Ophelia's Muse (16 page)

She heard a familiar voice behind her and turned. “Lizzie! Dante! There you are!” Emma Brown trilled. “Isn't it too much?” She gestured around the room with her fan and then opened it with a flick of her wrist and fluttered it in front of her face. Above her fan, her eyes sparkled with amusement. “It's all very grand and mysterious. The costumed servants are an exotic touch, I dare say.”

“Lord Lamberton never does things by halves,” Rossetti said, looking around. “The house is a work of art in itself. Say, have you seen Holman Hunt? He's supposed to be here.”

“Yes, he was just over there. . . .” Emma scanned the room. “There he is! Hunt! Hunt! Over here!” She waved her fan.

Holman Hunt caught her eye and came over. He shook hands with Rossetti and nodded to Lizzie. “Lord Lamberton certainly has a taste for the East. I'm thinking of trying to get him to put up some funds for my painting trip to Palestine. What do you think? I bet that he'd be game to commission a few pictures.”

“He might, at that,” Rossetti said. “When do you leave? I hate to think of the painting that you'll do there without me.”

“Not for a few months. And you know that I would love nothing more than to have you come with me. The light there is supposed to be the most beautiful in the world. What do you say?”

Rossetti's eyes took on a faraway look at the suggestion, as if he were already among the desert dunes, the flat light reflecting off of the sand. He'd mentioned to Lizzie several times that he was thinking of joining Hunt on his travels, but Lizzie had done everything in her power to gently discourage him. She hated the thought of his leaving for so long. A trip to Palestine would take at least a year, and if they weren't married, or at least engaged before he left, it would be ridiculous for Lizzie to wait for him. She would have no means of support, except to go back to Mrs. Tozer's, if Mrs. Tozer would take her back, and no reason to think that he would return to her. She slipped her hand into his and squeezed it, willing him to remember that she was a reason to stay.

Rossetti glanced over at her and seemed to snap to attention. “No, no, it's very tempting, but I have all the inspiration that I require right here.”

“I see,” Hunt said, looking at Lizzie with somewhat less affection. “Of course I understand. I myself am loath to leave my fiancée, Miss Miller. But I have our marriage to look forward to on my return, and the thought of that happiness must sustain me.”

“And when do I get to meet the beauty who finally tamed you? I've heard so much about her from Ford.”

“You can meet her now,” Hunt said, looking over Rossetti's shoulder. “Here she comes.”

The little group turned toward the approaching woman, who moved through the room like a siren, turning heads as she went. Her hair was golden, and she wore it loose, like Lizzie's. Her gown was daringly low cut, and the men in the room took no pains to hide their admiration of her gifts, despite the sizeable pearl engagement ring on her finger.

Emma leaned toward Lizzie and whispered in her ear: “Don't be fooled by the new dress—Annie Miller's as low as they come. Hunt may have taken her out from behind the bar, but I don't think that he's quite managed to take the taste for the bar life out of her.”

Hunt beamed at his intended as she joined the group. “Miss Annie Miller,” he said, taking her hand. “Allow me to present Mr. Dante Rossetti.”

Miss Miller made an exaggerated curtsy and smiled at Rossetti. Her cheeks were flushed from drink, and she tossed her head and simpered, aware of her effect on the men in the room. When she began to speak, Lizzie wasn't at all surprised to hear the thick accent of the lower classes. She shuddered at the harsh tones, though she knew that it was only with great effort that she had avoided such an accent herself. But Miss Miller clearly couldn't care less what people thought. Lizzie shifted away, not wanting to be associated with the fringes from which she had somehow made her way here.

“Mr. Rossetti,” Miss Miller said, ignoring the two ladies completely. “Very pleased to meet you! Hunt 'as told me all about you, you know.” She smiled and placed a light finger on Rossetti's chest. “A great painter and a great rascal, he says! Well, I like a man with a little fire in him. Keeps life interesting, I say.”

Hunt cleared his throat, and Lizzie saw him flush, but Miss Miller took no notice of his discomfort.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Rossetti looked at Miss Miller appraisingly. To Lizzie's surprise, he seemed impressed by what he saw, rather than repelled. “Now I know why Hunt has kept you to himself for so long—you must be a great asset to him in the studio. But I insist that he bring you round to my studio at your earliest convenience, so that I might paint you as well.”

“To be sure!” Annie giggled, enjoying the attention. “But nothing naughty, mind you. Now that I'm to be married, my dear Hunt tells me that I'm only to sit for portraits of the highest kind!” She let out a peal of laughter and Rossetti laughed right along with her.

Lizzie's eyes went wide. The man she saw before her was very different from the serious painter and poet whom she knew, the one who had promised to paint no one but her. That man never would have been amused by Miss Miller's crude jokes.

Lizzie wasn't the only one made uncomfortable by Miss Miller's easy manner. “Annie, dear,” Hunt hissed. “You're making an exhibition of yourself.” He turned to the rest of the group. “Miss Miller is a great one for jokes.”

Lizzie leaned in to Rossetti's side. “Dante, it's a bit close in here—I need some air.”

“It is warm,” he agreed, not taking his eyes from Miss Miller. “There's a lovely terrace right through there.” He pointed to the doors that led out to the garden. “Why don't you step outside, and I'll join you in a moment.”

Lizzie had no choice but to smile tightly and make her way alone onto the terrace. She had no wish to watch Rossetti fawn over Miss Miller. Emma shot her a sympathetic smile as she left, but didn't offer to accompany her, either—she was enjoying the spectacle of Hunt's fiancée far too much to leave.

The terrace was breezy and dark, and Lizzie found a bench sheltered from the noise of the party by a low hedge. The night air cooled her jealousy. She knew that she shouldn't let Rossetti's flirting bother her. After all, she had to admit that it wasn't really the flirting that annoyed her, but the sight of the showy engagement ring on Annie's finger, while her own finger went bare. But it was useless to fret over such things; Rossetti had promised her that he would propose as soon as he had the means to support her, and his work was going well. It wouldn't be long, surely, before she had a ring of her own.

She inhaled the cool September air, relishing the heady scent of night-blooming jasmine, and felt refreshed. The glow of the party beyond the terrace doors beckoned to her, and she was just rising to rejoin her group when she heard her name spoken by a familiar voice behind the hedge. There was a moment of silence, and she heard the sounds of two men cutting and lighting their cigars. Intrigued, she paused for a moment to listen, but she couldn't quite place the voices.

“Yes, she is very beautiful, but her beauty is nothing in proportion to this madness that Dante has for her.”

“They're saying she's an enchantress, that she's cast a spell on him and now the poor man can draw no one but her. Have you been to his studio lately? The walls are papered with her image—he'll have to find a buyer as taken with her as himself if he hopes to make a living. But perhaps John Ruskin is his man—I heard he bought a whole sheaf of them. And now Rossetti has brought her here, to Lord Lamberton's. I do think that he means to marry her.”

Lizzie heard laughter. “Marry her? I should think not, though I've heard they're lovers. No, he'll never marry her. She plays at gentility, but you know she's got no money and no family. Just like Miss Miller, though Hunt doesn't seem to care.”

“Is that so? When I was introduced to her at the Exhibition she looked down her nose at me as if she were the Duchess of York. For my own part, I much prefer Miss Miller—for all her coarseness she seems a great deal more fun.”

“That she is. And of course, Hunt may marry as he likes. His family has no pretensions and he makes a fine living. But Rossetti would do better to meet some girl of property, with an interest in supporting the arts . . . and supporting an artist.”

The two men laughed. “Rossetti isn't the only one who's come under her spell. Walter Deverell was quite gone on her as well. When he hinted as much to his mother there was an awful row. Can you imagine the very prim and proper Mrs. Deverell welcoming a shopgirl as a daughter-in-law? She sent poor Deverell off to an uncle in Sussex to get him out of the city and away from her.”

“Probably for the best. Shall we?”

Lizzie listened as the men stubbed out their cigars and walked back toward the house. She'd stood frozen behind the hedge, but now she sank back down onto the bench, her head bowed under the weight of the men's words. So that was what was said of her: that she was Dante's whore.

It hardly mattered that it wasn't true—if it was said, it was as good as true. She slapped her hand against the bench in frustration. How naïve she had been, to think that she was making a success of herself. They had seen through her, and easily. She tried to fight back her tears, but they came anyway. She dropped her head into her hands and sat on the bench, unable to move. That was how Emma found her a few minutes later.

“Lizzie? Are you unwell?”

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Oh, Emma, I'm such a fool.”

“What's happened?” Emma asked, putting an arm around Lizzie's narrow shoulders. “Surely, my dear, this can't be about Annie Miller. Dante's flirting means nothing. He's just humoring Hunt. You mustn't take it to heart.”

“No, no. It's not that, though I have just heard myself compared with her, and not favorably. I overheard two men making sport of my reputation.”

To Lizzie's surprise, Emma laughed. “Is that what all this fuss is about? The men always chide us for our gossiping, but I do believe they love a scandal as much as we do. Dry your eyes, Lizzie, that's nothing to cry over. You've no idea what they used to say about me. But now that Ford and I are married, it hardly matters, and they are on to the next scandal.”

“But what if it's true? What if they all look down on me?”

“I've never heard anyone say a single unkind word about you. Whoever said that doesn't know what they're talking about, and you shouldn't pay them any mind. Now come back inside, dear. I was sent to fetch you. John Millais has just arrived, and he's looking for you. Do you know him? He's the most successful of the bunch, I should say. He spoke to Dante about you—flattering things, dear, don't look so worried! He wants to have you as the model for his new painting, and he won't take no for an answer. It's to be a painting of Ophelia—on a grand scale and very romantic.”

The faint memory of a dream—a heavy satin gown and the twisted gates of a castle—tugged at Lizzie's memory. “Ophelia? He wishes to paint me as Ophelia?” She paused. “But Dante will never allow it. I'm sure you remember how he put poor Deverell off of painting me at the Exhibition. He seems determined to have me sit for no one but him. And I've no wish to cause a row.”

“I don't think Dante would dare to refuse him. Millais has been very kind in sending ready buyers in Dante's direction. And, besides, I heard from a little bird that Dante's warning didn't put you off of sitting for Deverell at all.” She laughed at Lizzie's shocked face. “Very little happens in this circle that I don't hear about. But don't worry—I'm sure that Dante doesn't know, and besides, it's my opinion that he may tell you what to do as soon as he marries you, and not a moment before.” She stood and held out her hand to Lizzie. “Now put on a brave face, and let's go inside. This is a party! You mustn't take everything so seriously.”

“You're right.” Lizzie smoothed her hair and dress, but she could not so easily smooth over her ruffled feelings. Everything had worked out for Emma, but Lizzie had no such guarantee—no promise from Rossetti. Still, she had come so far, and she would not give up yet. She linked arms with Emma and went in to find John Millais.

Millais waved as they entered, and then came forward and made Lizzie a little bow. “The celestial and my soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia!”

“Mr. Millais,” Lizzie said, giving him her hand and glancing sideways at Rossetti, who was doing his best not to look put out.

“I've been waiting patiently for my chance to paint you. And now I have a picture for which no one else will do. Do say that you'll sit for my portrait of Ophelia.”

She turned to Rossetti, and tried not to sound too eager. “Can you spare me?”

“It will be a great difficulty, but if I must, I can spare you.” His tone was friendly, but she could tell that the effort cost him something. “I can't deny a favor to a friend, and you will make a fine Ophelia.”

“Then I would be happy to sit for you,” Lizzie said to Millais. “Just name the day.”

“While the weather's still fine, I'll paint the background, in Surrey. As soon as that's finished, I can begin to paint Ophelia. We can work through the winter at my studio.” He offered her his arm, and paraded her around the room as he told about his plans for the painting. Rossetti and Emma followed behind, and Lizzie felt a little triumph at knowing that Rossetti was sure to be jealous of Millais's attentions. It would serve as a reminder that he had no real claim on her yet.