The Master and The Muses. Amanda McIntyre

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 believe 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