Ophelia's Muse (22 page)

But Lydia's letter reminded him of his duty, and of his failings. He knew he'd acted badly, and the feeling was disorienting, like looking at a painting where the perspective is off. He had always prized chivalry and devotion, following the example of Dante Alighieri. But his own behavior, he knew, fell far short of that ideal. He now admitted that he had sinned—a sin for the sake of his art, but a sin nonetheless. Filled with remorse, he planned a drawing that would buy his ticket to Hastings.

There was no mistaking the tone of Lydia's letter. Lizzie had taken a turn for the worse, and she was suffering, perhaps even dying, without him there to give her comfort. He worked for three days in a state of high agitation, and the resulting picture—Saint Cecilia, imprisoned for her faith and gratefully receiving the kiss of death from a guardian angel—was grim but compelling. He sent the picture off to Ruskin and prayed that he was not too late. He had heard nothing from either of the sisters since Lydia's last letter.

 

Rossetti took the train to Hastings and went immediately to the inn. At the desk, he was told that Miss Siddal was in her room, and he ran up the stairs, not waiting for the clerk to notify her, and causing a stir at the front desk. He had no time for proprieties; his heart was in his throat, and he tried to prepare himself for a much weaker and ailing Lizzie.

He knocked on the door and Lydia answered. “Mr. Rossetti,” she said, not meeting his eye. “You've come. At last.”

Rossetti took her coldness as his due and followed her into the room. There he saw Lizzie, looking small and delicate, curled up in an armchair. A heavy shawl covered her shoulders, and the teacup in her hand trembled slightly. She was pale, and certainly thinner. But it was clear that she was not dying, and he uttered a quick prayer of thanks. He dropped to his knees and laid his head on her lap. “My dove. I was so scared. I thought that I might lose you.”

Lizzie put down her tea and stroked his hair. “It was the thought of you that sustained me. You're here now, and that's what matters.”

Rossetti lifted his head and looked into Lizzie's large gray eyes. “Yes, I'm here, and I won't leave your side again. If anything should have happened, I would never have been able to forgive myself.”

Before Lizzie could reply she began to cough, softly at first and then deeper, raspier. Her face was white and Rossetti saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. He turned to Lydia in alarm and Lydia grabbed the laudanum from the table and gave Lizzie a small dose. In a few minutes the coughing fit calmed and Lizzie lay back in her chair, exhausted.

She managed a smile for Rossetti, however. “I know that I'll improve now that you're here.”

“Let's hope so,” Lydia said. “Now, Lizzie, you need your rest. I'll take Mr. Rossetti down to the desk and see about his rooms, and then perhaps later we can have dinner sent up to us here.”

Rossetti kissed Lizzie on the top of her head. “Your sister is right. Rest, my dove, and I'll come back to see you very soon.”

Lizzie nodded and Rossetti followed Lydia out of the room. On the landing Lydia paused and put a hand on his arm. “I'm sorry if my letter came as a shock to you. Lizzie has been quite ill, and I was afraid . . . I was afraid that if you didn't come soon, it might be too late. She was very anxious for your company.”

“I'm grateful that you wrote to me. I am more relieved than I can say to see that the danger has passed.”

“The danger has passed for the moment. But she's in a very weak condition—a very
precarious
position—and I must beg you not to do anything that might upset or excite her. With her health in such a state, she really can't have any other uncertainties weighing on her.”

The adrenaline that had driven him through the past days began to ebb. He suddenly wanted very much for Lydia, a girl he barely knew, to understand, and to forgive him. “You're right to chastise me. I've been selfish, and given everything to my art, and nothing to your dear sister. I don't mean to wrap myself up in my work, you know. The paintings envelop me, and I must submit to them; I have no choice. Lizzie understands, I think. She's an artist at heart, and she knows what it's like to live in the service of art and beauty. If I have to be away from her, it's only because I am like one of those poor knights in old stories, who must part from their ladies to fulfill their duty. I do it with a heavy heart, but a true one. My art is my quest; I can no more deny it than I can stop myself from breathing.”

Rossetti's grand speech seemed to have little effect on Lydia. “I wouldn't know about such things,” she sniffed. She looked at him through narrowed eyes. “I see only Lizzie, and her suffering. You say that you have no choice, but neither has she; she is at your mercy. If your heart is true, as you say, then you would not toy with hers.” With that, Lydia turned on her heel and walked down the stairs, leaving Rossetti to follow, red-faced, in her wake.

 

That evening they ate dinner in Lizzie's room, and the conversation was light and cheerful, despite the gloomy room. Lydia mentioned nothing of their conversation in the hallway, and Rossetti went out of his way to compliment Lizzie and make himself useful.

After the dishes were cleared, he used a pair of sewing scissors to clip a single auburn curl from Lizzie's hair. He pulled a brass locket from his waistcoat, tucked the curl inside, and pinned it to his watch chain. Then he clipped one of his own brown curls and placed it in a matching locket, which he strung onto a piece of ribbon and hung around Lizzie's neck.

Lizzie's face lit up with pleasure at the gift, and even Lydia seemed to approve this obvious sign of devotion. For the first time since their arrival in Hastings, Lizzie spoke of going to see the local sights, and by the end of the evening, a hint of color had returned to her cheeks. Affection warmed them, and the dreary inn room was made bright by their laughter. The little flame of hope, so nearly extinguished, was once again fanned back into existence.

 

Rossetti's company proved to be the most effective treatment that Lizzie had yet tried, and her health and spirits improved in his company. He was as attentive as any new lover, and he was constantly at her side, amusing her with stories from London, and fetching endless cups of tea. He urged her to draw, and they passed the days in her room, sketching and speaking in low tones, their heads bent together. Lydia sat nearby, looking up from her sewing to watch the pair with wary eyes.

In July, when Lizzie was strong enough, she and Rossetti linked arms and took off for a walk in the hills above Hastings. They passed through town, taking a shady lane that led up into the hills. Chestnuts towered overhead, and delicate branches of dogwood formed a canopy of blossoms. The road climbed quickly, and the trees grew fewer and farther between, before finally giving way to great rolling fields of green and gray grass. A bend in the road revealed the unexpected vista of the town below, a clutch of peaked roofs and white steeples against the vast blue sea.

Lizzie took a deep breath, relishing the sea air and the baked scent of the warm earth. The distant roar of waves breaking against the cliffs mingled with the drone of crickets and bees in the hedges. The heat had discouraged other walkers, and Lydia was at home with a headache. They were alone, at last.

“My dove, have you ever seen more beautiful countryside?”

“Is it the hills that please you?” Lizzie asked, teasing. “Or those who walk among them?” She took a few steps forward and then turned back toward him, posing against the canvas of the view.

Rossetti laughed, happy that Lizzie once again seemed to be herself. “Why, of course, the landscape is lovely only so far as it makes a fitting setting for your beauty, my love.” He took her hands in his and spun her around. She threw her head back and laughed, and her hair streamed out behind her. The months of illness were erased from her face, and Rossetti glimpsed the naïve beauty that he had first seen in Deverell's studio. He felt an artistic stirring, a sudden and intense desire to paint.

“Tomorrow I'll bring my things to sketch you along the cliffs.” He was sorry that he hadn't thought to bring even a small tablet along with him. “Or perhaps we can look for the waterfall that's supposed to be up here somewhere, and I'll draw you as a nymph on the rocks.”

Lizzie became serious. “Will you always want to draw me as you do now? Or will you tire of me?”

“Lizzie, you are my muse. Without you there is no art in me.” Here in the pristine hills above Hastings, with Lizzie by his side, London and its inhabitants seemed a long way off. It was Lizzie whom he loved; his paintings of other women could not change that.

Lizzie watched him, trying to see how far she could trust him. “Without you, there is nothing in me. We must not be apart again, Dante.”

“Come, you have nothing to worry about. I love you, and I'll always take care of you. Let's not think of anything sad for the rest of the day. We're here together, and that's enough for me.”

Lizzie was satisfied, and she let him wrap his arm around her waist as they continued up the road. Rossetti spotted a path leading off into the meadow beside the road. He grabbed Lizzie's hand and pulled her, laughing, down the path.

A lone apple tree stood in the center of the meadow, its branches spreading out wide and low, offering shade. They walked toward it through grasses as high as their knees. He helped her over a rock, and she stepped ahead of him. He stopped for a moment and watched her as she went: Her white linen dress whispered invitingly around her ankles, and the parasol that rested on her shoulder bobbed as she walked, giving glimpses of her bright red hair. A warm breeze blew across the field with a hushing sound, and the grass rippled and swayed. She turned to smile at him, and he saw her framed for a moment by the hillside and the blue sky. She was more beautiful than any painting, the fields around her made more glorious by her presence.

He felt a sense of awe, as if he had beheld a miracle, and he knew that he would never paint anything so fine. But he was grateful to witness it, to feel the warm sun on his shoulders and the breeze in his hair. He wanted the afternoon to last forever.

When they reached the shade of the tree, he plucked an apple blossom from a low branch. He slipped the flower between Lizzie's fingers and tied it so that the stem became a ring and the blossom its jewel. She gazed down at it, her skin as white and perfect as the flower's petals. When she looked up, Rossetti was kneeling before her. “I almost lost you once. I will not make that mistake again. Lizzie Siddal, will you be my wife?”

Lizzie's face filled with joy, but her voice was solemn. “Nothing would make me happier. I feel that I am your wife already.”

“Then I'll always be as happy as I am at this moment, beneath these flowering branches.” He stood and kissed her, brushing his lips softly across hers. He lingered there for a moment, and then began to kiss her earlobe, her cheek, and the delicate skin of her neck.

Lizzie turned her head to the side and looked down at the apple blossom encircling her finger. She didn't protest as his fingers drew a delicate path over her collarbone and then drifted down to search beneath the light cloth of her dress.

She had resisted for so long, and she felt that to deny this moment would be an act almost of heresy. To turn away was impossible, unnatural. The sun continued to shine in a cloudless sky, but the air between them was as heavy and alive as if a storm approached.

She closed her eyes, and the sun that shone through the branches played across her eyelids in a shifting kaleidoscope of light and shadow. He kissed her on the forehead and then laid her down in the soft green grass, as tenderly as if she were a sleeping child being laid to bed.

He stood over her and his shadow fell across her. Then he lay down next to her and continued his gentle but insistent explorations. He slid her linen dress up to her thigh and ran his fingers along the bare skin of her leg. She turned her head to the side and stretched her arms out into the grass, drawing in her breath and digging her fingers deep into the warm dirt.

The sound of the birds in the leaves above her drowned out all other thoughts. He began to breathe more quickly, and he buried his face into her hair as he moved above her. She tried to hold herself as still as if she were sitting for a painting, but she soon moved to embrace him as well. She thought of nothing but his closeness; the scent of his skin and the roughness of his face against her shoulder. Time stretched out indefinitely, and then his cry brought her back to her senses. He kissed her once more and then rolled off of her and lay beside her in the grass.

She pulled her skirt back down, but did not otherwise stir. She was not fully sensible of her surroundings, and the half-dreamed words of a poem drifted through her mind:
Slow days have passed that make a year, slow hours that make a day, since I could take my first dear love, and kiss him the old way.
She was comforted by a sense of inevitability, as if they had always been heading toward this time and this place. Then she shivered, feeling for a moment the shock of what she had done.

Rossetti was quiet beside her. Soon she heard his breathing become slow and shallow. She sat up, reached into the pocket of her skirt, and withdrew the tiny glass bottle of laudanum. She let three small drops of the mixture fall onto her tongue. Then she too lay back under the tree.

There was no blame, really, in what she had done. She would soon be his wife, and her position at his side would be secure. She drifted off to sleep, and the tall blades of grass seemed to bend over her, lovingly folding her into their bed.

When she woke, Rossetti was propped up on one elbow, looking down at her. He traced a pattern across her brow and then recited slowly: “You have been mine before, how long ago I may not know. But just when at that swallow's soar, your neck turned so, some veil did fall, I knew it all of yore.”