Ophelia's Muse (7 page)

“How could I resist?” asked Rossetti. “I'll come by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Rossetti's enthusiasm seemed to break through Deverell's dreamy state, and he began to backpedal. “Maybe another day would be better. I'm just in the thick of it now.”

But Deverell's reluctance only fueled Rossetti's interest. “I won't be in the way at all. I'll just have a look at the painting. Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes will help.”

“You can't go tomorrow,” Hunt said. He looked at Rossetti's nearly empty canvas. “What of your painting? You're not going to be finished in time to submit for the spring exhibitions. If we don't put in our best work, the Brotherhood will be thought of as a joke. I don't intend to have my career as a painter become a footnote to the Brotherhood's failure.”

“All in good time, Hunt, all in good time,” Rossetti replied. “If Deverell's new muse is as beautiful as he says, perhaps I shall have some work for her myself.”

“But only after I've finished my picture,” Deverell reminded him.

“Of course. I'll just stop in for a moment. I wouldn't dream of interrupting your work.”

But it was clear that Rossetti was very much looking forward to getting out from under Hunt's watchful gaze, and the promise of a beautiful woman was a welcome excuse. Rossetti smiled broadly, but his two friends both frowned, each worried for his own reasons.

 

Lizzie had only been sitting for Deverell for a few weeks, but even in this short time she had begun to change, at first in small ways—her accent growing a touch more refined to match Mary's soft speech, her head held a little higher as she walked down her street—and then the changes became more noticeable. If she had always possessed the necessary elements of beauty—a natural grace, a pale and lovely complexion—they had, as yet, somehow failed to coalesce into true beauty. But Deverell's admiring gaze acted like the sun upon a rosebud, and under its power Lizzie's beauty bloomed.

Away from the shop, the color returned to her cheeks and her expression softened. She no longer blushed whenever Deverell looked at her. Instead, she learned to return his smiles, and then to look away at just the right moment to preserve her modesty. When they took a break from painting, she walked around the studio, striking elegant poses in the best light and glancing back over her shoulder to be sure that he was watching, which he always was. Though she told herself that his compliments were nothing more than kindness, there was a part of her that could not resist his flattery, and began to believe his words.

To Lizzie's delight, Deverell became chattier as his picture progressed, and they spoke frequently of poetry, books, and art. At first Deverell seemed surprised at how widely Lizzie had read, and he would occasionally shake his head, wondering how he had found such a beautiful and charming girl in a bonnet shop. When Mary told him that Lizzie enjoyed sketching, he gave Lizzie a sheaf of paper and a few charcoal pencils as a gift. Whenever he stopped to mix his paints or let a section of the painting dry, he encouraged her to work on her own drawings, just as his sister did. She even wrote out a few verses, and when Mary insisted on reading them aloud, she was embarrassed and pleased in equal measure. The freedom of this arrangement was very new to Lizzie, and a welcome change from the rigid customs and long hours at the millinery.

Lizzie followed Mary's lead, sketching the flowers that Mary cut from the greenhouse garden. At first the pencil felt awkward between her fingers, which were more accustomed to holding a needle, and her first drawings were unsure and slight. But when she began a sketch of Mary, she gained confidence. As a child, she'd always loved to sketch her sisters as they sat sewing or reading, and her growing acquaintance with Mary lent the picture intimacy. In the sketch, Mary's face was happy and open, as if she had just looked up to see a friendly face at the window. Mary exclaimed at the likeness, and Deverell insisted on seeing it, despite Lizzie's embarrassed protests. She held her breath, thinking that he would laugh at her attempts at art, but to her delight and surprise he praised the drawing, and hung it on the studio wall.

For the most part, however, Deverell required Lizzie sit still in the pose as Viola, while he painted her in companionable silence. As she sat, she daydreamed, and her dreams became more immediate, as if she could almost touch the future that she imagined. What at first had seemed an impossibility, that she should be admired or accepted by these refined and talented people, became more real every day. The sudden sense of opportunity was intoxicating.

The days wore on in this agreeable way, until one afternoon when Miss Deverell excused herself to fetch the tea. Deverell and Lizzie were left alone, and Deverell gestured to her to relax her pose.

“Would you like to see the painting? I'm almost finished.”

Lizzie walked over to the easel. She studied the painting closely, feeling Deverell's eyes on her. It depicted a medieval garden, with three figures lounging on a stone bench: a melancholy man in court dress, a jester in tights and a pointed hat with bells, and Viola disguised as the pageboy, for which Lizzie was sitting. Behind them, a crowd of musicians and merrymakers danced across a broad green lawn. Delicate vines climbed a stone column and sunlight fell across the grass in ribbons of light and pockets of deep shade. The brocades of the clothing were painted in painstaking detail, each brushstroke weaving together rich shades of crimson and gold. Of the main figures, only the pageboy was unfinished.

As she looked at the painting, Deverell told her its story: “The setting is Illyria. There has been a shipwreck, and Viola washes up alone on a foreign shore. The man in the center, who you will notice bears a striking resemblance to myself, is the Duke. Viola, in order to protect herself in this unknown land, dresses as a boy and enters the Duke's service as his page. A tangled affair of the heart ensues: The Duke is lovesick for the Countess, who refuses all suitors; Viola acts as their messenger, and in the process falls in love with the Duke herself. But she cannot reveal her love, for the Duke thinks that she is a boy.”

The painting was done in such detail that it seemed to Lizzie as if she were looking into a mirror; she leaned forward, lovely and eager, and gazed at Deverell, who stared off into the distance, thinking of another. But of course it wasn't a mirror, and she wasn't in love with Deverell. Was she? She tried on the idea, as if it were a costume: Could she fall in love with him?

He was handsome and kind, and his family was well-off. Lizzie placed her hand over her heart to see if its beat quickened, but it was hard to tell. She felt like Viola, washed up in a strange land, unsure of her bearings.

“The third figure,” Deverell said, “is the Duke's Fool. The Duke has ordered him to sing a song to relieve the torment of his unanswered love for the Countess. It's a melancholy scene—each figure suffers from love unrequited, and only the Fool is happy—as is the case so often in life, I'm afraid. But don't worry, it all works out in the end, somehow, and Viola marries her Duke.”

“A happy ending,” Lizzie said, “for such an unlikely pair. If only Shakespeare were the author of all matters of the heart.”

For once, Deverell was the one who blushed. He looked like he was about to speak, and Lizzie didn't need to put her hand to her heart to know that it was beating quickly now. But the bang of the door caused them both to startle, and become flustered. Lizzie looked up to see the Fool, come to life.

A young man stood in the doorway, a look of sly amusement on his face that showed that he had been watching them. He was lightly built, with dark curls and an impish grin. His clothes looked well made, but rumpled, and mud had been allowed to cake about the bottom of his coat. He had an olive complexion, which gave him a continental appearance, and his eyes were gray, very close to Lizzie's in color. But though they were gray, they were bright and lively, catching the light as he glanced around, and changing quickly from near transparency to the color of coal. Right now they rested on Lizzie. “I would be careful what you wish for,” he said. “Shakespeare was just as often the author of tragedies as of comedies. I don't know that I would entrust my own heart to him.”

“Rossetti. You came.” Deverell's tone was cheerful, if a bit thin. He made a sweeping gesture. “Behold, Miss Elizabeth Siddal, my model, my muse, my Viola, and a real stunner! Didn't I tell you that she was a beauty? Hair woven by the gods and skin to make a pearl jealous.”

Lizzie knew that she should be mortified at the suggestion that Deverell had discussed her in such terms with other men. She could hear her mother's warning, that she must not become the subject of gossip. But her mother's cautions, much like the shabby parlor in Southwark in which they had been offered, seemed very far away right now. How could she chastise Deverell for his compliments, ridiculous though they seemed?

“Miss Siddal, allow me to introduce Mr. Dante Rossetti, painter, poet, and, as I'm sure you've noticed, your fellow model for my painting. Rossetti was kind enough to sit for my Fool, and one could not find a more perfect model.”

“Slight praise!” cried Rossetti. “But I see that you were right on the mark regarding Miss Siddal.” He stepped forward and took Lizzie's hand. He looked straight into her eyes, and then bowed his head and touched his lips to her hand.

Lizzie was unused to such displays; a simple bow usually sufficed in her circle. She pulled her hand back, eliciting an amused grin from Rossetti. Lizzie laughed to hide her embarrassment. She wanted to ignore him, as she would any insolent young man in the shop, but she didn't want to seem cold. She settled for a slight nod of her head. She may have been taught to mimic the manners of these people, but she didn't yet feel that she understood them.

Rossetti cocked his head and looked at Lizzie. “But surely we've met before.” He squinted, as if he was trying to place her. “Though I can hardly imagine that I should forget a beauty such as yourself.”

“I don't believe so. Unless you happen to frequent the shops in Cranbourne Alley.” But she, too, was struck by the feeling that she had seen him before.

“No, no. I've no reason at the moment to call upon the ladies' shops at the moment. Though I hope now that may change.”

Under Rossetti's stare, Lizzie was suddenly very aware that she was wearing nothing but britches and a thin tunic. She lowered her eyes and turned away from him.

Deverell watched Lizzie and Rossetti with growing dismay. “Miss Siddal is quite an artist in her own right,” he said, abruptly changing the subject. “She's written some verses to amuse us, and a few of the students at the Academy could do worse than to look to the simple lines of her sketches.”

“I have no doubt at all that Miss Siddal has talent,” Rossetti said, not taking his eyes off her. “I can see an artistic soul behind her eyes. I'd love to see her work.”

“Mr. Deverell is too kind,” Lizzie said. “They're really just a few scribbles to pass the time.”

“Then perhaps some other time. You really must meet my sister, Christina. She is a poetess, and I know that she is always pleased to meet a kindred spirit.”

Lizzie looked out the window to see if Miss Deverell might be returning with the tea. Rossetti made her unaccountably nervous, and she hoped that Mary would return quickly. Deverell always treated her much like his own sister. But Rossetti was different, and her cheeks burned from the warmth of his greeting.

Rossetti stood behind the canvas, pretending to study Deverell's painting while he admired its model. Despite Deverell's enthusiastic descriptions, Rossetti was completely unprepared for the glorious woman before him. She seemed to be from another age, as if she had sprung to life from an antique painting of an Italian saint. Seated before the window, her hair cast a slight golden glow in the afternoon sun, like a halo. She could not have been more perfect if he had sculpted her from marble with his own hands. Deverell claimed that he had found the perfect Viola, but this girl was far too beautiful to pose as some lovesick page. She was clearly meant to sit for the great heroines of history and myth, and Rossetti vowed to paint her as a queen. The moment that Deverell was finished, he would claim her for himself.

“Miss Siddal, has anyone ever told you that you were surely crafted by the gods in order to be painted?” Rossetti looked at Lizzie, expecting to see the glow of pleasure that such compliments normally elicited from his models. But instead, Lizzie's face fell.

“Please don't, Mr. Rossetti,” she said, once more looking down at the floor. The flattery of the two men had reached such a peak that she suddenly realized that they must be in jest. “No doubt you think that because of my circumstances I am simple, or perhaps silly, but I assure you that is not the case. I imagine these false compliments turn many girls' heads, but mine will not be among them.”

“You're right,” Rossetti said, so stridently that it took both Lizzie and Deverell by surprise. “Your beauty is beyond my poor powers of description, and you are right to be angry. But if you don't believe that yours is a beauty for the ages, you underestimate yourself.”

The force of his words struck Lizzie, and she wondered if he was serious, and if it could be true. Was this the thing that she had always been waiting for? Was she really meant to inspire great artists? Her head buzzed with the possibility, but the very allure of the idea felt dangerous. She didn't know what to say, and she was grateful when Rossetti at last turned his gaze from her and began to examine Deverell's painting in earnest.

“Ah, the lovesick Duke. I think that you've got his features right, my friend. He looks absolutely, miserably in love. Pining for the ideal, unknowable Countess, when right before him is a lovely young girl, completely taken with him. But alas, he's blind to her charms.” He glanced up at Lizzie and then looked back down at the canvas. “And how goes the young page, the lovesick Viola?”