The Master and The Muses. Amanda Mcintyre
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I replied, following her into the kitchen. I had not the gumption yet to tell her that I was going to be gone for the day. I knew that I could not simply tell her the truth. She would not permit me to leave. Besides, I was still debating the wisdom of meeting Mr. Rodin alone. But if I was to achieve my independence, I would first need to find out more information. Until I knew more, there was no reason to involve my family.
“I’ve been invited to…a picnic today.” The lie stuck in my throat. I busied myself with washing the dishes.
“That’s lovely, dear. I’m glad to see you getting out. Who will be going?” she asked, tucking her rolling pin in the cupboard.
She looked at me with such delight that it made my stomach burn. My mother, I think, saw me as a recluse, though she never said the words aloud.
“Some of the girls from the shop.”
“And will there happen to be any gents there?” Her eyes revealed the hope that there might be future marriage prospects involved.
I tried to keep my smile genuine. “It was not my invitation, Mama, I cannot say.”
“Where is the picnic?”
My mind went blank. I had been unprepared for further questions. I scolded myself mentally. “Um…the Cremorne,” I lied again, my stomach protesting my deceit.
She patted my cheek. “Well, it sounds lovely, and it would do you good to get out a bit more. So I shouldn’t plan on you for supper, then?” she asked.
I shook my head. “You best not wait on me tonight. I will be sure to catch the ferry by ten o’clock.”
“Perhaps I should send your papa down to the dock to fetch you. I don’t like the idea of you without a chaperone, especially at that hour.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama. None of the other girls will have their papas meeting them. I’ll be fine.” I hastened to gather up a few items before she could think of more questions to ask.
“Helen?”
I heard my name as I headed down the front path and turned to find her holding my parasol out to me.
“Your skin, you know how you burn. Don’t forget to use this.”
“Thank you, Mum. Stop fretting now. I’ll be fine,” I assured her.
The morning was brilliant, the sun warm on my face as the boat ferried me across the river. The stench was the only thing marring my delight at having managed to get away from the house with so little inquisition.
I hurried along the cobblestone street wishing I could afford the carriage ride, so I would not be wilted by the time I reached Mr. Rodin. I rounded the corner of the gallery and there he was pacing out front. He stopped and checked his stopwatch. Having no such luxury of my own, I took my time from the toll of Parliament’s new clock tower. “Mr. Rodin,” I said breathlessly, forcing a smile as I slowed to a respectable pace.
“Miss Bridgeton.” The peel of the tower bells sounded. “Splendid, you’re right on time.”
He offered me his arm and we went inside. The Royal Gallery was quite beautiful, room after room of high-polished floors and great high ceilings. Pictures were hung in ornate gold frames, stacked next to one another on the walls at eye level and upward.
“You want to be able to get the spot at eye level,” Mr. Rodin explained. “That’s how you know the committee approves of your work.”
“And where is your brother’s work, Mr. Rodin?” I asked, searching the wall as if I would recognize his work when I saw it.
“Third row from the top…over there. It’s a brilliant piece. It should have been lower. But my brother has issues with conforming to the committee’s wishes.”
He smiled at me when I gave him a questioning look.
“Thomas quit the academy under protest of the teachings here. He’s never really quite gotten back on track with the committee. He doesn’t have a number of highly influential friends, as I mentioned.” He looked at the painting. “Truthfully, Miss Bridgeton, I think deep down he wished the committee would judge his work on its own merit, and not on Thomas’s reputation.”
I studied the painting as best as I could from my vantage point. It was a lovely portrait of a woman barely covered by a luxurious blue drape. It was the light in her eyes that struck me the most. They seemed so full of life.
“You mustn’t let this influence your decision, Miss Bridgeton. Often in life, it is the geniuses who are the least understood.”
“Oh, I do understand that.” I slanted him a glance and he returned it with a smile. William’s solid belief in his brother’s work was what made Thomas’s painting stand apart from the rest. I knew little about Thomas Rodin, the artist, but the more time I spent with his brother, the more I came to revere him and the more I desired to meet him. I began to realize, too, that wherever there was opportunity to be around William, I was more than willing to take whatever risks were involved.
We came to a statue of a nude male reclining, as though relaxing in a meadow on a pleasant day. Every muscle was intricately carved, portrayed with lifelike precision, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the size of his phallus lying limp against his leg. Having never before been privy to the human male form, I silently wondered if it was realistically proportioned.
“Artistically enhanced,” Mr. Rodin’s voice issued at my side.
“Oh, I wasn’t—” I started.
He raised his eyebrow.
My cheeks warmed and I looked away.
“Dear Miss Bridgeton, when it comes to art, only an intelligent person would have such questions.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rodin, but how did you know?” I asked.
“Your face reads like an open book,” he replied with a smile.
“I’m sorry, I suppose you find me quite naive.”
“On the contrary. I think your innocence suits you beautifully.”
“You have a wonderful way of making me feel at ease with myself, Mr. Rodin.” I smiled.
He touched my arm. “I want you to feel comfortable in asking me anything. I know already that my brother is going to be as enchanted with you as I am. Your deep-set eyes and that flaming red hair—you’re precisely what the brotherhood has been looking for.”
“You flatter me.”
“Miss Bridgeton, flattery has nothing to do with it. I am trying to convince you to model for us.”
“Us? Do you paint also?” My heart raced a little faster at the thought.
“Me? No.” He smiled. “I leave the painting to my brother.”
As we walked through the remaining rooms, I was impressed by Mr. Rodin’s knowledge of art even though he claimed not to be artistically inclined. It seemed he was forever comparing his brother’s works to the early works of Michelangelo.
After the tour of the gallery, we took in the gallery’s floral gardens. Mr. Rodin plucked a rose from a trellis and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” he said, “for coming today.”
I held the flower to my nose, breathing deeply of its sweet fragrance. “Thank you for asking me. It’s been a lovely day.”
“And do you yet have any concerns or questions that you’d care to discuss with me?”
I studied him a moment, hesitating still to agree to his proposition, knowing it would take far greater convincing of my family than of me. “I beg of you one more day to decide.” My voice tinged on pleading, afraid that my request for delaying my response might change his mind.
He regarded me with a dubious look.