Ophelia's Muse (18 page)

CHAPTER 11

 

Lizzie bolted upright in bed, eyes wide, gasping for breath.

“What is it?” cried Lydia.

Lizzie stared at her sister, who stood above her, holding her by the shoulders, her face fearful. Still half dreaming, Lizzie looked around wildly. For a moment she didn't know where she was, but then she realized that she was at home, in her own room.

“You're very ill,” she heard Lydia say. “You must lie back down.” Lydia eased her back against the pillows and drew the blanket over her.

Lizzie could hear voices in the kitchen below. First her father's, tense and angry, and then her mother's calm tones. Her eyelids felt heavy and she let them drop. She remembered Millais's drafty studio, the cold bath, and then nothing. “Have I been ill?” Her voice was hoarse, and her lips felt dry and cracked.

“Yes, with a terrible fever. These are the first sensible words that you've uttered in two days. You hardly knew me when they first brought you home! The doctor's been several times. He said it's an infection of the lungs, on account of the bad chill that you received.”

Lizzie tried to think, but her mind was a confused procession of dreams and memory: the drafty studio and the cold forest path, the icy swell of the water and the memory of a lilting song. Or was it the sound of voices, calling to her? She shivered and pulled the quilt tighter, as if the memories were a cold wind.

“Mother will want to know that your fever has broken.”

“Wait.” Lizzie put up a hand to stop her sister. “Who brought me home?”

“Two gentlemen carried you in. You could hardly walk yourself.” Lydia paused for a moment, remembering. “One was Mr. Millais, who introduced himself to Father, and the other man I recognized as Mr. Rossetti, from your stories. He seemed quite frantic, but I didn't speak with him. Father sent us straight out of the room when they arrived.”

“Yes, that would have been Mr. Rossetti. Father must have been livid—did he make a terrible fuss, Lyddie? Oh, if he did, I'll be too ashamed to see them again!” For a moment, she forgot her illness and thought only of her mortification. “And I suppose they saw our poor little house, with the shop downstairs. It must have looked very shabby to them, and Father very coarse.”

“That's a terrible thing to say, Lizzie! Father has been beside himself while you were ill. Anyway, I hardly know what sort of gentlemen they could be to bring you home in such a state. Of course Father was angry! He threw them both straight out of the house. He had no idea that they were artists; he couldn't think what you were doing with them. He thought . . . well, I'm sure that you know what he thought! Mother had to tell him the whole story, so he wouldn't assume something worse.”

Lizzie's face went paler, and Lydia grew alarmed. “I'm sorry, Lizzie. Please don't upset yourself. The important thing is that you're making a recovery.” She laid a gentle hand on her sister's brow. “Much cooler. Now, I mustn't delay another moment, Mother and Father will be so relieved.” She rose and left the room before Lizzie could object.

Lizzie sighed and turned to face the wall. Her shame at the imagined scene burned as hot as any fever, and she suspected that its effects would be just as harmful. She'd never intended to introduce Rossetti to her family until an engagement was firmly in place. He may not, after all, have turned out to be quite as wealthy as she had supposed, but the genteel Charlotte Street of his upbringing was miles away from the shabbiness of Kent Place. She wasn't so foolish as to think that such things wouldn't matter to him, despite his professions to the contrary.

Mrs. Siddal appeared at the door, and Lizzie watched her face, lined from many years of nursing sick children, soften. She came over to the bed and smoothed Lizzie's hair back from her brow. “We were very worried for you. Thank God the fever has passed.”

“I'm so sorry, Mama. I never intended this to happen.”

“But what were you thinking? It was madness to sit in a cold tub, in the middle of winter, no less. If I'd known, I never would have allowed it. I've told you before that these notions that you get are going to lead you to no good. Your father . . .” She stopped as Lizzie began to cough, unable to chastise her daughter while she was so ill.

“I
am
very sorry, Mama. I'm sure that Mr. Millais never meant to cause me any harm. He had no idea that the water was cold. Is Father angry? Will he forbid me from sitting for paintings?”

Mrs. Siddal sighed. “I have only myself to blame, I suppose. I agreed to let you sit for that painter in the hope that you might make some good connections. But it's been nearly a year now, and nothing has come of it. Perhaps it would have been better if I'd forbidden it.”

“How can you say that nothing has come of it? I've met Mr. Rossetti!”

“Yes, but where has that left you, other than ill in bed? No, Lizzie, I'll not hear any arguments. You know that I dreamed of a good marriage for you, but at the moment I can see no hope for it. You're ill, and people are starting to talk. The neighbors know that you aren't working for Mrs. Tozer any longer. If Mr. Rossetti doesn't marry you, what decent man of our acquaintance will have you? It was a mistake to ever let you take up with those people.”

“You don't understand. They do things differently in his circle.”

“You're right, I don't understand. But I do know that you need rest. There will be no question of your modeling at the moment.”

Lizzie's disappointment was blunted by exhaustion. She lay back in bed, the pillows swallowing her thin frame. “Then I'm to give up hope?”

“Oh, Lizzie, you've always been dramatic! When you're well, I'll see what I can do. Naturally, your father is angry, but he may come around. But I'll hear no more talk of it now.”

Lydia returned to the room with the tea tray and a bowl of broth. Mrs. Siddal kissed Lizzie on the forehead and rose, leaving the sisters alone. Lydia waited for their mother to close the door, and then nearly upset the tray in her eagerness to retrieve an envelope that she had secreted beneath the cloth. “Look, a letter, from Mr. Rossetti. It was mixed up in some notes from our cousins; I don't think that Father even noticed it.”

Lizzie tore it open and began to read:

She read the letter twice over. Lydia looked on expectantly, but Lizzie didn't hand it to her to read, as was their usual practice. It was hardly a love letter, but it was too intimate to share. Lizzie flushed with pleasure, and hope once again filled her heart. Perhaps he had not found her family too far beneath him after all.

“Well,” said Lydia. “I can see that you're pleased. But come, have some tea and something to eat. You've got to get your strength back.”

“I can't eat now, I haven't a bit of appetite. Be a dear and fetch me my notepaper and a pen. I must write him back.”

Lydia gave her an exasperated look, but she fetched the paper and Lizzie composed her note to Rossetti. She assured him that she wished nothing more than to return to his studio, but that the doctor, judging her condition serious, could not allow any thought of it at the moment. She would allow him to worry a little longer on her account; such fears, she knew, had a way of working on the heart.

Satisfied, she signed the letter and gave it to Lydia to post. Then she settled back into her pillow, exhausted by the effort. She let her eyes close. It would not be so long, she thought, until she was back in Rossetti's studio, lounging on his sofa as he painted her, or read his poetry to her. As she drifted off to sleep, her thoughts lingered on Rossetti, and her dreams played across the lush landscape of a medieval painting.

CHAPTER 12

Lizzie was young and healthy, but her recovery proved much slower than everyone had hoped. For several weeks she hardly moved from her bed, stirring only when she heard the sounds of the post delivery.

Just as she began to regain her strength, the fever returned with a viciousness that had the family on near constant vigil for her life. The doctor was called to her side almost daily, and the bills began to accumulate. The lines on Mrs. Siddal's face deepened each time she passed the sideboard where they sat, unpaid.

At first, Rossetti's notes came regularly. Lydia read them to her as she lay in bed, half delirious with fever. Lizzie was often too ill to reply, but she thought of little else. Of course there was no question of his coming to see her, but as the fever raged, he visited her dreams. He came to her as the poet Dante to his beloved Beatrice, eyes wild with love as she held his burning heart in her hands. She imagined them embracing, and then woke with a start, the sheets soaked with sweat.

At last the fever passed, and the household settled into a wary sort of relief, tested often by Lizzie's lingering cough. Her skin, always fair, turned a more troubling shade of white, and when she was at last able to rise from bed, her clothes hung from her thin frame. If not for her hair, still bright, she might have been mistaken for a ghost haunting her old rooms.

She lay sick for most of the winter, but at last a mild spring day presented a good opportunity for her to venture outside, and Lydia brought her shawl and boots, along with a few letters from the last post. Lizzie sorted through the letters, scanning each for a familiar hand. She hadn't received a note from Rossetti in over a week, and she was anxious for news.

When she saw that there was nothing from him, her heart dropped. His letters had once been filled with lamentations over her health and prayers for her quick return. But lately, if he wrote at all, he spoke more of his own comings and goings, and his plans for new paintings. She could see that he was increasingly caught up in the world outside, while she was left pathetic and dull in her little room in Kent Place.

She was about to toss the pile of letters aside when a note at the bottom of the stack caught her eye. She was pleased to see that Walter Deverell had written, but as she read, what little color she had drained from her face.

Lizzie finished the letter and thrust it at her sister. “Did you know?”

Lydia glanced down at the letter and blushed, avoiding Lizzie's gaze. “I didn't want to upset you. You haven't been well, and you know that Father can't be reasoned with—Mother tried, but there was nothing she could do.”

Lizzie's face was tense with anger. “Father has humiliated me! How can I ever show my face again among Rossetti's friends? Doesn't he know that these men are gentlemen? They don't take each other to court over such petty matters as doctor's bills!”

“Please try to be calm, you'll make yourself ill again!”

“I don't care!” Lizzie threw herself on the bed. “What do I have to live for now? This is why there's been no letter from Rossetti. No doubt he believes that Father will bring some suit against him, and is ashamed of our acquaintance!”

“What a thing to say! At any rate, I'm sure that's not why.” Lydia stopped short, her hand flying to her mouth.

Lizzie looked at her with narrowed eyes. “And what does that mean?”

“Perhaps it's better that you be done with all of them. They never seem to behave so much like gentlemen as you would make them out to be.”

“Lydia, what do you know?”

Lydia bit her lip and sat down in the chair. “I suppose that I've never been any good at keeping secrets from you. Emma Brown came to visit last week, but you were too ill to see her. I sat with her in the parlor for a moment, and something that she said led me to believe that Mr. Rossetti may be . . . well, it seems that he is very much involved with a new painting. Perhaps that's why he hasn't written to you.”

“A new painting? But why shouldn't he be? He may have sworn to me that he couldn't paint without me, but of course that's just lovers' talk.” Lizzie colored at the daring of her words, but then went on. “He's an artist by trade, after all; he has to paint to make his living.” She turned her back to Lydia and began to arrange the combs on their dresser, feigning indifference.

“It was my impression, Lizzie, that he was involved not only with his new painting, but also with his new model.”

Lizzie turned, and her lip trembled, though whether it was from sorrow or anger it was hard to say. “His new model? Who is it?”

“Please don't ask me. I really know nothing of it; I shouldn't have mentioned it. Lizzie, you've lost all your color; you ought to sit down.”

“Who is it?” Lizzie asked, ignoring Lydia's protests. “Who is his new model?”

“I told you, I really know nothing of it. Please sit down, I'm afraid you'll faint again!”

“Lydia! I'm sick to death of having things hidden from me. I may have been ill, but I'm not simple. Whom has Dante been painting?”

Lydia didn't reply, and the two girls stared at each other in stony silence until a knock sounded at the door.

“Well, there's an answer to it,” Lydia said. “I'm sure that will be Emma now; she said that she would come by again today. You can ask her yourself about your gentlemen artists.”

The door opened and Mrs. Siddal entered with Emma Brown at her side. Emma bustled into the room, looking lovely in a gown of lavender satin that complemented her dark hair perfectly. She untied her bonnet of woven straw and pale pink primroses, and threw it onto the bed. Her eyes danced as she kept up a stream of greetings, embracing Lydia and congratulating Lizzie on her return to health.

“Emma, dear,” Mrs. Siddal said. “It does us good to have you here. You're a breath of fresh air, and I expect that there is hardly a house in Southwark that is more in need of one. I'll leave you girls to your talk, but Emma, please convince Lizzie to get out and take some of this nice spring air. If anyone can get her back to herself, it's you!”

“Leave it to me, Mrs. Siddal. We'll have Lizzie dancing till midnight before long.”

Emma settled into a chair and removed her gloves, which were done in the same pale lavender as her gown.

Lydia looked at them enviously. “You look very fine this morning.”

Emma laughed. “Yes. Ford has had a good run of sales, including an excellent price for an oil painting of me. And when my darling Ford is doing well, I'm in satin and kid gloves. Of course, when he can't get a commission, I'm in last season's muslin and an apron. That, I'm afraid, is the life of an artist's wife. You never know where your next gown, or your next meal, is coming from.”

“But at least you know that you are his wife, and that his fortunes are your fortunes, for better or for worse,” Lizzie said, unable to hide her unhappiness.

“That's true.” She gave Lizzie a sympathetic smile. “Has Dante not been writing as often as he might? Everyone knows that he's a terrible correspondent.”

“No doubt my father's suit against John Millais has scared him off. Or is it something else? Lydia tells me that he's busy with a new picture.”

Emma sighed. “We're good friends, so I won't pretend that all is well when I know that it isn't.”

“Thank you. I only wish to know where I stand.”

“I must ask you a question. I don't mean to pry, only to understand. There's talk, of course, but there's always talk, and trying to sort out the grain of truth from the chaff of gossip is difficult at best. I must know: Is there an engagement between you and Dante Rossetti?”

Lizzie sat silent for a moment before replying. “No, there's no definite engagement between us. He's promised that there will be, as soon as he has his work in order, and I had thought—had hoped—that it was only a matter of time. . . .”

Lydia watched her sister with a pained face. “But if you had no understanding with him, why did you allow yourself to be paraded around on his arm?”

Lizzie shook her head. She knew how it must look to Lydia. The strictest rules of propriety could be bent, but only so long as a marriage was sure, at some point, to take place. It was as if the sacrament of marriage could wash away the sins of that which came before it. She only needed to look as far as Emma Brown, who was now a respectable wife and mother, to know that it was true. But if Lizzie was seen to be acting as a married woman, and no marriage followed, well, that was another thing entirely.

“Don't despair, Lizzie,” Emma said, suddenly businesslike. “No harm has been done, and perhaps it is all for the best. You've had a brilliant career so far as a model, and everyone speaks quite highly of your sketches, and of your poetry. I suppose that the news of your latest victory hasn't reached your sickroom? Millais's painting of Ophelia is an absolute success. They're saying that it's his masterpiece, and that his model must be part nymph to possess such otherworldly beauty. You're famous, my dear! Every painter in London will want you to sit now. And no doubt your affair with Dante can be used to your advantage. You're known as part of their circle, and if you wished to publish some of your own work, you might depend upon those connections.”

“My affair with Dante? Emma, you can't think that I've done anything of which I should be ashamed!” Lizzie faltered for a moment. “Of course, I know that the appearance of things is against me, but I swear to you that I've done nothing with Dante that can't be undone. If we've been conspicuous, it is only because of the demands of his art—he hates to have anyone else in the studio with us while he paints. And if nothing else, I've never, until this moment, doubted that he loved me, and would one day make me his wife! Oh, Emma, if there's some reason why I should doubt it, please tell me!”

Emma sighed again. “You're very much in love with him, aren't you? Well, perhaps there's nothing to worry over. But I'm sure that you remember Annie Miller?”

“Holman Hunt's fiancée?” Lizzie asked, a sinking feeling beginning to form in her stomach. She could picture Annie, with her generous curves and easy smile. “Is she sitting for Dante? But I thought that Hunt forbid her from modeling for other painters? They're to be married!”

“They're engaged, but Hunt has left for his painting expedition in Palestine. While he's away, he's got up some ridiculous scheme to have his friends educate her. His idea, as I understand it, is that they'll scrub the gin-shop smell off of her and replace it with expensive perfume and lofty ideas on art and music. Then she'll be able to greet him at the altar as a lady.”

Despite her dawning worries, Lizzie couldn't help but laugh. She'd seen enough of Annie Miller to know that it would take much more than some friendly tutelage to turn the former barmaid into a gentle maiden.

“Yes, I know,” said Emma. “It's the height of arrogance on Hunt's part. I really can't say what he sees in her—other than what's obvious. But apparently he's not alone in his regard. I'm afraid that in Hunt's absence, Rossetti has . . . taken up her case. He's painting her by day and taking her around to the restaurants and theaters at night. They've been seen together at the pleasure gardens at Cremorne many times. So there it is, Lizzie. Of course, it could be nothing—a passing fancy, perhaps. But why should you let your reputation get caught up in such a thing? It's better, I think, that you know his heart now, rather than later. I am sorry, my dear.”

Lizzie barely heard her. The buzzing in her ears drowned out all other sound. She could see them now: Rossetti and Annie, their arms around each other, laughing as they made their way through Cremorne Gardens. She pictured the crowds under the soft glow of the Chinese lanterns. The band's music wafted across the lawn to a pier over the river, where Rossetti took Annie in his arms, and she let him, not caring who saw them.

Lizzie shook her head in disgust. She'd always declined Rossetti's invitations to the revelries at Cremorne. Despite the popularity of its cafés and fireworks, the gardens had a reputation as no place for ladies after nightfall. But Annie wouldn't care about such things, and perhaps that was what Rossetti had wanted all along.

Lydia handed her a kerchief, and she put a hand to her face, surprised to find her cheek wet. She hadn't realized that she was weeping. “How could he? Annie Miller is as common as a kitchen maid. How can he be seen with her? What will I do?”