The Wayward Muse (8 page)

“You moved,” said Morris. “Are you tired?”

“I’m sorry,” said Jane. “Perhaps I would like some tea.”

“Certainly,” said Morris. He put down his pencil. “I’ll find the porter and tell him to bring it.” With a sinking heart Jane realized that there would be no more gossipy chats with Miss Lipscombe. She would have to take tea with this awkward, silent boy.

When the tray came, Jane marveled, as she always did, at the abundance of the meal. There were cream biscuits and lemon curd, currant scones and marmalade so finely cut it was smooth as jelly. Morris poured the tea, fearing the pot was too heavy for her. He dropped two lumps of sugar into her cup and a generous helping of milk. It was when he was handing the cup to her that the mishap occurred. Somehow Morris contrived to drop it before she had a firm grip on the handle. Hot tea spilled over the table and into Jane’s lap as the cup fell to the floor and broke in two.

“Forgive me,” said Morris, blushing furiously and trying to mop the table with his napkin.

“It was an accident,” said Jane. “We’ll send for another cup.”

He cares for me, she realized with a shock. The knowledge eased her sadness ever so slightly. He is sweet, if clumsy, she thought.

When the mess had been swept away and Jane had poured herself a cup of tea, she looked over at Morris. He was carefully buttering a scone and would not look at her. The silence became oppressive.

“Have you heard from your friends?” she inquired when she could stand it no longer. “Have they all returned safely to London?”

There was a long pause before Morris spoke. “I believe Burne-Jones has gone to Birmingham,” he said.

Jane waited, but Morris didn’t say anything else. “And the others?” she prompted.

“The others are back in London, though I cannot vouch for their safety.”

Jane racked her brain for some way to get Morris to reveal something of Rossetti without asking him directly.

“Except Rossetti,” he added abruptly. “He’s in Bath with…” Here Morris blushed and stuttered slightly. “…his brother,” he finished.

“I’ve heard Bath is lovely,” said Jane.

“It’s a wretched place,” growled Morris. “Full of sickly old people and the young people who prey on them. But the architecture is interesting. Roman, you know.” He began to tell her about the baths and completely forgot what the conversation had originally been about.

When the post came there was a letter for Jane. Morris scowled and tossed it next to her plate before muttering that he had to prepare for the next drawing session.

The return address was Bath. The forceful hand could only be Rossetti’s.

Jane tore the letter open with shaking hands, grateful that Morris had left her alone to read it.

Dearest Miss Burden,
it read:

It took every ounce of self-control Jane possessed to slip the letter into her pocket and return to her pose. He had loved her! He still loved her! Her mind whirled. She wanted to read the letter again, she wanted to burst into tears, she wanted to skip for joy. Instead she remained still as a statue while Morris hummed and cursed under his breath and tore sheet after sheet of paper off the easel and ripped them into pieces.

Jane considered whether or not to answer him. She knew that she should punish Rossetti’s behavior by never speaking to him again, but she didn’t think she could do that. And he wanted her to wait for him, that was clear. She had no idea what she should do.

“Do you like poetry, Miss Burden?” It took Jane a few moments to emerge from her reverie and realize that Morris was speaking to her.

“Yes I do, Mr. Morris,” she said, “although I don’t have as much time to read as I would like.”

He misunderstood her. “I’m sorry that our work here keeps you from your books, and I promise you I will be eternally grateful for the sacrifice.”

There was a long silence as she tried to figure out what she was supposed to say to that. She could admit that she had no books at home, that the only poetry she heard now were the few things she had committed to memory, but she did not want him to feel sorry for her.

“Who are your favorite poets, Mr. Morris?” she finally asked.

“Keats,” he replied. She had to admit she had not read any. Tennyson she had read. He asked if she knew “The Lady of Shalott.”

“It is one of my favorites,” she said. “I have often wanted to be her.”

“But she was imprisoned,” protested Morris. “And cursed. She died.”

“Yes, but where she lived was beautiful, looking out over the fields of barley and rye, and the river, shaded by willows and aspens. And she had her weaving.”

“But she had no ‘loyal knight and true,’ and was condemned to see the world only as shadows.”

“Think how she must have felt when she saw Launcelot,” mused Jane. “A peculiar mixture of exhilaration and sadness, I imagine. For she had found love, but she knew that she would die. She was free, and yet she had lost everything.”

“I sincerely hope that it will not require your death to free you from your prison,” said Morris. Jane blushed. She had not meant to draw attention to herself. She had only wanted to talk about poetry.

“I am not imprisoned,” she said. “I do not live in a poem, whatever my silly imaginings.”

“They are not silly,” said Morris. “It is what poetry is for, to transport us out of ourselves.”

“Have you thought of painting her?” said Jane, to distract him.

He shook his head. “Rossetti could, I’m sure. But I am beginning to fear that I will never be any good as a painter. This Guinevere will not come right, and I have the most wonderful model in England.”

Now Jane really did not know what to say. The compliment sounded so different coming from Morris. The depth of feeling behind it was alarming. It seemed to imply an obligation on her part that made her want to flee.

“Do you like novels, Mr. Morris?”

“I adore them. Scott especially. I am reading Dicken’s latest,
Barnaby Rudge.”

“I have only read
Ivanhoe,”
Jane admitted. “But I would like to read Dickens someday.”

“If you like, Miss Burden, I will read some of it to you.”

“I would quite like that, Mr. Morris,” she said, wondering if it was wrong to flirt with him.

That night she sat for a long time, pencil in hand, trying to organize her thoughts.

Dear Mr. Rossetti,
she wrote:

She stopped, uncertain what to say next. Should she give him reason to believe she would wait for him? Should she encourage him to continue to write to her?

As she sealed the letter, Jane felt a searing pain at the thought of sundering herself from Rossetti, but she had no doubt she had done the right thing. How would she feel if she were in Lizzie’s place, sick and helpless? If Rossetti abandoned her she would be reduced to something much worse than a hat shop.

The next day when she arrived, there was a package wrapped in blue paper on the table next to Morris’s easel. Morris turned red when he saw her looking at it. He picked it up and handed it to her.

“I saw something in a bookshop yesterday I thought you might like. I hope you won’t think it too forward. From one reader to another.”

She untied the string and unwrapped the present. It was an illustrated Tennyson, bound in soft leather with the title stamped in gold. Inside, each poem was bordered by pen-and-ink drawings, and every few pages there was a two-page spread of watercolor. She could not imagine how much such a thing had cost. And Morris made it sound as if he had bought it on a whim, with no particular thought or care!

“I don’t know what to say, Mr. Morris,” she said.

“Say you like it,” he mumbled.

“I do,” she said, “very much.” As she flipped through the pages, she noticed that although she had read most of the poems, a few were new to her. Reluctantly she closed the book. “I shall read a little bit of it every day, to make the pleasure last longer,” she said. Morris smiled with delight, but his smile faded as Jane pulled the letter to Rossetti out of her apron pocket and handed it to him.

“Would you be so kind as to post this for me?”

Morris frowned as he read the address. “Yes, of course,” he said. He looked at it as if it were a particularly noxious type of vermin, then put it in his pocket.

They worked in silence for most of the morning. Morris had moved on to the canvas now and his difficulties seemed to have multiplied. His face was clenched in determination and his fingers were white from holding the brush. She expected it to fly out of his hand at any moment.

“Rossetti would know how to fix this,” he grumbled. “Of course, he would never get into such a muddle. Only Millais is more naturally gifted at painting. Of course Millais drives himself like a cart horse.”

He looked up and saw that Jane was standing as still as before, but that tears were rolling down her face.

“Tell me what you thought of
Ivanhoe,
” Morris said quickly. “I can imagine you modeling for a painting of Rebecca.”

Jane wished she had a handkerchief. “Of course I always wished to be Rowena,” she choked.

“Why is that, when Rebecca is such a principled and noble woman, and Rowena is a simpering, helpless fool?” Morris asked.

Jane had to laugh at his blunt appraisal of the characters. “I suppose that’s true,” she admitted. “But Rowena marries Ivanhoe, while Rebecca ends up in the Jewish convent. Though it always did seem to me that Ivanhoe should have married her instead. It would have been a better story.”

“I wholeheartedly agree,” said Morris. He lowered his brush and stared out of the window. “I first read Scott when I was a young boy in Essex. I used to ride my pony out into the woods and pretend that I was a knight on a quest. There was a hunting lodge there that had been Queen Elizabeth’s, but it was derelict and barely cared for at that time. I used to imagine that it was my castle. I even fashioned myself a costume and a bow and arrow.” He smiled at the memory. “My poor pony had to wear a tasseled blanket made of discarded drapery. He was very patient with me.”

“Was your childhood a magical one, then?” said Jane. She could hardly imagine having the time and freedom he described.

“For a while,” said Morris. “Until my father died and I was sent away to school. I have not seen the hunting lodge in many years. I suppose it will be torn down to build workers’ housing. All of the old lovely places seem to be disappearing.”

“There is a place here, on the Iffley Road,” said Jane without thinking. “The violets grow in the fields along the river in great profusion. There’s not a castle, but it is the prettiest spot in Oxfordshire, I think. Do you know it?”

“Is it near the walnut grove?” asked Morris. “The one owned by Magdalen College? We used to sneak over there and steal nuts by the pailful when I was in school.”

Jane smiled. “I’m surprised we never ran into each other then. My sister Bessie and I visit the walnut grove regularly. The violet field is not half a mile away.”

“I should like to see it,” said Morris. “Will you take me there sometime?”

Jane realized now what she had said, but there was no evading him. “Of course,” she said reluctantly. “When the weather improves.”

When she left, Jane hid the Tennyson in her coat and somehow slipped past without her mother seeing it. She secreted it away under her pallet.