I wrapped my shawl tighter around me, looking out across the Thames as the sun broke through the gray clouds, sending a brilliant shaft of light down the middle of the river. I lifted my hand, shading my eyes from the intense reflection. At the bottom of the embankment, I noted a man seated beside a tree. He had a small easel and seemed oblivious to anyone else as he painted.
I sauntered down and stood behind him, studying his work.
“I’m not doing portraits this week,” he said, not looking up.
“I was just admiring your landscape.” I said, looking over his shoulder. “Do you paint for a living?”
“Does it look like it?” His tone and expression were caustic.
I raised my eyebrows. “Well, you’ve certainly developed the attitude, at any rate.”
He did not respond.
“You might consider a touch of cadmium red just there.” I suggested, pointing to the spot.
He looked at me then, his pale gray eyes and scraggly beard making him look like a fierce, primal warrior. I could not place his dialect.
“Are you an artist?”
“Me? Good Lord, no! But I have done a bit of modeling, if you would like me to introduce you to some artists I know. I would be most willing to arrange it.”
“Modeling, you say?” He continued to paint without looking at me.
“Your work is good. Perhaps if you were to tamp down that attitude of yours a bit and learn from a good mentor, you’d be exceptional.”
“Now you’re a critic?” he said.
“No, but I am a fair judge of talent. I believe you’re good enough to perhaps get the Exhibition one day.”
He snorted. “The Academy’s Exhibition?” His brogue was thick—Scottish, if I were to hazard a guess.
“Where is it that you hail from?” I asked.
“Pembroke, Wales.”
He stood then and wiped his hand on his shirt, then, and stuck his hand out to mine.
“Have you been in London long, then?”
“Nay, only a few weeks,” he said. “I do portraits here and there. They bring in enough to keep me at one of the boardinghouses a few blocks down the road.”
“Have you eaten?” I asked, fingering a bag carrying a few coins that I kept in the pocket of my skirt.
“Aye, miss, ’tis kind of you to ask.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t believe you stated your name.”
“Oh!” He grinned sheepishly, removing a tattered tweed cap. “The name is Edward…Edward Rhys. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Is there an address that I might give my friend where he might reach you?”
He looked around and tugged the cap down over his unruly dark blond hair. The style itself gave a certain old-world manliness to his solemn looks. “When the weather is good. I’ll be here in the gardens,” he answered.
“Well, then, Mr. Rhys, I’ll tell him to look for you here.” I gave him a smile and a nod and turned to go back up the hill and make my way to the pub, hoping to have supper with Deidre if she was not too busy.
“Wait, lass!” he called after me. “You didn’t tell me your name.” He had a handsome smile that might well give Thomas a run for his money where his younger models were concerned.
“It’s Grace.”
“Aye, then, Grace. Good day to you until we meet again.” The words gliding off his tongue warmed me like a fine brandy on a cold night.
“Grace!”
Startled, I turned my attention up the hill and saw Harriet, one of the barmaids from the pub, running toward me. Fear was etched on her young face and a cold feeling of dread gripped my stomach.
“It’s Deidre, she’s in the maze. She won’t wake up.”
I grabbed her hand. “Show me.” I turned around and found Mr. Rhys staring at me. “I may need your help! Come quickly.”
Deidre’s face was chalk-white, her blank eyes ringed with a purplish hue. I dropped to her side and shook her shoulders, but she was limp as a rag doll.
“Grace.” Mr. Rhys tried to pull me away, but I fought him off.
“Deidre! Can you hear me?” I shook her again.
“Grace.” Mr. Rhys’s voice was low, calming, a contrast to Harriett’s uncontrolled sobbing behind us.
Mr. Rhys knelt by her, sweeping aside her collar to rest his fingers against her neck. It was then that I noticed the angry marks on her neck. Mr. Rhys placed his palm over her eyes, closing them. He took off his jacket and gently laid it over her.
“I’m going to get a constable, Grace. I must ask that you not touch her.”
What seemed like hours passed before we were allowed to leave the gardens. When the authorities were satisfied with our stories, they said she’d be given a Christian burial in the poor man’s cemetery, unless we could afford otherwise. None of us had the means to finance such an undertaking, so we watched them take her away on a cart.
Mr. Rhys offered to walk Harriet and me back to the pub, but I declined, needing to be by myself. Harriet went back to work, and I trudged up the familiar steps to my old room feeling as if I carried rocks on my shoulders.
The stench in the alleyway below hadn’t changed as I pushed against the door, hunting for a lamp in the semidarkness and finding the tin of matchsticks to light it. I stood in the center of the small room. It did not look different, but it felt different. I closed the door, slid the latch into place and tucked a chair beneath the curved door handle. Tears welled in my eyes as I spotted Deidre’s shawl. She must have gone out without it. I picked it up and hugged it to my chest as I lay down on the bed and cried myself to sleep.
The next morning I returned to Woolner’s flat, sharing with him what had happened, and as I’d promised, I asked Frank to tell Thomas where he could find Mr. Rhys.
I pulled out the portrait of me Thomas had started, hoping to replace the image of Deidre’s dying expression with another picture in my mind. Frank kept quiet for a time, then put the painting away as I stared at it.
“What are you doing?” I glanced up at him.
“Come to dinner at the studio, tonight, Grace. The boys would love to see you. It’s been too long. Besides, Thomas says he wants us all together. He has a surprise. He asked for you to be there, specifically.”
“He asked about me?” The smallest glimmer of hope lifted my heart.
“Well, he knew that you’d been staying here. I told him about your friend and he thought it would be good for you to join us.”
Frank riffled through my sparse wardrobe. “I wish you’d kept some of those exquisite gowns, Grace. These things are so tattered.” Frank tsked.
“I wanted no reminders of Hoffemeyer, Frank.”
“Of course, sweeting. It’s just that you looked like a queen in them. Here.” He handed me my best gown. “Wear this. Thomas always loved you in this.”
“Frank, Thomas has a new muse. What did you say her name was?”
“The bitch? I mean, Sara—the lovely young thing with raven-black hair and a heart to match. Mark my words, she’ll be gone before spring.” Frank smiled as he started to close the door. “Carriage arrives in the hour. Chop-chop, sweeting.”
It was good to be among the core members of the brotherhood, the boys I’d known since Thomas and I met. Whenever they were together, the conversation was lively and it made you feel that—at least for a few moments—life made sense, if only in our world.
Our chairs were drawn in a circle so we could easily see each other when we spoke. I hadn’t laughed in such a long time. Most of these men were at least ten years younger, but when we were together, it was as friends—without age, gender, or social status. We all anxiously tried to guess what Thomas’s surprise would be. I hoped it would be inviting Mr. Rhys to be his protégé.
Frank had described Sara’s physical beauty perfectly; as to her personality, I had yet to form an opinion. The real test would be how she acted when she was around Thomas. She did have a knack for taking a quiet gathering of friends and making it an
affair to remember.
No wineglass went very long without someone pouring it full. She had prepared oysters on the half shell, tiny sandwiches cut in perfect triangles and bite-size cubes of cake, covered in a stiff icing she called fondant. It was the only thing that impressed Frank. For some reason, he had an issue with this muse, more than he had with Helen.
My first impression, beyond her raven locks and crystal blue eyes, was much the same as Frank’s. “Ambitious, that one,” he said. “Let’s see if she’s worth her salt.”
He and Watts proceeded to place bets on whether they could goad her into admitting an interest in having her nipples pierced, as was all the rage at the clubs frequented by the affluent these days. I had my doubts if she would play along, but to my surprise, she did. In fact, she grew quite brazen, stating that she might well have it done if it were safe. At which point I challenged her good-naturedly, offering that I would have mine pierced if she would do the honors. Perhaps I felt challenged that she seemed so comfortable in Thomas’s studio. I knew that she lived there and suspected that she and Thomas were lovers. He never had a muse who wasn’t a lover. It was a relationship that Thomas understood perfectly, but the poor women he bedded never understood completely. Sara, I feared, was no different. Only time would tell whether I was right or wrong.
Putting a decided halt to our fun, Thomas entered the studio and told me in no uncertain terms that the critics didn’t need another thing to toss at the brotherhood just now. He cupped my cheek and smiled, then turned to the rest of the group.
“Now, if my two favorite women are done with this nonsense, I suggest that if anything should be allowed to touch either of you lovely creatures it should be me.” He gave us a charming grin and quickly moved to Sara, drawing her into his embrace, whispering something in her ear. She looked over his shoulder directly at me, her blue eyes challenging.
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Mr. Edward Rhys, newest member of our little den of creativity.”
I averted my eyes from hers, secretly blossoming inside with pride that Thomas valued my opinion of Edward Rhys. I was not living there, but my presence was of value.
Chapter 9
SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, FRANK AND I WERE HAVING dinner and I was telling him about my experiences with Lord Hoffemeyer. He hadn’t heard the full story of what happened in the garden.
“But it’s not turned you away from the idea of men altogether, has it, Grace?”
“Are you asking for yourself or a friend?” I teased. We both knew who he was alluding to.
He blushed and then narrowed his gaze on mine.
“You know what I mean, sweeting.”
“If this is about Thomas again…” I shook my head. “I don’t think you quite understand the relationship that Thomas and I share. We have an understanding, you see.”
“So you say,” Frank commented drily. “But I know my Thomas. Be patient, Grace. He’ll come around.”
I smiled and went on with my supper, refraining from engaging in an argument over which one of us knew Thomas best.
Frank’s expression suddenly brightened. “I’ve got it! You—a fictionalized version, of course—are going to be my next submission to the brotherhood’s newsletter. If Thomas wants to point out the pitfalls of our society, your story of that monster Hoffemeyer trying to blackmail you is just the ticket!”
“I feel fairly certain, Frank, that Thomas would prefer we put the incident behind us.”
“You can help me, Grace. We’ll stand this Hoffemeyer chap right on his nose, maybe slap him around a bit in the process.” He wiggled his eyebrows, his grin full of wicked intent.
“Me? Help you with your writing?” I laughed.
“Think of it, Grace, you might be helping to teach other un-suspecting women to be wary of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
I thought a moment on that and nodded. “When do we start?”
It did not take long for Thomas to show up at Woolner’s flat, and when he did he was bloody furious.
“What in Christ’s name are you doing?” He tossed the manuscript we’d sent to him on the table and looked at me, his turquoise eyes ablaze.
I was in the process of setting the table for Frank and myself. “It’s nice to see you, too, Thomas,” I responded, and before he could answer, Frank appeared from the kitchen, carrying a pot of steaming potato soup with ham.
“Thomas! I see you finally accepted my invitation to drop by.” Frank placed the pot on a folded towel. He glanced at the papers strewn on the table. “I see you received my submission. Can you stay for supper?”
My gaze swerved to Frank, silently asking him what the hell he was doing.
Frank shrugged and the corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. “He has to eat.”
Thomas yanked out a chair and sat, and then his eyes rolled up to mine and he leaped to his feet, waiting until I slid into my chair. I hid my smile, absurdly delighted that even in his fury, he thought of the gentlemanly gesture. I tried not to read too much into his agitation, but the fact that he was here and staying for supper instead of being at home with his muse made me wonder if there was trouble brewing again on the home front.
“This article, Frank. It’s about what happened to Grace.”
Frank frowned. “As I am aware, Thomas, and for the record, it’s some of my best work, don’t you agree?”
Thomas picked up the papers and skimmed over the article. He shook his head. “It’s far too dangerous. If Hoffemeyer saw this, or any of his power-hungry partners did, there would be hell to pay and Grace would be right in the midst of it.”
“I gave my permission to write it, Thomas. At least perhaps someone else won’t fall into the trap that I did.”
“It’s not wise.” Thomas spoke slowly, steadying his voice.
I could see his point, and yet between what had happened to me and to Deidre, I wanted someone to know what an easy target for criminals women on the street were. “It’s a growing problem, Thomas, one that, if it isn’t addressed, will one day result in much greater tragedy.”
“Perhaps, then, you could write of your affairs, Thomas,” Frank challenged. “That would make for far more interesting reading.” He rose from his chair in a huff and went into the kitchen.
“Did you have to tell him everything?” Thomas asked, tapping his fingers on the table.
“I told him the truth, Thomas. Isn’t that what you’ve always preached to the brotherhood? Wasn’t that the reason you started your news sheet?”
He raked his hand through his hair. It was then that I noticed the streak of silver near his temple. “You’re right, I suppose.” He rubbed his knuckle over his lips, deep in his thoughts. “I’ll think about it, Grace.” He looked at me, his eyes filled with sincerity. “I just don’t want to see you hurt anymore.”
I patted his hand, grateful for his concern. “And I don’t want to see other women hurt. Do you?”
He frowned, and though I could see that he did not entirely agree on our method, he did agree with me. Changing the topic, I tried to solicit a smile from him. “Is the new muse working out well?”
“Are you sleeping with Woolner?” he countered.
Beyond surprised by his remark, I dropped my spoon in my bowl. “That is a ridiculous notion, and further, it is none of your business even if you didn’t already know that I am not Frank’s type. Are you sleeping with Sara?” I asked, pinning him with a look that meant I was not about to be bullied.
He hesitated. “That’s my affair and not what we’re talking about,” he shot back, folding his arms over his chest.
I chuckled and picked up my spoon to resume eating. We were at an impasse. I wasn’t sure if it was me who had changed or Thomas, but something had occurred. I was tired of being his part-time lover. I’d had a taste of wealth and seen the dark side of the affluent. I’d seen the face of a dear friend murdered by God knows who and God knows why, because she’d had no choice but to do what she did to survive. I realized how e
asily it could have been me. Both incidents had forced me to face some harsh facts about myself. I was no longer content with letting life control me. I wanted to have more of a voice. I wanted to feel I had the same rights as other men and women.
He pushed from his chair, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and began to pace the dining room. “Things aren’t going well at the studio,” he said finally. I let him continue. “I’m having problems with Sara.”
I didn’t look at him and continued to eat in silence. Being his sounding board was also getting to be tiresome.
“Well? Don’t you have something to say?” he asked.
“Didn’t you just tell me that it was none of my affair?” I took a sip of my wine.
“That was before,” he stated, walking to the other end of the table.
“Before what, exactly, Thomas?”
“Before I asked you for help, Grace. Christ, do I have to spell it out? I’m asking your opinion on how to handle this.”
“Why do you want my opinion, Thomas?”
“Grace, next to William, you know me the best of anyone and you can see how I botched that.”
“So you’re trying not to botch this, is that what you’re saying?”
“No, I feel that she shouldn’t have any misconceptions that I’m going to marry her.”
“Because you’ve slept with her?”
He held his hands out and shrugged.
“How noble of you,” I stated drily. I wondered if Thomas had ever had the same concerns about me. My ire rankled knowing the thought had likely never crossed his mind. I was, after all, just a former streetwalker, not exactly the type of woman men clamored to marry.
The Master & the Muses Page 33