The Wayward Muse (2 page)

T
HE
next day Jane tried to forget about her mother, and the cellar, and Tom Barnstable. Instead she focused on the play that she and Bessie were to see. Going to the theater was a rare treat for them. Their tickets had come from a friend of Bessie’s whose mother had taken ill. And it wasn’t a third-rate local troupe either, but the touring company of the Theater Royal Drury Lane, from London.

“What should I wear?” Jane asked Bessie as they scoured the pans.

“The yellow dress is the only one you have that isn’t too short,” Bessie said, “though it does make you look terribly sallow. I’ve repaired the blue tarlatan. It’s sadly faded but Mrs. Burden said I can’t have another dress until spring, no matter how much I grow.”

“Maybe if I wore the black velvet collar,” Jane considered. “At least then the yellow wouldn’t be near my face.”

“Oh, I was going to wear it,” pouted Bessie. “Peter Gourley is going to be there, and you know he’s an apprentice at the haberdasher’s now. He’s very particular about how a girl’s turned out.”

Jane wondered how Tom Barnstable felt about how a girl was dressed.

“You can borrow some of my rosewater, though, if you like,” said Bessie. “Peter gave it to me. It was fearfully expensive, so mind you just use the tiniest bit.”

“Thank you,” sighed Jane. She did not like to admit that she disliked Bessie, not since their older sister, Mary Ann, had died of tuberculosis six years before.

In the evening Mr. Burden came home from the stable and Jane’s brother, Jamey, returned from his job as a messenger. Without a word to anyone, they sat down at the table and waited for their supper. When Jane and Bessie placed a bowl of boiled turnips and a plate of brown bread on the table, their brother grabbed them immediately and emptied them onto his plate.

Bessie shrieked in dismay. “But there’s no more—,” she began.

Jamey mumbled something, but his mouth was full and no one could understand it.

“Something wrong, girl?” asked Mr. Burden, reaching over to take a turnip from Jamey’s plate. He didn’t shout, or thump the table, or raise his arm, but even Bessie knew better than to challenge him when he used that particular tone.

“No, sir,” Bessie said, shaking her head.

They ate the rest of their meal without speaking. The only sound was Mr. Burden’s grunts as he mopped his plate with the bread. Mrs. Burden and Bessie and Jane had only boiled potatoes. As soon as Mr. Burden’s plate was empty, he clapped Jamey on the shoulder and they left the house without a backward glance. They would spend the evening at the pub and return after the women were already in bed.

After washing up, Jane and Bessie went to the bedroom to get ready for the theater. Jane’s yellow dress was made of the cheapest wool available, and had been worn so many times that the once gold-colored fabric was dull and pilled. At least the style suited her figure, thought Jane. Mrs. Burden might be illiterate, but she was widely known to be the best dressmaker on Holywell Street, and she had imparted her only useful skill to her daughter. Jane had altered the one pattern they owned, so that her dress had dolman sleeves and lowered armholes. For the thousandth time she thought how nice it would be to have braided or fringed dress trim and an amber brooch.

Anxiously she studied the hem of her skirt. “I think it is too short,” she said. “Can you see the tops of my boots?”

Bessie had decided that the hair ribbon she had planned to wear wasn’t fit to be seen and tossed it to the floor. Now she turned to look at Jane. “Yes, you can,” she said. “I think you are going to be a giantess, Jane. Isn’t there any way to let it out?”

“There’s no more hem left,” said Jane.

“Look in the fabric bag,” said Bessie. “Maybe you can cut out a quick band and sew it on. How do you like my hair?”

Jane found a piece of cloth that would do for the hem of her skirt. She took off the dress and laid it on her pallet. Then she set to work, clad only in her chemise. She had to hurry if she was going to be ready in time.

The blue cotton she had found was left over from making Bessie’s dress and would look very odd, but it was better than being indecent. In a very short time, the task was done and she put the dress back on.

Jane tied Bessie’s sash so that each loop of the bow was the exact size and shape of the other, and vigorously brushed the lint and dirt from the back of Bessie’s skirt. She straightened Bessie’s velvet collar and curled her front hair with hot tongs. Bessie glanced at her reflection in the window and, with a satisfied toss of her head, pronounced herself ready.

“What about me?” said Jane. Bessie turned and looked at her sister. She clapped her hand to her mouth and tried to stifle her giggles, but couldn’t.

“Oh, Jane, you look terrible!” she said.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jane in alarm.

Bessie showed her the large spot of mud on the front of her dress. “I don’t know how you missed seeing this. Your collar is crooked, your skirt is twisted, and two of your buttons have popped off.”

Just then Mrs. Burden barreled into the room.

“Look at the two of you,” she said. Her eyes were still sleepy with drink but her voice was sharp. “I often wonder where I went wrong,” she continued, “one daughter so ugly as to be deformed, the other as silly as a Punch and Judy show. I suppose it was marrying your father, though he was handsome enough then.”

“I think I look very nice,” said Bessie stoutly.

Mrs. Burden laughed mirthlessly. “Oh, you’ll get a husband, I’m sure. Mind he doesn’t send you back when he finds out how lazy and rude you are. But at least you’ve got proper carriage. Not like this one. Look at how she slouches. Another girl would be walking about with books on her head, but she just stands there with rolled shoulders.”

Jane thought to herself that if there were any books in the house, she would gladly practice, but she said nothing.

Her mother smacked her on the side of the head. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Ungrateful girl.” Then she collapsed onto the pallet she shared with Mr. Burden and began to sob.

“Why did I lose my boys?” she wept. “Mrs. Allen has four strapping sons, all a credit to her. I’ve only got Jamey, now that John and Francis and Michael…”

Jane stood quietly, thinking of her dead brothers while Bessie sewed her buttons on with trembling fingers. They had only been babies, all killed by cholera. She supposed that was why their mother hated them, because they should have been the ones to die.

Bessie blotted the stain on Jane’s skirt with vinegar water, and most of it came out. Jane pinched Bessie’s cheeks to make them pink, and they shared a spritz of the rosewater. Then, having no mirror, they examined each other from top to bottom to make sure everything was in order. Having satisfied themselves that it was, they left Mrs. Burden weeping on the straw mattress. Soon she would suspend her tears long enough to lumber into the kitchen and pour herself more rotgut gin. By the time they got home from the theater, she would most likely be asleep.

Jane and Bessie set off down Holywell Street, toward town.

On the way they passed Tom Barnstable. Suddenly he was everywhere, thought Jane. Why couldn’t he join the army or fall down a well? He wore a sullen expression as he kicked a pebble down the street, but when he saw them he nodded and smiled, revealing a mouthful of gray, dead teeth. It seemed to Jane that he looked particularly at her. When they had passed, Bessie nudged Jane in the side.

“Don’t say anything,” said Jane, her jaw clenched.

It was a short walk to Oriel Street. A throng was gathered at the entrance to the modest auditorium where the colleges held their debating competitions and less popular musical concerts.

Bessie gripped Jane’s arm. “Everyone’s so well dressed,” she whispered.

“Yes,” agreed Jane, trying not to notice that several people had stared pityingly at her skirt. “I see Dr. Holman and his wife. She looks very pleased with her fox tippet.”

They joined the line waiting to pick up tickets.

“Do you see Peter?” Bessie asked. “He promised me he would be here.”

Jane scanned the crowd of theatergoers, so different from the people she usually saw. “There he is,” she announced when she caught sight of a freckled young man waving frantically at her sister from the back of the line.

“Save my place,” said Bessie, and was gone.

A man was selling lemonade at a booth across the lobby, and Jane was just wishing she had money to buy some when she felt that someone was staring at her. She looked around and her gaze locked with that of a young man slouched against the wall next to the lemonade booth, sipping a glass of beer. He had large, expressive eyes, dark as coal oil, deeply set in a face as smooth and chiseled as honey-colored Italian marble. A small, sardonic smile played across his full lips when his eyes met hers. He turned to whisper something to his companion, who squinted in Jane’s direction. Quickly she turned around. Her heart was pounding but she told herself that the young man must be ridiculing her poor dress or laughing at her ugliness. What other reason could he have for staring?

When she turned back to look, they had gone, and Bessie was beside her again, holding the playbill Peter Gourley had bought her. Jane said nothing to her sister, knowing that even if she could explain what she had felt when the dark young man stared at her, Bessie would tell her she was imagining things.

Their seats were all the way in front and on the extreme left side of the theater, so that they could see into the orchestra pit and the wings. It was excruciating to stare at the musicians pulling their instruments out of their cases and not be able to turn around and look for the young man and his friend. Jane tried to pay attention to the things Bessie read to her from the playbill, but the cushion on her seat was ripped and as she fidgeted she fervently hoped that the springs poking her uncomfortably did not tear her skirt.

“Did you see two young men in the crowd?” asked Jane finally, despite herself. “One tall with gold whiskers, the other dark?”

“Where?” said Bessie, swiveling around.

Jane grabbed her by the sleeve. “Don’t,” she hissed.

“Were they handsome?” inquired Bessie. “Why didn’t you mention it before? Now they’re putting out the lanterns and I can’t see.”

“Shh,” Jane said as the curtain was cranked open. “The play is starting.”

The play was the musical comedy
Ben Bolt,
and there was lots of tripping over chairs and mistaken identity. Jane tried to follow the plot, but she was distracted. She kept thinking about the dark gentleman. She was surprised she had never seen him before. He was too old to be a student, so she supposed he must be a tutor at one of the colleges.

“Let’s go and stand by the lemonade booth,” she said to Bessie at intermission.

“Why?” asked Bessie. “We can’t buy any. Though maybe if we find Peter, he will buy me one and we can share it.”

“Just come,” said Jane. She pulled her sister to the place where the two young men had stood, and waited.

“Are you hoping to see the gentlemen you were talking about? Because I don’t think—” She broke off with a squeal of fright when she saw that the gentlemen in question were right in front of them.

“Good evening.” The one with the dark hair bowed. Bessie squeezed Jane’s hand, evidently expecting her to handle the situation. Jane nodded her head. She reflected that though this was an extraordinary event and she should be alarmed, she was not.

“My name is Dante Gabriel Rossetti,” the young man continued. “You may have heard of me.” Jane shook her head uncomprehendingly. She tried to think how she might have heard that name. Was he an actor or a circus performer? Had he committed some spectacular crime?

“This is my friend Edward Burne-Jones. We’ve come to paint the new Debating Hall of the Oxford Union.” Burne-Jones was very young, almost as young as Jane, and his silly handlebar mustache did nothing to hide the fact. He flushed pink when his friend said his name, and nodded at Jane without meeting her eyes.

“I had not heard that the Debating Hall was being painted,” said Jane. Though Burne-Jones was modestly dressed in a suit that Jane knew would later draw scathing condemnation from Bessie, Rossetti’s clothes were obviously very expensive. Though why a painter would be attired so sumptuously she could not imagine. She was uncomfortably aware that he might be looking at her dress, with its patched hem and worn fabric.

“There are several of us, up from London, but Rossetti here is our leader. He’s a very famous painter,” said Burne-Jones. He spoke very softly and Jane had to strain to hear him over the crowd in the hall.

“I suppose I’m well-known in some circles,” said Rossetti modestly.

Jane thought this was very strange. “You’ve come all the way from London?” she asked. “Could they not hire local men to do it?”

“I think you misunderstand what kind of painting we do,” said Rossetti. “We’re artists.” He waited for the light of recognition. “Picture painters.”

Jane felt very foolish. Beside her, Bessie shook with nervous laughter, which she tried to disguise as a coughing fit. The blond young man handed her a handkerchief.

“I’m sorry,” Jane said. “It’s just that I’ve never met any picture painters.”