Ophelia's Muse (27 page)

“Sit down, you two,” he cried gaily. “Let's call for more Madeira.”

“I'm afraid that Miss Siddal is quite worn out,” Ruskin said, his voice full of kind concern. “Perhaps it would be best for her to return home to rest after all this excitement.”

Rossetti looked disappointed, but he looked at Lizzie's pale face and nodded his agreement. The group made their goodbyes, and Ruskin took Lizzie's hand. “Please come back whenever you like. You have the run of the house, and you must come walk in our gardens, or make use of our library, whenever it would please you.”

“Thank you. You've been very kind.” She walked down the steps on Rossetti's arm, and then turned to look back at Ruskin. He stood smiling and waving from the brick path, and for a brief moment she thought of Deverell, waving in just the same way after her last time sitting for him. She hadn't realized until that moment how unmoored she'd felt since his death. The quiet afternoon passed at the Ruskin house reminded her what a sanctuary Deverell's hospitality had been, and she thought that she might impose on Ruskin's kindness, and make use of his library. But now she joined Rossetti in the waiting cab, and they began to bump and lurch through the London streets, like sailors on a storm-tossed sea.

 

A few weeks later, Rossetti was once again hurrying toward Gower Place, late for a meeting of the Brotherhood at John Millais's studio. They hadn't held a formal meeting in many months, and he was looking forward to seeing his friends, and to the fortitude that he usually drew from their gatherings. He needed inspiration, and he worried that his work was foundering.

The domesticity that Lizzie brought to the Chatham Place studio, in which he first took such joy, was at the moment proving a liability. Her frequent illnesses were taxing, and not just on her—Rossetti had little patience for nursing her. She couldn't pose for him for the long stretches that he required, but she sulked if he had other models in the studio. When she did have energy, she often preferred to work at her own paintings. And when he went out in the evenings with friends, he could always expect to see the silent accusations in her eyes the next morning. He loved her, of course. But he was beginning to see why his married acquaintances kept both a home and a studio.

Adding to his anxiety was a letter that he had received from Christina:

He knew that he should have taken Lizzie home to meet his mother months ago, but there was always a reason to put it off. He wasn't sure what worried him more: that his mother would take to Lizzie immediately, or that she would find her common and not worthy of their family. It hardly mattered. In either case, the last thing that he needed was more voices in his head, reminding him of his duties and obligations. The important thing right now was his painting. He must find a way forward in his work.

The meeting of the Brotherhood was already underway when he arrived. Holman Hunt was still in Jerusalem, but he was due home soon, and he had sent home more paintings. The men were passing them around, exclaiming over the stark and beautiful desert scenes. Rossetti stared at a small watercolor study painted at the edge of the Dead Sea, a barren expanse that met a ridge of dusky mountains under a yellow sky. He held the paper up to his nose and imagined that he could smell the salt-caked banks and a hint of incense. He imagined an unshaven Hunt bent over his painting under a makeshift tent. The image stirred his desire for adventure.

Hunt was not the only member of the Brotherhood who had been hard at work. Millais seemed to have completed more canvases since the last meeting than Rossetti had finished all year. And they were solid work, sure to be accepted at the next Exhibition. “You must have been painting day and night,” Rossetti said to him.

“I can't afford to waste my time.” Millais paused, and blushed unexpectedly. “I'll soon have a wife to support.”

“A wife? My dear John, I had no idea that you were engaged. And to whom should I offer my congratulations?”

“Effie Ruskin.” Millais looked at Rossetti with a challenge in his eyes. “Her divorce from John just came through and we'll be married as soon as possible. It will be a quiet ceremony, for obvious reasons.”

Rossetti laughed. “Effie Ruskin? My God, I wouldn't have pegged you for a man to involve himself in a scandal.”

Millais tightened his jaw. “I know that you're close with Ruskin. But he treated dear Effie terribly. She's the injured party—no word can be said against her, and I don't see why any scandal should attach to her name in the matter.”

“I heard rumors that there was another man, but I wouldn't have guessed it was you.”

“I've only acted as any gentleman would have under the circumstances. She wants a warm home and children, Rossetti, like any natural woman would. Ruskin married her in the way one might purchase a statue. He praised her, put her on a pedestal, and then hardly looked her way again. He didn't understand that she was a real woman, not another piece for his collection. He was never a real husband to her.”

“So they say. But must you marry her? Is there no other girl who has caught your fancy? Why risk the gossip?”

“I'm not a man to pursue every fancy that crosses my path. Speaking of which, you would do well to abandon your attentions to Annie Miller. Hunt writes that he'll soon be back from Palestine, and he won't be pleased to find Miss Miller occupied with anything other than her lessons. And besides, you're hardly fit to rebuke me for courting gossip. You've been living openly with Miss Siddal for nearly a year. That's hardly free from scandal.”

“Yes, but I haven't married her, have I?” Rossetti stopped short, immediately regretting his cavalier tone. Of course he meant to marry her.

Millais gave him a meaningful look. “No. You haven't.”

“We are engaged, you know,” Rossetti muttered. “We've kept it private so that I might have a chance to make my name, and some money for a house and such, before we set a date. I've not been as lucky as you in my sales.”

“Does Love need a house to live in? Isn't the house of life sufficient for poets such as yourselves?”

Millais was teasing, but Rossetti was in no mood for jokes. “And will you install Effie in your studio, then?” he snapped. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. “I'm sorry, I don't know what's gotten in to me. Do you feel how quickly the time is passing? I've squandered so many days, when there is so much work to be done; so many paintings that go unpainted, poems that fade from my mind as if they never were.”

“Time is passing for all of us. Why not let Miss Siddal be a consolation to you? Time passes for her as well.”

Rossetti shook his head impatiently. “There will be time for all of that later. The work is the important thing now. Nothing must stand in the way of the work.”

CHAPTER 17

Emma Brown stood at the door of her house, waving to Lizzie and Rossetti as they opened her front gate. Her daughter, Catherine, was on her hip, her thumb tucked neatly in her mouth.

“Hello, Aunt Lizzie,” Catherine said in a childish lisp.

Rossetti rumpled the child's hair. “Why, she's already speaking in sentences!”

“She's no longer a baby, Dante! She just turned three in August. And she's looking very forward to a visit from her dear Lizzie and Dante. She thinks you've brought her a treat!”

“Then she won't be disappointed.” Rossetti handed the little girl a piece of taffy, and she reached out to take it, glancing at her mother to be sure that she should accept.

Lizzie could hardly believe that Catherine was already a little girl—it didn't seem possible that it had been so long since the party when she first saw Emma, who was just expecting at the time. Emma embraced them and together they went into the house.

“Ford is just finishing up with his painting in the garden. Dante, why don't you go out and hurry him along? Lizzie can help me set the table.”

Rossetti went around to the garden and the ladies went into the sitting room. Ford Maddox Brown made a steady living with his painting, but his work had never caught the popular eye in the way that Millais's had. His small income, combined with his propensity for generosity to those in need, meant that his family often lived hand to mouth, just scraping by on his commissions.

The house was small, but what it lacked in luxuries it more than made up for in charm: little Catherine's rocking horse in the corner, Ford's chair and pipe by the fire, and a lovely portrait of Emma above the mantel.

While Emma fetched a doll for Catherine, Lizzie wandered around the room, taking in the touches that made it a home. She ran her fingers longingly over a neat stack of china in a blue willow pattern on the sideboard, and then settled down on the sofa by Emma's cast-aside knitting. She felt a pang, thinking of her own family home, from which she was now barred, and the sparse comforts of Rossetti's studio.

She thought of the parlor of the Siddal house in Kent Place, and now it wasn't the shabbiness that she remembered, but the warmth of the fire and the laughter as she or Lydia read silly stories aloud to their younger sisters and brothers. Would they ever welcome her back? She had given them all up for Dante. And what had he given her in return, that he hadn't given to all of the other models who seemed to sit for him more and more often? She knew that he needed her, relied on her to inspire his work, but she needed more from him than the images that he painted of her. She needed the comfort of a home and the security of marriage. She needed to see her family again.

Then something caught her eye and she looked more closely at Emma's knitting. She saw with surprise that it was a small pair of booties, far too small for even Catherine's tiny feet.

Emma walked back into the room and caught Lizzie looking at the socks. She smiled. “Yes. Catherine will have a little brother or sister to help look after come spring.”

“Oh, Emma,” Lizzie said, and then paused, unable to go on. Tears sprung to her eyes, too many to be blamed only on happiness for her friend.

Emma wrapped her arms around Lizzie and petted her as if she were a child. She'd spent too many hours listening to Lizzie's worries not to know the cause of her tears. “Please don't cry. Everything will turn out all right in the end, you'll see. Dante does love you, I know that. You'll soon have a little one of your own.”

Lizzie wiped at the tears with the back of her hand and turned away from Emma.

“Things can't go on like this forever,” Emma said. Then, seeing the doubtful look on her friend's face, she burst out: “But surely you will marry? He can't possibly do otherwise after all the talk that he has exposed you to!”

Lizzie let out a short, bitter laugh. “Is it that bad, then? What is said about us?”

Emma sighed. “No, of course not. It's only that it has been such a long time, and everyone supposes that you intend to marry, but people are bound to talk.”

“And I suppose they say that Dante will leave me for Annie Miller? That he has tired of me, and finds her more amusing?”

Emma looked strained. “I've heard that they're often seen together. But who's to say what that means? Perhaps nothing. And Hunt will be back from Palestine very soon, and that should put an end to it. They say that he still means to marry her, though I doubt he has any idea of what's been going on since he left. Her name has been linked with several others.” She paused. “I'm sorry, Lizzie, I don't mean to upset you, but I don't want to keep anything from you.”

“I'd rather know where I stand. I'm so far outside of respectable society now, I wonder if any of it even matters.”

“But can't you speak to Dante? Surely he can be made to see the difficult position that he's putting you in?”

“No, he's not like your dear Ford, who's always so concerned with everyone's well-being. Whenever I bother Dante about the delay in our marriage he gets very defensive, or else brushes it off as a joke. He thinks that, as an artist, he's above such worries, and that his art is the only thing that matters. Sometimes I think he loves only himself. But he's given me his word that we will marry. That seems to be good enough for him, and so it must be good enough for me, whether I like it or not. He introduces me now as his pupil, though. Not as his intended.”

Emma pursed her lips. “You have to be firm with him. Your health is so delicate; it would be better for you to have things settled. The strain can't be good for you. Oh, Lizzie, I only wish to see you happy.”

Lizzie took Emma's hand. “I'm sorry to bother you with my troubles. This is hardly the time or place.... At any rate, sometimes I think that with my poor health it would be better if Dante didn't marry me, lest he find himself a widower no sooner than he is a husband.”

Emma looked shocked, and Lizzie regretted her words. She tried to smile. “Don't listen to me, Emma, I don't know why I say such things. Besides, everything is not so bad as it seems. With John Ruskin's allowance I've been able to concentrate on my painting, and that's made me happy. And I really do mean to make a success of myself. Why should the men have all the laurels?”

“If John Ruskin believes in your work, then I have no doubt that you have talent. It is quite an accomplishment, Lizzie, to have caught his notice.” Emma's words were kind, but her voice was forced. “I only wish that Ford could attract the notice of a patron like Ruskin. With another baby on the way, a regular allowance would give me so much peace of mind. But Ford hasn't been lucky enough to gain Ruskin's patronage. How on earth did you manage it?”

Lizzie blushed. “Ruskin has been very generous with me in his terms, but I assure you that I've done nothing out of the ordinary to gain his support. I only hope that my work lives up to his very high standards.”

“I didn't mean to imply . . .” Emma started, and then stopped. She tried again: “I know that you take your painting very seriously. And I wish you only the best.” She put a conciliatory hand on Lizzie's shoulder. “I'm sorry if I've been as guilty as everyone else in thinking of you only as a beauty, and as nothing else. Why shouldn't you be a great painter? Dante speaks highly of your talent.”

“Sometimes I feel that art is the only thing that still gives me hope. Even when I'm so tired that I can hardly stir, I can still coax myself from the bed with the promise of painting. It's different from anything I've ever done. To create something from so little, from nothing but pure emotion and imagination and raw paint—it's a wondrous thing.”

“You sound just like Ford when he talks of painting.”

“Do I? I suppose that I can thank Dante for that, even if I can never thank him for anything else.”

“Don't say such things. You'll tire yourself out with such distressing thoughts. You must save your strength for your painting. Come sit with Catherine by the fire while I finish laying out the table.”

Lizzie was only too happy to comply. She gathered Catherine into her arms and tickled her, eliciting screams of delight. Then she set the girl down on her knee in front of the fire and held her close. Together they began to braid her doll's hair.

Emma looked at the pair, sitting together so sweetly. “Just please do be careful, Lizzie,” she said. “Dante is no different from other men, and you must take care that he doesn't feel that your affections are engaged elsewhere. While you tend to your painting, don't forget to care for Dante as well.”

“I'll do my best.” Lizzie brushed her cheek against Catherine's silky baby hair. The little girl smelled of fresh washing and sweet taffy. “I'm not yet beyond caring. One day he must remember his promise to me, and make me his wife. Look at you and Ford—your happiness gives me hope.”

“What did you say, Auntie Lizzie?” Catherine asked.

“Nothing important, darling. Nothing but a fairy tale.”

“Oh, tell me!” cried Catherine.

“I will,” she said, and she began to spin a story for little Catherine, while Emma set the table. “Once upon a time, there was a princess, the most beautiful girl in the country. But she was under a curse, and she was forced to live as a pauper, working all day and all night for nothing more than her bread and a place to sleep. No one recognized that she was a true princess; they could see only the rags that she wore for clothes. The only way for her to return to her castle was for a prince to find her and kiss her, which would break the curse.

“One day, a prince came to town in search of the hand of a princess. The wicked fairy who had put the curse on the princess was afraid that he would recognize her as a true princess, and so she gave her a potion that made her fall asleep, so that the prince wouldn't find her. . . .”

Lizzie trailed off, staring into the fire. The laudanum that she had come to rely on made it hard for her to concentrate.

“Well,” Catherine demanded, “did the prince find her?”

Lizzie looked around, roused from her daze. “Did the prince find her? Oh, Catherine, I certainly hope so. And then they could be married and live happily ever after.” Before Catherine could press for more details, the men came in from the garden and Emma announced that dinner was served.

Emma and Ford were indulgent parents, and instead of sending Catherine up to bed they let her play under the table while the adults ate. When it was time for dessert, Ford handed down bits of the pudding to Catherine, who amused herself by untying one of Lizzie's boots.

The dinner was, on its face, a success. The wine was poured freely and their laughter floated out through the open windows into the cool night air until well after midnight. Rossetti and Ford spoke of their work, and for once Lizzie felt that she was included as a fellow artist, and not just as Rossetti's model and lover. Ford congratulated her on her allowance from Ruskin, and offered to take her out shopping for some painting supplies of her own, to Lizzie's delight. When they said good night at the door, it was with glowing faces and heartfelt affection.

But for all of her good cheer, Lizzie couldn't stop thinking of the small booties sitting by the fire, and the scent of Catherine's hair as she held the little girl in her arms. Were things different, she thought, she too could have had a little babe of her own, asleep in her cradle, waiting for her mama to return home.

The thought was too sad to bear, and for the thousandth time, she repeated to herself her catechism of despair: He loves me, he will marry me, I must be patient. What else could she do, and where else could she go? She was banished from her home, too ill to go back to the bonnet shop, and too far outside of decent society to hope that another man might have her. She had her painting, but she had so much work ahead of her. Rossetti's promise was her only chance.

When they returned home that night, her instinct was to sulk, to lapse into one of her fits of illness that seemed to rise and fall with the tide of her emotions. It was so easy to punish Rossetti for his failures and his affairs by giving him reason to fear for her life. And it was little more, she thought churlishly, than he deserved. But she remembered Emma's advice, and dipped deep into the well of tenderness and love that she still felt for him. She went to him and wrapped her arms around him. She let her head rest on his shoulder for a moment, and felt him warm to her touch.

He looked at her with surprise. It had been a long time since she had invited him into her arms, and he rarely insisted. But of course he had longed for her, even as he found pleasure in other women.

He led her to the bed and began to undress her carefully. He loosened her hair and let it fall onto her shoulders, tracing his finger from the base of her neck down to the small of her back. He didn't immediately lay her down on the bed, as he had when she first came to live with him at the studio. Instead he sat before her and studied her as if he were going to draw her. It was humbling to see her like this, with nothing but her glorious hair for ornament. No painting would ever match her living, breathing beauty, or the depth of spirit that showed in her eyes.

He pretended to paint her, using her body as the canvas. He touched his finger to the tip of hers and then ran his hand lightly up on her arm, over her shoulder, and across her collarbone. He moved to her face, tracing the outline of her lips, her eyes, and the curve of her ear. He used his palms to follow the slight curve of her waist, her hips, the soft skin of her calves. At last he was kneeling before her, and she bent down toward him, as Guinevere bent over Lancelot to knight him. She bestowed upon him a kiss, offered her hand, and led him to bed.