Rodin's Lover (20 page)

The salon was lavished in floral wallpaper in yellows and pinks, several lace adornments, and a scattering of mahogany and cherry furniture. Monsieur and Madame Lipscomb sat across from one another on a pair of silk-covered settees, and Auguste, dressed in a black suit, posed on the edge of a burnished leather chaise, the only piece of furniture that looked out of place in its surroundings.

He stood at once and fixed his piercing eyes on Camille. The intensity of his demeanor radiated through the room.

She shivered under his unwavering attention. At once she felt torn—should she throw herself in his arms, or flee? How would she lock away her desire?

“You look lovely this evening,” Madame Lipscomb said, surveying Camille’s scarlet gown with low neckline trimmed in black lace. “It’s so very French.”

Camille gave a half smile of thanks. Not exactly the modest Victorian styles Madame Lipscomb wore daily, and she had planned it. A part of her wanted to torture Auguste—make him desire her, long for her, yet she would stay just out of reach.

“Mademoiselle Claudel, how nice to see you.” Auguste’s voice cracked from strained emotion.

Camille’s anxiety turned to anger. He would not behave like a lovesick fool and embarrass her in front of the Lipscombs. She would look like a desperate young woman without sense, falling for her teacher—a common tale and always a dangerous venture for a woman.

“
Bonsoir
, Monsieur Rodin. I trust you’ve been able to rest after your journey?” Camille remained near the doorway.

“I did,
merci
. I was thrilled by the invitation to visit two of my best students. The studio feels empty without you and Mademoiselle Lipscomb.” He crossed the room and, taking her by surprise, kissed her gently on each cheek. He smelled of sandalwood and longing.

Camille flushed and stepped out of his reach. “You flatter me, monsieur.”

“Would you care for an aperitif?” Monsieur Lipscomb asked. “John was just going to pour sherry for us on the terrace.”

A footman with slicked hair and white gloves moved through the room, tray in hand.

“The fresh air would be welcome.” Rodin accepted a glass. He eyed Camille, the intensity welling in his eyes once more.

The footman passed Jessie and madame without offering them a glass. Too masculine a pastime, it seemed, to have a drink before dinner.

Like hell. Camille was not English. “Excuse me.” She motioned to the tray. “I’ll have one.”

The footman paused and looked to Madame Lipscomb, who took a sudden interest in the overflowing pots of petunias lining the terrace.

“Very good, mademoiselle.” He offered the tray to Camille.

She took a glass in one hand and placed her other on his forearm. “Wait.” She chugged the dry liqueur, then choked as it burned her throat. The footman’s eyes bulged in surprise. She took another crystal goblet. “
Merci
.”

Madame Lipscomb regarded her with concern.

Camille felt her impatience rise once more and moved to the open door leading to the terrace. The sun plunged toward the horizon, leaving a trail of blazing gold in its wake. She felt someone join her at her side, but didn’t turn.

“Please be polite, for heaven’s sake,” Jessie whispered.

“Did you see the looks he gave me?” she whispered, her tone fierce. “Your parents must have noticed. I’m humiliated.”

“You only confirm their suspicions with your behavior.” Jessie slipped her arm around her middle for a quick squeeze of reassurance. “He will be gone soon.”

“Monsieur Rodin, would you care to see the stables on the property?” Jessie’s father said.

The men started through the garden.

“What in the world are you two whispering about?” madame asked. “Are you quarreling with Monsieur Rodin, Camille?”

“A quarrel of sorts, yes.” She swigged from her sherry glass.

Jessie cast her mother a warning look. Madame Lipscomb forced a tight smile. “Well, let’s try to enjoy the evening, shall we?”

Camille swallowed the lump of tears in her throat. Where had they come from? She wanted to run through the fields, far from her confusion. “I’ll do my best,” she said.

They dined amiably, though Camille could taste the tension in the air. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together over and over in her lap. She wished Auguste would leave. She had enjoyed her stay with the Lipscombs and their adventures through neighboring towns a great deal. Why did he have to ruin it?

She sank her teeth into a bite of jam roly-poly. The soft yellow cake squished on her tongue and the sweetness of wild strawberry preserves filled her mouth. She forgot her unease for a moment. “Strawberry this time.” She cut another bite. “
Délicieux.
”

“I had the cook make it for you, dear,” Madame Lipscomb said. “I’ve noticed it is your favorite pudding.”

“I could eat it every day,” Camille said, scooping the last bit of preserves on her plate with a spoon.

“Perhaps we should take the recipe with us home to France,” Auguste said, his voice light.

For the first time all evening, Camille looked at him directly. “Your wife can make it,” she said. “And where is she? She didn’t wish to travel with you? A holiday in England may have been just what she needed.”

Auguste read the challenge in her eyes. “I traveled for business. I met Monsieur Natorp in London, but I also came to support my favorite students.”

She snorted. He had sidestepped the mention of Rose Beuret completely, the scoundrel. And yet, a part of her wanted to take him by the hand and lie in the cornflower field. She hated herself for even thinking it. She took another drink of wine. Why must she feel so torn?

Jessie bit her lip. “Shall we move to the drawing room? I can play for you.”

“Sounds lovely,” Madame Lipscomb said.

Camille followed the party into the drawing room and sat at the far
end of the room. Auguste sat across from her. The Lipscombs took their seats near the piano.

Jessie cast a worried glance her way and then began to play. A Scottish ballad filled the room.

“Melancholy, isn’t it?” Camille said in a low voice so only Auguste could hear. “Like a lover scorned.” She regarded him. His expression matched the tenor of the music. Her muddled emotions boiled to the surface and spilled over. “Why must you look at me like that? You’re making a fool of me!”

Jessie’s singing grew louder.

“I accepted a hospitable offer from the Lipscombs, happy to be near you, yet you are angry with me. Why did you leave without telling me?”

“You live with Rose Beuret—a woman I knew nothing about until recently—which I discovered, no thanks to you.” Frustration strangled her. “I need to clear my head and yet you intrude upon my vacation, my space, and my thoughts. How am I to work when I can’t escape you? I run from you and you chase me.”

Hope dawned on his features. “You think of me?” He put out a hand instinctively to touch her.

She jumped to her feet. “Don’t touch me.”

Jessie stopped playing abruptly.

He reached for her once more. “Camille—”

“Please, go,” she said. Her reason warred with her heart and she needed to escape, to untangle her confusion. She could not think in his presence. “If you won’t leave, I’ll stay locked in my room.”

Pain filled Auguste’s eyes, and Camille felt as if she had been stabbed. To hurt him made her throb with regret.

Jessie glared at Camille and rushed to Auguste’s side. “Monsieur Rodin, my most ardent apologies.”

He bowed his head slightly. “Thank you for the delicious meal. I’m going to retire for the evening. And if you would call a carriage for me at first light, I would be very grateful.”

“Of course.” Monsieur Lipscomb extended his hand and shook Rodin’s vigorously. “If there is anything else I can get for you, please ask.”

Auguste nodded and left the room, shoulders sagging.

Camille had gotten what she wanted, yet her insides collapsed.

The train to Paris gained momentum as it pulled away from the Calais station, engines hissing and black smoke billowing over the platform in clouds of soot. A thin layer of grit blew in the open window and coated the floor, seats, and passengers. Rodin dusted off his trousers and leaned his head against the seat. He’d made an ass of himself chasing Camille to England. She had seen through his facade of visiting Gustave in London. She always saw through him.

“
Merde!
” he mumbled aloud. He bit his knuckle to keep from cursing more.

A woman seated in his car startled and gave him a look of disdain. She looked out the smudged windowpane. Her cerulean hat and expensive dress hinted at extreme wealth, femininity, and well-bred manners—the exact opposite of the precious woman he adored. How could he make Camille believe she could trust him? Yet there was Rose. . . . And he could not turn his back on her. It would not be honorable.

As the train increased its speed, Rodin concentrated on its rocking sensation beneath him. Octave Mirbeau, friend and critic, had invited him to show his work at Georges Petit’s gallery in October with Renoir and others. Perhaps this salon would be the one—the one to bring him true recognition, and not the negative kind. He wanted
her
to be there, to support him and witness his triumph. At this moment, that was nothing but a dream.

Auguste squeezed his eyes closed. The image of Camille’s skin beneath his hands, her rosy nipple in his mouth, struck him immediately. He shook his head. He had to get a grip on himself, clear his head for the upcoming exhibition. Yet he could not. The vision shimmered in his mind once more: He kneeled before her naked form in adulation, idolizing her all-consuming beauty.

He shot up in his seat and fished cigarette papers out of his pocket. Quickly he drew a woman seated on a pedestal and a man on his knees, his head resting against her naked abdomen in surrender. It was he, surrendered at her feet, his
Eternal Idol
.

Black storm clouds glared at one another, as if readying for a brawl. Wind swept over Camille and gathered under her skirts, making the lower half of her body appear bulbous. Auguste had really gone. She had behaved like a child, scolded him, and he’d left. She still could not believe it, and it had been weeks ago. She wrapped her arms about herself. The rain soaked her through, washed away her tempestuous behavior and anger. She must learn to hold her noxious tongue.

She sauntered down the gravel lane and through the fragrant bushes nestling against the stone cottage where she slept. The charming abode sat at the edge of a rocky cliff, not more than a meter from the sea. The Isle of Wight was her favorite of all the places she’d visited in England. Paul adored it as well and had gone fishing with Monsieur Lipscomb every day. Her brother found inspiration in the quiet mornings for writing and dreaming. The corners of her lips turned up in a faint smile. The men had yet to catch a fish the entire visit.

A wave arced over the slate waters and broke on the stone at the edge of the property. One violent tempest and the cottage floor would be engulfed. She relished the wild beauty of the sea, the push and pull of currents, and the whirling eddies of cold water that carved out divots in the sand. Water was the most powerful of all, breaking down all in its path, even if slowly; a true force. She lowered herself to the short drop-off to the sea, removed her boots, and dangled her legs over the surf. Auguste was an unavoidable force. Warring against her emotions grew tedious and tiring. Her limbs quivered when he was near; her heart leapt at the sound of his voice. But what of Rose Beuret? The subject had remained taboo. Perhaps it should remain that way for now.
Dieu
, she missed him.