to wonder, given his unusual dress and elusive manner, if I had not indeed seen a specter, a ghost—a wandering lost soul. Although I did not entirely believe in such things, I knew those who swore to having encountered restless spirits, spirits who had something undone left on earth. But given my body’s reaction when our eyes had met, I felt quite certain that this man was flesh and blood.

  I squinted into the shadows of the path that led to the boat dock and saw there a man with a cane. “You’re a fool, Grace,” I said to myself as I lifted my skirts and hurried after him. As I got farther and farther away from the crowd, I became more concerned for my safety. I picked up a handful of pebbles and began to throw them at the stranger’s back, one at a time. When he did not stop or turn around, I mentally scolded myself for following him farther. The branches of the trees lining the path seemed to reach out for me and I had to duck in the darkness, keeping my eye on the object of my ridiculous quest. There were very few people now on the path. The man paused, a short distance in front of me. It would have been easy, and probably wise, to slip into the shadows and walk away. But drawn to him for reasons I could not understand, I rolled the last pebble in my palm and debated my options.

  He took a step forward and I drew back my arm, sending the pebble on its way—letting it decide my fate. In the dark silence, I heard it hit his hat with a dull thunk.

  He came to an abrupt halt and slowly turned.

  I could barely see his face in the darkness, but I remember the steellike intensity of his eyes. “You’ve not been afraid for a long time, Grace,” I told myself quietly. “Now’s not the time to start.” I walked toward him with an acute awareness of my body. I had never before seen anyone appraise me as he did. Oh, I’d seen lust in a man’s eye many a time, but this…this was more intense. It was as if he was studying me from head to toe. I came to a stop a foot or two before him, hesitant to get any closer. I cleared my throat. “Why were you staring at me earlier?”

  A smirk played on his delectable mouth.

  “I assure you, mademoiselle
, I do not make a habit of staring at women.” He raised his eyebrows in his defense.

  “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”

  His smile widened as if enjoying my challenge.

  “I would not presume such a thing, mademoiselle.”

  “My name is Grace, though surely I should not give it so freely to a man who lurks about, ogles women.”

  He chuckled quietly and then offered me a regal bow.

  “Very well, guilty as charged. Thomas Rodin, mademoiselle.”

  “You can stop calling me mademoiselle, sir. Clearly I am about as French as you are.”

  He placed his hand over his heart.

  “You wound my pride, madem—Miss Grace. But a lovely lady such as you will surely find it in her heart to forgive an old-fashioned gesture.”

  I narrowed my eyes on him. “And why is it, Mr. Rodin, that you would practice the ‘old-fashioned art’ of ogling on me? Surely you are aware of the number of women here at the gardens without escorts?”

  He looked away and offered a wry smile. “Yes, I am aware.”

  “So, you were looking to see what suits your fancy?”

  He studied me for a moment. “Not exactly, no. Not for the same reason you believe, at any rate.”

  “Let me come to the point, sir, for the night wanes. Are you in need of company for the evening?”

  He looked surprised.

  “Are you propositioning me, Grace?”

  I fisted my hand on my hip. “Have we not been through this already, Mr. Rodin? Do you, or do you not, wish to wet your whistle this evening?”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Um, no, I do not need my whistle wetted,” he replied. “Though I must admit it sounds intriguing.”

  “You prefer to watch, is that it?” I guessed. “Well, I’m afraid that won’t be possible tonight. You see I have no clients—”

  “Um…no, I think perhaps you have the wrong impression.”

  “The wrong impression?” I smiled. “Why else would a handsome gent like yourself come to the gardens alone?”

  “I am flattered, truly. However, I came as a matter of professional curiosity, Miss Grace.”

  “Farmer. Grace Farmer. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Rodin.”

  He reached for my hand and I stepped away. An old habit, I suppose.

  “I mean you no harm,” he said with sincerity in his voice.

  I offered my hand, then, and he took it, pressing it gently with his lips.

  “Perhaps we can start again on better footing,” he suggested. “I am an artist and poet by trade.”

  I slapped my thigh. “I knew as much! The moment I saw you, dressed as prissy as you are, I pegged you for a poet.”

  He raised his brow. “Prissy?” He coughed. “I would have thought a woman of your…shall we say, profession, would not be so quick to judge by appearance alone.”

  “I call them as I see them, Mr. Rodin, as I’ve a strong suspicion you do. Go ahead then and give it your best. Tell me what you think of me.”

  His smile was genuine. “Only that I find your hair magnificent and your mouth a saucy delight.” He fished inside the breast pocket of his coat. “I’d like very much for you to model for me. I have a project in particular that would suit you perfectly.”

  Even as handsome as he was and very probably an artist as he claimed, I was wary. “Me? A model? For what, Mr. Rodin? If this is simply a ploy to get me alone—”

  “My intentions, Grace, are entirely honorable.”

  Something in his tone, the way he said my name as if he had known me for years, caused me to stop and listen. “Are any of your paintings in the royal gallery?” I asked. Once or twice, a wealthy client had taken me there on a Sunday afternoon.

  “You’re familiar with the Royal Academy?”

  “Well, not intimately, no. But I do know that any respectable artist’s work would surely be hung there.” I eyed him, watching his expression darken. The muscle of his jaw ticked.

  “You are quite right. Many of my peers have works at the gallery and I have one or two, I believe, still hanging there. It is my hope, in fact, that this very project may be accepted into the exhibition next spring.”

  “Where is your studio, Mr. Rodin?” I asked. He was an odd fellow, but I found myself liking him, I couldn’t say why.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, as if remembering the card he’d taken from his pocket earlier. “Here is the address. Come by tomorrow. Would nine o’clock fit into your schedule?”

  I smiled, taking the card from his hand, delighting in the odd combination of his words and dress. Given his build, the lines of his face and the thickness of his hair, I would put him at no more than two and thirty years, if that. Yet his manner indicated a man of greater maturity, stuck in the age of chivalry and knighthood. Either that or I was falling for the grandest performance on earth.

  “Very well, Mr. Rodin. I will come by tomorrow and we will discuss your proposition further.”

  “Splendid. I look forward to it.” His eyes darted to my forehead and he reached up, almost by instinct, to brush a wisp of hair from my eyes.

  He blinked, aware, it seemed, of being too forward. He drew back his hand.

  “Until tomorrow, then?”

  I nodded. “Until tomorrow.”

  I watched as he trudged down the slope to the waiting passenger boat.

  “Oh, Mr. Rodin,” I called to him. “What shall I wear?”

  He turned and hesitated a moment, then lifted his arms.

  “Good lady, you may come dressed however you wish, or in nothing at all! I leave the choice to you.”

  I chuckled. He was a handsome but cheeky rogue.

  Chapter 2

  I GLANCED UP AT THE STATELY STONE BUILDING and checked the address again. Not terribly far from the Cremorne, it was situated in one of the districts known for housing various artists and poets.

  “Miss Farmer,” a voice called from above, and I looked up to find Mr. Rodin, his hand raised in greeting.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  I could not count the number of times I’d had to wait for a man. Yet, I had the distinct feeling that this meeting was about to change the course of my life.

  The door opened and he stood there in a similar shirt to the one he wore last night, but wearing a vest this time, which fit marginally within the scope of current fashion.

  “Miss Farmer.” He smiled, opening the door wide.

  “Mr. Rodin.” I stepped into the foyer, pausing a moment to let my vision adjust to the dim light inside.

  “I am glad that you decided to pay me a visit. Come, the studio is upstairs.”

  I followed him up the two flights of stairs. “Right through here,” he said, ushering me through the open door.

  The large room which I assumed to be the studio, was like a world unto itself. I glanced over my shoulder and Mr. Rodin smiled.

  “It’s a bit of a mess. My apologies.” He set to picking up papers that were tossed on the floor. “I quite often forget all else when I’m involved in a project. A hazard of the artist at work, I’m afraid.”

  He grinned and I found his humility utterly charming. “Make no apologies on my account, Mr. Rodin. In general, I’ve learned that women are the ones who keep a house in order. Men are simply there to provide the means for doing so.”

  He stopped and looked at me.

  “What a pitiful view of romance you have, Miss Farmer.”

  I looked at him squarely. “I rarely see romance in my line of work, Mr. Rodin.”

  “Ah, yes, well, I suppose that is true.” He looked around, appearing to search for something. “Feel free to look about. If you have any questions, I’ll try to answer them as best as I can.”

  “May I?” I placed my bonnet and bag on a nearby chair. I’d chosen to wear my best dress. One given to me by Deidre when she grew tired of it. It was a pale shade of gray and went well with my fair skin and blond hair. I did not apply paint to my face as a rul
e, other than a bit of color on my lips from time to time. Unable to afford such luxuries, I carefully rubbed my lips with pomegranate juice, instead.

  “If you’ll permit me to say, Miss Farmer, you look exceptionally beautiful by the light of day.” He stacked a pile of papers, most of which appeared to be sketches, on the corner of the desk.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rodin.” I stood at his easel, studying the small papers tacked on the corners—intricately drawn leaves and flowers with words too small to read chaotically scribbled off to the side.

  “Nature features prominently in most of my work. I believe there is much we can learn by studying its colors and patterns. Don’t you agree?” he asked from across the room.

  I tried to imagine the process it would take to create something of such beauty. Admittedly, I had trouble conceiving of where to start.

  “You are a talented man indeed, Mr. Rodin, if you can look at this blank canvas and imagine a work of art.”

  “I suppose it takes a person predisposed to seeing the possibilities,” he answered.

  I ignored his remark, asking instead, “And how do you choose your subjects, Mr. Rodin? Or do your subjects choose you?”

  I flipped through a group of painted canvases leaning against a wall. A shadow appeared over the place where I stood. I looked over my shoulder and found him standing close behind me.

  “Sometimes I find them, and sometimes…they find me. I believe in fate. Do you?”

  I glanced at him, knowing if I allowed, I would again be caught in his piercing eyes.

  “I believe in what I can see and what I can touch.”

  “That is interesting. You impress me as having a more spiritual side,” he said.

  I folded my arms over my chest and pinned him with a challenging look. “And what, pray tell, Mr. Rodin, ever gave you that idea?”

  There it was again. The look I had seen last night—peeling away the layers, splaying me open—looking into my soul.