Ophelia's Muse (9 page)

Christina was quiet for a moment. Then she gave Rossetti a resigned smile. “Perhaps it would be best if I came to see her at your studio.”

“Yes, that's just the thing. I have a number of sketches that I'd like to show you anyway. Once you meet her, you'll love her just as I do.”

“Love her? Dante, you've only just met her!”

“No, of course,” Rossetti laughed, embarrassed by his ardor. “I only meant that you're sure to see the same promise in her that I do.” He kissed his sister on the cheek and rose from the divan, cutting the visit short. “I'm off to work in my study. Can you have tea sent up?”

“Of course,” Christina said, glancing over at her unfinished work on the desk. “I'll bring it up myself. It's the maid's day off.”

But Rossetti didn't hear her—he was already on the stairs, eager to begin work on his translations.

 

Dante Rossetti was not the only man determined to court Lizzie with poetry. Deverell, who didn't like being upstaged by Rossetti, had taken a page from his friend's book and purchased a little volume of Alfred Tennyson's poems as a gift for her. He presented it on the last day that she came to sit for him.

He handed her the book, not quite meeting her eye. “A little token of my appreciation for your help. It's a volume by our new poet laureate. It's not his most recent work, but there is a poem in it that reminds me of you.”

Lizzie glanced down at the book, which was bound in soft leather and felt heavy in a satisfying way. “I very much admire the works of Tennyson,” she murmured. Without opening the book, she began to recite:

Deverell looked disappointed. “You already have it.”

“No!” Lizzie laughed. “Certainly not. We hardly have any books at all, I'm afraid.” She stopped, anxious that her words had revealed too much. But Deverell didn't seem embarrassed by her admission, and so she went on: “I first read Tennyson's poems only by chance. One morning I unwrapped a pat of butter for my mother, and the newspaper that it came in was printed with one of his verses. I read it right there on the kitchen floor, and ever since I've collected his works whenever I can. I cut them out of my father's magazines and paste them into a little book.”

Deverell smiled. “How sweet you must have been. I can just imagine the young Miss Siddal hiding away her book of poems.”

“And now I have a beautiful copy of them to treasure. I'm very grateful.”

It looked for a moment as if Deverell meant to take her in his arms and test out her gratitude. But he stayed put behind his easel.

Lizzie felt relief tinged by disappointment. Her month in the studio had passed like a pleasant dream. For a few weeks she had played a small part in the creation of something beautiful. And Walter Deverell, with his excellent manners and kind words, had treated her as if she belonged there.

She swallowed, realizing how hard it would now be to return to the long hours at the millinery, to once again spend her days fending off the obnoxious young men in the shop and enduring the silly talk of the other girls. And despite Mrs. Tozer's predictions, it didn't seem that her time here would lead to anything else. If Deverell had any real feelings for her, the gift of the book of poetry had been the first and only definite sign, and he had said nothing about having her come to sit again. It would have been better, she thought churlishly, if he had never asked her in the first place—then she wouldn't have known what she was missing.

As if reading her thoughts, Deverell said, “You remember my friend, Mr. Rossetti, I'm sure. He mentioned that he might want you for a painting. If your employer can spare you again, of course.”

“Did he?” Lizzie smiled. If Rossetti were to ask her to sit, she might be able to linger a little longer in this dream. Though whether her mother and Mrs. Tozer would allow it was another matter. Rossetti had projected none of the stodgy respectability that the Deverells possessed. “Is he any good? He was very forward. I don't know if I would be quite as easy in his studio as I am in yours. But of course I'd be honored to sit for him, if he asked me.”

Deverell gave Lizzie a close look and then turned back to his canvas. “It might be best to take a chaperone. And you'd do well to ask for your wages up front,” he added, with a peevish note. “Dante is always short of funds.”

“Is that so?” Lizzie had assumed that all the young men in their circle were well off, or at least had good expectations. “But he chooses to paint, rather than take up some more steady profession?”

“That was unkind of me. I shouldn't have spoken so of a friend. Rossetti's family is very respectable. I didn't mean to imply that he would leave any debt unpaid.”

Lizzie nodded, feeling reassured. It didn't occur to her that a respectable family might, like her own, be hanging on by a thread to pretensions that their accounts could only barely support.

Deverell stepped back from his canvas to get a better view of his work. As he did so, he winced and grunted with pain.

“Are you well?” Lizzie rose to her feet. Deverell's face was pale, and his cheeks burned as if he had a fever. “I'll get your sister.”

“No, no, please don't bother, I'm fine,” Deverell muttered, making his way over to a sofa and lowering himself gently into a seat. “I'm just tired. I've spent too many hours this week bent over the canvas.” He looked at the painting and then out the window, to the garden beyond. “It's very important to me that it be accepted for the Royal Academy Exhibition this spring. I think that it might be my first really good painting. And of course, I have you to thank. I wouldn't have had my Viola without you. I hope that you will accept my humble thanks, and come to sit for me again soon.”

“I would love to. These last days have been the most pleasant of my life.”

As Deverell rose to fetch Lizzie's cloak, he winced again. “I'd better go lie down. Please, allow me to call you a cab. It's late, and I know that you have a long ride home.”

Deverell rose from the couch and took Lizzie's arm, escorting her to the front of the house and calling for a hansom. When the cab pulled up, he handed Lizzie up onto the seat and paid the driver. Lizzie turned to wave, and Deverell stood on the curb and watched her go.

It was her first ride in a cab. The expense had always been too much for her, but tonight she was one of those lucky women being spirited through the streets in ease and comfort. She drew the blanket over her lap as the cab raced through the darkening streets of Kew, passing quickly down its broad avenues.

As they drew nearer to the city, the streets narrowed and filled with carriages and carts. The London fog lay thicker here, and coal smoke swirled outside the windows of the cab, leaving only the dark outline of rooftops visible against the sky, and rendering the figures that darted past in the street little more than their own shadows. But Lizzie was safe and snug inside the cab, a bubble of luxury impervious to the cold night and the crowded streets. It was quite a change from the omnibus, where one was pinched in among so many other travelers. It was, Lizzie knew, just another small extravagance of which some in London thought nothing.

 

Lizzie's cab traveled swiftly toward Blackfriars Bridge and clattered over the muddy cobblestones of Kent Place. When the driver opened the door, she saw that she was in luck: Her father had closed up the shop early, and there would be no questions about where she had come from, and how she had been able to afford a cab.

She found her father and several of the younger children gathered before a warm fire. The room was tidy, with flowers in a vase and bits of lace over the tables. But the furniture was shabby, and the walls were blackened by smoke that had never quite come clean, despite repeated scrubbing. She knew that it was her eyes, and not the room, that had changed, and that she should be grateful for what they had. But her feeling of distaste clung stubbornly, like the soot from the fire.

She could hear her mother and Lydia preparing supper in the kitchen, and she put on an apron and went in to help. Neither woman looked up at her as she entered. Mrs. Siddal threw an oilcloth over the table and Lydia set out the dishes, banging them as she put them down.

Lizzie was still giddy from Deverell's compliments, and from the unexpected treat of the cab ride. She hummed as she helped Lydia to set out the dishes. “It's certainly dreary in here tonight! Are we preparing for a funeral or for supper?”

“Lizzie!” her mother scolded. “Such crassness may pass for conversation at the Deverells' house, but it certainly will not be tolerated here.”

“I'm sorry, Mama. I didn't mean anything by it.” She paused and looked at Lydia, who avoided her gaze. Something wasn't right—there were no smells of cooking, and her mother's face looked pinched and white. Lizzie walked over to the stove and peered in. The coals weren't lit. “I thought that we were going to use my extra earnings this week for a roast! We've had nothing but toast and drippings all week.”

“There will be no roast.”

Lizzie looked back into the parlor and frowned as she watched her father read to the children. “Why is Father home early? I thought that he took on extra help for the order from the wharf house. Why isn't he in the shop?”

Her mother sighed and sat down at the table. “He lost the order. And with it the money for our rent. And there are bills, solicitors' bills . . .”

Lizzie dropped into the chair next to her. Her mother's face was pale, and her usually perfect posture drooped, as if all the air had gone out of her.

“Oh, Mama,” Lizzie said, putting her hand over her mother's. “What will we do?”

“I'll tell you what we'll do first,” Lydia burst out. She opened the sideboard and gathered Mr. Siddal's legal papers into her arms. Then she strode over to the hearth, ready to throw them in.

Mrs. Siddal jumped to her feet. “No! You mustn't! Your father will be livid!”

Lydia stood irresolutely by the fire and looked at Lizzie.

“Don't look at me to stop you. I say throw the whole lot in. They'll do us more good as kindling than they will as a lawsuit.”

“That will solve nothing,” Mrs. Siddal said, regaining her composure. “Now, all's not lost. We can use Lizzie's extra wages for the rent, and the lawyers can be put off. But there will be no little extras, I'm afraid. We'll all have to make do with what we have for a bit. I know I can depend on you.”

Lizzie bit her lip. She'd been planning to ask her mother for a few shillings for a new shawl. Now, as always, everything would have to be spent on the bare necessities. She thought of the tea she had just taken at Deverell's studio. There had been a tiered tray of sweets and sandwiches, strawberry preserves and clotted cream for the scones, and a plate of fresh fruits. It had been enough for a dozen people to enjoy, and it had been served to just the three of them. And now there was to be nothing but toast and tea for the children for dinner. And they were lucky to have even that. Without Lizzie's extra wages, it might have been worse. But there was nothing that she could do. “Yes, Mama,” she said with resignation. “You may depend on us.”

“Now, Lizzie, is there any chance of your sitting for Mr. Deverell again? He paid you very well.”

She sighed. “Not at the moment, I'm afraid. He's all done with the picture.”

“And I don't suppose,” her mother began, her tone delicate, “that he gave you any indication of wanting to see you for any other reason?”

She paused. The book of Tennyson was in her cloak pocket. But it was hardly a declaration of love—it could just as easily have been a parting gift as a sign of his affection. “No. He was very kind, but he gave me no reason to think that he wanted me for anything other than my red hair.”

Mrs. Siddal turned, but not quickly enough to hide her disappointment. “Well, there's no reason to lose hope. He's a gentleman, after all, and he could hardly be expected to make any declarations to you while you were under his employment.”

Lizzie didn't have to guess what her mother was thinking: If Lizzie could make a good marriage, it would solve many of their problems. One daughter married well meant that the others could be introduced into good society, and make advantageous matches of their own. And well-married daughters didn't need to be supported, and might even be depended upon to look after their parents. Lizzie was sorry that she didn't have anything more hopeful to tell her.

“There may be another artist,” she said carefully. “I met him at the studio, and Mr. Deverell thought that he might ask me to model as well.”

“A different painter?” Mrs. Siddal asked. “Do you know anything of his family? We must be careful.”

“If the fate of the family is to rest on my shoulders,” Lizzie snapped, “I can't very well turn down good work if a man's family isn't up to your high standards.”

Mrs. Siddal looked near to tears, and Lizzie regretted her tone. “I'm sorry. Please don't worry, Mama. He's from the Royal Academy, and a gentleman as well. But he hasn't asked me to sit for him yet, so it's hardly worth fretting over.”

“In the meantime, then, you'll have to go back to Mrs. Tozer's.”

“Yes, Mother.” But as she turned she muttered to herself, “But you might as well send me to a nunnery, for all the luck I'll have finding a husband in the back room of a bonnet shop.”