Ophelia's Muse (21 page)

What would happen next? Would he walk over to her, run his fingers across her bare skin, kiss her neck? And what would she do? Would she let him draw her up from her seat, wrap her arms around him, give in to his touch?

But he didn't come to her. Instead, he spoke. “Do you remember the first time that we saw each other?”

“Of course.” She remembered the day well—how he'd bounded into Deverell's studio with an impish grin. “You read to me from
Twelfth Night,
and we spoke of love. I should have known then that I would fall in love with you.”

“No. That wasn't the first time. Do you really not remember?”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Are you finished with your sketches? I'm beginning to feel chilly.”

“I knew that I'd seen you before, and I had. On Blackfriars Bridge.” He paused and Lizzie waited, an image forming from the fog and sharpening into unwelcome recollection. “It was late, and there was a heavy mist. But I'm sure that it was you. You were with an older man, and he was holding you. I called out, and you ran away. But you stopped for a moment, and I saw your eyes. I couldn't forget them.”

Lizzie said nothing, and she didn't turn to look at him. She remembered that night well. She'd never told anyone about what had happened—he must have been the man who had happened upon them. Why hadn't he spoken of it before?

“What were you doing there?” he asked. “With that man?”

Lizzie felt faint. She knew, as Rossetti did, that many of the shopgirls supplemented their meager wages by obliging the occasional customer. Is that what he thought of her, after all this time? “I was walking home from work.” Her voice was flat. “He accosted me. He insulted me, and wouldn't let me go. If you hadn't come along, I don't know what would have happened.”

Her contentment was gone—she now felt exposed and ashamed by her nudity. She grabbed a draping cloth from the table and wrapped it around herself, then turned to face him. “I'm very grateful that you came along when you did. I can't believe that it was you.”

Rossetti nodded, accepting her words. He walked over to her, but she put up her hand. “I hope that you have what you need for your sketches. I'm afraid that I'm not feeling well. I'm going to lie down.”

She gathered up her clothes and left the studio, hurrying back to the cottage. She was unsettled, as if the ground were no longer firm beneath her feet. She ought to be grateful that it was Rossetti who had saved her that night. But the idea that he had kept this knowledge secret from her, as if it were something not to be spoken of, colored her own memory of the night, making her wonder if she were, somehow, to blame.

All the time that Rossetti had painted her and tended to her lovingly, he had been harboring these suspicions, wondering if she was not what she seemed. It was impossible to reconcile these two sides of him. But what did she really know of him, besides what he told her? She had never met his family, and the only friends whom she met were fellow artists, men like him who took pleasure in the company of their models, but who did not necessarily take them anywhere respectable. The idea that he was toying with her seemed so ludicrous that she dismissed it immediately. And yet, how else to explain why he painted her and courted her, but insisted on delaying any formal announcement of their love?

She reached the cottage and began to pack her things. Whatever the case may be, she must return to London immediately. For a moment she had thought that she could be satisfied with living with Rossetti and taking part in his art, with being his muse and nothing more. But now she realized that she could no longer play at being his wife, with no guarantee to her place or happiness. His changeability, which she had once admired as artistic temperament, now scared her. It was all well and good for him to indulge in such games, but she had her reputation to consider, or what was left of it.

 

Lizzie insisted that Rossetti take her back to London, and they left that night. He did his best to repair things between them, knowing that he had offended her. He wrote to her daily, swearing that he couldn't work without her, and promising that he loved her, and wanted to marry her as soon as he could. He sent poems that he wrote for her and gifts of drawing supplies that Lizzie knew he could barely afford for himself. She was angry, but her anger faded in his absence. How could she be angry with him for not marrying her, when she refused even to see him? He had always been truthful with her, telling her that they had to wait until his future was secured to marry. If the wait was longer than she had hoped, it was only because it took time for an artist to build his reputation. She told herself that if she loved him, she would do everything within her power to help him.

And so, as the months passed, they reached a delicate truce. He continued to paint her, and the beauty of the paintings built a bridge between them, and gave them a shared purpose in the creation of his art.

As a peace offering, he read her Tennyson's poem about Sir Galahad's quest for the Holy Grail, and suggested that they work on an illustration from the poem together. He wanted to draw the scene where Galahad forsakes the adoration of the court ladies so that he might remain chaste and pure of heart in preparation for his quest, saying, “I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.”

Lizzie, however, was more interested in drawing the angels who bear the Holy Grail and reveal its vision to Galahad: “Wings flutter, voices hover clear: ‘O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on! the prize is near.' ” Each felt that their choice best represented the romance of the poem, but Rossetti at last relented, wanting to please her.

All through the winter they took turns working on the illustration. Lizzie did a study of Rossetti for the figure of Galahad, and he drew her as one of the angels. Her talent for figure drawing had grown more adept under Rossetti's guidance, and Sir Galahad's hunched shoulders and outstretched hands captured the knight's humble acceptance of his task. She made quick and competent studies of the angels' draped garments, and Rossetti worked on the faces, which were not yet her strength. When he turned to other commissions, Lizzie spent hours on the details, determined that the swoop of an angel's wing and the fall of light from the shrine's windows be perfect.

The result was beautiful, evoking the mystery of the secret shrine where Galahad has his vision of the Grail. Rossetti was pleased with Lizzie's work, and the light touch that she brought to the picture. He suggested that they might do an entire series together, and Lizzie sprang from her chair and gave him a kiss. For the first time, she felt that all of her work was paying off, and that her drawings were finally showing promise.

But as winter turned into spring, the studio began to feel stuffy rather than cozy, and Rossetti grew restless. He found more and more excuses to be away, eagerly taking any invitation to draw or visit in the countryside, and leaving Lizzie to draw alone in his studio. Her health suffered in his absence, and as she became weaker it was harder to sit at the easel for any length of time. She ate very little, and once again grew thin. Rossetti was convinced that it would be best for her to leave the city. Lizzie's mother was equally concerned for her health, and so Lizzie told him that he might ask around for recommendations for seaside resorts where she might convalesce.

John Millais was eager to help, as he still felt responsible for Lizzie's ill health, and he suggested the seaside town of Hastings, where the weather was mild and many doctors and specialists could be found. He arranged for a commission for Rossetti, and Rossetti used the funds to pay for rail tickets and lodging for Lizzie and Lydia.

Lizzie was grateful for his attentions, but she didn't want to leave the city, particularly since Annie Miller remained in town. She put off her departure, preferring ill health in Rossetti's company to a holiday by the sea without him. But eventually her symptoms overcame her, and Rossetti insisted that she go. “It's for the best. I'll devote myself to my work here, while you rest and regain your health. As soon as I've finished a few pictures, and am sure of funds, I'll join you at Hastings.”

Lizzie glanced at the pile of sketches on Rossetti's desk. She'd looked them over while he was out, and she knew that he was planning a new painting with Annie Miller. “Wouldn't you prefer me to stay, so that I can sit for you? I want to be of use to you.”

“My little dove,” he said, patting her hair. “You're selfless, as always. But I insist that you take care of yourself. In your state, you can hardly sit for me for more than an hour, and that really is of no use to me. Hastings will be just the thing. When you're well enough, I'll plan a beautiful painting of you—perhaps something tragic and romantic from the
Inferno.
”

Lizzie was not comforted by his words, but she couldn't deny that her health was only getting worse. She had no choice but to pack her little case, and hope that the city would not prove too distracting to him in her absence.

CHAPTER 15

The town of Hastings was a small collection of inns and houses perched between the sea and the white cliffs, popular with invalids and the doctors and charlatans who attended them. They came for the sea air and mild climate, though the most desperate drank the seawater, believing it had the power to restore health.

Lizzie and Lydia arrived in March, by rail, and went straight from the station to a hotel in the center of town. The inn was respectable but dull, occupied by elderly ladies who spent their days roaming the halls, fading in and out of the dreary wallpaper as they shuffled by. The sisters were given two small rooms on the second floor, from which they could just glimpse the sea between the surrounding rooftops.

Once they were unpacked, Lydia wasted no time in taking Lizzie to see a series of doctors. Dr. Wilkinson, recommended by the innkeeper, took a special interest in her case. He saw her in a cluttered office that reeked of chloroform and soap. He gave her a thorough examination, listened to her lungs and heart, and noted each of her symptoms: lingering cough, loss of appetite and weight, frequent spells of dizziness and weakness. At last he announced that Lizzie was not, as she had feared, consumptive.

“She suffers from exhaustion, with a slight infection of the lungs,” he declared, speaking to Lydia as if Lizzie were not there. “She's clearly been overtaxed by her attempts at painting—it's not a natural occupation for a woman in her state of health. She must be kept quiet, and she must abstain from all activities that could cause excitement.”

Lizzie flushed with anger. “I'm not to paint? But what else is there to do in this dull little town? I'll go mad if I can't at least work on my drawings!”

Dr. Wilkinson chuckled indulgently. “I'm sure that our town
does
seem very quaint after the excitement of London. But you'll soon find that a short walk in the morning and quiet rest in the afternoon will agree with you much more than the irregular habits that you kept in London. The serious pursuit of art is better left to the gentlemen, I'm afraid. A lady's delicate constitution isn't up to the strain. No, my dear, I think that you'll find that a simpler style of living will suit you better. You're very weak, and if you continue on this way, the next attack may place you beyond my care.”

Lizzie's eyes flashed, but before she could argue, Lydia placed a calming hand on her arm. “Of course, Dr. Wilkinson,” Lydia said. “We intend to live quietly here, and devote ourselves to my sister's convalescence. I couldn't agree with you more that her recent excitement is at least partly to blame for her ill health.”

“Just so.” The doctor reached into his bag and produced a small glass vial, which he handed to Lizzie. “Laudanum; a tincture of opium. It should ease any coughing or aches, and allow you the rest that you need. It's also useful for calming the stomach—you must take a little more food. Three drops at a time, and no more. Many ladies find it useful to calm the nerves as well. I'll write you out an order for the chemist's. But mind that you watch the doses carefully—a few drops too many and the effect has been known to be deadly.”

Lizzie left the examination room without another word, and Lydia stayed to wait for the chemist's order. When Lizzie was out of earshot, Lydia turned to Dr. Wilkinson with a question. “Then, she will recover? It's not as grave as we've feared?”

“Her case is certainly serious, but not at all hopeless. It's imperative that she be kept calm and comfortable, and that she take some food and fresh air. If she doesn't regain some strength, any new development could prove very serious.”

“Of course,” Lydia murmured, and then said, almost to herself, “but it will take a stronger will than mine to keep Lizzie from following her flights of fancy, or from painting.”

But Lydia needn't have worried about keeping Lizzie quiet. As the weeks passed and Rossetti put off his arrival, Lizzie's condition began to worsen, rather than improve. She soon lost all interest in drawing or exploring the coast, preferring to lie in bed, staring at the same page of a book and falling into fitful spells of sleep. Though Lydia occasionally managed to coax her out for short walks in the sea air, her appetite didn't improve, and she could hardly be persuaded to take tea or broth. The laudanum eased Lizzie's cough, but it also seemed to increase her indolence, and the little bottle was emptying more quickly than it ought to.

Lizzie wrote to Rossetti daily, but only a few notes came back. At first she made excuses for him, but eventually she admitted that she was afraid that Rossetti had abandoned her down here, and that he was happy to be left alone in the city, free to see Annie Miller and his other models as much as he liked.

“You ought not to write to him,” Lydia said. “I don't see why you go on with him, when he treats you in such a shabby way.”

Lizzie shook her head in despair. “I love him, Lyddie, can't you see? And he loves me, too, I'm sure of it. If only he would come down to see me! When he gets caught up in painting he isn't quite himself—it's hard for him to think of other things. And that Annie Miller is trouble. He's promised me that she's nothing to him but a model, but what man can resist such easy prey? If only he were here, things would be different.”

When a letter arrived from John Millais, Lizzie tore it open, eager for any news of her friends in London.

It read:

Lizzie read the letter through and then tossed it aside. “It's from John Millais. He writes to say that his
Ophelia
has met with success.”

“I am glad to hear it. Emma Brown seemed to think that if the painting did well it could only be good for you.”

“She only said that to make me feel better,” Lizzie snapped, surprising Lydia with her anger. “She said that when she thought that Dante would throw me over for Annie Miller. She knows full well that the more fame I have as a model, the less likely it is that any decent fellow will have me for a wife—Dante included, though he would never say so.”

She paused, her anger dissipating as quickly as it had come on. “Of course, I
am
glad that the painting is beautiful, but look what I have sacrificed for it.” She looked around the dingy room. “If anyone still looks upon the painting a hundred years from now, Millais will be remembered as its brilliant author, but my name will be forgotten, and I will meet the same obscure fate as poor Ophelia.”

“I can't stand to hear you speak so!”

“I only speak the truth. I begin to fear that I am lost. Things with him have gone so far—I have to trust that he will do right by me. If he doesn't, what will I do? What man would have me now, sick, and with a reputation as an artists' model. And how could I ever love another man—Rossetti will always have my heart. Could I even go back to Mrs. Tozer's? What will become of me?” Lizzie knew that she shouldn't speak so in front of her sister. But waiting for Rossetti, day after day, was wearing on her. When she was with him, it was easy to get caught up in his enthusiasm, to feel that what they were doing, making art, was more important than anything else. But here at this sad little hotel she had only her own thoughts for company, and it was impossible not to worry. She wondered all day where he was, what he was doing, whom he was with. And what if he didn't come after all? She shook her head, trying to shake the thought. “I'm sorry, Lydia, I don't know why I say such things. It must be my illness.”

Lydia was silent, unable to offer any comfort. What girl in Lizzie's position would not be half sick? She didn't object when Lizzie reached for the laudanum bottle and took a generous dose. When Lizzie drifted off into a fitful sleep, Lydia wrapped herself in a shawl and went out to walk along the sea wall. The sea was rough, whipped into a frenzy by the wind, and the spray stung her cheeks as it crashed against the rocks. But it was a long time before she returned to the airless room, with its stale scent of illness and waiting.

 

Spring turned into summer, and still Rossetti remained in London, deaf or indifferent to Lizzie's increasingly frantic entreaties for him to visit. Lydia was on the verge of taking Lizzie back to London, where she could at least convalesce in the bosom of her family, when Lizzie's health took a turn for the worse.

A knock at the door in the middle of the night brought Lydia flying from her bed, as if she had been waiting for such a sound. The innkeeper stood at the door, a lamp in her hand.

“What's happened?” Lydia demanded.

“It's Miss Elizabeth. She's not well.”

Lydia followed the innkeeper to Lizzie's room, where a maid was bending over Lizzie's bed, putting a cool cloth to her head. “What's happened?” she asked again.

“I was bringing in the coal for the morning fires, miss, when I heard a cry. I came rushing in and poor Miss Elizabeth had fallen to the floor. She must have been trying to get up from her bed.”

Lydia knelt at Lizzie's side. Her skin was damp and her cheekbones protruded sharply from her face. Lydia grabbed her hand and felt nothing but skin and bones. Lizzie muttered wildly, her eyes opening and closing. Lydia glanced over at the table beside the bed and saw that the bottle of laudanum was nearly empty.

“Call for the doctor!” she cried.

Lydia tended to her sister, trying to coax her to drink a little water and keeping her brow cool with wet cloths. At first Lizzie was insensible to her presence, but then her eyes locked on Lydia, and she grabbed her hands. “Is Dante coming? Is he coming to me? I must see him!”

“Hush, Lizzie, please be calm!”

“Is he coming?” Lizzie repeated, her voice pleading. “Is he coming to me?”

“Lizzie, please! Yes, he's coming,” Lydia fibbed. “But please, dear, have some water, just a sip.”

Lydia's answer satisfied Lizzie, and she became calm and compliant. She took a long sip of water and laid her head back on the pillow. Lydia sat by her side and waited for the doctor. After a few minutes, Lizzie seemed to fall into a deep sleep, and when Lydia felt her brow again, it was cool.

Dr. Wilkinson arrived, looking concerned despite Lizzie's return to calm. He questioned Lydia, who admitted that Lizzie had taken little food in the last days, and had relied heavily on the laudanum for rest.

“The danger has passed for now, but it's of the utmost importance that she avoid these attacks in the future—any excitement could overwhelm her. She must be compelled to take some food. She seems to have lost what little weight she had. And she must not be upset at all.”

Lydia looked over at the bottle of laudanum. “I didn't expect that she would need quite so much.”

The doctor didn't look concerned. “She's an ill woman. The laudanum may be particularly useful in helping her to keep some food down. I'll write out another order. But the most important thing for your sister is quiet rest. Make sure that she's not upset or excited.”

Lydia thanked the doctor and then sat down at the small desk next to Lizzie's bed. The light of dawn was just beginning to show beyond the lace curtains. She pulled Lizzie's writing paper and pen from the desk. The pen hovered over the paper for a moment, as if she were reconsidering, but she glanced over at Lizzie and at last began to compose her letter.

Lydia's missive hit its target. Rossetti read the letter the way it was intended—as a rebuke for his callousness. He'd meant to follow Lizzie to Hastings, but his days had been filled with painting and visits and meetings with the Brotherhood, and it never seemed to be the right time to leave. It was difficult to admit, but with Lizzie in Hastings he was able to get on with his work much more quickly. He didn't need to worry about her comfort, or whether she would mind if he brought another model home. And the image of her in his mind was often enough to inspire him to paint—whenever he missed her he painted her, and he was satisfied.

He finally finished the painting of Helen of Troy, which had taken him nearly a year to get just right, and he started another picture with Annie Miller as his model. This was an intimate portrait, not unlike the studies that he made of Lizzie. It showed Annie wearing a fine yellow satin dress, in the same honeyed hue as her hair. Flush with money from a recent sale, he bought the gown for her as a gift. Annie had been free with her gratitude, and he was in no rush to leave her. She was easy to be with, and asked nothing from him other than amusement and friendship.