The Master and The Muses. Amanda Mcintyre
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a place to sit down?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Here, this looks like a suitable spot.”
He waited as I sat, and I shook my head when he offered me the remainder of my cone. He tossed both cones into a receptacle nearby and sat down beside me.
“Please continue, Mr. Rodin. You were telling me about your brother.” I took a breath and patted my hair, trying not to look too disheveled.
“About Thomas—” he tapped his long fingers together “—he’s a complex fellow, as most men of his position are. His passion is his art and that is what drives him, I suppose.”
“Forgive me, but is he any good? Does he exhibit his work publicly?”
He turned to look at me, his expression curious. “You’ve truly not heard of him?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I have not.”
“His earlier works have been on exhibition at the Royal Academy gallery. I believe one or two still hang in a permanent wing at the insistence of one of the academy’s wealthy contributors.”
“His accomplishments sound most impressive. You must be quite proud.”
“I told you, Miss Bridgeton, he is gifted man. Not perfect, mind you, but bright and determined. He is a romantic at heart. His work is largely of women, using poetic imagery, religious stories and legends from which he derives his ideas. Though, in truth, his inspirations are his muses.”
“May I ask what you mean by ‘his muses’?”
“Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Miss Bridgeton. My brother has a deep, abiding love of women. A reverence, I daresay. Thomas regards women with the same awe that other men reserve for the stars, or a sunrise.”
“My, what a lovely thing to say, Mr. Rodin.” My eye caught the shadowy figures of a couple hurrying into the dense foliage beside the tunnel. There was little doubt in my mind what mischief they were engaging in. I forced my attention back to Mr. Rodin. “Are there many members in this brotherhood, Mr. Rodin? Any other models?”
“There are a handful of us—other artists like Thomas, me, in design…we also have amongst us a poet, a journalist and an author, as well as a few other individuals. You need not take concern, Miss Bridgeton. We are a close-knit group and very watchful of one another.”
A woman’s lusty sigh came from the other side of the wall. I kept my eyes on Mr. Rodin’s face. He continued, despite the distracting animallike sounds coming from nearby.
“There is a certain amount of pride in what we believe in, what we aspire to. Each of us has a purpose, a goal we want to achieve, but we are—”
“Oh, yes…yes, that’s lovely, guvner.” The woman emitted a loud sigh. “Here now,” she said, “let’s see what gift you’ve got for me.”
I heard the soft baritone of a man’s chuckle. “You are an eager one.”
Images of what the couple were engaged in leaped into my imagination and I licked my lips.
“—professional and discreet,” Mr. Rodin finished
My face felt flushed, feverish. I fisted my hands in my lap, trying to stay as detached from the events on the other side of the wall as it seemed Mr. Rodin was. I wanted to ask him if we should take our conversation elsewhere, but he appeared to be perfectly content and I did not wish to convey to him that I was as unsettled as I truly was.
“Discreet?” The word squeaked from my throat. “Oh, yes, an admiral trait, certainly.”
A deep-throated groan wafted through the flowers and I saw the instant Mr. Rodin recognized it. His mouth curled slightly at one side and he averted his eyes for a moment.
“Did you have any other questions, Miss Bridgeton?” he asked.
“Oh, dear lady! What extraordinary skills you possess!” the man growled from inside the bushes.
I turned my head aside, covering my mouth to hide my smile. I cleared my throat, loud enough, I hoped, to alert the couple they were not alone. It did not seem to deter them.
“There now, hold it still, guvnor. You’re plenty ready.”
“But I paid for an hour,” the man remarked with slight agitation in his voice.
“Is that my fault, then? Besides—” she cooed “—there’s no sayin’ that we can’t find us another lovely spot to ‘ave a go at it again, if you get my meaning?”
A deep chuckle followed.
I was so entranced by their repartee that I had all but forgotten Mr. Rodin was seated beside me. My eyes flickered to his steady gaze. “Oh, my, what is it that you asked, Mr. Rodin?”
His grin curled upward, deepening that delightful dimple. “If you had any more—”
“Ah…ah, oh, yes…there, that’s good, guvnor. Real good.”
The trellised latticework wall bowed inward with each punctuated sigh coming from the woman.
“—questions,” Mr. Rodin finished as he glanced at the heaving wall. He removed his hat and suppressed a grin.
“Perhaps we should leave?” I whispered, as the sounds of the couple’s passion escalated. I’d never heard such noises before. A warm, damp feeling formed at the juncture of my thighs. My palms, too, were moist—indeed, my whole body seemed to come alive listening to their lusty cries.
“Are you quite sure? Just when things are getting interesting?” Mr. Rodin smiled openly.
“I think before they get too much more interesting.” I stood, finding the backs of my knees weak.
“Very well, I could use a good walk myself.”
He offered his arm and we continued to the other end of the breezeway. As we reached the open lawn beyond, I took a deep breath of fresh air. I felt as if all the blood had drained to my toes.
“Are you all right, Miss Bridgeton?” Mr. Rodin patted my hand, still tucked through his arm.
“Yes, I’m—”
A man’s loud groan wafted on the breeze along with the music behind us. Few others were in the area as, by now, most people had taken to the dance floor.
I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m well, thank you. Um…might we resume our conversation? I believe you were about to answer my question regarding other models.” He cast me a side look.
“Of course. Models…Normally, our artists do not employ more than one model at a time. Once a theme is chosen, the artist begins to look for the face that will complete his vision.”
Mr. Rodin eased my arm from his and I felt awkward once more. We strolled together to the pond and watched silently as two swans swam by, gliding effortlessly side by side. I thought about the story of the ugly duckling that my sisters and I were told when we were young, of how the strange little duckling was turned into a beautiful swan. I felt such a complexity of emotions. In the wake of overhearing the couples’ tryst, I was more aware than before of my attraction to Mr. Rodin.
“Perhaps you’d like to see some of my brother’s work?” he asked, his eyes on the birds. “It might help convince you that my intentions are honorable.”
“Oh, Mr. Rodin,” I said, not wanting him to think me immature or indecisive. “I do believe you are being truthful. Please understand that I am interested—very interested. It’s only that my family is not entirely agreeable to the idea of my modeling for an artist—any artist.”
“I could speak with them, if you like,” he offered.
I held up my hand. “Oh, no, that would not go over well, I’m afraid. My family’s opinion of artists is much worse than even Madame Tozier’s.”