Ophelia's Muse (15 page)

“Certainly, and it's a fine hat. But for you, my dear, something better is in order. Even in our little corner, we heard that Mr. Deverell's picture caused quite a stir at the Exhibition—no doubt your beauty is being celebrated in all the best quarters! We must make something fit for your new position. And of course you can tell all of your new acquaintances where it came from.”

Mrs. Tozer tugged at the chain around her neck and produced a key from her bosom that unlocked the cupboard where the finest materials were kept. She rummaged about for a moment and then pulled out a bolt of black velvet and a box of iridescent blue-green peacock feathers. She began to trim the feathers herself, separating out the most beautiful part, the eyes, and arranging them in a fan shape, which she held up just above Lizzie's ear. In the mirror, the feathers shone brightly against her red hair.

“That will do quite nicely,” Lizzie said, allowing a hint of imperiousness to creep into her voice.

“I should say so!” Mrs. Tozer laughed. “They're our finest trimmings.”

Lizzie laughed, too, unable to mask her pleasure with indifference. While Mrs. Tozer wrote up the order, the other girls gathered around, asking questions so quickly that she could hardly answer one before the next was put to her. When Mrs. Tozer finished, Lizzie proudly placed her money on the counter. Jeannie gave a low whistle and shook her head. “You've really come up in the world. And there I was thinking that you was half mad.”

“Yes, girls, our Lizzie is quite an example,” Mrs. Tozer said. “You could do worse than to cultivate yourselves in her style.” She turned to Lizzie. “Didn't I tell you, my dear, that this was your opportunity to make something of yourself? Now mind, when it's time to order your trousseau, you come straight to me. I can help you at all the better shops.”

Lizzie blushed, thinking of the day—soon, she hoped—when she would be buying the things that she would take to her new home as a married woman. “I wouldn't dream of going anywhere else.”

When she was finally able to leave the shop, she did so with a light heart, pulling the door closed behind her with hands free of the ache of work. Jeannie was right: She had come up in the world. But a new gown and the means to buy a pretty bonnet were only the trimmings. As she walked down Cranbourne Alley, she promised herself that she wouldn't come back until she came to order her wedding bonnet. It was only then that her new position would truly be established.

CHAPTER 9

Rossetti spent the next few days after his return from Birmingham in a state of high agitation. Whatever good cheer he'd found in his new commissions had been lost on his return to London, when he opened the papers to read the reviews of the latest exhibitions.

“Just listen to this, Lizzie,” he bellowed, a newspaper clasped in his hands. “That underhanded bastard, Charles Dickens, writes here that we are nothing but a class of juvenile artists who, with the
utmost impudence,
style ourselves the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood! He says, and I quote, that we have an absolute contempt for perspective and the known laws of light and shade, and an aversion to beauty in every shape. And in a letter to the
Times,
no less!”

Lizzie murmured sympathetically, knowing that Rossetti's rage must wear itself out.

“And all the while,” he went on, “Dickens is turning out populist drivel that is no more art than the lowest sort of comic. This is a disaster, Lizzie, mark my words. Who in London does not worship at the feet of the great Charles Dickens? There won't be one among us who can get a commission to save our lives after this.”

He threw the paper down and Lizzie picked it up and glanced over the review. She sighed. The paintings had been popular at the Exhibition, but in the end the critics had come down very hard on anyone associated with the Scandal of the PRB, as it was being called, and of course it was the opinion of the critics that mattered.

Rossetti rose and began to pace. “The damned critics have rallied round the Academy, just as Ruskin said they would. It's as if every English artist, upon receiving his first sketchpad, must swear his loyalty to God, the Queen, and the Royal Academy. No matter that the artists at the Academy turn out nothing but sentimental rubbish. The critics fawn over them, and then turn and cast insults at the first really interesting—the first really beautiful—paintings to be shown in decades. I despise them—they are nothing more than failed painters themselves, and they will not be happy until they drag us down to their own level!”

Lizzie laid a gentle hand on Rossetti's arm. “You've thumbed your nose at the Academy—you can't be surprised if people call you arrogant. They're scared, as people always are of something new and bold. In a few years they'll all be swearing up and down that they were the first to admire your work. And there have been some good reviews. John Ruskin has come to your defense, and his words surely carry as much weight as those of Dickens, when it comes to art?”

“Ruskin has stood by us, thank God. But it will take more than one man's opinion to make a success of this movement.”

Lizzie wrapped her arms around his shoulders and rested her chin on his shoulder. “Pay them no mind. I know how talented you are. I can see that you paint dreams, while others paint only what they can see. What sane man would prefer a painting of a fruit bowl, when he could instead look upon the divine visions of the great poets? The public will come around in due course. One day you won't be able to paint fast enough to satisfy all of those who clamor for your work.”

“If you see beauty in the paintings, then I don't care what anyone else thinks. I'll just have to keep painting, Charles Dickens be damned.” He turned to her. “I can never be gloomy for long when you are here, my little dove.”

“Then I won't leave your side. But Dante . . .” She hesitated. “There is something that I want.” Deverell's praise of her drawing had made her bold. “I want to learn how to paint. I mean, really paint, not just the little drawings that I've been doing. I want you to teach me.”

She was afraid that he was going to laugh, but he didn't. Instead, he looked at her thoughtfully. “Then I'll teach you. Your drawings show talent, I've told you that before. But before you learn how to paint, you have to master the basics: the human figure, the hands, the face, and trees, flowers, petals. Those are your tools, no different from the spangles and ribbons you use to fashion a bonnet. The beauty in any painting comes from a hundred tiny decisions of color and shade and detail, but the basic framework must be there first, the roots that feed the blossom. Come here.”

He motioned to his easel by the window, and Lizzie sat before it, very aware of being in his seat. He fastened a large sheet of drawing paper to the easel, and handed her a charcoal pencil. “We'll start with life drawing. Your figures are good, but you need practice. The drawing you did of the Lady of Shalott sitting at her loom, where is it? Not around? It would be a pity to lose it—it had a lot of promise, and the figure was well proportioned. But if I remember right, it was a bit stiff. Don't look so hurt! If we are to make you into a real artist, you must set aside your vanity.”

She nodded, encouraging him to go on, and Rossetti began to draw, sketching a quick series of figures in various poses. He was focused and energetic, taking to his new role as teacher with relish. He pointed to the first figure. “This man, Lizzie, what is he doing?”

“Sitting?”

“He's seated, yes, but what is he doing?”

She hesitated for a moment, studying the figure. There were no other details to give her a clue, not even a chair, and the lines were rough, more a suggestion than a true rendering. But as she looked, she noticed that while the curve of his back implied indolence, the tilt of his head suggested that he might be daydreaming, rather than sleeping, and his outstretched foot looked ready to tap a beat. “He's listening to music,” she said, suddenly able to imagine a small band of musicians and the park bench where the man sat.

“Exactly!” Rossetti cried. “And this one?” He pointed to the standing figure, done at a slight angle, his arms folded and one foot crossed over the other.

“Is he waiting? Waiting for his lover, perhaps, and leaning against a building, or a tree.”

“Precisely. Do you see, Lizzie, how important a few little lines can be? How they can tell a story as easily as an entire canvas? A woman sitting at a loom sits differently from a woman at her mirror, or a girl at a workroom table in a millinery. We shouldn't have to see the loom to know that the girl is a weaver. We should be able to read it in the grace of her arms, the delicate movement of her fingers, and the strength of her back. The lines of the figure are not mechanical things; they are creatures of emotion.”

“I see,” Lizzie said, although she wasn't entirely sure that she did. But she sensed the beginning of an understanding, a new awareness of the unseen elements of a painting.

“It takes time—it can't be learned in a day. You must draw, every day, and practice. When you're not sitting for me, that is. But today I will sit for you.” He tossed aside the sheet that he had drawn on and fastened a fresh paper to the easel. Then he sat in the chair that was normally hers, leaned back, and crossed his legs.

It was difficult to begin. Her hand was unsure, as if she had never held a charcoal before. Her first effort was stilted, even to her eyes, with the shoulders too square and his face blank, like a mask. She tossed it aside and began again. The second one was better, but not by much. This too she crumpled up.

Rossetti laughed. “You're trying too hard. If you worry too much about what I'll see when I look at it, you won't be able to concentrate on what you see. I promise that I won't even peek. Just draw what you see, and be honest.”

The result this time was better. Not good, she knew, but better. It caught something of his amused grin, the relaxed slouch of his shoulders. She put down the charcoal, and her hand ached as badly as it did after a long day sewing bonnets. She'd started after lunch, but now the light was nearly gone from the studio.

“May I see?” Rossetti asked, standing and stretching.

“No! You promised that you wouldn't look.” She clutched the paper to her chest as he tried to grab at it.

“What kind of teacher would I be if I didn't give you a critique?” He snatched the paper from her and looked at it for a moment. “Not bad at all. In fact, it's rather good. You're going to be very good.” He kissed her once, hard, and she felt her cheeks flush, from his praise and his touch.

“Come with me tonight,” he said, turning to his desk and rummaging through a pile of correspondence. He found what he was looking for, an invitation, and slipped it from its envelope. “I've been asked to a soirée at the home of Lord Lamberton.”

“Lord Lamberton?” The name sounded familiar. “The collector?”

“Yes. He buys up paintings the way some buy bread.”

Lizzie didn't pause to wonder why Rossetti was just now asking her to accompany him. An invitation to such a fashionable party was too exciting to question. “But my dress!” She looked down at her plain gown. “I dressed for a day of sketching.”

“You look splendid as you are. Your gowns are proving more popular than my paintings. I've already seen several ladies of our acquaintance adopt your style. And besides, I have something for you.”

He reached into a drawer in the desk and brought out a little velvet bag. The bag contained a long strand of luminous seed pearls, which he looped carefully around Lizzie's neck. She fingered the lovely pearls, which were smooth, with a slight graininess reminiscent of their seabed home. “Dante. How on earth? With all of your expenses, and I know that the rent is still to be paid. . . .”

“Hush. They're just a trinket, a little souvenir from my travels. I wish that I could buy you the finest pearls of the Indian Ocean. And perhaps someday I will. But for now I hope that you will accept this token of my affection.”

She nodded and turned away to hide the tears that welled up, unbidden, in her eyes. “It's the finest gift I've ever received. I wouldn't wish them to be any different.”

She turned to admire herself in the glass. The strand of pearls transformed her simple blue dress. She loosened her hair and let it fall around her shoulders, then smiled at her reflection. “I would be honored to accompany you tonight.”

 

Rossetti hailed a cab and they clattered into the night, the streets of London slipping by in a series of gaslit vignettes as they made for the leafy streets near Holland Park. Rossetti took Lizzie's hand and kissed it. “You'll be the most beautiful woman at the party. And don't worry, you won't feel out of place. Lord Lamberton's parties are never stuffy.”

Rossetti's words touched off a wave of anxiety that Lizzie had been trying to ignore. She knew that he went out often without her, in the evenings when she was at home with her family, and she had begun to wonder why he didn't at least ask her to come along. She worried that he hesitated to introduce her into society because her family and position embarrassed him. “Stuffy?” she asked sharply. “By stuffy do you mean respectable? I'm perfectly fit to associate with genteel people, you know. Or are you ashamed of me?”

Rossetti sighed. “As far as I'm concerned, you're fit to associate with the Queen. I only meant to say that you would know some people there. Ford and Emma Brown are coming, I believe. They haven't been about much since their little girl was born, and it will be nice to see them. And Lord Lamberton likes to keep his parties lively. He always invites poets, painters, singers—even dancers. But of course there will be people of his own sort there as well. There might even be a few people who are interested in my work.”

“Oh. Of course I'll be very pleased to see Emma,” Lizzie said, regretting her touchiness, and the anxiety that it revealed.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, and in the quiet streets of Holland Park, the only sound was the carriage wheels and the crack of the driver's whip. They pulled up in front of a grand redbrick house surrounded by a high hedge. A gravel path led to the front door, which opened as if by magic as they approached, and a silent butler took their cloaks and waved them into the hall. The door closed behind them, and the spicy scent of incense filled Lizzie's nostrils.

When their eyes adjusted to the low light, they saw that they were in a long hall of iridescent blue tiles, which glinted like the sea under a noon sun. Above them, marble columns stretched grandly up to a gold leaf ceiling. Bronze sculptures lined the walls, and Lizzie recognized among them a small statuette of Narcissus, peering at himself in the pond. She laughed, wondering how he could be expected to fall in love with his own image in the midst of so much beauty.

Arm in arm, they walked down the hall toward the muffled sounds of the party. The hall opened into a cavernous room, where the soaring walls were inlaid with thousands of tiles and bits of glass in shades of cobalt, sapphire, and indigo. White Arabic script wove its way across the tiles, its unfamiliar letters twisting seamlessly into flowers and snakes, which climbed the walls as if they were a garden trellis. In the center of the room, a black marble pool shone with the soft light of candles that floated on its surface like lily pads. Lizzie had never seen anything like it.

The room was full of people. The women were intimidating in their collective beauty and style, and they lounged on window seats and fainting couches in poses of studied nonchalance. The gentlemen roamed among them, laughing loudly and blowing great plumes of cigar smoke toward the arched ceiling. A band played a strange and keening music, and servants clad in silk headscarves and kohl-blackened eyes threaded their way through the crowd, pouring fragrant teas and wine into jewel-toned glasses.

Lizzie looked at Rossetti in wonder, and he smiled and nodded his head as if to say yes, this is all real, you're not dreaming. She shook her head in a pantomime of disbelief, but her eyes traveled over the room, taking in every detail. She felt that she had at last drawn back the heavy curtain of the city's most fascinating drawing room, and what she saw was more wild and beautiful than she had ever imagined.