The Wayward Muse (11 page)

“These rules apply whether one has two servants or two hundred,” Mrs. Wallingford replied majestically.

The staff knew her story and as a result did not respect her. They glared at her when they served her dinner, until she was so discomfited she dropped her fork and was reprimanded by Mrs. Wallingford. They lost the lists she gave them, and told Mrs. Wallingford they had never received any. They ignored her instructions and laughed at her mistakes.

Jane wrote to Morris and confessed how miserable she was, but no one would post her letters. Finally she resolved to walk to Cheltenham and post them herself. She was halfway there, already wet and bedraggled, pulling her heavy skirts through the mud, when doubt crept in. He might not believe her. He might tell her not to worry, and to keep her chin up, and maintain a cheerful countenance. Or he might tell his mother what she said and it could get back to Mrs. Wallingford. She faltered, and turned back. After a week she thought she would call off the engagement and return to Oxford. But return where, exactly? She doubted that her mother would take her back. No, she was virtually a prisoner, and she would have to figure out a way to survive. She had never known that a big house with fine things could be so odious, so unpleasant to live in.

Jane finally had all of the books she desired, though Mrs. Wallingford disapproved of reading.

“Books are lovely,” she said. “They add such finish and refinement to a room. But they sit better on the shelves if their pages have not been cut.”

Mrs. Wallingford endeavored to teach Jane French, but found it slow going. Likewise she was taught to play piano and sing.

“It will not matter that you are very bad,” Mrs. Wallingford consoled her. “All that matters is that you have been taught.” Jane learned to play “The Ash Grove” adequately, but she did not enjoy it. Next Mrs. Wallingford tried a soprano/alto duet from Handel, but soon gave it up, as Jane could not keep to her part.

Jane’s favorite activity was the daily walk she took about the grounds. Slowly over the weeks she lengthened it until she was gone two, sometimes three hours a day. She took her favorite books and the letters she received from Bessie, full of Holywell Street gossip, and from Morris, who was traveling in France with fellow architect Philip Webb. He wrote that he had conceived an idea for the house he was going to build for her.

“We’ve been traveling down the Seine from Paris,” he wrote, “sketching ancient castles. I’ve enclosed a drawing of our house. You can see it is in the style of the thirteenth century. When Webb and I return to London we will look for a site. I’m thinking of Kent.”

Jane unfolded the drawing and saw a medieval house with oriel windows and Gothic arches. It looked like something from a fairy story and the sight of it cheered her. She would not be stuck here in the gloomy Cotswolds forever. She did not know Kent but she hoped it was a sunnier place, with lots of orchards.

“She’s much improved,” Mrs. Wallingford said to the vicar as the three of them sat at tea. “I’ve given up trying to get her to smile, though her teeth aren’t good enough for that anyway. But she seldom trips on the carpet now and she can pour tea quite adequately.”

“I very much wonder at Mrs. Morris, undertaking such a project,” said the vicar, looking at Jane severely over his spectacles. “Dr. Howell has proved beyond a doubt that the brains of the lower classes are smaller and feebler. But you are very brave, Mrs. Wallingford.”

“I never shrink from my duty,” admitted Mrs. Wallingford. “There have been many times in the last few weeks when I doubted I would succeed. You should see this girl eat an artichoke! But I have always been known for my tenacity. Mr. Wallingford always said he could not talk me out of anything once I had made up my mind. Mrs. Morris is such a dear friend that I could not say no to her in her hour of need.”

“An act of pure Christian charity, indeed,” said the vicar, and Jane clenched her offending teeth and thought to herself that it was fortunate Mrs. Burden had trained her before she arrived at Mrs. Wallingford’s. Years of insults had taught her how to bear them.

“Webb and I look at properties every weekend,” Morris wrote in September. “He makes me do without lunch, which is extremely trying. I haven’t found anything yet but I’ve narrowed it down to the Cray Valley, in Kent. The area reminds me of Essex. It’s a gentle landscape, mostly open fields, apple orchards, and oast-houses, which perhaps you have never seen. They are large kilns for drying hops, which are used to make beer. They have funny conical roofs and add quite charmingly to the scene. I have been thinking about incorporating their shape somehow into the design of the house.”

And then, a jubilant letter in October:

“I’ve found a spot for our castle, very near a Franciscan priory where pilgrims would have stayed on their way to Canterbury. What could be more perfect than that? When the house is finished, we can have great banquets and imagine that we are pilgrims ourselves.

“Webb is hard at work finishing the drawings and working out the materials. His latest idea is red brick with a red tile roof. What is your opinion?”

A castle made of red brick. A gentle landscape of barley fields. As she trudged across the frozen Cotswold hills, it seemed that winter would never pass.

In January Mrs. Morris wrote to say that her son was getting impatient and was his bride nearly ready? Mrs. Wallingford wrote back that although Jane would never be really suitable, she was now at least properly trained. With this imprimatur, the wedding was planned for April. The violets will be blooming, thought Jane when she heard.

Mrs. Wallingford oversaw the making of Jane’s wedding dress to Mrs. Morris’s specifications. Morris’s mother had chosen an opal-colored taffeta in a severe style that Jane did not like, but no one asked her opinion. Mrs. Morris also sent her a plain gold brooch that had been in the Morris family for generations, with the understanding that she was to wear it to the wedding. A taffeta bonnet adorned with peach-colored roses, and a paisley shawl, completed her wedding ensemble.

The wedding was to be held at St. Michael’s Church. Jane’s family attended the resolutely low-church St. Luke’s, but Morris had written to her that St. Michael’s was the only church in Oxford that was at all atmospheric. Its tower was built in 1040 and was the oldest building in the town. It had been part of the town prison, and Latimer, Ridley, and Cranmer were held there before they were burned at the stake by Queen Mary for refusing to convert to Catholicism. Though St. Michael’s was old, he continued, it had just been restored by his employer, the architect George Edmund Street. It will mean so much to me, he wrote, to be married in such a beautiful and historic place returned to its former glory. Jane had never been in St. Michael’s Church, but the way that Morris described it fired her imagination. It would be so much more romantic than the usual wedding.

She arrived back in Oxford just over a year after she had left. She had written to her family of her return, but no one was there to meet her at the station, so she walked home. Her heart began to pound as she approached Holywell Street. Would her family be glad to see her? Would they be changed at all? The street seemed even more squalid than before. I’ve become soft, she thought to herself. Then she reflected that it hardly mattered, since she would not be expected to live there after the wedding, which was in two days’ time.

Her mother was in the kitchen when she arrived and eyed her appraisingly.

“So you’re back,” she said.

“Yes,” said Jane.

“With that dress on I can’t ask you to feed the chickens, I suppose, but if you take those fine gloves off you can peel potatoes.”

“Where’s Bessie?” Jane asked.

“Out walking with a new beau of hers,” said Mrs. Burden. “He makes eyeglasses. I hear it is a very difficult art. He is certainly well paid for it.”

“I’m glad,” said Jane, feeling a little blue Bessie was not there to greet her.

“Your father and your brother will want to see you, but I don’t expect them tonight,” said Mrs. Burden. “They’ll be down at the pub.” She dumped the basket of potatoes on the table in front of Jane.

When Bessie finally came home, she squealed over Jane’s new clothes and her new traveling case, which Mrs. Wallingford had bought her when she saw the bedraggled bag Jane had arrived with. The new one was calf’s leather with brass studs.

“Very smart,” proclaimed Bessie. “I will have to ask Charlie—that’s my latest beau, you know—to buy me one like it.” Inside the case were Jane’s new undergarments, trimmed with machine-made lace; silk stockings; kid gloves; a Spanish fan; and her wedding ensemble. Bessie sighed enviously over all of it.

“Why couldn’t Morris have taken a fancy to me?” Bessie pouted. “It’s all because of that Rossetti. Who knew when he approached us like a lunatic that your life would completely change and mine would stay exactly the same? It’s unfair.”

“It’s not all so wonderful,” said Jane. “Didn’t you read my letters?”

Bessie was trying on the new gloves and waved her hand majestically. “It didn’t sound so terrible to me, living in a grand house like that. Meanwhile I was slaving away here and getting all of the blows that were meant for you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jane.

“Don’t pity me,” said Bessie, with a toss of her head. “James is going to propose and we are going to live in Gloucester. Mrs. Burden will have to abuse someone else, the neighborhood children, I suppose.”

The morning of the wedding a large bouquet of white lilies and stock arrived on top of a large white box. Inside the box was the most beautiful dress Jane had ever seen. In its shape it was not so different from the Elizabethan dress she had worn to model for Rossetti. White silk organza dropped straight and soft into a puddle at her feet. There was embroidery on the bodice, a square neckline, and lace sleeves.

“Something you might like better than Mrs. Wallingford’s taffeta,” the card read. “All my love, William.”

“How very thoughtful of him,” said Bessie. “I just hope his mother isn’t angry that you’re not wearing the dress she wanted.”

“She’s not coming,” said Jane.

“All that expense and she doesn’t want to take a look at you?” Bessie was shocked.

“Evidently not,” said Jane. “She blames it on sciatica.”

“More likely she doesn’t want to have to shake hands with Mrs. Burden,” Bessie said, nodding sagely. “You’re lucky, though; the less you meet Mrs. Morris the better, I think.”

Jane had to agree. Later that afternoon, though, a letter arrived from Mrs. Morris. Mrs. Morris might not want to meet her daughter-in-law but she still had a lot of advice to give her about her son.

“Do not ever prepare liver, veal, or cheese soup,” she wrote. “He dislikes mussels, oysters, and other shellfish. He is partial to strawberries and cream, and to potatoes of almost any kind. Do not allow him to take walks on rainy days, as he is prone to influenza. He must never lift anything above fifty pounds; he has a weak place in his back. Blooming chestnut trees make him sneeze and lilacs make his eyes water. When he is in a temper, he is often soothed by my piano playing, although Mrs. Wallingford tells me you are sadly deficient. If you could learn to play Chopin, it would be a great help to him.

“My son is a genius, you know,” she wrote in conclusion. “He must be allowed to prosper. Now that is up to you. Do not fail.”

Jane folded up the letter feeling daunted, as Mrs. Morris no doubt expected her to. Morris had made it seem as if their life together would be simple and easy, that anything she did would be all right with him, but now she realized that it wasn’t true at all. Morris had a lifetime’s accumulation of preferences and quirks she would be required to learn and cater to. It was a shame, really; she had tasted mussels once and thought them delicious.

When Jane arrived at the church for the ceremony, she saw the interior of St. Michael’s for the first time. It was simple and weighty, with heavy piers and Gothic stone arches.

“Rather gloomy and dark for a wedding,” observed Bessie. “But at least he’s bought plenty of candles and flowers.”

Jane felt a rising panic. It was all happening too fast. Why had she said she would marry Morris?

They carried Jane’s dress into the bride’s room.

“Lord Almighty,” groaned Bessie when they had laid it down and begun to remove the tissue that covered it. “This thing must weigh forty pounds. What’s it made of, iron?” She was sullen that the silk on her burgundy dress was not nearly as fine as Jane’s.

“It’s the embroidery, I suppose,” said Jane.

“Well, I hope you don’t faint,” said Bessie. She lifted up the dress and held it open for Jane to step into. “Hurry,” she gasped.

Jane slid her hands through the gossamer sleeves but her fingers caught in the fine French lace and nearly tore it.

“Be careful,” snapped Bessie, but she grabbed Jane’s hand and pulled hard. “Ridiculous sleeves,” she complained. “Who wears lace this fine? It’s more cobweb than clothing. Maybe if your elbows and wrists weren’t so bony it wouldn’t be so difficult.”

“You admired the sleeves earlier,” said Jane.

“That’s before I tried to put you into them,” said Bessie. “I suppose the richer you are the more impractical your clothes become. Well, at least this sack I have on is comfortable.”

Jane was hurt. “That silk was the nicest they had in Cheltenham,” she said.