The Master & the Muses by Amanda McIntyre Page A

me.”
    I blinked, unsure of what I heard. “This is not the time for frivolity, Thomas.”
    â€œWho 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.”
    â€œPreposterous. 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.”
    â€œBecause of the baby?” I asked, needing to know that it was more than guilt prompting his sudden decision.
    â€œHelen. 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.”
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    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 sitfor 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.
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    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.
    â€œThomas,” 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