The Wayward Muse (16 page)

Lizzie laughed, a little bitterly. “Are there any famous artists who are female? Occasionally a poet or novelist, like Mrs. Lewes, but never an artist. So I don’t think there’s much chance of that. I just hope to be able to sell my work and be independent. Of Mr. Ruskin, and of Gabriel, and whoever else might try to control me and call it support.”

Jane did not know what to say. After all, she had chosen to become Morris’s wife precisely because the idea of being on her own and all that it meant was too horrible to bear. But perhaps she had been cowardly. Then again, she did not have a talent like Lizzie’s, a purpose. For a moment she wished that she did.

“You must meet Mrs. Lewes,” said Lizzie. “I think you would like her very much. She never goes out and she doesn’t allow many visitors, you know, but she is a very wise woman and she’s been very kind to me. I will take you there sometime.”

Jane’s mother’s voice rang in her ears, telling her that her position was precarious enough without visiting the notorious novelist who lived with a man she was not married to. To do so would put certain people and places out of reach once and for all. But Jane shook her head to rid herself of the voice.

“I haven’t yet read
The Mill on the Floss,
” she confessed. “I wouldn’t have anything to say.”

“I’ll lend you my copy,” said Lizzie. She shut her drawing pad and suggested they rejoin the men at the table. The roast beef had just been served and the foursome ate their dinner and pretended nothing was amiss. Morris and Jane described their trip to France and Morris told Rossetti about his next book of poetry. It was quite late when the Morrises went home.

J
ANE
did not know what to do about Rossetti, and she had no one to confide in. She suspected that her new friend Georgie would be shocked if Jane told her what had happened. Of course she could not tell her husband. At last she wrote to Bessie.

They had been at Red House two weeks and were measuring the dining room fireplace when Jane looked out and saw Rossetti on the lawn, gazing up at the roof of the house. She had a sudden, foolish urge to hide. Instead she took a deep breath and pointed him out to her husband. They watched as he walked along the side of the house, then disappeared into the back garden.

“Did you know he was coming?” asked Jane.

Morris shook his head. “We won’t get anything else done today,” he said. “You might as well plan on him staying for dinner, and perhaps the night.”

“I’ll tell the cook,” said Jane, glad of an excuse to flee. She thought the best thing to do was to avoid Rossetti for as long as she could, but she found the resolve difficult to maintain. After she’d gone to the kitchen and satisfied herself that the roast was large enough for three, she went to her sitting room and looked out. Rossetti and Morris were still outside, looking at the house. Jane positioned herself next to the open window, telling herself that the light for sewing was best there.

“It’s completely fantastic,” she heard Rossetti say. “More of a dream than a house.”

“The side entrance faces Canterbury, you know,” said Morris.

“Yes, I know,” sighed Rossetti. “You’ve told me. And you’ll be putting up pilgrims. I hope you’ll start with me.”

“Nothing is wrong, I trust?” said Morris.

“Of course not,” said Rossetti. “I just felt like taking the country air. Tell me, how does Jane like the house?”

“She thinks it will be cold in winter,” said Morris.

“Of what importance are practical concerns like warmth, when such things as the facing of the house toward Canterbury must be considered?” said Rossetti.

“You’re teasing me,” Morris said, but he was too pleased with his house to take offense. “I’ve promised her I’ll tile the fireplaces. Would you like to help paint them?”

“Of course,” said Rossetti. “Just tell me what to do and stick a brush in my hand. I am at your service.”

“You can help me hammer out the design program,” said Morris. “Janey isn’t completely convinced that the entire house should be medieval in theme. Maybe you can help me to persuade her.”

When the two men appeared in the dining room for tea, Jane thought she greeted Rossetti very composedly. She did not flinch when he kissed her hand, her skin stayed cool, and her lip did not tremble.

Then, looking straight at her, Rossetti told them that he was to marry Lizzie.

“It’s the only thing to do now,” he said, looking down into his cup, “now that she may be dying…”

“Is she much worse?” Jane asked, horrified.

Rossetti nodded. “The doctors say she may live into the autumn, but no longer.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Morris. “Lizzie is delicate, she needs air and sun, that’s all.”

Rossetti began to sob. Jane and Morris exchanged alarmed looks. Neither knew what to do. “I’ve treated her shamefully,” Rossetti choked. “I’ve compromised her, I’ve made her wait. And now, all I can give her is a few months, not even of happiness, but mere respectability.”

“You’ve been a cad,” agreed Morris, somewhat insensitively, Jane thought. “And a fool. You should have done this long ago. But don’t give up hope. She may recover yet.”

“It’s wonderful,” Jane said automatically. “That you are to be married,” she added quickly.

“It will be a small wedding, only family,” said Rossetti. “Given her condition it seems the best thing.”

“When?” asked Morris.

“Next week,” said Rossetti. “Then we’ll go to Rome for a few weeks.”

“When you return, Lizzie will be well and we’ll have the liveliest party for you Upton has ever seen,” said Morris.

“Don’t damn our poor party with such faint praise,” laughed Rossetti, but he sounded pleased. “And forgive my outburst. My nerves are worn to a frizzle.”

“Let’s walk into town,” said Morris. “The exercise will do you good.”

“I must check on the roast,” said Jane before they could ask her to join them. “The last one was terribly dry.”

“Until dinner, then,” said Rossetti.

Jane hid in the kitchen until she heard them leave. Then she went upstairs to her bedroom. The room was almost entirely taken up by a large oak canopy bed. Jane was sewing velvet drapes for it but they weren’t finished yet and the bed was still a bare skeleton. There weren’t any curtains at the window yet, either, and it was a north-facing room and often cold. Nevertheless she opened the windows that looked out toward the front of the house. The two men were at the gate. Morris ushered Rossetti through it and then closed it behind him. They were lost to Jane’s sight behind the high stone wall. Jane looked out toward the town. She could make out the tile and slate and thatch roofs of the houses, and the chimneys. She saw the smoke from the railway train as it passed through town, and heard its whistle.

So Rossetti was to marry Lizzie at last. She had known it was coming, she knew it had to be. And it was conceited to think that it had anything to do with her. But his penetrating look when he told her, the way he seemed to fling the words at her hatefully, made her feel he had done it to hurt her.

And Lizzie was dying! Underneath her shock and grief, an unpleasant inner voice reminded Jane that Lizzie had been “dying” for many years and would probably go on “dying” for many years more. Only now she would be Rossetti’s wife.

When the Rossettis returned from Rome, Morris and Jane invited all of their friends to a housewarming party. Everyone came early in the day on Friday and brought their paints and brushes.

“Here is the plan,” said Morris when they were assembled on the lawn. “This place is to be decorated in the manner of a thirteenth-century house. Jane and I have already begun painting patterns on the ceiling in the main rooms. Today we intend to plaster the hall ceiling and prick designs into the wet plaster. Ned, you are to begin the frieze in the drawing room. What subject did you decide on?”

“Sire Degrevaunt,” said Burne-Jones, holding up a sketchpad filled with scenes from the French romance.

“Very good,” said Morris. “Lizzie, we have persuaded you to paint a scene from the Garden of Eden in the bedroom, is that right?” Lizzie nodded. Jane thought that her cheeks glowed more pinkly than usual and that she had gained some weight. Maybe she will get well, Jane thought.

“Gabriel, you are working on the settle, painting scenes from
La Vita Nuova.
Emma, you and Georgie are sewing the embroidered panels for the dining room. What will you do, Brown?”

“Faulkner and I are sketching designs for tiles,” he said.

“Don’t forget to paint some with my motto on them,” said Morris.

“I will if I can,” said Faulkner mischievously.

“And Webb has yet to arrive,” said Morris. “He’s bringing another wagonful of furniture. Well, then, luncheon is on the lawn at one. See you then!”

The artists scattered to begin their work. All through the morning the house rang with laughter and noise. When they were too tired to go on, they left their work and gathered on the grass.

“You must have done something very admirable in another life,” observed Rossetti, lying on his back staring at the sky, “to induce all of your friends to slave away for you and call it pleasure.”

“Are you saying I’ve done nothing admirable in this one?” asked Morris, who was tracking a ladybug’s progress through the grass.

“Nothing but bring your wonderful wife into our circle,” said Rossetti. Jane gasped, but Morris didn’t notice.

“Yes, it was my one stroke of genius,” he said, taking her hand.

“We wondered at you, bringing a flower like Jane to live here, though she seems to thrive on it,” said Brown.

“Of course we wondered about you marrying her at all,” said Faulkner. “What was it that Swinburne wrote to you, Rossetti?”

“The idea of marrying her is insane,” quoted Rossetti. “To kiss her feet is the utmost men should dream of doing.”

“So you are questioning my mental state?” laughed Morris.

“Hubris, my friend,” said Webb, “we are accusing you of hubris. Haven’t you read your Greek tragedy?”

Jane knew that their incessant praise had little to do with her character or her virtue. She was not even sure it was really her beauty they were praising. The thing had taken on a life of its own. Still, it was difficult not to be flattered.

“How are you doing with your painting?” she asked Rossetti.

“I’ve blocked in all of the figures and tomorrow I will be ready to begin painting. Georgie’s offered to be my assistant, so the work should go quickly.”

“I’m no help to Emma,” said Georgie. “My sewing is not up to hers. And I can’t be any help to Ned either. I make a fearful mess of everything.”

“Not true,” said Ned. “It’s my perfectionism. I wouldn’t let Rossetti mix my colors either.”

“Tyrant,” said Morris.

“Despot,” chimed in Rossetti.

“Well, Ned may be tyrannical, but at least he’s not slipshod like my husband,” said Lizzie.

“She’s right,” said Faulkner. “You really are very careless.”

“Spilling paint,” said Burne-Jones.

“Faulty draftsmanship,” said Webb.

“Working far too quickly,” said Morris.

“Not redoing things nearly enough,” said Lizzie.

“I work by inspiration,” said Rossetti. “All of the things you mention work against inspiration. They produce heavy, pedantic work.”

“Not that you’d know,” said Morris, “never having tried it.”

“I’ve seen your work,” said Rossetti. Everyone hesitated, wondering if the teasing had gone too far. But Morris only sighed.

“I’ve begun to consider that I’m not a painter at all. As hard as I work, my drawings never look right and my brushstrokes don’t seem to grow more expressive or assured. I’ve half a mind to give up.”

“Don’t listen to him,” consoled Lizzie. “You can’t hope to have Gabriel’s style, but I’ve seen great improvement in your work in the last year.”

But Morris shook his head. “Not enough,” he said. “Not enough.”

“Don’t you have anything rude to say about Brown’s work?” asked Lizzie.

Rossetti shook his head. “We all admire and try to emulate the old man,” he said.

Brown smiled ruefully. “Thank you so much for that.”

“And mine?”

“We would never presume to criticize a lady,” said Burne-Jones.

Lizzie sighed. “Which is why I never improve,” she said.

“Would you like us to come upstairs and criticize your wall painting?” said Georgie. “Because Jane and I don’t mind at all, do we, Jane?”

Jane grinned. “Let’s go.”

Dinner was simple and abundant: roast pork with plum sauce, potatoes dauphinois, peas and carrots, rye bread and sheep cheese, served on the modest Staffordshire blue and white they all loved. There was plenty of red wine. Morris had hoped the enormous oak table that seated twenty would be ready for the party, but it was still being made in London, so half of the party ate in the dining room and half ate out in the hall. The fireplace was heaped with fragrant apple logs that radiated warmth and a gentle light.

Afterward, at Rossetti’s suggestion, they played hide-and-seek. At first it seemed absurd to Jane that grown men and women should play games, but Rossetti would not hear of her sitting out.

“Did you never play games as a child?” he asked.

“Not much,” she replied.

“Then think of it as a second chance to be a child for an evening. Give it a try.”

The first game Georgie quickly found her crouching behind a long bench in the dining room. Jane shrieked with dismay when she was caught, but discovered that she liked to be “it” more than she liked to hide. She enjoyed quietly sneaking up on people who thought their hiding places were safe. Emma Brown got quite a fright when Jane pounced on her in the cellar.

Now Emma was “it” and Jane had crawled into the potato bin to hide. She didn’t think timid Emma would venture so far in the dark, so she was surprised to hear the door open. She tried not to shift her position. She heard someone trip over a bag of sugar and mutter a curse.

“Jane,” a voice whispered. “Are you there?”

It was Rossetti.