“I mean, outside these gates. To be back with Florence. To paint with her again. She isyourmuse, not mine. I don’t wish to steal her from you—only to see you go free.”
“Free?” The word is a whisper. He blinks bleary eyes.
There’s no such thing as free anymore, is there? Not for any of them.
“What are they doing to help you heal, Carmichael? Are you doing what they ask of you? Making an effort?”
More shaking. “Stuffit. Shove it away, out of sight.” His voice is faint. Distant and almost childlike. “That’s what they say, but where do they expect me to put it?”
No one understands, unless he possesses such a beast, what it means to conceal an elephant. A raging mad one. Dread clogs William’s throat. “Rather impossible, isn’t it?” A delicate threadof shared experience vibrates between them. He takes a breath and lets his hand fall. “Perhaps two can share the load, eh?”
This makes him look William in the eyes. “You’ve…”
Yes, he has his own elephant. “Perhaps you can help me. I’m not quite certain where to put mine, either.” He shakes his head slowly. “Perhaps it’s all a crock, after all, this healing business.” How is a man supposed to heal when his very soul has been shredded? One cannot stitch such a thing back together.
A long, deep breath, and the shaking subsides. “Perhaps. But I’ll not do anything more today.” He yawns, his head lolling a bit. “Jolly good day to rest in the sun.” Samuel has reached his limit. The delicate balance between sanity and utter madness has been upset. It will take time to get a handle on it again.
“You’ll let me come back?”
He frowns.
“Think on it. You’re wrapped in your safe little cocoon here, but other people feel your absence.” William shifts under the throb of his own words. “Feel it keenly.” Cocoons are protective, but sometimes what protects also blinds.
“Why should I care?” Samuel’s eyes widen. His knuckles are white as he grips the bench arm. “She wouldn’t have me.”
William looks him in the eyes. “Give her the privilege of deciding that for herself.” The words slap William across the face as they tumble glibly out of his mouth. He stands, glancing at the gate. This was a terrible idea. There’s no pouring from a chipped jar.
“A man cannot love his muse,” he says, his words faint. “They are temperamental creatures. Faithless ones.” His gaze flicks accusingly over William, as if this validates his outburst toward him.
“Rupert Covington married his muse.”
A short laugh, then his head tilts to the side. “Not exactly.”
William’s fists tighten. “What do you mean?”
But Sam Carmichael still stares at the spot William had just stood, his look vacant. The brokenness has splintered his soul so that truth—that of his own life and that of others—is impossible to see clearly.
Certain memories chip away at a man’s confidence. Sometimes his sanity. For what is a man but the millions of choices he’s made? And what is his perception of himself but the past choices on which he decides to focus? So it is that the past possesses the power to deeply skew one’s perception of the present.
Chapter 32
Merryn, 1913
Withinthehourwe’repacked into the automobile, rumbling toward Penzance, Laura’s scarf billowing out behind her. “Where will you go?”
“Cheltenham, I suppose. I’ve matters I must see to.”
“You could have saved him, you know. Rupert, that is.”
My heart was cracking down the center, hurting him this way. Now it splits in two. “He has other models, does he not?” He was so grateful. So delighted I’d come back.
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “Models, yes. Muses…no.” She straightens her grip on the wheel. “He has returned to what he was before you emerged from the mist, Merryn. A tortured artist who cannot see through the cloud of his emotions. He’s always been a brilliant impressionist, but never more than with you. Something about you…inspired him.”
“Love can do that.”
“Well. Yes, I suppose helovesyou, too.”
But not as much as heneedsme as his muse. Laura’s implication is clear. Love is secondary to Rupert—is that true? I look at her, idly wondering if she’s ever loved Rupert. “How did I meet him? How did I come to be in Newlyn?”
