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 looked at me with such delight that it made my stomach burn. My mother, I think, saw me as a recluse, though she never said the words aloud.
“Some of the girls from the shop.”
“And will there happen to be any gents there?” Her eyes revealed the hope that there might be future marriage prospects involved.
I tried to keep my smile genuine. “It was not my invitation, Mama, I cannot say.”
“Where is the picnic?”
My mind went blank. I had been unprepared for further questions. I scolded myself mentally. “Um…the Cremorne,” I lied again, my stomach protesting my deceit.
She patted my cheek. “Well, it sounds lovely, and it would do you good to get out a bit more. So I shouldn’t plan on you for supper, then?” she asked.
I shook my head. “You best not wait on me tonight. I will be sure to catch the ferry by ten o’clock.”
“Perhaps I should send your papa down to the dock to fetch you. I don’t like the idea of you without a chaperone, especially at that hour.”
“I’ll be fine, Mama. None of the other girls will have their papas meeting them. I’ll be fine.” I hastened to gather up a few items before she could think of more questions to ask.
“Helen?”
I heard my name as I headed down the front path and turned to find her holding my parasol out to me.
“Your skin, you know how you burn. Don’t forget to use this.”
“Thank you, Mum. Stop fretting now. I’ll be fine,” I assured her.
The morning was brilliant, the sun warm on my face as the boat ferried me across the river. The stench was the only thing marring my delight at having managed to get away from the house with so little inquisition.
I hurried along the cobblestone street wishing I could afford the carriage ride, so I would not be wilted by the time I reached Mr. Rodin. I rounded the corner of the gallery and there he was pacing out front. He stopped and checked his stopwatch. Having no such luxury of my own, I took my time from the toll of Parliament’s new clock tower. “Mr. Rodin,” I said breathlessly, forcing a smile as I slowed to a respectable pace.
“Miss Bridgeton.” The peel of the tower bells sounded. “Splendid, you’re right on time.”
