The Wayward Muse (5 page)

J
ANE
found posing very difficult. She felt awkward as a foal, all legs and very stiff, and she watched enviously as Miss Lipscombe, with only a few terse instructions, expertly folded herself into the positions the artists wanted. Her form was as pliable as bread dough and she didn’t seem to mind when Burne-Jones or Rossetti put a hand on her back to bend and twist her. If Rossetti tried to gently move Jane, her muscles tightened and locked. If he spoke to her, she could understand the words but her brain could not make her body understand. Rossetti was very patient with her, which embarrassed Jane even more. He was quick to praise her if she inadvertently found a tilt of the head or a curve to her back that pleased him. Still, Jane was convinced that she would be told at the end of the day not to come back.

When she was finally in position, there was nothing to do but watch Rossetti. He was absorbed in planning out his sketches and Jane was able to scrutinize him without fear that he would catch her staring.

He carried himself like someone who had been thought beautiful from a very young age; his grace was slightly studied, as if he was used to being looked at, and his confidence seemed unerring, though he was no longer slender and his hairline was beginning to recede. Jane guessed he must be around thirty. There were shadows under his eyes that suggested he kept late hours, and a rosiness to his complexion that spoke of drink. Somehow, though, these imperfections only added to his appeal.

As for his work, she was ignorant of painting and it was hard for her to know whether it was good or not. She had a vague sense that other painters painted portraits, or landscapes; they did not illustrate fairy tales. Beyond that, as to style, or composition, she had no idea.

As he worked Rossetti began to recite a poem:

Jane was enchanted. “I have not heard it before,” she said. “What is it?”

“It is the beginning of a longer poem called “The Blessed Damozel,” by the young poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti,” he said.

“You wrote it?” Jane could not believe it. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes, I like the first two stanzas very much, but then it gets muddled.” He spoke the rest of the poem to her, and though she tried, Jane could find no fault with any of it.

At noon they broke for luncheon and Jane was able to stretch her clenched muscles. Shyly she sat down at a table in the center of the room that had been laid with a cloth. Cups and saucers were stacked in unsteady towers and silverware was heaped in piles. Miss Lipscombe appeared, followed by a boy with a tray.

“The young men come and grab what they like,” she said. “Like savages. But you and I shall have a proper meal.” She sat down and deftly poured tea from a samovar into two of the cups. “Sugar?” she asked Jane.

Miss Lipscombe’s father owned a dry-goods store and she had never spoken to Jane when they passed on the street. Jane was surprised that the girl was being so civil now.

“Thank you,” said Jane, wincing as she reached for her cup. She quickly set it down and began to rub her shoulders.

“You’re working too hard,” advised the other girl. “I’ve watched you. You won’t be able to stand tomorrow if you don’t learn how to release.”

“How can I, when I have to stay so still?”

“It’s as if your skin is a shell,” said Miss Lipscombe, after a moment’s thought, “but inside that shell everything is soft. Like a chocolate cordial.”

Jane had never had a chocolate cordial, but she was grateful for the advice. Rossetti had told her he thought the other girl a very good model.

Miss Lipscombe passed her a plate of bread-and-butter sandwiches, but although Jane had not had breakfast, the proximity to Rossetti made her feel too ill to eat. Instead she gathered her courage and asked her companion a question.

“Is Mr. Rossetti really famous in London?” she ventured.

Miss Lipscombe’s eyes blazed. “You don’t know?” she asked. Daintily she wiped her lips with a linen napkin and leaned over to whisper in Jane’s ear. “He’s a scandal,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he’s the leader of a group of artists called the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. They make terribly shocking paintings. The Academy won’t have them. They won’t exhibit them.”

“Why not?” asked Jane, trying to imagine what could be as shocking as that.

“I don’t know, exactly,” admitted Miss Lipscombe. “All I know is that in London they are notorious, Mr. Rossetti most of all.”

“And your father let you come?” asked Jane wonderingly.

“Well, he doesn’t know,” said Miss Lipscombe with a wink. “I’m supposed to be at my elocution lessons, but what fun is that? I begged Mummy and she agreed that a girl should have a little adventure before she’s married.”

“You’re going to be married?”

Miss Lipscombe smoothed her radiant hair. “Of course,” she said. “In twelve months’ time. To one of three gentlemen; I just haven’t decided which.”

“Oh,” said Jane.

“If Mr. Rossetti were richer, I might think about marrying him,” Miss Lipscombe went on, eyeing her biscuit thoughtfully. “But my father won’t let me go to anyone with less than five hundred pounds.”

“Mr. Rossetti isn’t rich?” asked Jane with a sinking heart.

“Oh no,” said Miss Lipscombe. “He’s got nothing. His father is a professor or is writing a book or something. His mother takes in language pupils, and so does his sister.”

“But his clothes, his manners…,” Jane sputtered helplessly.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t a gentleman,” said Miss Lipscombe indignantly. “But Morris pays for everything. He’s the rich one.”

It was a terrible blow. Jane knew very well that a man without money of his own could not afford to marry her.

The post came at twelve thirty and the artists wandered over to eat biscuits and read their letters.

“One from your mother, Ned,” said Rossetti. He handed the letter to Burne-Jones. “I’m sure we’ll all be fascinated by the latest account of her rheumatism. One for me from my brother,” Rossetti went on. “If it contains a check, we’ll end work early and go to the Lamb and Thistle.”

A cheer went up from the other young men. Rossetti deftly sliced the envelope with his knife and pulled out a check. “Thirty pounds,” he announced.

“A cheer for William Rossetti,” said Burne-Jones, “who puts up with your folderol so patiently.”

“I won’t ask you what you mean by ‘folderol,’” said Rossetti, “as I am in too good a mood to argue with you. You, dear Ned, have another, from sweet Georgiana.” He held the letter over his head and Burne-Jones, who had his fragile dignity to preserve, waited impatiently until Rossetti got bored with the teasing and handed him the letter.

“They’re engaged,” Miss Lipscomb said, nodding at Burne-Jones, who was fiery red and smiling a tiny smile as he read his letter. “They can’t marry until she’s eighteen, and she can’t be more than fifteen now.”

“Anything from Emma?” inquired Ford Madox Brown. He was older than the others and Jane thought he looked rather severe.

“Not today,” said Rossetti. “I suppose that’s what we all have to look forward to when we do marry, to be ignored and taken for granted. I wouldn’t be in a hurry, Ned, if I were you.”

Brown smiled wryly. “I just hope no one is ill,” he said.

“Topsy, your only letter is from your mother. I think we should hear that one read aloud; Mrs. Morris is always so entertaining.”

Miss Lipscombe rubbed her fingers together and winked at Jane. Rossetti opened the letter and began to read:

“ ‘Dear Son, I hope you are well, et cetera.’” He paused as he skimmed the letter. “‘Weather at home, cook has been sick…’ it goes on in that vein for some time. Here we are: ‘I know that I have no influence over you at all, that you are a stubborn and defiant boy and determined to do as you please, but I must beg you to reconsider this desire to be a painter. If your father were alive, I am sure he would be able to dissuade you, but I am only a feeble old woman.’” Here Rossetti stopped and waited for the laugh.

“Feeble like a circus strongman,” roared Faulkner. Morris looked angry but said nothing.

“ ‘You have your inheritance and you are free to squander it as you like, on paints and degenerate companions.’ Yes, she describes us accurately, doesn’t she, gentlemen?”

“All right,” said Brown, taking the letter from Rossetti. “That’s enough. Let poor Topsy read his mother’s diatribe in peace.”

Rossetti and the others groaned, but they always deferred to Brown on the rare occasions when he checked them.

“Poor fellow,” said Brown as he watched Morris exit the room, the letter crushed in his hand.

“Poor fellow?” said Rossetti. “I’d like to be as poor a fellow as Topsy. I’d find great consolation in my bank account after a letter like that.”

“He’s too young for me, I think,” whispered Miss Lipscombe. “How old do you suppose he is—twenty-one or twenty-two? And that hair, like a bristle brush! But you might try for him. He’s been watching you, I’ve seen him.”

“He hasn’t.” Jane did not know where to look. She fiddled with her teacup.

Miss Lipscombe put a hand on hers.

“His father owned a copper mine. Just think of it!”

After luncheon Jane tried to put the suggestions the other girl had given her into practice, and she found that she did not tire as easily. Morris left the hall immediately after the meal to check on some armor he was having forged. The others worked until three. Rossetti seemed pleased with her progress, and when he shook her hand at the end of the day he held it much longer than was polite. Jane was relieved that her brother was late and not there to see it.

After waiting for twenty minutes with still no sign of Jamey, she began the walk home alone, stopping along the way to look in the shop windows. Her favorite was the pastry shop. She liked to look at the cakes in the window. Today there was a four-layer tower frosted with white buttercream and decorated with gold leaf. Tendrils of icing swirled along the sides. The base was piled with ladyfingers. A wedding cake, she thought. There were rings of pound cake and sheets of gingerbread. There were small custard tarts with whipped cream, apple tarts with caramelized-sugar tops, and lemon tarts adorned with glazed fruit. The coins in her pocket jingled and for a wild moment Jane thought about going in and buying something, a pecan sticky bun or a piece of marzipan cake, but she knew what her mother would say, so after a last longing look, she walked on.

She came to Blackwell’s Book Shop. A volume of Spenser was laid open on a stand, revealing a dainty watercolor illustration. How she would love to own it! How she would love to sit in some soft chair in a warm room and turn the fragile pages! The card next to the book said that it was offered for thirty pounds. It almost made her laugh through her tears. Thirty pounds! Her father earned nine pounds a year, her brother six. But now, she reminded herself, she was earning money, too. Though none of it was hers to spend, it meant mutton in their stews and new dresses.

She decided that it wouldn’t matter to Rossetti that she hadn’t any money. The important thing was the feeling you had for a person, and she knew he understood that.

At the end of the first week, Jane asked her mother to cancel the tea with Tom Barnstable’s parents.

“I always knew you were a fool,” Mrs. Burden said as Jane stood before her, trying not to look too happy, “but this is the worst yet. You think that because a silver-tongued devil throws a few compliments your way, he wants to marry you? Compliments are free. Marriage costs. Men don’t marry women they pay, I can tell you that. He’ll need someone with at least two hundred pounds a year, I’d imagine, the way he spends.” Mrs. Burden had been asking around town about the young painter and knew how much he owed every merchant on High Street.

“He doesn’t need anyone else’s money,” said Jane. She could not help defending Rossetti. “He makes his own money selling paintings.”

Her mother laughed. “It’s a lot easier drawing checks from the bank than painting pictures. And your Italian is a lazy one, I can tell.”

Jane could not understand her mother’s attitude. “I thought you’d want me to marry a gentleman, if I could,” she said.

Mrs. Burden snorted. “Rossetti a gentleman? That’s a laugh. But it’s neither here nor there because he won’t marry you, mark my words.”

Jane’s happiness flickered for a moment. Still, no more was said of Tom Barnstable and his parents. For this, at least, Jane was grateful.

One day Jane arrived at the hall and noticed a stranger standing in front of Rossetti’s easel. He was tall and thin and bewhiskered, with sharp features and a falcon’s piercing gaze.