Ophelia's Muse (23 page)

“Beautiful.”

“I wrote it for you.” He lay back and gazed up into the branches above. “Is this not Eden?”

She could also feel the perfection of the place, the refuge of the tree's spreading branches. “I suppose it is Eden.” But, she thought to herself with a chill, if this is Eden, then we are Adam and Eve, and our happiness is not to last. She sat up and brushed the grass from her skirt in an attempt to hide the slight tremble in her hands.

“No, don't move. You look perfect lying in the grass like that. I want to remember you exactly like this. Perhaps I can paint it from memory.” He searched around in the grass for wildflowers, unconscious of any change.

She lay back and Rossetti made a frame of poppies and buttercups in the grass around her hair. She smiled, relieved that nothing seemed changed between them, despite her foreboding.

Rossetti brushed the flowers aside. “No, you don't need a wreath of flowers to improve your beauty. I like you as you are.”

Lizzie gathered together the flowers that Rossetti had tossed aside and wove them into a chain, making a thick braid and fashioning a crown of blossoms, which she placed on her head. “I'll wear a crown like this for our wedding, made from wildflowers. And we should fill the church with orange blossoms and lilies. It will be lovely.”

“There's plenty of time for all that,” he said. He stretched, restless, and reached out a hand to her. “Come, my dove. Let's walk some more.”

They rose and set off as if they had stopped for no more than a picnic in the grass. The path was steep, and the hills gave way abruptly to white cliffs that dropped into the sea below. They picked their way along the bluffs, climbing small hills and following the path as it dipped down to meet with the cliff's edge, walking in companionable silence and taking in the vast view of the sea.

As they came over a small rise, Rossetti spotted a pile of stones farther up the hillside. “A ruin, I think. Shall we go explore?”

“It looks like an old chapel,” Lizzie said, and the romance of stumbling upon such a setting was not lost on her.

They quickened their steps, anticipating the discovery of some mystery. But as they drew closer, the ruined chapel revealed itself to be only a crumbling stone wall and a blocked-up door set into the hillside.

“It's nothing but an old cellar.” It was silly, but Lizzie felt that coming upon an old church, after what they had done, would have been a good omen.

“No matter,” Rossetti said, sensing her disappointment. If he had painted the scene, they would have come upon a medieval chapel, covered in rose brambles, with a single window of stained glass still intact. But life was not a painting, and even its most perfect moments lacked the symmetry and detail that he could create on the canvas. But he was determined to salvage the moment. He picked up a sharp piece of rock and set to work carving letters into a stone at the base of the wall. It took a few passes, but the letters soon stood out white against the gray stone.

“DGR and ES,” he read, looking over his handiwork. “Now this will always be our place, and that will make it special.”

Lizzie looked at their linked initials, set in stone, and smiled. Exhaustion overcame her. It was the best kind of weariness, earned by exercise in the fresh air and good company. She put her arms around Rossetti and leaned her head on his shoulder. “If only we never had to leave Hastings. I should be happy right here forever.”

 

It was late by the time they returned from their ramble in the hills. Lizzie had hoped to slip in unobserved, and she was annoyed to find that Lydia was waiting for them in the salon of the hotel. Lydia was pacing back and forth in front of the empty grate, her eyes darting between the front door and the desk, and there was no way to avoid her. Lizzie sighed and went in to greet her, but she was brought up short by the sight of Lydia's face, white and strained.

“Lydia, what is it?” she asked, with the confused thought that her sister knew what had happened in the meadow. Then she saw the black-edged envelope clasped in her sister's hand.

Lydia held out the letter, saying, “It's from Emma Brown. I haven't opened it.” Lizzie tore it open and read:

Lizzie read the letter twice before she understood what it said. She stood for a moment with her back to the room and tried to compose herself. She thought of the last time that she had seen Deverell. It was in his studio, and if he had been paler than usual, he had also seemed so full of life and enthusiasm, for himself and for her. It didn't seem possible.

Rossetti had followed her into the salon, and she turned to face him. He hadn't heard Lydia, and no doubt he thought that the letter was some matter of the Siddal family. His face was full of polite concern, ready to express his sympathy.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “It's from Emma. She writes to tell you that . . .” She found that she could not continue. Rossetti stared at her for a moment, his frown deepening. He took the letter from her hands, and she watched as his face mirrored her own: first confusion and disbelief, and then the taut whiteness of grief.

“I'm so sorry,” she said again, feeling the lameness of her words. It seemed impossible to comfort him when she could hardly believe the news herself. He leaned against the mantel, holding on to it as if it were the only thing keeping him up. He made no attempt to hide his grief.

“My God,” he said, his voice stunned. “He was only twenty-six. We have lost a great talent, and a great friend.” They were silent for a moment, absorbing the unwelcome news. “I'll return to the city at once. I've lingered too long in Hastings.” The thought seemed to bring with it a surge of energy. “I must see what assistance I can give to his family. This will be a terrible blow to his father.”

Lizzie rose from the sofa and went to him, catching his arm. “Dante, you can't leave like this. You're in shock. Please, come sit.”

Rossetti shook her off. “I must join my friends. I can't delay.”

She stepped back as if she'd been slapped. “Am I not your friend? Was I not also a friend of Deverell? His loss grieves me as it does you!”

Rossetti rounded on her, his face ugly with suspicion. “And why should it? Why should it grieve you so?” He glanced down at the letter in his hand. “And why did Deverell make a special gift to you?”

He slipped the enclosed sketch out of the envelope and they both looked at it. It was the last sketch that she had sat for, when Deverell had posed her in the doorway with the little birds. The drawing was indeed fine. Deverell had kept his word, altering the hair just enough so that it was not quite possible to say who had been the model. Looking closer, she could see that there was an inscription at the bottom. Rossetti saw it as well, and read it aloud: “ ‘But after all, it is only questionable kindness to make a pet of a creature so essentially volatile.' Does this have any special meaning to you, Lizzie?”

“No, of course not,” she lied. “It was surely only meant as a kind gift. Dante, what's gotten into you? I'm sure that you've made many gifts to your models with no thought of any special meaning being attached.”

Rossetti didn't reply, and they stood there for a moment, staring at each other with faces full of hurt and grief, letting the unspoken accusations hang in the air.

It was Lizzie who looked away first. The strain overcame her and she began to cough, hardly able to catch her breath. The harsh sounds of her struggle to breathe seemed to bring Rossetti back to his senses. He held her as she coughed.

“I'm so sorry,” he muttered. “I've lost my head.” He led her to a sofa and sat her down gently. Deverell's death was a warning. He could lose her as well. “Lizzie, my love, you will join me in London as soon as you have your strength back. We can't risk your health, especially after this shock. You must stay here and take the sea air and continue to get well. But my friends will expect me, and I must return today.”

“Yes, of course.” Lizzie was determined not to argue any more in front of her sister. The morning spent beneath the apple tree seemed to fade a little in her memory, like paint laid upon an improper ground. She looked down at her ring finger, but the blossom must have fallen off hours ago. She sighed. “I'll have your things packed and sent after you. You're a kind friend to go to his family in their time of need.”

Rossetti was visibly relieved. He threw his arms around her and kissed her several times on the brow and cheeks. Lydia raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

“Thank you, my dove.” He ran his hands over Lizzie's hair and looked into her eyes. “I will write to you daily.” Then, without a second look, he dashed off to make his train arrangements.

Lydia took Lizzie's arm and led her up to her room. “I'm so sorry,” Lydia said. “I know that you liked Mr. Deverell very much. And to have Mr. Rossetti run off like this—it's very unfeeling.”

“Nonsense, Lydia. Of course he must go back to the city, and help the Deverells in any way that he can. I shouldn't have questioned him.”

Lydia nodded and then spoke to Lizzie without quite looking at her. “You were out for a long time. I had begun to wonder what had become of you.”

“Were we? It was much farther to the cliffs than we supposed.”

But Lydia would not be brushed off. “You must take care now that he makes you his wife.”

Lizzie stared at her sister, wondering how she knew. But she supposed that it was the sort of thing that a sister could guess, and she decided to confess. “Well, there won't be an issue with that.” She allowed herself a tentative smile of happiness. “Lyddie, he's asked me to marry him! He tied an apple blossom round my finger, took my hand, and asked me to be his wife. It was the most romantic thing you can imagine. I'm so very happy. Kiss me, Lyddie, and tell me that you're happy as well.”

Lydia came forward and kissed Lizzie on the cheek. “I am glad for you.”

“Of course, we will have to wait to announce the engagement, given the news about poor Deverell. And please don't write anything to Mother until Dante can make them a proper visit.”

“It's only right that you wouldn't want to announce the engagement now, and have your joy overshadowed by sadness. But please, Lizzie, don't wait too long. It's better that everyone share your happy news, and know that you'll soon be married.”

“Of course it will be better to have things settled. But I do feel that we are already married, at least in spirit.”

Lydia pursed her lips. “It's only the indifference of the landlady at this hotel that makes you feel so, and not the approval of God and the church.”

“Oh, Lyddie. It will all be settled as soon as it can be done properly. Now, I'm afraid that I'm exhausted, and more than anything I need peace and quiet. I'm going to lie down. Will you see that no one disturbs me?”

Lizzie pulled the door of her room shut behind her. She thought of Deverell, and her eyes filled with tears. She had lost a true friend and an ally. He would have been the first to heartily congratulate her and Dante. But now he was gone. She picked up his sketch and reread the inscription:
But after all, it is only questionable kindness to make a pet of a creature so essentially volatile.

She bit her lip, thinking of the pleasant day that they had spent together in his studio. Then she looked back down at the drawing and felt a flash of irritation. It was so like a man, she thought, to concern himself over the creature's loss of freedom, and think nothing of what it gained: the security and comfort of a soft place to rest. Deverell had expected so much from her, from what he called her budding talent. He had no understanding of what it cost her just to maintain decent appearances.

But she shouldn't think of such things, she knew, now that he was gone. She sought instinctively for the little bottle of laudanum. She measured out a few drops and felt an almost immediate relief. The light in the room softened and faded, and her anguish, so acute just a moment ago, was now tolerable.

In the soft hold of the laudanum, she felt a need to put words to the heaving tide of her emotion. She sat at the window and began to write. The tune of a ballad played in her head, and the words spilled quickly across the page, forming a song of love and loss, relief and fear.