Читать книгу The Master and The Muses - Amanda Mcintyre - Страница 13

THOMAS DUCKED AS MY PAPA HURLED THE painting across the room, barely missing the top of his head. My mama shoved my sisters into the back bedroom and closed the door. My portrait lay splintered on the floor and I knew it would soon be firewood.

“You have scarred my little girl—” Papa started, his face turning purple with rage.

“Papa, I am no longer a little girl—”

His eyes, full of anger, turned to me and he raised his finger, shaking it with fury. “You have lied to your family, Helen. Your deception is not a small matter—it is unforgivable.”

“Papa, please—” He cut me off with his upturned hand. I turned to Mama, pleading for her to make him understand.

She stood to the side, wringing her hands with worry, but she did not come to my defense.

“Mr. Bridgeton, I assure you that Helen has been treated very well…”

“Do not,” Papa bellowed, “speak in my house!”

“Papa, please try to at least be decent to our guest,” I said.

“Decent?” His voice rose and my mama covered her mouth with her apron. “Do not talk to me about decency.” He glared at me and then at Thomas, and headed for the door, his jaw set firm. He stopped long enough to grab his hat. “I am going to the barn. I don’t wish to find either of you here when I return.”

A quiet, strangled sob tore from my mama’s throat. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Papa did not look back as the door slammed behind him.

Had I truly believed they would understand or support my decision? There was nothing more to be said. I stood and brushed past Mama as I went into my room to collect a few of my things.

My sisters, Beth and Rosalind, peeked out of their room and I stopped to hug them both. I handed my bag to Thomas who waited by the front door.

“I’ll wait outside,” he said.

I gave Mama a brief hug, not knowing when or if I would see her again.

“Be well, Helen. Take your medicine.” She stroked my cheek, and I burned her leathery skin into my memory. As I walked to the carriage, I saw the light was on in the barn, which meant Papa was inside brushing the mare. It was what he always did when he wanted to think. I debated whether I should tell him goodbye.

Thomas seemed to read my mind.

“Do you need a moment?” he asked, holding open the carriage door.

I took one last look over my shoulder, drinking in the tiny cottage with its slanted roof and peeling paint, the sagging porch that Papa kept meaning to fix. “No, let’s go,” I said, getting into the carriage.

I leaned back against the soft, cushioned seat and stared out the window at the familiar rolling landscape. I hoped against hope that my parents would have a change of heart, knowing I would not make a decision of such consequence without careful thought. However, in my family’s world, women were still considered inferior in many ways, expected to be content serving the men in their lives, and I knew deep down that they would never understand.

Thomas took my hand and brought it to his lips. “I will take care of you, my muse. I don’t want you to worry. We are your family now, the brotherhood and me.”

I looked at him and wondered if I was really gaining my freedom or simply trading the men that I served.

Thomas took me to his bed that night, soothing my pain with his tenderness, turning my concerns to pleasured sighs. I surrendered myself body and soul to him, something I’d been reticent to do before. If this was servitude, then I welcomed it for the luxurious power that I felt in my decadence.

My fingers curled around the bedrail and I welcomed the pain of my knuckles tapping against the wall with the increased motion of Thomas’s fervent thrusts. His long hair swayed, brushing over my flesh, and his eyes penetrated my soul, claiming my body, making me want to give back, to meet his challenge. I arched toward him and he caught my mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, demanding my climax—my loyalty. Crying out his name, I gave him everything and, in return, he gave me all that he could give. It was enough…for now.

In the days that followed, we existed in a state of marital bliss, without benefit of the legal and moral paperwork. We lived with the smug belief that conventionality was misguided, and my security was founded on the idea that what we had was pure and true.

It was early morning; the heavy fog of London still blanketed the rooftops. After awakening me with a frenzied bout of lovemaking, Thomas was in the mood to paint.

He had dragged me into the studio, him in his shirt and me wearing nothing but a blue silk drape that he handed me in haste.

“On the lounge,” he ordered as he set to the task of arranging colors on his palette. I had grown used to his impulsive bursts of inspiration, quite often occurring in the afterglow of passion.

We nibbled on fruit and a little cheese. It was all that we had in the kitchen.

Thomas stood over me, eyeing the drape. He held out his apple for me to take a bite, as he experimented with the cloth, trying to find what pleased him.

I squealed when his hand playfully squeezed one of my breasts.

“Forgive me. I thought that was the drape.” He grinned.

“You insatiable rogue,” I teased.

“Merely appreciative of your beauty, madam, and if I may say, your breasts are a true gift of nature.” He bent his head, pushing back the cloth to reveal my breast, and left a tender kiss on my flesh.

“As plump as a succulent peach.” He glided his paintbrush across my skin, circling it deliciously slowly around my nipple.

“I grow hungry just to look at you,” he whispered, leaning forward, his soft lips touching mine. “How will I ever get this painting done, you naughty muse?”

“Perhaps you need my inspiration?” I held his smoky gaze, feeling brazen. He had a way of making me feel my body was a work of art, created for his pleasure alone.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, sweeping the brush along the underside of my breast, the soft bristles teasing my senses. I discovered to what degree Thomas was skilled with a paintbrush as he delicately stroked the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs.

The corners of his mouth lifted when he parted me like a flower and tickled me with his brush, causing me to squirm with need.

“So exquisitely beautiful it is, my muse, to see your arousal.”

I covered my face with my hands, lost in his taunting stroke. Thomas was an exquisite lover, showing me pleasure in ways I’d never dreamed. I’d come to ignore the niggling in my head that he’d never once used the word love in any of our conversations—never once whispered it when he took me to his bed. I also ignored the fact that his friends rarely stopped by anymore since I’d moved in.

My thoughts dissipated as his tongue replaced the brush, his creative mastery summoning a shuddering, toe-curling climax from me.

A sound from behind brought Thomas’s head up and he casually pulled the drape over my naked body.

“Will, you’re back. You should have sent word. I’d have met you at the station.” Thomas rose to greet his brother.

I sat upright, holding the drape over me as best I could, bolstering the courage to look at William, wondering how long he had been standing there before Thomas noticed him.

“William,” I stated quickly, slanting a quick glance at him.

“Helen,” he responded evenly.

“We’ve got news to share, Will. Helen has moved into the studio on a permanent basis.”

If William was shocked by the news, he kept it concealed well.

“Then you two are…together now, I surmise,” he said, averting his eyes from mine.

Thomas chuckled and slapped his brother’s shoulder. “As if that wasn’t evident, eh, Will?”

My face burned and, finding a large throw, I quickly wrapped it around me. “I’ll go get dressed and fix us some tea.” I hurried from the room, wondering how after all this time I should be uncomfortable in William’s presence.

The two brothers could not be more opposite. They possessed equal charm, but while Thomas seemed content in his bold approach to life, William was quiet, as though he was still searching for what it was he wanted.

Since Thomas had taken me under his wing, he’d become so much more than just my lover—he was also my friend and my teacher. He was on time with my weekly sum for posing, took me to museums, plays and to grand mansions where we dined with writers and other artists. He’d made me a part of his life, embracing me in every way that a suitor intending marriage would. He created a desire in me, encouraged my passion and nurtured it. No one had ever treated me like this. I felt like a goddess when I was with him.

I brought tea into the studio, pouring for William first, and then Thomas who, I noted, liberally laced his with whiskey.

“I suppose I should start looking for a place to move,” William said. I looked at Thomas.

“Nonsense, your room is your own—this place is your home, as well. There is plenty of room here, William. Besides, you are gone half the time on one of your bloody research adventures. No, I will not hear talk about moving. Don’t you agree, my dear?” He curled his arm around my waist, drawing me down to sit beside him on the arm of the chair.

“Of course, William. We are family—you, Thomas and I. We wouldn’t dream of you living anywhere else,” I said, putting my arm around Thomas’s shoulder.

I could not say what I saw flash in William’s eyes, but I looked away quickly, feigning a bright smile at Thomas. He slipped his hand around my neck and drew me close, kissing me tenderly.

For any other man, it would have been a gesture of warning to another male—a sign of possession. But for Thomas, it was simply his way of saying he wanted me again.

“Very well, then. I’ll try not to be underfoot too much.” William raised his cup, and as his eyes met mine over the rim, that summer afternoon flashed again in my thoughts.

“I have a proposal for you, my muse,” Thomas stated as we lay in bed after one of our late-day trysts.

I had been living with him for nearly three months and I’d discovered that his sexual appetite was insatiable, innovative and addictive. There was nothing I denied him.

He untied the silk bindings from around my wrists and kissed my tender flesh, settling himself comfortably beneath my arm, his head on my breast. The mere thought of the word “proposal” brought to mind a hope that I continued to harbor deep inside. I waited, mentally telling myself to remain calm, to let him get out the words before I cried for joy.

“I’ve been thinking, since I am between projects and still deciding what to do next, that I may consent to let John borrow you for his current project.”

This was not at all what I was expecting.

“John? But I rather like being your exclusive muse, Thomas.”

He leaned up on his elbow, looking down at me as he twirled a strand of my hair around his finger. “I feel we both might benefit from a fresh perspective.”

Fresh perspective? I had taken part in nearly every fantasy Thomas had ever designed in his head, proving without a doubt he had an endless imagination.

“Is this your way of saying you are…tired of me?”

“Oh, muse, of course not.” He kissed my nose. “But it will be good for you to find out what it is like to pose for another artist. It’s a professional courtesy to share one’s model.”

“A professional courtesy, nothing more?” I asked.

He tipped his head, studying me. “Do you doubt my intent?”

“No.” I looked away and his hand caught my chin, forcing me to look at him.

“Do not ever doubt me,” he said with a calm sternness. I’d never seen that look in his eye before, almost as if I had betrayed him by questioning his decision. He smiled then, and his expression softened as he lowered his head to kiss me.

“It would be inhospitable of me not to share you. He has already asked and I told him that you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not,” I replied quietly, my thoughts caught between disappointment and my desire to please him.

“Perhaps you need convincing, my muse.”

He kissed me again lightly, teasing this time as he eased his palm over my stomach, sliding his fingers between my thighs.

“John is quite an interesting fellow. Well traveled. I’m certain he’ll keep you amused with his stories.”

He kissed me again and I knew he was luring more than my body to be at one with him.

“What will happen to our—” I swallowed hard, pulling his face to mine in a fierce kiss as my body trembled with pleasure “—our afternoon tea?”

Thomas grinned, bracing his arms as he moved over me and nudged my legs apart.

“You mean our afternoon fuck?” he whispered in my ear.

Lately, he’d begun slipping naughty words into our lovemaking and he knew how they aroused me. His cock teased my opening. I couldn’t resist him and he knew it. I wrapped my arms around his waist, smoothing my hands over his firm buttocks, and pulled his hips toward mine, urging him to fill me. Satisfaction sparked in his eyes and he knew he’d gotten his way.

“I’ll simply make sure—”

He slid into my slick heat with a shuddering sigh.

“—that John has you home,” he said, kissing me once more as he withdrew partway, “before afternoon tea.”

He lunged deeper, emitting a lusty sigh. He was a scoundrel. A wicked, wanton scoundrel and I could not say no to him.

I wrapped my legs around his hips, holding his body to mine, caught up in our frenzied coupling, and as we came together, I scolded myself for having doubted his suggestion.

Later, as he dozed with me curled beneath his arm, I watched the light of day turn to murky shadows of twilight and thought about how my life had changed. It had been months since I’d last seen my family. In that time, Mama had had another birthday, as had one of my sisters. I was now living out of wedlock, with a man who loved me with his body, yet thought nothing of offering me as a prop to another man, with the belief that it would improve our relationship.

I shut my eyes, overwhelmed with my thoughts, softly fingering the curls on Thomas’s chest. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps my absence would leave a hole in his daily life and by so doing, he would be spurred to commit to more than just living together. I looked up at his handsome face, thinking how easily he slept at my side. I hoped desperately that this would prompt a proposal of a different kind, as I had missed my monthly and wondered if I might be carrying his child.

My flesh was numb. The portrait was supposed to be of a young woman lying in a river. The background had been painted and I, dressed in a gown that I understood was found in a secondhand shop, was to lie in repose partially submerged in a warm bath for hours, while John painted me. I was able to forgive John for the horridly musty stench of the wretched gown, but less forgivable was his failure to keep the water warm, as he had promised. Daily, for over a month and a half, I’d spent four to six hours in tepid water. I’d watched for my monthly and, when it did not come again, was pressed to tell Thomas, but chose to wait until I was sure.

The painting was at a critical point. John was as immersed in what he was doing as I was in the water. Though the water had grown cold, I lay there thinking that I could 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 the book.

“Your mother perhaps, if it’s a girl?”

His eyes rose and held steady on mine. “Perhaps we should come up with something unique, instead of hanging a used name on him.”

“Or her.” I smiled.

“Yes.” He yawned. “Of course…Would you mind awfully if I ran down to McGivney’s? Some of the brothers are meeting for a game of darts.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun,” I said as I put my knitting aside. “Let me get my shawl. I’d like to get out.”

He rose and came to my side, placing his hand on my shoulder. “It’s dreadfully loud and smoky down there, my muse. And odds are that the brothers will have been drinking and you know how they get. You can barely stomach their antics when they’re sober.” He laughed and kissed the top of my head. “I won’t be long, but you needn’t wait up. You need your rest.”

“Then I guess we’re through with discussing names?” I asked, watching as he put on his heavy jacket to walk the few blocks down the street. He plopped his hat atop his head and smiled over his shoulder.

“I have no doubt you will find the perfect name for the child.” With that, he hurried down the steps and out the front door.

I glanced at the book he’d left behind and prayed that Annie was not working tonight.