Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

  On the evening of the party, Lydia fixed her hair, pinning the front pieces back to frame her face and letting the rest fall down her back, loose. “Promise you’ll remember everything, so that you can tell me what all the ladies wore, and what sort of punch was served, and all the witty things that were said. Then I won’t be so jealous that I wasn’t there.”

  “Of course I will! Though half the witty things that are said are like Latin to me. Rossetti and his friends are so clever that I can hardly keep up.” Lizzie laughed, trying to disguise her anxiety. It was one thing to speak with Rossetti in the intimacy of his studio; it was quite another to mingle with so many strangers, most of whom would not ordinarily give her the time of day.

  Lydia gave Lizzie’s hair a last brushing. “There. You look lovely. Mr. Rossetti is sure to be smitten.”

  “Do you think?” Lizzie asked, a little too quickly.

  Lydia raised her eyebrows. “Then you are in love with him.”

  “I suppose that I am. Why shouldn’t I be? He’s the most handsome and talented man in the world!”

  “And does he share your feelings? Will he ask you to marry him?”

  “If he did, I would accept.”

  “But he’s said nothing yet?”

  Lizzie hesitated. She had thought of little else in the last days besides Dante’s words to her in St. Saviour’s. It had not been a proposal, but it was a promise of one, she thought. He had looked at her with such love. But she wasn’t sure that Lydia would understand. She knew what Lydia would say: Either he proposed or he didn’t.

  Finally Lizzie answered, “If you’re asking if he has proposed, he hasn’t. But I have reason to believe that he will soon. You should hear him talk—it’s pure poetry. He’s very different from the other men whom we know. He doesn’t care a whit for any of the petty things that pass for life around here.”

  “Like making a decent living?” Lydia asked, and then blushed, embarrassed.

  “Why would you say such a thing? Are you repeating something that Mother said?”

  Lydia hesitated. But Lizzie stared at her hard, and she made a grudging answer: “Mother only said that she thought that perhaps Mr. Deverell might have made a more suitable match. She made a few inquiries, and Mr. Deverell’s family is very well off, while the Rossettis . . . well, they’re quite respectable it seems, but there’s very little to live on. A man of leisure who paints is quite a different thing from a man who must make his living by his painting.”

  Lizzie turned on her sister. “How dare you speak with Mother behind my back about such things! She knows nothing of these people. Has she forgotten that our family is currently living off of the wages paid to me by Mr. Rossetti, and on very little else?”

  Lydia looked stung. “Well, you must be practical. You haven’t anything of your own—he must be able to support you. We only want the best for you, Lizzie.”

  “Don’t be jealous, it’s not becoming.” Lizzie’s words came out sharper than she intended, and Lydia’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lyddie, I didn’t mean that. Of course you’re right; I must be practical. But I’m not at all worried, and you mustn’t worry, either. He wouldn’t have asked me to accompany him on such an important night if his intentions weren’t serious. Don’t say a word to Mother, but I believe that the only reason he hasn’t yet proposed is that he despairs of supporting me on a painter’s income. But he’s beginning to do very well in his work, and people, important people, are taking notice. It’s only a matter of time. And when I’m married, dear sister, there won’t be any question of my telling you about a party—you will be by my side at every one.”

  She stood and kissed Lydia on the cheek. “Don’t worry about me,” she repeated, as much to herself as to Lydia. “I have no doubt about his intentions, or his chances for success.”

  Lizzie told her father that there was an entertainment at the local women’s club, and if he noticed anything different about his daughter, it was only that she looked more lovely than usual. She walked to the top of Kent Place and tentatively reached out her hand to hail a cab. She could barely afford the expense, but finding the extra shillings was easier than trying to explain to her father why a man he’d never met was fetching her in a coach. The Siddals may have been poor, but Rossetti was an artist, and in Mr. Siddal’s estimation artists were one step above criminals. It would have been impossible to invite him inside, and besides, Lizzie had no wish to entertain Rossetti in their shabby parlor. She suspected that the image Rossetti had of her home was much more becoming, in its simplicity, than the reality of too many children in too few rooms, and her father eating dinner in his rolled up shirtsleeves, the metal dust from the grinding shop still glistening on his brow. For the time being at least, it was better to keep her two worlds as far apart as possible.

  A cab pulled up and the driver helped Lizzie onto the seat. She saw him glance sideways at her strange gown, but his face remained impassive. If they were at it long enough, the London cabbies eventually saw everything, and a girl wearing a fine dress in a seedy street was nothing new to him. He put his crop on the horse and they took off, moving in fits and starts through the narrow streets of Southwark.

  The roads were clogged with merchant carts delivering their goods: whole carcasses of pigs and lambs to the butcher, baskets of watercress and potatoes to the greengrocer, and load after load of coal, hauled off the cart in sacks and sent ricocheting down the coal hatches with a hammering sound like a stampede of horses. Little boys no higher than Lizzie’s knee followed the coal cart at ten paces. They leapt upon any piece that tumbled from the back of the truck, placing the precious bits into sacks slung over their shoulders. The air was thick with smoke, making the streets feel closer than they were, and carriages emerged without warning from the mist, their lamps like the beacons of lighthouses on a dark sea.

  They passed over Blackfriars Bridge and cut west toward Trafalgar Square, where the streets were lined with shops and cafés. Light spilled from plate glass windows, seeping into the puddles in the cobblestone streets. The houses here were larger and more regular, set behind fortifications of iron gates and heavy velvet curtains.

  Lizzie’s cab slowed and prepared to join the fray in front of the exhibition hall, where carriages and cabs jockeyed for position at the curb. The driver pulled in as close as he could, and Lizzie paid her fare and alighted. She watched as women in the latest fashions stepped from their carriages and into the waiting hands of their top-hatted escorts. Their fine silk dresses, in shades of emerald and ruby, emerged from the carriage doors first, the skirts buoyed by full crinolines and edged in lace. Next came their delicate hands, sheathed in white gloves, and then a glimpse of a boot in kid leather. With a last graceful hop they stepped into the street, and the full measure of their finery was revealed, like exotic butterflies spreading their wings. They tossed their heads and clutched their velvet capes around their shoulders, crying out greetings and compliments to old friends.

  The crowd made its way up a wide set of stairs and into the hall through a series of arched doors, but Lizzie hesitated on the sidewalk. She put a hand up to her hair, now feeling that its loose style was childish rather than romantic, as she had hoped. The ladies around her had clearly spent the last several hours with a maid or two and a hot iron; their hair was sculpted into elegant piles of braids and ringlets. And her dress, perhaps it wasn’t right after all. In the midst of so many bright silk gowns trimmed in yards of lace and ribbon, it seemed to stand out more for its plainness than anything else.

  Her face burned. Had she really thought that she belonged here, among these people? She stood biting her lip as the sea of finery flowed around her and into the gallery. She was on the verge of turning around when she felt a pair of eyes on her. She turned to see a woman staring at her with open curiosity. Lizzie returned her glance, and to her surprise, the woman gave her a nod and a smile, rather than a sneer. That one kind glance was enough; with a nervous smile of her own, Lizzie join
ed the crowd making its way through the doors.

  Inside she scanned the room, trying to get her bearings. The hall was large and airy, with a gleaming parquet floor and a tall gilded ceiling. Groupings of velvet settees and palms in Chinese pottery punctuated the vast space, and a massive chandelier cast a rosy light over the guests. Most striking, however, were the walls, which were covered in hundreds of paintings, stacked one above the other, reaching almost to the ceiling. Lizzie ran her eyes over them, looking for Rossetti’s and Deverell’s paintings, but it was impossible to pick them out from the hundreds of others.

  At first she didn’t see any familiar faces in the crowd, either, but then she spotted Rossetti, surrounded by a knot of friends and admirers. He was gesturing grandly with his hands, a pleased smile on his face. But when he saw Lizzie, he stopped still and looked at her with unmistakable admiration, his eyes taking in every detail of her gown. She saw that she had done well to make her own dress.

  He greeted her warmly, whispering into her hair: “You are a vision.”

  “Even in the midst of this splendor?” Lizzie asked, looking around.

  “Yes, even here. Especially here.”

  Lizzie blushed. “And your picture? Is it a success?”

  “I don’t want to boast, but I’ve received many compliments. But of course one hears nothing but compliments at these parties. The real test will be in the reviews, and those won’t be out for a few days at least. Where the critics lead, the buyers follow. But tonight we celebrate. Now come, I can’t wait any longer to introduce the lovely Miss Siddal as my escort.”

  While Lizzie was being introduced to Rossetti’s friends, she heard a familiar voice, high and girlish, call out her name: “Lizzie! Lizzie Siddal! Is that really you?” Then a whirl of pink satin and black lace was suddenly upon her, embracing her and peering at her with disbelief.

  “Emma! What on earth are you doing here?” Lizzie stared into the face of Emma Hill, an old friend from her neighborhood whom she’d lost touch with as Lizzie’s family had moved from house to house. She hadn’t seen Emma in years, but she was just as Lizzie remembered her: petite, with slender shoulders and white skin, glossy dark hair, and dancing eyes. Her figure was a bit fuller now, and her smile had softened, but otherwise she was unchanged from the girl whom Lizzie had played hopscotch with in the street as a child.

  “Why, Lizzie!” Emma exclaimed, all excitement and fluttering hands. “I had no idea that you knew Dante!” She turned to her companion, a man with a serious face and kind eyes. “Ford,” she scolded him. “You didn’t tell me that Dante’s new model was Lizzie Siddal!”

  “I’m afraid that I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her,” Ford said, stepping forward and taking Lizzie’s hand. “Ford Madox Brown. I’m always enchanted to meet friends of my wife, and of course friends of Rossetti.”

  “Your wife?” Lizzie asked, turning to Emma.

  “Yes, I’m Emma Brown now!” Emma turned a beaming face on her husband and laid her hand on his arm. “Just married last month! Oh, Lizzie, this is too wonderful. I’d heard the rumor, of course, that Dante had discovered some stunning new muse, but I had no idea that it was you. If I had, I would have had Ford bring me over to the studio at once!”

  “It’s so lovely to see you,” Lizzie said. “And congratulations on your marriage.”

  Emma glowed. “Yes, well, we had to get round to it one day! And it wasn’t a moment too soon.” She winked, discreetly patting her stomach.

  Lizzie looked down and saw a gentle roundness beneath Emma’s loosely corseted dress. She could see that, despite having only been married a month, Emma would be welcoming a child before the summer was out. Lizzie blushed. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “I can see that you’re shocked,” Emma laughed. “But you mustn’t be. Ford, Dante, all of their friends—they live as true artists, and with no apologies. They’re all very wicked, you know, not at all what you’re used to. I don’t mind saying that I was Ford’s model for a long while before I was his wife.” She paused and gave Lizzie a knowing look, causing Lizzie to blush again. “But you’ll come round to it—it’s such a lot of fun. You see, they care only for the really important things in life—love, art, beauty. And we are so very lucky to be a part of it.”

  “I do feel lucky.” Lizzie glanced at Rossetti. Emma had put words to the breathlessness that Lizzie felt when she was with him; the sense of possibility, as if the drab surface of London could be peeled back like the rind of an orange, revealing a feast for the senses. Sometimes it was easy to forget that the real London, the one that she had to return to each night, had standards that must be met if a girl wished to walk with her head up in decent society. But in the excitement of the moment, Lizzie didn’t have time to dwell on such thoughts. Perhaps Emma was right—the art was the important thing; the rest was just the dull realm of the uninitiated.

  Rossetti caught her eye and walked over to them. “Come, ladies,” he said, offering an arm to each woman. “Let’s find Deverell and congratulate him on his success. I see that there is quite a little crowd gathered around his Twelfth Night.”

  Lizzie squeezed Rossetti’s arm, and he steered them through the crowd. Heads turned as they sailed past, and women whispered behind their fans. Rossetti had promised to make her the envy of London, and it seemed that he was as good as his word. She drank up the crowd’s approving looks, threw her shoulders back, and allowed herself a moment of triumph. Rossetti murmured, “All eyes are on you,” and she shivered at his compliment, and his closeness.

  But Lizzie’s beauty, and the spectacle of her dress, wasn’t the only thing causing a stir. Rossetti’s painting The Girlhood of Mary Virgin was the talk of the Exhibition. It showed Mary as a child, at work on a bright scarlet piece of embroidery, with her mother by her side. It was done in the style of an early Italian religious painting, rich in both color and symbolic detail. Mary and her mother were crowned by golden halos, and a vase of white lilies suggested Mary’s purity. The current fashion was for muted domestic scenes, but Rossetti’s painting took the divine as its subject, and its bright hues stood out from the other paintings. A crowd had gathered in front of it all day, and whether they had adored it or detested it, no one had failed to notice Rossetti’s painting, or the mysterious initials “PRB” that followed his signature.

  Many in the crowd had connected the letters with the matching initials on paintings by John Millais and William Holman Hunt. The public loved nothing more than a good scandal, and the possible meanings of “PRB” had been on everyone’s lips since the exhibition’s opening. Despite the vow of secrecy, many friends had been let in on the Brotherhood’s existence and its revolutionary goals. These insiders now found themselves surrounded as they recounted the tale of a secret meeting, the plot to overthrow the supremacy of the Royal Academy, and the pact among the seven audacious brothers in art. This buzz followed Rossetti as he moved through the room.

  At the end of the hall, Lizzie finally saw Deverell’s painting. She felt a thrill of recognition at seeing her own face peer back as the pageboy. The picture had earned a good place, and she felt as pleased as if she had painted it herself.

  She knew from Rossetti’s stories how fraught the submission process could be. Having a picture selected for display was an achievement, but the location of the picture on the wall made all the difference. The pictures were stacked three and four on top of each other, starting at eye level and ascending the wall. Some pictures were hung so high that a man would have needed to stand on his neighbor’s shoulders to get a good look at them. On Hanging Day, when the jury made its final selections and the work went up, each artist was frantic to find out whether his picture had earned a good place. Deverell’s picture was hanging in the center of the wall, right at eye level. It was quite a coup.

  A small crowd was gathered in front of Deverell’s painting, and it seemed that some of the Brotherhood’s celebrity had shone on him. The keen eye of the crowd was quick to make the con
nection in style between the paintings.

  “Deverell!” Rossetti cried, clasping his friend by the shoulders. “The picture is extraordinary! And I don’t say that just because it features the lovely Miss Siddal and myself—you have done us more than justice. It’s been surrounded all evening, and rightly so. May I offer my congratulations on a very auspicious beginning to what is sure to be a long and distinguished career?”

  “My thanks, and the same to you. The talk tonight has been of nothing but your Girlhood painting and the mystery of the PRB.” He turned to Lizzie. “Miss Siddal, it’s been entirely too long. When I last saw you, you played the lowly page, but now I see that you are more like a countess.” In a move more in keeping with Rossetti’s extravagant behavior than his own very English comportment, Deverell took Lizzie’s hand and brushed his lips against it, holding her eye as he raised his head. Emma giggled and gave Lizzie a sly look before she offered her own hand to Deverell.

  Lizzie was happy to see Deverell. Success agreed with him—he looked as flushed and proud as a new father. In the excitement of sitting for Rossetti, she had almost forgotten how pleasant her afternoons sitting for Deverell had been. Now she embraced him as a friend and murmured her congratulations. “It’s a very fine painting. I’m honored to have played some small part in its success.”

  “I couldn’t have painted it without you. And how does your own work get on?”

  “My own work? Do you mean Dante’s new painting? It’s nearly finished, I believe.”