Amanda Mcintyre - The Master and The Muses

“No, I am not French, mademoiselle.”

Although I was relieved that I would not need to draw on my minimal skills in the French language, his admission raised a new bevy of questions. “Nor am I, sir. Why then, do you pretend to be something you are not?”

He took off his silly brown derby, and, with a sheepish grin, smoothed his palm over his locks in a vain effort to bring them under control. “My apologies for assuming you might speak French, working at a French hat shop.”

“What brings you to our shop, Mr.—?” I waited for his name.

“Rodin. William Rodin. Perhaps you’ve heard the name?”

I studied him evenly and gave no reply.

He waved his hat. “Well, I am confident that one day you will.” His smile would have charmed a snake. “Are you familiar with the world of art, by chance? It is possible you may have heard of my brother, the famous artist, Thomas Rodin.” He fingered his derby as he spoke. I noted by the appearance of its tattered edge that if he, too, was in the business of art, it was not doing very well these days—at least not for him.

“No, Mr. Rodin. I am afraid I have not heard of either you or your brother. My time is quite full with my duties here in the shop.” I turned the hat stand this way and that, as if studying the display. The truth was, I had but a few times actually engaged in conversation with a male since Mrs. Tozier allowed me to work out front. Certainly not one who seemed interested in my thoughts.

He brought his hand to the collar of his coat, taking on a dignified stance as he tossed me a wide smile.

“Then, dear woman, our meeting is your good fortune, for now you will be able to say, ‘I knew Thomas Rodin personally while he was in the prime of his artistic greatness.’”

I dipped my head to hide my smile. I did not wish to offend his pride.

“Are you interested in a hat, Mr. Rodin?”

He placed his bowler on the counter and leaned close. I glanced around the shop and prayed that Mrs. Tozier would not appear. She was a robust woman, with a thick French accent. Not one to tangle with, her grandfather had immigrated to London to open this milliner’s shop. I could not afford to lose my job over some strange man and his absurd interest in telling me about his famous brother. I held up my hand politely. “Mr. Rodin, my apologies, but I do have work to do. If you are not looking to buy a hat, then I must excuse myself and return to my duties.” I turned to leave, and he reached for my arm.

“Let me get right to the point.”

“Just as soon as you remove your hand from my arm, sir,” I said. However, I could not deny the pleasant warmth of his palm.

His mouth lifted at the corner, as if he knew his touch jarred me. Slowly, he removed his hand.

“I have come to offer you a proposition.”

“Excuse me, sir? Perhaps you’ve forgotten just where you are. If you are here to seek companionship for the evening, the Ten Bells Pub is down the street. I’m sure you’ll find what you seek there.”

He looked at me in surprise. “No—I mean, of course not. I’ve come to offer you honest employment. You have the potential to become quite famous.”

He liked to use that word with great frequency. “Famous, you say? As you are famous, Mr. Rodin?”

His eyes narrowed, studying me before he resumed his amiable expression. “My fame is in knowing the genius of the brotherhood. I am a designer, not an artist in the true sense of the word. However, presently being between projects, I have offered my services to my brother.”

“That is quite thoughtful of you, Mr. Rodin. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait, I beg you to listen. The artists of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood are looking for new models to pose for them. They have a very specific type of woman in mind and you fit the criteria brilliantly.”

“Criteria, for your ‘brotherhood’? Really?” I did not hide my skepticism.

“Indeed. You are what we would call a ‘stunner.’”

The word made me sound like the type of woman one would pick up at the Cremorne on a Saturday evening. His eyes raked over me, unashamed.

I pulled a display between us and I busied myself with adjusting the feather on the band of the hat. He continued to stare. No man had ever seen me as a model before.

“Your hands are quite lovely,” he said, leaning against the counter.

“Please, you’ll smudge the finish. If Mrs. Tozier—”

At that moment, I heard a heavy clomp-clomp coming across the wood floor from the back room.

“There, now you’ve done it. If I lose my position—”

“I’ve just offered you another.” He straightened and offered a pleasant smile.

“Miz Bridgeton, eez there a problem? Are you able to assist the geentleman?”

Mrs. Tozier came to my side. She was two inches shorter than I was, but more than made up for her height with her stern demeanor.

I started to explain, but the tenacious Mr. Rodin interrupted me with a slight lift of his hand.

“Madame Tozier.” He bowed, taking her hand, placing there a quick kiss. “Je suis un artiste de design et de poésie,” he attempted in broken French.

Mrs. Tozier looked at him with a wary eye. She was quite capable of spotting a fake—whether a hat or an accent. She frowned at me, and then at the man. “You are a design artist and a poet. How nice. So, you’ve come to buy a hat, oui?” she stated plainly, tugging her hand from his.

I bowed my head, pretending to be engaged in repositioning the ribbon on the hat in front of me. Mrs. Tozier had little patience for wasting time. And if one had no interest in purchasing a hat then, to her way of thinking, they were wasting her time.

He paused, clearing his throat. “Madame, I would like to discuss the possibility of borrowing your fine clerk, Miss Bridgeton, to hire as an artist’s model.”

Mrs. Tozier’s hand flew to her mouth and her expression changed to blatant anger. “Geet out, geet out of my shop! You…you should be ashamed of coming in here and harassing a young girl, so sweet and innocent. Out,” she snapped, waving her arms, chasing him to the front door. “You will ruin her reputation! That is what you will do.”

I looked down and realized Mr. Rodin had left his hat. Carefully, I tucked it behind the counter. I watched as Mrs. Tozier slammed the door, causing the bell to clatter wildly. With a huff, she pulled down the lace shades that kept out the afternoon sun. She faced me and shook her finger as she stamped back to me.

“Do not speak to such men, Helen. They will only beguile you. Use you like tissue paper and toss you away with as much ease.”

I wondered how she knew of such men. “Merci, Mrs. Tozier. He has been watching me for several days.” Oddly, my heart beat with a fierce and dangerous thrill. In part from her tone, in part from remembering how Mr. Rodin had looked at me. “Do you think he will be back?”

“Non, he won’t if he knows what eez good for him,” she huffed, smoothing her hands down the front of her skirt as if ridding his scent from her hands.

I waited until she disappeared beyond the curtains to the back room before daring to hurry to the front window and peer out.

To my strange delight, he was there, leaning against the corner of the building across the street. He caught me looking at him and placed a finger to his brow in salute, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and strolled down the street.

Later that night at supper, I spoke to my family about the incident. My papa knew immediately with whom the young man was associated. His words echoed Mrs. Tozier’s.

“Bad seeds, the lot of them. They condemn the teachings of the scholars at the Royal Academy, claiming they teach rubbish. Then they carouse the streets, preying on young girls to lure into their studios, promising who knows what and, once there, the poor things cannot defend themselves.”