Ophelia's Muse (24 page)

CHAPTER 16

Lizzie waited for weeks for Rossetti's summons back to London, but when word finally came in early October, it was not the letter she had hoped for. She'd imagined returning to the city in a flurry of wedding preparations—introductions to the Rossetti family, congratulations from their friends, and fittings for a new gown and veil—but it was not yet to be.

Instead, he wrote to say that he regretted that the moment was not yet right to announce their engagement. He assured her that it pained him greatly, but his finances were stretched to breaking, and he could not in good conscience make their engagement public when he didn't know when he would have the means to marry her. Wouldn't it be for the best, he asked, if she were to return to her father's house until things were more settled? If he could just concentrate on his work for several months, he would soon be able to rent a house and make her his bride. Lizzie and Lydia therefore returned to London unaccompanied, lugging their suitcases home from the station behind them to save the cab fare.

Mrs. Siddal greeted them at the door. She embraced both girls, but there was something restrained in her affection. “I'm relieved that you're well, Lizzie,” she said in a resigned voice. “But I had hoped that you would be returning to us on a wedding visit, and not to take up your old room.”

Lizzie colored. Had Lydia written to their mother, despite her promise of secrecy?

Lizzie was silent, and Mrs. Siddal sighed, any remaining hope that Lizzie had come with good news apparently extinguished. “Your father is waiting for you in the parlor. You'd best go in right away.”

Lizzie frowned. Her father so rarely took any interest in her affairs; she couldn't think what he might want. With a shrug, she passed into the parlor to greet him.

Mr. Siddal was sitting in front of the hearth with hunched shoulders, glowering at the fire. “Elizabeth. You've returned in good health?”

“Yes, Father. Are you not happy to see me?”

“And your gentleman? Where is he?”

Lizzie was surprised into silence, but only for a moment. “If you refer to Mr. Rossetti, I presume that he is at his studio.”

At the mention of Rossetti's name, Mr. Siddal's eyes flashed. “Then I see that he is content to accompany you to your rooms in Hastings, but not to your father's house in London? He can't be parted from your side when he thinks no one can see, but he won't claim you as his own in front of your kin, and his?”

Lizzie turned to look at Lydia, who had followed her into the parlor. But Lydia gave a slight shake of her head, looking as confused as Lizzie.

“So, it's true, is it?” Mr. Siddal said, watching the silent exchange between the sisters. “No, it wasn't Lydia who told, though she should have written to us at once, so that we could have put a stop to it. It was Mrs. Crane, the grocer's wife. She was in Hastings, with her ailing sister. She said that the whole town was abuzz with nothing but the news of the famous painter from London and his pretty young model. She couldn't wait to come see your mother and offer her congratulations on your engagement! Her congratulations! The old busybody, I'm sure that she knew that no congratulations were in order. Just think how your poor mother must have felt! And what about your sister? I'd be very surprised if Mrs. Crane let her son marry Lydia, now, with the family's reputation what it is.”

Mr. Siddal's voice had steadily risen, but now he became quiet again. “I blame myself. I should never have let you keep running with that lot. It was the good wages that blinded me, and that will be your downfall, I'm afraid. Now, tell me plainly, Lizzie, what's between you and this artist?”

Lizzie turned to look at Lydia, who was staring at the floor, her face red. Lizzie's heart ached for her. Lydia had loved Robert Crane since the day she saw him. If Lizzie had ruined Lydia's chances at marriage, she would never forgive herself. If only, she thought, she could tell her father of her engagement. Then he could announce her marriage into a genteel family, and perhaps the family's reputation would be repaired. But Rossetti had asked her to wait, and she was afraid of angering him, and ruining everything.

“Please, Father. You must trust me. Mrs. Crane is nothing but a terrible old gossip. It was very wrong of me not to write to Mother that Mr. Rossetti was in Hastings. But I swear to you that he behaved honorably, and treated us only with kindness and affection.”

“Affection? You are a green and foolish girl! What you see as honorable affection, the world sees quite differently. You've brought shame on us, Lizzie, and I have a mind to tell you to go to him then, and test his honorable behavior! I've been lax with you too long, and I have your sisters' reputations and prospects to look out for, such as they are.”

Mrs. Siddal stood by the door, her face as white and pained as Lizzie's. She lowered her head and avoided Lizzie's gaze, and in that one gesture, Lizzie read her disappointment. Even her mother believed that she was beyond hope.

“You're wrong. Mr. Rossetti has made me vows of his love, and I've done nothing of which I'm ashamed.”

“Then go to him, if you believe his vows. But if you want to stay in this house, you will swear that you will never see him again. I will not have these goings-on under my roof!”

“You can't ask me that!”

“I can, and I must. You
will
stay away from that man, or I will not have you here!”

Lizzie drew herself up and turned from her father. “Then I'll go,” she said, her voice breaking. “I have no other choice. I can't be parted from him.”

Her mother reached out a hand to hold her back, but Lizzie brushed past her. If she lingered a moment more, she would lose her courage, and she could not be separated from Rossetti, not now.

She ran through the streets, hardly seeing where she was going. Her thoughts circled around each other: She loved him, she must go to him; he loved her, he would do right by her. She'd given up everything—her position at the shop, her good reputation, even her family—but she had his proposal, and his promise. Still, the fear that she would be no more welcome at his studio than she was at her father's house plagued her all the way to Chatham Place. She stopped to take a steadying draught of her laudanum, but its effect was not as strong as it had been at first, and by the time she arrived at Rossetti's door her hands shook with nerves.

But she was wrong to worry, for he greeted her tenderly. He was moved by her distress, and blamed himself for being the cause of her trouble. Faced with the trembling girl before him, it was easy to assure her that the studio was as much her home as his. “Don't worry,” he said. “You will stay here as my pupil. Until, of course, we can have the great happiness of announcing our engagement.”

 

“You've made the forearms too long,” Rossetti said, looking over Lizzie's shoulder at a half-finished oil painting. He made a few quick marks, correcting her proportions. “But the head looks better, and the draping of the clothing is excellent.”

The picture was giving her trouble. Drawing in pencil was one thing, but painting in oil was quite another. It was easy to get lost in the problems of color, and forget something else, like proper perspective. Still, even she could see that her work had made a marked improvement since Rossetti began to teach her in earnest.

He watched as she reworked the figure. “Much better. You'll be submitting to the exhibitions before long if you keep it up.”

Lizzie shook her head dismissively. His enthusiasm was out of proportion to the slow progress that she made on the canvas. It was so frustrating—she had so much to express, but her hands lacked the skill to bring her thoughts to life. It would take years of training to accomplish anything of merit. And she had wasted so much time sewing bonnets while Rossetti and the rest were hard at work learning their craft.

Rossetti sensed her agitation. “Are you tired? Perhaps you're working too hard. Why don't we get some fresh air? I need to go round to the shop for new brushes. Come with me.”

“You're sweet to worry, but I'd rather keep working.” Lizzie tried not to look at Rossetti's nearly blank canvas on the easel by the window. He was sensitive enough about it to see even a curious glance as a reproach. In the months since she had come to live with him, he hadn't finished a single picture in oil, and now that spring was nearly upon them again, he would have to rush if he wanted to submit to the exhibitions. He had been particularly touchy about his lack of progress since Holman Hunt had started shipping home stacks of finished paintings from Jerusalem.

“I won't be long. When I get back, we'll have tea.”

Rossetti was gone for only a few moments when Lizzie heard someone on the landing. She thought that he must have forgotten something, and she went to the door to see what he needed.

But instead of Rossetti, she was greeted by a tall man lounging against the bannister. “Mr. Ruskin!” Lizzie said, recognizing Rossetti's patron. “I didn't know that Dante was expecting you! I'm afraid that he's just gone out, but I expect him back very soon. Won't you come in?”

“Thank you,” Ruskin said, following her into the studio. He looked at her with the eye of a practiced appraiser of beauty. “It's been too long since we last met. And I always see you in a crowd, surrounded by admirers. I'm glad to find you here alone.”

“I'm afraid that I am rarely in a crowd these days. My health keeps me from going out very much, and my work keeps me here, toiling away over my poor sketches.”

“I was sorry to hear of your ill health. But surely you have Dante for company? I should hate to think of someone so lovely being lonely.”

“Yes, of course, I have Dante.” She colored slightly. “Though he cannot be expected to always be at my side.” Then, feeling that there was a plaintive quality to her voice that she didn't like, she added, “He has, however, been very attentive to my painting lessons.”

“He told me you were making progress. I believe that the word genius may have been bandied about.” Ruskin smiled as he said this, and Lizzie couldn't tell whether he was serious or joking. He picked up a pile of her sketches that lay on the table. “May I?”

“Oh, no. I'm afraid that Dante was kidding with you. I'm hardly a genius, though I do believe that I study under one.”

“Dante is a genius, I'm certain of it,” Ruskin agreed. “Now, if only I could convince the British public of what you and I see so clearly. But they are coming around, bit by bit. I'm no longer the only critic standing behind this Brotherhood of his. I really must be careful, or I'll no longer be able to get his paintings at such a good price!”

“Dante is not a man who would forget his friends,” Lizzie said quickly. She didn't want Ruskin to know that he still had little competition for Rossetti's works, or at least those that were not commissioned. Though his paintings had lately had more interest, Ruskin was still by far the wealthiest and most enthusiastic patron that Rossetti had found.

“But enough about Dante.” Ruskin turned to Lizzie's easel. “He's spoken to me about you at length, and I'm afraid that I won't be put off of seeing your work.”

Lizzie hesitated only briefly. She was intimidated, but Ruskin's kindness put her at ease. There was something about him that was so sad and serious; she instantly felt that she could trust him.

Ruskin studied the oil painting on the easel, and then began to page through her sketches, idly at first, and then with more interest. He was fully absorbed in looking at them when Rossetti banged into the studio. He swept Lizzie up into a kiss before he realized that Ruskin was in the room. Lizzie pulled back, embarrassed, but Rossetti only laughed.

“John!” he said, walking over to shake hands. “I'm glad you came. I've got a few new watercolors that I think you'll like. Has my Lizzie kept you entertained?”

“Indeed she has. It was a lovely surprise to find her here, and to finally see her drawings. You weren't wrong—they show real talent. Technically, they are sufficient. But the genius is in the style of them. They're so emotional, almost primitive. A talented paintress is a rare bird, Dante. You were lucky to catch her.”

Rossetti slipped his arm around her waist and beamed. “She's beginning to work in both watercolors and oils. I have a little plan for her to do some illustrations for my sister Christina's new poems.”

This was the first that Lizzie had heard of this plan, and she was thrilled. If he hoped that she might work with his sister, he must at last be thinking of introducing her to his family.

“Is that right?” Ruskin asked, looking more intently at Lizzie's drawings.

“Lizzie,” Rossetti said. “Be a dear and fetch us some tea, will you? I want to show John the new watercolors.”

Ruskin looked up from the drawings, amused. “You would send the Princess Ida for the tea tray?”

“The Princess Ida?”

“Is your Miss Siddal not the very image of Tennyson's Ida? ‘Such eyes were in her head, and so much grace and power, breathing down, from over her arched brows.' ”

“By God, she is. But I've never come across a lady of poetry who was not the image of my dear Lizzie.”

“You flatter me too much,” Lizzie said, laughing. “I'll go for the tea tray before there's a duel on my account.”

When she returned with the tea things Rossetti and Ruskin were deep in conversation over his watercolors. Rossetti looked content and she thought that Ruskin must have agreed to take them at a good price. She brewed the tea and they sat down as best they could in the irregular surroundings of the studio, drawing up chairs to one of the worktables and pushing the painting tools aside to make room for cups and saucers.