Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

  At last the fever passed, and the household settled into a wary sort of relief, tested often by Lizzie’s lingering cough. Her skin, always fair, turned a more troubling shade of white, and when she was at last able to rise from bed, her clothes hung from her thin frame. If not for her hair, still bright, she might have been mistaken for a ghost haunting her old rooms.

  She lay sick for most of the winter, but at last a mild spring day presented a good opportunity for her to venture outside, and Lydia brought her shawl and boots, along with a few letters from the last post. Lizzie sorted through the letters, scanning each for a familiar hand. She hadn’t received a note from Rossetti in over a week, and she was anxious for news.

  When she saw that there was nothing from him, her heart dropped. His letters had once been filled with lamentations over her health and prayers for her quick return. But lately, if he wrote at all, he spoke more of his own comings and goings, and his plans for new paintings. She could see that he was increasingly caught up in the world outside, while she was left pathetic and dull in her little room in Kent Place.

  She was about to toss the pile of letters aside when a note at the bottom of the stack caught her eye. She was pleased to see that Walter Deverell had written, but as she read, what little color she had drained from her face.

  Kew Green, April 10, 1851

  Dear Miss Siddal,

  I hope that this letter finds you in better health, and that your strength is indeed returning, as I have been told. My mother and sister also send their regards and sympathy.

  I’m afraid that I am not writing under the happiest of circumstances. As I’m sure you know, your father has threatened a lawsuit against John Millais for his carelessness in your regard. Please know that Millais is beside himself on your account, and that he intended you no harm, and blames himself entirely for your illness.

  In the hopes of avoiding the notoriety of a lawsuit, he has charged me with trying to settle with your father, as your father refuses to speak with Millais, save through his lawyers.

  I have written to your father, offering on Millais’s behalf to cover whatever expenses may have been incurred. I write to you because I didn’t like to do such a thing without your knowledge.

  It’s my great hope that we will be able to settle all this quickly, and that we may then concentrate solely on getting you back to health, which is, of course, of the utmost concern to all of us.

  Regards,

  Walter Deverell

  Lizzie finished the letter and thrust it at her sister. “Did you know?”

  Lydia glanced down at the letter and blushed, avoiding Lizzie’s gaze. “I didn’t want to upset you. You haven’t been well, and you know that Father can’t be reasoned with—Mother tried, but there was nothing she could do.”

  Lizzie’s face was tense with anger. “Father has humiliated me! How can I ever show my face again among Rossetti’s friends? Doesn’t he know that these men are gentlemen? They don’t take each other to court over such petty matters as doctor’s bills!”

  “Please try to be calm, you’ll make yourself ill again!”

  “I don’t care!” Lizzie threw herself on the bed. “What do I have to live for now? This is why there’s been no letter from Rossetti. No doubt he believes that Father will bring some suit against him, and is ashamed of our acquaintance!”

  “What a thing to say! At any rate, I’m sure that’s not why.” Lydia stopped short, her hand flying to her mouth.

  Lizzie looked at her with narrowed eyes. “And what does that mean?”

  “Perhaps it’s better that you be done with all of them. They never seem to behave so much like gentlemen as you would make them out to be.”

  “Lydia, what do you know?”

  Lydia bit her lip and sat down in the chair. “I suppose that I’ve never been any good at keeping secrets from you. Emma Brown came to visit last week, but you were too ill to see her. I sat with her in the parlor for a moment, and something that she said led me to believe that Mr. Rossetti may be . . . well, it seems that he is very much involved with a new painting. Perhaps that’s why he hasn’t written to you.”

  “A new painting? But why shouldn’t he be? He may have sworn to me that he couldn’t paint without me, but of course that’s just lovers’ talk.” Lizzie colored at the daring of her words, but then went on. “He’s an artist by trade, after all; he has to paint to make his living.” She turned her back to Lydia and began to arrange the combs on their dresser, feigning indifference.

  “It was my impression, Lizzie, that he was involved not only with his new painting, but also with his new model.”

  Lizzie turned, and her lip trembled, though whether it was from sorrow or anger it was hard to say. “His new model? Who is it?”

  “Please don’t ask me. I really know nothing of it; I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Lizzie, you’ve lost all your color; you ought to sit down.”

  “Who is it?” Lizzie asked, ignoring Lydia’s protests. “Who is his new model?”

  “I told you, I really know nothing of it. Please sit down, I’m afraid you’ll faint again!”

  “Lydia! I’m sick to death of having things hidden from me. I may have been ill, but I’m not simple. Whom has Dante been painting?”

  Lydia didn’t reply, and the two girls stared at each other in stony silence until a knock sounded at the door.

  “Well, there’s an answer to it,” Lydia said. “I’m sure that will be Emma now; she said that she would come by again today. You can ask her yourself about your gentlemen artists.”

  The door opened and Mrs. Siddal entered with Emma Brown at her side. Emma bustled into the room, looking lovely in a gown of lavender satin that complemented her dark hair perfectly. She untied her bonnet of woven straw and pale pink primroses, and threw it onto the bed. Her eyes danced as she kept up a stream of greetings, embracing Lydia and congratulating Lizzie on her return to health.

  “Emma, dear,” Mrs. Siddal said. “It does us good to have you here. You’re a breath of fresh air, and I expect that there is hardly a house in Southwark that is more in need of one. I’ll leave you girls to your talk, but Emma, please convince Lizzie to get out and take some of this nice spring air. If anyone can get her back to herself, it’s you!”

  “Leave it to me, Mrs. Siddal. We’ll have Lizzie dancing till midnight before long.”

  Emma settled into a chair and removed her gloves, which were done in the same pale lavender as her gown.

  Lydia looked at them enviously. “You look very fine this morning.”

  Emma laughed. “Yes. Ford has had a good run of sales, including an excellent price for an oil painting of me. And when my darling Ford is doing well, I’m in satin and kid gloves. Of course, when he can’t get a commission, I’m in last season’s muslin and an apron. That, I’m afraid, is the life of an artist’s wife. You never know where your next gown, or your next meal, is coming from.”

  “But at least you know that you are his wife, and that his fortunes are your fortunes, for better or for worse,” Lizzie said, unable to hide her unhappiness.

  “That’s true.” She gave Lizzie a sympathetic smile. “Has Dante not been writing as often as he might? Everyone knows that he’s a terrible correspondent.”

  “No doubt my father’s suit against John Millais has scared him off. Or is it something else? Lydia tells me that he’s busy with a new picture.”

  Emma sighed. “We’re good friends, so I won’t pretend that all is well when I know that it isn’t.”

  “Thank you. I only wish to know where I stand.”

  “I must ask you a question. I don’t mean to pry, only to understand. There’s talk, of course, but there’s always talk, and trying to sort out the grain of truth from the chaff of gossip is difficult at best. I must know: Is there an engagement between you and Dante Rossetti?”

  Lizzie sat silent for a moment before replying. “No, there’s no definite engagement between us. He’s promised that there will be, as soon as
he has his work in order, and I had thought—had hoped—that it was only a matter of time. . . .”

  Lydia watched her sister with a pained face. “But if you had no understanding with him, why did you allow yourself to be paraded around on his arm?”

  Lizzie shook her head. She knew how it must look to Lydia. The strictest rules of propriety could be bent, but only so long as a marriage was sure, at some point, to take place. It was as if the sacrament of marriage could wash away the sins of that which came before it. She only needed to look as far as Emma Brown, who was now a respectable wife and mother, to know that it was true. But if Lizzie was seen to be acting as a married woman, and no marriage followed, well, that was another thing entirely.

  “Don’t despair, Lizzie,” Emma said, suddenly businesslike. “No harm has been done, and perhaps it is all for the best. You’ve had a brilliant career so far as a model, and everyone speaks quite highly of your sketches, and of your poetry. I suppose that the news of your latest victory hasn’t reached your sickroom? Millais’s painting of Ophelia is an absolute success. They’re saying that it’s his masterpiece, and that his model must be part nymph to possess such otherworldly beauty. You’re famous, my dear! Every painter in London will want you to sit now. And no doubt your affair with Dante can be used to your advantage. You’re known as part of their circle, and if you wished to publish some of your own work, you might depend upon those connections.”

  “My affair with Dante? Emma, you can’t think that I’ve done anything of which I should be ashamed!” Lizzie faltered for a moment. “Of course, I know that the appearance of things is against me, but I swear to you that I’ve done nothing with Dante that can’t be undone. If we’ve been conspicuous, it is only because of the demands of his art—he hates to have anyone else in the studio with us while he paints. And if nothing else, I’ve never, until this moment, doubted that he loved me, and would one day make me his wife! Oh, Emma, if there’s some reason why I should doubt it, please tell me!”

  Emma sighed again. “You’re very much in love with him, aren’t you? Well, perhaps there’s nothing to worry over. But I’m sure that you remember Annie Miller?”

  “Holman Hunt’s fiancée?” Lizzie asked, a sinking feeling beginning to form in her stomach. She could picture Annie, with her generous curves and easy smile. “Is she sitting for Dante? But I thought that Hunt forbid her from modeling for other painters? They’re to be married!”

  “They’re engaged, but Hunt has left for his painting expedition in Palestine. While he’s away, he’s got up some ridiculous scheme to have his friends educate her. His idea, as I understand it, is that they’ll scrub the gin-shop smell off of her and replace it with expensive perfume and lofty ideas on art and music. Then she’ll be able to greet him at the altar as a lady.”

  Despite her dawning worries, Lizzie couldn’t help but laugh. She’d seen enough of Annie Miller to know that it would take much more than some friendly tutelage to turn the former barmaid into a gentle maiden.

  “Yes, I know,” said Emma. “It’s the height of arrogance on Hunt’s part. I really can’t say what he sees in her—other than what’s obvious. But apparently he’s not alone in his regard. I’m afraid that in Hunt’s absence, Rossetti has . . . taken up her case. He’s painting her by day and taking her around to the restaurants and theaters at night. They’ve been seen together at the pleasure gardens at Cremorne many times. So there it is, Lizzie. Of course, it could be nothing—a passing fancy, perhaps. But why should you let your reputation get caught up in such a thing? It’s better, I think, that you know his heart now, rather than later. I am sorry, my dear.”

  Lizzie barely heard her. The buzzing in her ears drowned out all other sound. She could see them now: Rossetti and Annie, their arms around each other, laughing as they made their way through Cremorne Gardens. She pictured the crowds under the soft glow of the Chinese lanterns. The band’s music wafted across the lawn to a pier over the river, where Rossetti took Annie in his arms, and she let him, not caring who saw them.

  Lizzie shook her head in disgust. She’d always declined Rossetti’s invitations to the revelries at Cremorne. Despite the popularity of its cafés and fireworks, the gardens had a reputation as no place for ladies after nightfall. But Annie wouldn’t care about such things, and perhaps that was what Rossetti had wanted all along.

  Lydia handed her a kerchief, and she put a hand to her face, surprised to find her cheek wet. She hadn’t realized that she was weeping. “How could he? Annie Miller is as common as a kitchen maid. How can he be seen with her? What will I do?”

  Lydia placed a consoling hand on her arm. “I’m sorry. I know that you admired him very much.”

  Emma looked at Lizzie with sympathy, but she quickly returned to her natural cheerfulness. “I’ll tell you what you won’t do. You won’t waste away in this room, when you’re in the prime of your youth and beauty. You must hold your head high, my dear, and carry on. Perhaps Dante will come to his senses, and perhaps not. In the meantime, you must do nothing to admit of your heartbreak to the world. This is only the first of many adventures. It may be bittersweet, but you have so much to look forward to.”

  Lizzie tried to compose herself. She knew that she shouldn’t show the true extent of her grief in front of Emma, who meant so well, but was sure to repeat everything to Ford. “Of course you’re right. I blame my illness for my poor nerves.”

  “We must get you well. Occupation and exercise are the best cure for any illness of the body or the heart, and you will need your strength, my dear. There’s a new circular being published by some friends of Ford, and I’ve told them that you will submit a poem for the first issue. I’ve seen some of your verses, and they’re lovely, but too sad! Rest today, and tomorrow you must write me some beautiful little thing that I can submit on your behalf.”

  “You’re a dear to think of me,” Lizzie murmured. Then, anxious to speak of anything other than herself, she changed the subject. “And how is little Catherine? I haven’t seen her, I’m afraid, since she was no bigger than a kitten and wrapped in swaddling. She must be nearly ten months by now. How does the dear baby get on?”

  Emma was only too happy to talk of her little girl, and the conversation continued along those more pleasant lines. Emma regaled the sisters with stories of how Catherine was just beginning to crawl and had gotten into Ford’s paints and brushes, resulting in some very rudimentary paintings in which her doting papa saw great promise. When Emma finally left, it was clear that she thought she left Lizzie in a better state than she had found her.

  But when the door closed behind her, Lizzie collapsed under the effort that keeping up appearances had cost her. She went to the bed and sat, staring out of the window with unseeing eyes. Was it just this morning that she had wondered if she might soon be permitted to sit for him again? The promise of seeing him had sustained her through her illness. But now she knew that he wasn’t waiting and longing for her return, as she had imagined. He had forgotten her.

  The splendid days spent in his studio began to take on shadows. She had spent so many years daydreaming of such an adventure—had she fabricated a dream of love from nothing more than her own desire? Outside the door of her room she heard the familiar rhythms of the household: dishes clinking in the scullery, children playing in the parlor, and the door of the shop downstairs closing with a bang. The sounds that she had heard as a child, and the sounds that would fill all her days to come.

  She finally roused herself to look at her sister, who was hovering over her nervously. “Leave me, please. I need to rest.”

  When Lydia shut the door, Lizzie went to her desk and pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer. Emma thought her poems too sad. But what happy event should serve as her inspiration? Just as she had found happiness, it had been ripped from her, and shown to be as cheap as anything from Southwark’s streets.

  Nonetheless, she took up her pen and tried to conjure a few verses. But no words would come, and the dull ache i
n her chest only seemed to intensify in the empty room. Mute and raging, she paced the room, until at last a crack appeared in the brittle surface of her anger. She remembered the tender compliments that Rossetti had often whispered into her hair, and the thought of his deceit pierced her like a blade. Her anguish spilled out as from a new wound, and she wrote with an angry scrawl. The words formed quickly, and her hand raced to follow her heart:

  O God, forgive me that I merged

  My life into a dream of love!

  Will tears of anguish never wash

  The poison from my blood?

  Love kept my heart in a song of joy,

  My pulses quivered to the tune;

  The coldest blasts of winter blew

  Upon me like sweet airs in June.

  Love floated on the mists of morn,

  And rested on the sunset’s rays;

  He calmed the thunder of the storm,

  And lighted all my ways.

  Love held me joyful through the day,

  And dreaming through the night:

  No evil thing could come to me,

  My spirit was so light.

  Oh heaven help my foolish heart

  Which heeded not the passing time

  That dragged my idol from its place

  And shattered all its shrine!

  Putting the words to paper calmed her, as it had in days past. She finished and leaned back in her chair, spent. Exhaustion fell over her like night, and she hardly made it from the desk to her bed before she collapsed into a deep, dreamless sleep.