The Master & the Muses by Amanda McIntyre Page B

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.
    â€œPerhaps we could name him after your father, if it’s a boy.”
    â€œNo,” he said decisively, slapping the book.
    â€œYour 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.”
    â€œOr her.” I smiled.
    â€œYes.” 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.”
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œThen 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.
    â€œI 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.

Chapter 7
    I COULD NOT TELL IF THOMAS WAS CONTINUING to grow more distant, or if I was growing distant from him. He was once again ecstatic about painting. However, when I asked him to tell me about his new project, he refused, saying only that it was going to set those bastards at the academy on their ears.
    He would rise early, summon a carriage and would often be gone until after dark. When I’d offer to fix him dinner, he’d respond by saying he’d “gotten a bite at the gardens,” or “run into an old friend who owed him a meal.” I had no viable reason to mistrust what he told me. Nevertheless, I grew more despondent, knowing that my figure was not what it once was. My concern was furthered when Thomas, claiming the bed was no longer big enough for us both, resorted to sleeping in the guest room.
    I was grateful for the days when the cold London rain would keep him captive at home. On those days, it seemed there was nothing amiss between us. We would chat as we sat near the fire—him with his book and me with my knitting. And I would scold myself for my needless worry.
    â€œHelen, my dear, what would you think of hiring a housekeeper? Someone who could help tidy up the studio, maybe dothe cooking? They wouldn’t live here, unless you wanted them to, of course.” He glanced at me over his book. We’d never had a servant in the house; Thomas thought it to be a sign of the blasé wealthy.
    With him having not sold a painting in a while and with a child on the way, I wondered how we would afford it.
    An idea popped into my head. “I could send for one of my sisters. I’m sure that Mama could talk sense into Papa, once they learned of my condition. Her compensation could be room and board,” I offered, quite enthusiastic over the idea of having a sibling to keep me company while Thomas was away.
    Thomas nodded and then shut his book soundly. “Good, I’m glad you’re receptive to the idea. However, that won’t be necessary. I have already acquired a suitable candidate. She is a fine woman. I’ve known her for some time. She’s a good friend to the brotherhood and familiar with the studio. I won’t have to teach her what not to touch, how to clean brushes.”
    My heart sank. “I see that you’ve put much