The Master and The Muses. Amanda McIntyre

members of the brotherhood are saints. We are flesh and blood, young and sometimes reckless, and we have the same drives as all men.”

      He searched my face for a moment. “Please go on, Mr. Rodin.” I was grateful he held me upright, as my knees threatened to buckle.

      “But our passion does not make us unsavory characters to fear. It is embracing that passion that gives the world its beauty. Do you understand?”

      “I think so.”

      “And do you fear me, Miss Bridgeton?

      I considered his question. “No, Mr. Rodin. I hardly know you, but in truth, I am far more afraid of how to explain my absence at dinner tonight to my family when I get home.”

      “Meet with me on Saturday. We can visit the Royal Academy gallery and you can judge for yourself whether you think my brother is worthy of your consideration. Afterward, if you are curious to know more, maybe you’d like to see his studio. I would be most happy to oblige the visit on Thomas’s behalf. I think you will find the studio a welcome venue of artistic expression.”

      “I am rather a bit of an artist myself in that I write poetry,” I admitted, precariously considering his offer.

      “I knew it.” He grinned. “Then I shall see you on Saturday?”

      I swallowed, my confidence wavering. “I don’t know, Mr. Rodin.”

      “Come. Let me get you a lemonade while you think on it.”

      He offered his arm and, for that, I would gladly think on any subject at great length, but I knew that it was getting late and my family would begin to wonder of my whereabouts.

      We walked back to the main path near the dance floor where the crowd was thickening as the shops closed for the day and the city dwellers looked for respite from the heat.

      I waited as Mr. Rodin approached a vendor, studying from behind how well he carried himself. As he waited in the line of thirsty patrons, a buxom woman with thick blond hair wound haphazardly atop her head touched his shoulder. He whirled in surprise and caught the woman in a great bear hug. They spoke for a moment, and she left. He paid for our drinks and headed back, offering me a broad grin as he handed me the glass. The drink was ice-cold and soothed my parched throat.

      “Thank you,” I said, and glanced at the woman now engaged in speaking to another man.

      “Someone you know?” I asked lightly, sipping my drink.

      “Jealous?” William teased.

      “Oh, no, I…of course not.”

      He smiled and sat down beside me. “Please, Miss Bridgeton. Forgive my teasing, I meant no harm.” He glanced at the woman and took a long gulp of his lemonade. He made a face as he smiled at me. “And they claim whiskey burns going down.” He smacked his lips and blinked. “The woman’s name is Grace Farmer. She is an old friend, who occasionally models for the brotherhood. An excellent cook and a fine woman, though gravely misunderstood, I fear.”

      “Why is that, and by whom?”

      “By virtue that she is a ladybird, I suspect. But only those who know her understand her character and the heart of the lady that she truly is.” He stared at Grace a moment more before he drained his glass. “Besides, my brother lusts after her hair. It is an artist’s dream.”

      I tried not to let it bother me that the brotherhood kept relations with prostitutes. That would not bode well where my family was concerned. Bad enough that models were already questioned for their promiscuous behavior. But perhaps she was the only woman with a jaded background.

      My hand crept to my fiery red tresses as I wondered what his brother would think of my hair. I kept it swept up most of the time in a loose coil atop my head. I promptly moved my hand away so I would not reveal my concern to Mr. Rodin. “It’s getting late and I should catch one of the ferries back across the river.”

      “I’ll escort you to the dock,” he offered.

      We walked in silence to where one of the passenger boats lay docked in wait, filling up with weary passengers.

      “Thank you, Mr. Rodin. It’s been a lovely evening.”

      “Wait,” he stated, and reached for my cheek. His thumb grazed the side of my mouth, sending a shiver down my arms.

      “Bit of your ice cream. You want no telltale signs giving you away.”

      He could have wiped the ice cream on his trousers but instead he licked it from his thumb. I gave him a hesitant smile, wondering how best to explain his part in my detainment to my family.

      “You didn’t say whether we can meet on Saturday.”

      “I’ll try, Mr. Rodin,” I responded. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to—”

      “I know you’ll need to make arrangements. But please try, Miss Bridgeton.”

      I took the boatman’s hand and climbed into the boat.

      “I will do my best, I promise.” He walked on the dock alongside me as I made my way to the back of the boat.

      Squatting down, he peered at me beneath the safety rails. “Say you will try very hard.”

      “Mr. Rodin.”

      “Miss Bridgeton, please. What I offer you could well change your life and that of your family.”

      I looked up, taking notice at that comment. In my world, art was a foreign thing, the value of it linked only with the great masters, not burgeoning new artists breaking the rules of convention. But I had to ask myself if I was willing to settle for conventional for the rest of my life. Was going against the wishes of my family in order to satisfy my curiosity worth the risk of possible alienation? My German father could be a stubborn and willful man at times.

      In truth, I could not offer Mr. Rodin any certainty I could meet him again. Still, I wanted to see him smile once more. “Oh, very well, then. What time?” I called, my voice sounding almost desperate. I glanced around me, confronting the curious look of a woman and her husband.

      “Splendid! Ten o’clock,” he volleyed back.

      I raised my hand, waving goodbye. “I’ll see you then,” I shouted. I lost sight of him as he made his way back up the dock toward the garden. I dropped my hand in my lap and felt like a foolish ninny wondering if he ran straight back to Grace Farmer. Of all things to think of! I had a much more important task ahead of me in devising a plan to escape my mother’s watchful eye on Saturday.

      Chapter Three

      MY STOMACH, PRONE TO PANGS OF NERVOUSNESS, had given me trouble throughout the night. When the pain was severe, I was barely able to eat and my mother could tell in an instant if I was worried about something. Mr. Rodin seemed to be going to great lengths to convince me of the validity of this “brotherhood of artists” and the more I pondered my options, limited though they were, the more my stomach gave me issues.

      “Did you take your laudanum, Helen?” my mother asked as she cleared away my breakfast bowl, half-full with my porridge. I had waited to come in for breakfast until I knew my sisters and papa were out doing their chores.

      “Yes, Mama,” 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