Ophelia's Muse (12 page)

Lizzie didn't stop to examine whether the quick surge of emotion that she felt was relief or disappointment. She gave him her arm and let him lead her back out into the street.

Rossetti was right; it was too beautiful to stay indoors, if one could help it. It was a perfect May afternoon, the sun's warmth kept at bay by a pleasant breeze. The streets were full, as if all of society, from the errand boys of the city to the young lords of St. James's Park, had emerged to enjoy the good weather in a spirit of thanksgiving for spring and goodwill for humanity.

In the anonymous crowd, Lizzie felt that she and Rossetti could be anyone. Who was to say that they were not newlyweds, perfectly free to walk alone through the sunny streets? Rossetti kept up a steady discourse on the poems that he was translating, and Lizzie held her head high and smiled at the men who tipped their hats to her. She was a different girl, after sitting for Deverell and Rossetti, from the one who had only a few months before scurried to and from work with her bonnet pulled low and her eyes down. Her new confidence was more flattering than any new gown, and she basked under the admiring glances thrown her way as others basked under the spring sun.

But the fine weather did not hold. A stiff wind blew in the clouds that had hovered at the horizon, and they settled quickly over the city, turning the air damp and chilly. Lizzie wore only a shawl, and Rossetti threw his coat over her shoulders. When a light rain began to fall, they made a dash for the cover of St. Saviour's. They stood on the steps of the cathedral, laughing and shivering under the watchful eyes of a stone saint.

Rossetti reached out to smooth Lizzie's hair, which had come loose as they ran. His touch was gentle, and here on the church steps Lizzie felt none of the confusion and unease that she had felt in the studio. They were no different from any other couple caught in the rain, sharing a moment of the most ordinary intimacy in the quiet alcove of the church stairs. Rossetti let his hand linger on her cheek, and smiled at her sweetly.

From beyond the heavy oak doors of the church, they heard music. First the low rumble of the organ, and then a high clear note, the sound of angels singing.

“Evensong,” Lizzie murmured. Rossetti pushed open the door, and the music swelled and filled the entryway, the chorus of voices carrying them into the cathedral on its tide. They passed into the nave, a soaring space of arched columns that rose to form a high tower. Above the altar, the last pale light of the afternoon illuminated the jeweled panels of a stained glass window. There were only a few worshippers, crowded into the first few pews and scattered toward the back.

The rising notes of the choir echoed from the stone columns, and Lizzie shivered with pleasure. They walked down the aisle that flanked the nave, passing small chapels and racks of candles that testified to the prayers of those hoping for solace, healing, and luck. When they came to the chapel of the Virgin Mary, Lizzie slipped a coin into the wooden box and took a long white candle, which she lit and placed before the altar. She knelt down and lowered her head in prayer.

Rossetti stood and watched her pray. Behind them, the choir began a quiet chant, a whisper no louder than a breeze that slowly built strength until it resonated in a high, clear note, the innocent voices of the children offering their glory to God. In the half light of the chapel, Lizzie, with her porcelain skin, looked no different from the carved stone saints that surrounded her. Rossetti saw that it was not some spell of the studio that drew him to her—she had the power to transform any landscape into art, as if her presence could convert the ordinary into the sublime.

The scene was perfect: the pious, innocent girl, the curve of her neck mirrored by the bent head of the Virgin; the rich embroidery of the altar cloth and the gold of the saints' halos; the warm light cast by the candles. Lizzie was so beautiful at that moment that Rossetti didn't know whether he ought to go to her or paint her. He hesitated. He knew instinctively that to enter the scene was to change it, subtly but definitively. Alone she was a praying saint; together they would be a man and woman, kneeling at the altar.

But he had no brush and no easel, and so he went to her, kneeling down beside her and assuming his role, unable to resist adding the necessary detail that would bring the painting into harmony. “What do you pray for?” he asked her.

Without looking at him, Lizzie lifted her face toward the statue of the Virgin. She too could feel the weight of the moment, the rush of emotion that built toward some end as naturally as the crescendo of the choir rose to a transcendent finale. “I pray that I am worthy of you. Of your talent.”

She could not have chosen words better calculated to entrance him. “Then you have wasted a candle. Your beauty requires no further grace.”

“And am I worthy of your regard?”

“Lizzie.” He took her face in his hands. He could feel the beat of her pulse against his palm, like the quiver of a dove. He leaned in to kiss her, but she stood suddenly, jarringly, and put her finger to his lips.

“Would I be worthy of your regard if I let you kiss me here, in this church?”

He hesitated. In the studio he might have grabbed her hand and pulled her back to him, but here before the Virgin such gestures rang a false and empty note. He knelt before her and took her hand. “Is there a more perfect place to kiss you, than in a church? I should like to be able to kiss you freely before God and all the world.”

Lizzie's face lit up and he could see, within the young woman before him, the little girl who had dreamed of knights-errant. The power to please her was a potent aphrodisiac, and he continued in a rush, his spirit stirred by the sound of the choir and the perfume of the candles. His words tumbled out, unplanned and heartfelt. “Lizzie, you may trust me. I know that you haven't had an easy life, and I won't add to your troubles. I can offer you nothing now but to paint you. But if my work succeeds, when I gain a name for myself. . . there will be no happiness that can be denied to us. There is something that I would ask you, if I could only be sure of being worthy of your answer.”

“Then kiss me once,” Lizzie said, her smile beatific. “And then let us go, before Evensong ends. I want to carry this music, and this moment, with me for the rest of the night.”

CHAPTER 7

Lizzie received the invitation, written in Rossetti's now familiar scrawl, and accepted at once. When a similar note arrived from Walter Deverell the next day, she declined with only a tinge of regret, adding a friendly note that she looked forward to congratulating him on his success in person.

In the days leading up to the reception, she could think of little else. The Artists' Reception was a bohemian highlight of the city's social calendar; a much-anticipated chance for the wealthy patrons of the arts to mingle with the more artistic set whom their purchases supported. In her days at Mrs. Tozer's, she had worked on special orders for the event, and she knew that many fashionable ladies would be there. She knew that any dress that she had would be very poor by comparison, and when she and Lydia looked over her best dress, the dove-gray silk, with an eye to re-trimming it, they found it hopelessly plain for an evening gown.

There wasn't much time before the reception, but Lizzie's work at the millinery had made her a quick and competent seamstress, and she thought she might be able to design something original in time for the party. There was no time, and not nearly enough fabric on hand for her to sew a full ball gown. But she thought she might be able to do something simple, in the style of the dress that she wore as a model for Beatrice. The costume's high waist and flowing skirt was much more becoming to her tall and slim figure than the modern style of corsets and crinolines, which emphasized curves she did not in fact possess. She had begun to take her role as muse to Rossetti seriously, and she was excited at the idea of wearing a medieval-styled gown and entering the reception as if she were stepping from one of his paintings.

Mrs. Tozer was willing to part with a length of sapphire blue velvet for ten shillings, a good price that still required Lizzie's entire savings. Using long, simple lines, she cut a dress from it that fell straight from a high waist to the floor in an elegant column. She added long sleeves and a square neck, and at the shoulders and waist she attached a gold lace trimming, leftovers from the shop. Mrs. Tozer, despite her initial annoyance at Rossetti's appearance in the shop, had been exceedingly helpful, letting Lizzie work only a few hours a week in the shop while she sat for Rossetti, and lending her a fashionable new bonnet to wear to the reception.

On the evening of the party, Lydia fixed her hair, pinning the front pieces back to frame her face and letting the rest fall down her back, loose. “Promise you'll remember everything, so that you can tell me what all the ladies wore, and what sort of punch was served, and all the witty things that were said. Then I won't be so jealous that I wasn't there.”

“Of course I will! Though half the witty things that are said are like Latin to me. Rossetti and his friends are so clever that I can hardly keep up.” Lizzie laughed, trying to disguise her anxiety. It was one thing to speak with Rossetti in the intimacy of his studio; it was quite another to mingle with so many strangers, most of whom would not ordinarily give her the time of day.

Lydia gave Lizzie's hair a last brushing. “There. You look lovely. Mr. Rossetti is sure to be smitten.”

“Do you think?” Lizzie asked, a little too quickly.

Lydia raised her eyebrows. “Then you
are
in love with him.”

“I suppose that I am. Why shouldn't I be? He's the most handsome and talented man in the world!”

“And does he share your feelings? Will he ask you to marry him?”

“If he did, I would accept.”

“But he's said nothing yet?”

Lizzie hesitated. She had thought of little else in the last days besides Dante's words to her in St. Saviour's. It had not been a proposal, but it was a promise of one, she thought. He had looked at her with such love. But she wasn't sure that Lydia would understand. She knew what Lydia would say: Either he proposed or he didn't.

Finally Lizzie answered, “If you're asking if he has proposed, he hasn't. But I have reason to believe that he will soon. You should hear him talk—it's pure poetry. He's very different from the other men whom we know. He doesn't care a whit for any of the petty things that pass for life around here.”

“Like making a decent living?” Lydia asked, and then blushed, embarrassed.

“Why would you say such a thing? Are you repeating something that Mother said?”

Lydia hesitated. But Lizzie stared at her hard, and she made a grudging answer: “Mother only said that she thought that perhaps Mr. Deverell might have made a more suitable match. She made a few inquiries, and Mr. Deverell's family is very well off, while the Rossettis . . . well, they're quite respectable it seems, but there's very little to live on. A man of leisure who paints is quite a different thing from a man who must make his living by his painting.”

Lizzie turned on her sister. “How dare you speak with Mother behind my back about such things! She knows nothing of these people. Has she forgotten that our family is currently living off of the wages paid to me by Mr. Rossetti, and on very little else?”

Lydia looked stung. “Well, you must be practical. You haven't anything of your own—he must be able to support you. We only want the best for you, Lizzie.”

“Don't be jealous, it's not becoming.” Lizzie's words came out sharper than she intended, and Lydia's eyes filled with tears. “Oh, I'm sorry, Lyddie, I didn't mean that. Of course you're right; I must be practical. But I'm not at all worried, and you mustn't worry, either. He wouldn't have asked me to accompany him on such an important night if his intentions weren't serious. Don't say a word to Mother, but I believe that the only reason he hasn't yet proposed is that he despairs of supporting me on a painter's income. But he's beginning to do very well in his work, and people, important people, are taking notice. It's only a matter of time. And when I'm married, dear sister, there won't be any question of my telling you about a party—you will be by my side at every one.”

She stood and kissed Lydia on the cheek. “Don't worry about me,” she repeated, as much to herself as to Lydia. “I have no doubt about his intentions, or his chances for success.”

 

Lizzie told her father that there was an entertainment at the local women's club, and if he noticed anything different about his daughter, it was only that she looked more lovely than usual. She walked to the top of Kent Place and tentatively reached out her hand to hail a cab. She could barely afford the expense, but finding the extra shillings was easier than trying to explain to her father why a man he'd never met was fetching her in a coach. The Siddals may have been poor, but Rossetti was an artist, and in Mr. Siddal's estimation artists were one step above criminals. It would have been impossible to invite him inside, and besides, Lizzie had no wish to entertain Rossetti in their shabby parlor. She suspected that the image Rossetti had of her home was much more becoming, in its simplicity, than the reality of too many children in too few rooms, and her father eating dinner in his rolled up shirtsleeves, the metal dust from the grinding shop still glistening on his brow. For the time being at least, it was better to keep her two worlds as far apart as possible.

A cab pulled up and the driver helped Lizzie onto the seat. She saw him glance sideways at her strange gown, but his face remained impassive. If they were at it long enough, the London cabbies eventually saw everything, and a girl wearing a fine dress in a seedy street was nothing new to him. He put his crop on the horse and they took off, moving in fits and starts through the narrow streets of Southwark.

The roads were clogged with merchant carts delivering their goods: whole carcasses of pigs and lambs to the butcher, baskets of watercress and potatoes to the greengrocer, and load after load of coal, hauled off the cart in sacks and sent ricocheting down the coal hatches with a hammering sound like a stampede of horses. Little boys no higher than Lizzie's knee followed the coal cart at ten paces. They leapt upon any piece that tumbled from the back of the truck, placing the precious bits into sacks slung over their shoulders. The air was thick with smoke, making the streets feel closer than they were, and carriages emerged without warning from the mist, their lamps like the beacons of lighthouses on a dark sea.

They passed over Blackfriars Bridge and cut west toward Trafalgar Square, where the streets were lined with shops and cafés. Light spilled from plate glass windows, seeping into the puddles in the cobblestone streets. The houses here were larger and more regular, set behind fortifications of iron gates and heavy velvet curtains.

Lizzie's cab slowed and prepared to join the fray in front of the exhibition hall, where carriages and cabs jockeyed for position at the curb. The driver pulled in as close as he could, and Lizzie paid her fare and alighted. She watched as women in the latest fashions stepped from their carriages and into the waiting hands of their top-hatted escorts. Their fine silk dresses, in shades of emerald and ruby, emerged from the carriage doors first, the skirts buoyed by full crinolines and edged in lace. Next came their delicate hands, sheathed in white gloves, and then a glimpse of a boot in kid leather. With a last graceful hop they stepped into the street, and the full measure of their finery was revealed, like exotic butterflies spreading their wings. They tossed their heads and clutched their velvet capes around their shoulders, crying out greetings and compliments to old friends.

The crowd made its way up a wide set of stairs and into the hall through a series of arched doors, but Lizzie hesitated on the sidewalk. She put a hand up to her hair, now feeling that its loose style was childish rather than romantic, as she had hoped. The ladies around her had clearly spent the last several hours with a maid or two and a hot iron; their hair was sculpted into elegant piles of braids and ringlets. And her dress, perhaps it wasn't right after all. In the midst of so many bright silk gowns trimmed in yards of lace and ribbon, it seemed to stand out more for its plainness than anything else.

Her face burned. Had she really thought that she belonged here, among these people? She stood biting her lip as the sea of finery flowed around her and into the gallery. She was on the verge of turning around when she felt a pair of eyes on her. She turned to see a woman staring at her with open curiosity. Lizzie returned her glance, and to her surprise, the woman gave her a nod and a smile, rather than a sneer. That one kind glance was enough; with a nervous smile of her own, Lizzie joined the crowd making its way through the doors.

Inside she scanned the room, trying to get her bearings. The hall was large and airy, with a gleaming parquet floor and a tall gilded ceiling. Groupings of velvet settees and palms in Chinese pottery punctuated the vast space, and a massive chandelier cast a rosy light over the guests. Most striking, however, were the walls, which were covered in hundreds of paintings, stacked one above the other, reaching almost to the ceiling. Lizzie ran her eyes over them, looking for Rossetti's and Deverell's paintings, but it was impossible to pick them out from the hundreds of others.

At first she didn't see any familiar faces in the crowd, either, but then she spotted Rossetti, surrounded by a knot of friends and admirers. He was gesturing grandly with his hands, a pleased smile on his face. But when he saw Lizzie, he stopped still and looked at her with unmistakable admiration, his eyes taking in every detail of her gown. She saw that she had done well to make her own dress.

He greeted her warmly, whispering into her hair: “You are a vision.”

“Even in the midst of this splendor?” Lizzie asked, looking around.

“Yes, even here. Especially here.”

Lizzie blushed. “And your picture? Is it a success?”

“I don't want to boast, but I've received many compliments. But of course one hears nothing but compliments at these parties. The real test will be in the reviews, and those won't be out for a few days at least. Where the critics lead, the buyers follow. But tonight we celebrate. Now come, I can't wait any longer to introduce the lovely Miss Siddal as my escort.”

While Lizzie was being introduced to Rossetti's friends, she heard a familiar voice, high and girlish, call out her name: “Lizzie! Lizzie Siddal! Is that really you?” Then a whirl of pink satin and black lace was suddenly upon her, embracing her and peering at her with disbelief.

“Emma! What on earth are you doing here?” Lizzie stared into the face of Emma Hill, an old friend from her neighborhood whom she'd lost touch with as Lizzie's family had moved from house to house. She hadn't seen Emma in years, but she was just as Lizzie remembered her: petite, with slender shoulders and white skin, glossy dark hair, and dancing eyes. Her figure was a bit fuller now, and her smile had softened, but otherwise she was unchanged from the girl whom Lizzie had played hopscotch with in the street as a child.

“Why, Lizzie!” Emma exclaimed, all excitement and fluttering hands. “I had no idea that you knew Dante!” She turned to her companion, a man with a serious face and kind eyes. “Ford,” she scolded him. “You didn't tell me that Dante's new model was Lizzie Siddal!”