The Master and The Muses. Amanda McIntyre
one last effort to keep the conversation alive, I glanced at my mama, seated across the table from me. Her expressionless face spoke to me in greater volume than if she’d opened her mouth. The conversation was over. It was not to be brought up again.
I was old enough to make my own decisions but, due to my meager wages, was forced to live with my family because I had no husband. My papa and mama were of the belief that a man was the breadwinner and the woman the keeper of the hearth and home. They did not understand that if I met the right man, I would gladly work hard beside him, just as Madame Tozier worked with her husband at the shop. But according to my parents’ wishes, until some wealthy gent swept into the shop and asked for my hand in marriage, I was destined to become a spinster with a very good knowledge of making hats. Was this my only opportunity to start a life of my own? Was it a chance to get my poetry in front of another creative soul?
As I helped to clear away the supper dishes, my mother placed her hand on my cheek.
“You are a beautiful girl. You will find a good man, like your father. A man who is not afraid of hard work.” She patted my cheek as if that would magically make all my cares disappear.
Later, in the sanctuary of my room, I placed Mr. Rodin’s hat inside a round hatbox that I’d found stacked near the refuse bins outside the shop. I tied it with a brown ribbon and tucked it beneath my bed, hoping that I would be able to give it to him on my way to work tomorrow.
For a long time I stared at the pale moonlight on my ceiling, remembering the look in his eyes as he studied me. I imagined reaching out to touch his unshaven cheek, feeling his warm breath on my face as he drew near. Strange sensations made my body tingle. For the first time in my life, I saw myself as a grown woman instead of a child.
Chapter Two
IT WAS ODD TO SEE MY SHADOW AS I WALKED along the cobbled lane to work. Between the constant downpours and the stench from the river that hovered over the city like a hazy specter, the sun was a strange sight. Its warmth lifted my spirits, but the idea of seeing Mr. Rodin had improved my mood long before I set foot outdoors.
I turned the corner, scanning the block before me, disappointed when I saw only the familiar store managers putting out their wares.
“A fine day to you, miss.”
I took a step back, taken by surprise at Mr. Rodin’s sudden emergence from a closed storefront. “Are you always this forward when in pursuit of potential models, Mr. Rodin?” I squared my shoulders, making sure he thought I did not appreciate him accosting me in this manner. In truth, however, butterflies had taken flight inside me.
He bowed. “Forgive me. I only came to inquire whether you might have seen my hat. I have apparently misplaced it.”
My brave response was prompted by my secret delight in seeing him again. “And you did not wish to encounter Mrs. Tozier again, I presume?” It was as close to flirting with a man as I’d ever done.
His eyebrows rose and he gave me a wicked grin. “How astute you are, Miss Bridgeton. I pray you know me all too well.”
“Oh, Mr. Rodin, something tells me that I have barely scratched the surface. Nonetheless, I did find your hat before Madame Tozier did.” I handed him the round box, which he held high, turning the beribboned container this way and that.
“I can’t say when my old chapeau has ever looked better,” he remarked.
“I quite agree, Mr. Rodin,” I responded with a genuine smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get to work.” I started around him.
“Um…excuse me, Miss Bridgeton. May I inquire of your plans this evening after work?”
I stopped and looked over my shoulder. True it was that I did not belong to an aristocratic circle where gentlemen used calling cards to request a lady’s company. Regardless, I was somewhat surprised by his unconventional manner. Then again, what should I expect from a man who had skulked around watching me for days before speaking? I thought of what I would do for one of my sisters. Would I give up easily if I thought they truly needed something? “You must adore your brother very much, Mr. Rodin.”
He pried open the hatbox lid, offering a lopsided grin as he plopped the bowler on his head.
“Indeed, I do, but what makes you say so?”
He had not noticed that I had carefully trimmed the frayed edges of his hat. “Because it is clear that you are not to be put off, isn’t it? No matter how rude I am.”
His blue eyes regarded me with new interest. “Are you being rude?”
“See there, you wouldn’t even know!” I replied.
He laughed and the sound of it was so carefree that I daresay I found my mouth twitching to smile.
“Miss Bridgeton, I assure you that my intentions are honorable. Are you not old enough to accept a simple invitation for a walk in the gardens, maybe to enjoy an ice cream with me?”
“For what purpose, Mr. Rodin?” I knew to accept meant I would hear more about this proposal. Moreover, I feared that my interest was not merely in his proposal, but in seeing him again.
“Very well, Mr. Rodin. Shall we meet at the west gate of the Cremorne Gardens, then? Around five?”
“I look forward to it, Miss Bridgeton. You can ask then all the questions that I’m certain are mulling around that beautiful head of yours.”
We’d taken our ice cream and walked past the dancing platform to get away from the crowd and the loud music of the outdoor stage. It was a pleasant early evening at the gardens. The lights, hung by lanterns in the trees, flickered in the dusky wane of sunlight. A gentle breeze blew, mercifully keeping the lingering stench of the city at bay, at least for a while. “Tell me about your brother, Mr. Rodin.”
I used a spoon to scoop up a bite of the refreshing ice cream infused with lemon. An arched tunnel overgrown with wisteria and vines led to another part of the park. I thought we would be able to talk quietly there.
We walked through the tunnel in silence, the cool shadows as welcome as the treats we ate.
“What would you like to know about him?” Mr. Rodin asked.
I confess my head felt light for no reason I could think of other than the handsome gentleman at my side. Unnerved by my reaction to his proximity, I sought to find a question about his brother that could possibly interest me more than Mr. Rodin. “Why don’t you tell me about his work?”
A small blob of ice cream slid off my spoon and landed in the middle of my chest. I grimaced and Mr. Rodin offered to hold my cone while I rummaged through my bag for a handkerchief.
“There now, Miss Bridgeton. I’ve got it.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiftly wiped away the mess. I felt the slight brush of his fingertips over my breast. A gasp tore from my throat. “Please, Mr. Rodin!”
“My apologies, Miss Bridgeton. It seemed simple enough to remove without touching your—”
My brows shot up. “I receive your meaning, Mr. Rodin. You needn’t embellish.” I took his handkerchief and dabbed at the place where the ice cream had seeped through to my skin. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “Perhaps we could find 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.”