Chapter 21

Rose Beuret folded her arms and waited for my answer. I tried not to look at the locked door behind her in case Rodin and Camille chose this moment to re-emerge.

‘Well?’ she said.

‘I’m Jessie Lipscomb. I work here.’

‘Anglaise, hein? You speak French like a parisienne.’ My dustcoat was unbuttoned and she flicked it open to expose my raspberry and cream striped dress. ‘What’s a fancy lady like you doing in this bear pit? You’d better watch out, some of the boys can be bit rough. But perhaps you like that?’ She pushed her face close to mine. Her bone structure was extraordinary; there was an almost masculine strength to it. She narrowed her eyes. ‘Or maybe your tastes run to older men, like my Auguste.’

Dear God, she must think I was having an affair with Rodin. It had been a difficult day and I’d had enough of being attacked by strangers: first the practiciens and now this has-been model. I didn’t care who she was married to, or not married to, I was going to let her have it. There was something delicious about letting my temper explode like a firework popping into a cloudburst of stars.

I drew my shoulders back and looked her in the eye. ‘Madame, you insult me. I’m an artist, here for purely professional reasons. Monsieur Rodin is my tutor and employer, nothing more. If I were a man you would not dare speak to me like that. And if I were a man, I would teach you a lesson you would not forget.’

She pushed back her sleeves. ‘Don’t let that stop you, you little salope.’ She was about to spring at me when Georges chose that moment to come looking for me. He broke into a run when he saw us circling each other.

‘Madame Rodin, I see you have met our new recruit.’ He stepped between us, lifted Rose Beuret’s hand to his lips and offered her his most charming smile and put his arm around me, all in a neat series of moves. ‘Jessie, surely you have heard of la belle Rose – the most intoxicating flower in all Paris.’

Rose Beuret patted a lock that had fallen out of her enormous pile of hair and smiled at Georges, ‘It is true, Auguste used to call me his “wild flower”.’

‘And who could blame him? They were all mad for you: Courbet, Cézanne, Monet, Renoir. I wish you’d pose for me but I would not dare quarrel with the maître. We all know that Monsieur Rodin guards his treasure jealously.’

Rose giggled like a schoolgirl. ‘Ridiculous boy! I’m old enough to be your mother.’ She sighed. ‘But you’re right, in my day, none of the other models could hold a candle to me. Everyone wanted me to pose, but I belonged to Rodin. I was only eighteen when I met him. I had breasts like ripe peaches and hair so long I could sit on it.’

‘You’re still the most stunning woman in all of Paris.’ He lowered his voice and glanced at me. ‘But I confess, my heart has been captured by another.’ I was about to protest when I realised he was playing a clever game to deflect Rose’s anger from me.

Rose beamed at us both. ‘Aha! So, it’s like that, is it? I like a love story. Playing hard to get is she, Georges? The little English minx!’ To my alarm, she pinched my cheek and shook my head from side to side. ‘Well, let’s see if your lady friend the professional artist is worthy of your attentions. Show me your work – what was your name again?’

I opened my mouth to give her a sharp reply but Georges gave me a warning look. I stepped reluctantly aside so she could see the half-draped figure I’d been working on all day.

Rose, who seemed to be enjoying her role as the boss’s wife, frowned and tapped a finger over her mouth. ‘Let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are, English girl.’ She put her head to one side and considered my work like an art expert. I rolled my eyes at Georges who shook his head at me. ‘This is good, very good,’ Rose said. ‘You have a feel for the clay, and for the hang of cloth. But be careful to allow the drapes some movement. Leave them a bit unfinished – that’s what Rodin likes. I should know – I’ve been around his work for half my life.’

I was pleased, in spite of myself. It was ridiculous to care about her opinion, but any artist who says they don’t lap up praise like a thirsty dog is lying.

Rose rearranged her shawl. ‘Au revoir, mes enfants.’ She wagged her finger at us. ‘Be good, you two, and if you can’t be good, be careful.’ Her laugh was guttural as she winked at me. ‘Hein, little fancy pants, stop playing so hard to get and take pity on this gorgeous man.’ She grabbed his face in one hand and it was Georges’ turn to suffer. Rose sighed again and smoothed the front of her bodice. ‘It all goes, as you’ll find out for yourself in good time, English Miss. You think you’ll always be young, then one day you wake up and you don’t look so peachy any more. Enjoy it while you can.’

She left and I became aware of Georges standing so close to me I could smell his citrus cologne. His forearms were brown like a labourer’s, the fine hairs golden in the afternoon sun.

‘So, are you going to take Rose’s advice?’

I began packing up my carving tools. ‘Thanks for coming to my rescue again, even if it meant she has the wrong idea about us.’

‘Has she?’ He bent down to help me put away my things. ‘Rose Beuret’s pretty astute. It’s a mistake to underestimate her. You should warn Camille to be more careful.’

I froze. ‘What do you mean?’

He gave me a slow smile and offered me his arm. ‘Let me walk you to the door. You’ve worked quite hard enough for your first day.’

At the models’ screen he helped me off with my dustcoat and took down my dolman from its peg and held it out for me. He wrapped it around me and held me for a moment.

‘Jessie, I’m sorry if I was rude this morning, when you came in. I couldn’t help it, seeing you with that fool, William.’

I turned to face him. ‘William is not a fool.’

Georges held up his palms. ‘I know he isn’t. I don’t know why I said that. Yes I do, and so do you.’ He rubbed his forehead. ‘The truth is, I didn’t behave very well with him. When we were in Montmartre, I tried to distract him, you know, with some of the women. I’m sorry.’

Georges could make me warm to him one moment and make my blood boil the next. I remembered what William had told me about Georges’ behaviour in Montmartre.

I stepped away from him. ‘I’m surprised you had time to tempt William, I hear you made yourself more than agreeable with the dancers.’ Georges’ eyes gleamed and, too late, I realised my mistake.

‘Are you jealous, Jessie,’ he said. ‘I do hope so.’ He grinned. ‘Why, I believe you’re blushing.’

‘Nonsense, it’s just a little hot in here.’ But when I put my hand to my cheeks, they were hot.

He laughed. ‘Come on, wildcat, I’ll walk you home.’

Camille caught up with us in the street, eyes bright and her hair coming loose. She looked ravishing. I tried not to think of Rodin’s hands all over her, and hoped Georges wouldn’t notice that her blouse was buttoned up wrong.

He offered Camille his arm. ‘What a healthy glow you have. You must have been doing those calisthenics that are so fashionable with the young ladies of Paris.’

‘It’s so hot today,’ I said, in a rush. ‘No wonder Camille is warm. It’s all right for you in your shirtsleeves, think of us in our bustles and layers of petticoats and bloomers.’

‘I think of nothing else, I can assure you,’ Georges said with a wicked smile.

Camille groaned. ‘Listen to me, and stop being such an idiot for once. I’ve had the most brilliant idea. Why don’t we all go to the Madwomen’s Ball? Have you ever been, Georges?’

‘Once or twice,’ he said. ‘But there’s no need to make a special outing to see mad women now that I work alongside you, ma petite folle.’

Camille scowled at him. ‘Shut up, Georges. Seriously, it would be good material. I’ll bring my sketchbook. Will you take Jessie and me?’

‘All right, as long as I get locked up in a cell with Jessie for at least an hour, no, make that two hours.’ He put his arms around our waists and squeezed.

‘We’d better ask Rosa, too,’ Camille said, pushing him off. ‘I’m not playing gooseberry while you run around after Jessie all evening with your tongue hanging out.’

Georges threw up his arms. ‘But, of course we must have La Bonheur there. She’ll make the poor demented crazies feel quite sane and sensible when she turns up in top hat and tails.’

‘I would love to see Rosa in white tie,’ I said. As we walked, they told me the ball was held in La Salpêtrière, the Paris insane asylum for women. I shuddered, imagining Rochester’s wife and Miss Havisham in her rotting white gown. ‘Won’t it be dangerous?’

‘Don’t worry, they don’t let the violent ones attend,’ Georges said. ‘Most of them aren’t mad, at least not the way you’d imagine, with staring eyes and disordered hair. Now I think about it, a look not dissimilar to the toilette of our own dear Mademoiselle Claudel. Camille, will you stop hitting me? Save your strength for the nurses when they try to take you back to your cell after the ball with your lunatic copines.’

As we walked home, exultant after our first day in Rodin’s studio and talking about the ball, the sun was low, bathing the green rooftops in gold, and the sky stretched above us a wash of purple ink.