Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

  The girl before him was absolutely perfect. Deverell watched her with the joy of the collector who has discovered a rare article and longs for its acquisition. It was as if she had been fashioned exactly to his order, and was now only waiting to be plucked from the shelves like one of the luxuriously trimmed bonnets.

  He started toward her, smiling and holding out his hand in greeting. But the moment that she met his eye, she turned and slipped back behind the counter. She shot him one wary look and then quickly engaged another customer in conversation. She pursed her lips and nodded as the customer spoke, and for a moment Deverell wondered if he had judged her looks too quickly. She had to stoop to speak with the customer, and she suddenly seemed gangly rather than elegant. Perhaps she wasn’t quite so beautiful as he first thought. But then the customer said something that made her laugh, and she tossed her head back with the graceful motion of a swan, her gray eyes wide and her smile betraying pure delight. Deverell decided that his first instinct was right: in any other setting, she might have been taken for a young noblewoman.

  The girl would not catch his eye, and so Deverell turned to his mother, who was trying on a blue silk bonnet under the guidance of the imposing proprietress. He glanced down at the counter and saw that the woman had already taken down several orders.

  “Mother,” he whispered. “Look here, do you see that red-haired girl in the gray dress? The really lovely one, behind the counter?”

  Mrs. Deverell stared critically at the shopgirl. “Yes, dear.” She eyed the girl as if she were a horse for sale. “What an odd-looking girl—that hair! But I suppose that she has a certain grace to her.” She paused and looked at her son. “You don’t know her, Walter, do you?” she asked, raising one eyebrow over her spectacles. She knew that the young men were often in the shops to flirt with the girls.

  “No, no, Mother, I don’t know her. But, you see, I must know her. She’s the girl—the girl that I’ve been looking for.”

  Mrs. Deverell’s expression of amusement faded. She searched her son’s face for the telltale signs of infatuation.

  “As a model,” Deverell explained, “for my Twelfth Night picture. You know that I’ve had a devil of a time finding a suitable model, and this one has just the right color hair. I really must convince her to sit for me.”

  Mrs. Deverell let out her breath. She might have let her darling boy flirt with shopgirls, but anything beyond that would be unthinkable. “She’s awfully pale, dear. Are you sure she’s quite right?”

  “Absolutely. No one else will do.”

  Mrs. Deverell looked at the girl again. “I suppose that an artist looks for certain qualities in a model that might not be readily apparent to the layman’s eye,” she said, anxious to please her son, and to prove her understanding of his work. “And she can’t be faulted for her posture, or for the delicate lines of her face. The right bone structure is very important to a model, isn’t it, dear? If you must have her, I’ll speak with her employer myself. That’s the best way to go about these things.”

  Deverell kissed her on the cheek. “There’s no one better than you, Mother, at managing this sort of thing. I can’t imagine anyone refusing you.”

  Mrs. Deverell waved her hand to get the attention of the proprietress. “Dear madam! Allow me to introduce my son, Walter Deverell. He has told me that he quite likes the blue bonnet, and I shall add that to my order. Does that make three?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mrs. Tozer said. “That’s three bonnets, all in silk, to be ready in two days’ time.”

  “Very good. I’ll send Walter round for them when they’re ready, and I’ll settle my account today.” Having thereby smoothed the way, Mrs. Deverell set about making her son’s request. “It’s actually quite lucky that Walter is here with me today. He’s a student at the Royal Academy, and he is at this very moment looking for a girl to sit for him for a portrait. He thinks that one of your shopgirls would be just right for the painting, if you could spare her for a few days. He has an extraordinary talent, and I can assure you that the picture will be of the highest order.”

  Mrs. Tozer looked dubious. It was a shopkeeper’s duty to keep her girls respectable, and modeling for artists was hardly a suitable activity for a respectable girl. But it was also a shopkeeper’s duty to sell hats, and Mrs. Deverell was proving a very good customer. Mrs. Tozer looked around the shop. “Which girl was it that he had in mind?”

  Deverell discreetly nodded his head in the direction of the redhead, and Mrs. Tozer followed his gaze over to Lizzie. “Miss Siddal! Why, I never! Surely a girl such as Miss Evans would be more appropriate?” Mrs. Tozer pointed to a rosy blonde whose curls bounced as she fussed over her customer.

  Deverell hardly gave the other girl a glance. “No. I’m quite certain. I must have the redhead. Miss Siddal, did you say?”

  “Well, you couldn’t have picked a less likely girl. She’s a very quiet one. I really can’t see that she would agree to sit for a painting by a stranger.”

  Mrs. Deverell wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Let me assure you that there is no doubt as to the respectability of my son’s studio! Miss Siddal would be chaperoned at all times. And,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “the models are paid very handsomely for their work. I shall of course tell all my friends of your generosity in parting with her—and of your lovely bonnets! Surely there can be no harm in relating our proposal to her?”

  “No, of course not.” Mrs. Tozer was a shrewd woman, who had risen from a lowly shopgirl to proprietress of her own popular millinery. “So long as there’s a chaperone, I have no objections. I’ll speak to her myself, and to her mother if need be. I’m sure that she will see the advantage in your offer.”

  “We’re very grateful for your assistance.” Mrs. Deverell smiled with the easy satisfaction of a woman who is rarely denied the things that she wants.

  “Please,” added Deverell, “give Miss Siddal my compliments, and assure her that it would be an honor for me to paint her.”

  Mrs. Tozer bowed her head to hide a knowing smile. “I’m sure that you’re anxious for her reply. I will speak with her today.”

  The shop closed for the day, and Lizzie joined the other milliners in the workroom. As usual, they gossiped as they worked. Lizzie rarely joined in, but when the talk turned to the lives of the shop’s patrons, she found herself listening closely.

  Mrs. Tozer’s Millinery catered to a good class of women. Not the aristocratic ladies of the grandest Mayfair houses, perhaps, but certainly the fashionable ladies of the smart new townhouses in Belgrave Square. These lucky women spent their days roaming between country weekends at grand estates and the society of the city, with its balls, concerts, and literary salons. A yearly journey to the continent allowed them to take in a bit of culture and order the latest fashions in Paris before the start of the Season.

  The customers were only too happy to tell their stories to the shopgirls as they sat for fittings. And the milliners, content to live vicariously through their clientele, felt their triumphs and slights as if they were their own. Lizzie collected their adventures, which often struck her as the stuff of fiction, like precious gems: stolen kisses in steamy conservatories, musical recitals in elegant drawing rooms, and leisurely walks over the bluffs and dunes at the coast.

  And of course, there were the clothes. The shopgirls, whose business was fashion, after all, could describe in painstaking detail each of the gowns worn by their customers, from the cut of the bodice to the quality of lace in the trimmings. Listening to these stories, Lizzie longed for both the finery and the admiration that always surrounded those glittering women. But she was careful not to betray her desire—to do so would have invited ridicule from the other girls. Though each girl must have harbored some secret wish in her own heart, to admit such a thing would have robbed the delight from their talk, and put too plainly before them their own dingy prospects.

  Lizzie sighed and looked down at the bonnet in her hands. The weak light made it dif
ficult to see what she was doing, and the strain on her eyes was giving her a headache. When Mrs. Tozer bustled into the workroom and glanced over at Lizzie, her heart leapt with hope—perhaps she would be let out early again. She would much rather be at home, curled up in her bed with a book.

  But to Lizzie’s surprise, Mrs. Tozer only stood and watched her work for a moment with narrowed eyes. Finally she spoke. “When you’ve finished with that bonnet, Miss Siddal, I’ll have a word with you.”

  Lizzie tensed, but the other girls burst into laughter the minute that Mrs. Tozer returned to her office.

  “Well, well, I never thought I’d see the day!” said a plump girl at the end of the table. “Miss Siddal ’as gotten herself in trouble. Behind on your orders, are you, Lizzie?”

  Lizzie colored but remained silent. She didn’t know why Mrs. Tozer might want to speak with her.

  “I think she has a beau,” chimed in a thinner girl, with mousy brown hair. “I saw a fellow watching her in the shop this morning with eyes like a lovesick cow!”

  “A beau!” the plump girl said. “I don’t believe it. I never seen a girl that could cut a man down like Lizzie can. But I suppose even ice can melt.”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” Lizzie said. She was proud that she knew how to keep unwanted attention at a distance, as her mother had taught her. A few of the other girls at the shop could have used such a lesson. They were always flirting with the clerks and errand boys who hung around the shop—boys who could offer them nothing but trouble. Lizzie turned back to her work, but the other girls had already seized upon the idea.

  “Oh, come on,” the plump girl pressed. “Don’t keep us guessing! Who’s your handsome lad?”

  “He must have an eye for redheads—thinks her fiery!” called out another girl.

  “Nonsense,” Lizzie said, reaching up to smooth her hair.

  “Well, maybe you don’t have a beau, but you ain’t so perfect as you would like everyone to think,” the mousy girl pouted. “I seen you three times this week reading a book in the storeroom when you was supposed to be putting away the fabrics.”

  Lizzie bit her lip. She hadn’t known that anyone had seen her little indulgence, glancing through a book of poems to break up the monotony of the day.

  “What do you care?” Jeannie Evans snapped, coming to Lizzie’s defense. “You’re only jealous because you couldn’t read a child’s primer.”

  This elicited a roar of laughter from the other girls, and the mousy girl scowled. Before she could make a retort, Mrs. Tozer entered the workroom, all bustle and the swish of starched skirts. “That’s enough, girls. Back to work. I want to hear nothing but the sound of flying needles.” She looked over at Lizzie. “Miss Siddal, if you’re finished, I’ll see you now.”

  Lizzie stood and followed Mrs. Tozer into a small office at the back of the shop. Mrs. Tozer dropped heavily into a chair and indicated that Lizzie should sit as well.

  “It feels good to sit for a moment,” Mrs. Tozer said, kneading her hands against the small of her back. “It’s hard work keeping after all you girls, you know! And the orders keep coming in, sometimes three or four for the same customer!”

  Lizzie nodded, unsure why Mrs. Tozer should have called her aside. As far as she knew, her work had been satisfactory.

  “Lizzie,” Mrs. Tozer began, with a confidential smile. “I have a very interesting proposal for you. It seems that you’ve caught the attention of one of our customers, a Mrs. Deverell. She has a son, a painter, and he wishes you to sit for a portrait.”

  Mrs. Tozer’s words caught Lizzie completely off guard. “A portrait? For an advertisement for the shop?”

  Mrs. Tozer laughed. “No, dear, though that’s certainly an idea! It’s a proper portrait he wants.”

  “There must be some mistake,” Lizzie said, thinking that she was being set up for some elaborate joke.

  “No mistake, but between us, I was as surprised as you! I suggested that Miss Evans might be more suitable, but he seemed set on having you.” Mrs. Tozer paused, perhaps aware that she had been unkind. “But really, you do have some nice features. It’s a shame about your hair, of course—such an unfortunate color—but your complexion is lovely. Apparently this Mr. Deverell sees something artistic in you! So there it is.” Mrs. Tozer did not seem to notice Lizzie’s growing embarrassment. “His mother made a large order, and I couldn’t very well refuse her request. And at any rate, you’ll be paid seven shillings a day for your work; your mother can hardly turn her nose up at such a sum.”

  Lizzie was quiet. It was true that her mother could easily find a use for seven shillings a day. “But my position here? Don’t you need me?”

  “You needn’t worry about that—I can spare you for a few days, though it will be a strain.”

  Lizzie had seen many portraits of ladies in exquisite gowns in the halls of the National Galleries. How many times had she imagined herself to be one of them? A slight smile passed over her lips and then faded. It was out of the question, of course—her mother would never allow it. And besides, having a society portrait done was quite a different thing from sitting as a paid model. The former was an honor afforded to wealthy ladies, while the latter was often done by women who wouldn’t be fit to serve in their houses.

  Mrs. Tozer sighed. “It’s just like one of my girls, not to see a real opportunity when it comes their way! There’s no need to look so scandalized, Lizzie. You’ll be properly chaperoned at all times, Mrs. Deverell has assured me. And it’s really very flattering! If he wants to paint you, he must think you beautiful. Perhaps it will lead to something more. At the very least, you’re bound to meet some really refined people—artists, and perhaps others in their circle, their patrons. I’ve seen you glancing over your books and daydreaming when you thought no one was looking—not much passes in my shop without my knowledge. But of course you must do as you see fit.”

  “But if people should find out. It could ruin my chances . . .”

  “It’s not as if you’ll be posing in your knickers! This is quite a different thing—you shall sit to Mr. Deverell as if you were his sister. He tells me that the subject of the painting is taken from Shakespeare—what could be scandalous about that? And really, my dear, what chances do you have to be ruined? I hope that you don’t mind my being blunt, but that is my way. You really only have something to gain.”

  And yet, it seemed beyond foolish to Lizzie to risk what little she did have—her good reputation—on the slim chance for advancement that sitting for an artist might afford her. The thought was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. But Mrs. Tozer was right. If she didn’t make a change now, she would soon have no chances at all, and each day would be just like the one before, with only herself changing: growing older and thinner, fading under the strain of the work. There was no future for her here.

  She slowly nodded to Mrs. Tozer. She would try her luck, then, and see what came of it.

  That night Mrs. Tozer walked Lizzie home, and for once Lizzie was happy for the company. The old drunk on the bridge had tempered her taste for lonely walks, and there was no chance of being accosted with that formidable lady by her side, parting the crowds with her stout frame, eliciting respectful nods with her sweeping gaze.

  They reached the Siddal house and Mrs. Tozer looked it over with a sharp eye. It was a narrow structure wedged between a greengrocer and a chemist, with a shop downstairs and two perilously settled floors above, where the family made their home. Only the well-scrubbed front step and the window boxes set it apart from the other tired houses lining the street.

  Mrs. Tozer glanced over her shoulder at Lizzie, with a look that asked how a girl who lived above a shop had come by such a fine accent. Lizzie Siddal obviously had designs above her station, much like Mrs. Tozer had at Lizzie’s age. She paused at the door and turned back to Lizzie. “Let me do the talking, dear.”

  Lizzie nodded and showed Mrs. Tozer in, leading her up the narrow steps and into a neatly
kept parlor. Lizzie stole a glance at Mrs. Tozer, trying to see what she made of the small house. Lizzie had nothing to be ashamed of—she wouldn’t have been working for Mrs. Tozer, after all, if her family had been in better circumstances. But visitors always made her more aware of the house’s shortcomings.

  The Siddals fell into that class of persons who had gently, and almost without noticing, drifted downward from the comfortable middle class to the hardships of the London tenements. They had, several generations ago, been a family with a respectable income and various property holdings in Derbyshire. But any fortune that the Siddal clan could lay claim to was now long gone, chipped away at by each succeeding generation, with a profusion of claimants to an ever-dwindling stock. The remaining family property, Hope Hall, had gone to a distant cousin who ran it as an inn.

  Mr. Siddal firmly believed himself to be the rightful heir to the Hall, and it had grown in his imagination into something far grander than it was. He often neglected his work as a cutler, making and sharpening knives, to go over the endless details of a lawsuit that he had brought to reclaim the family property. But his efforts had been thwarted by a legion of relatives, all as convinced of their own right to the property as he was of his, and so far the suit had rewarded him with nothing but solicitors’ bills.

  As a child, Lizzie had dreamed alongside him, imagining her triumphant return to the family’s rightful home and all the finery that would entail. But now, at nineteen and almost a woman, the thought of the pointless suit just depressed her, and she would have preferred that her father put his mind, and his meager savings, to something more useful.

  Lizzie glanced around the parlor, hoping that her father was out. He would be sure to talk Mrs. Tozer’s ear off about the lawsuit, and Lizzie didn’t want any gossip about it. She was relieved to see that he was still in the shop. She was about to call out to her mother when two of the younger children, a boy and a girl, rushed in from the back room and wrapped themselves around her knees.