Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

  As the girls waited to get nearer to the painting, a few of the ladies around them began to shift their admiring stares from the painting to Lizzie. “Are you part of the exhibit?” a little girl asked, fingering the dark velvet of Lizzie’s gown.

  “No, dear,” Lizzie laughed, patting the girl’s head. Many of the ladies were now staring at her, curious where she’d found such a gown. Both pleased and embarrassed, Lizzie turned away from the group. There was a time, not so long ago, when she had reveled in such attention. But now she only wished to be left alone.

  She pushed back through the crowd, and then stopped. There, among the thousands of people who filled the hall, was the one person in London she both longed and dreaded to see: Dante Rossetti.

  She stood completely still. Rossetti said nothing, but his face told her everything she needed to know. Surprise and relief were written across his brow, and his eyes shone with joy. “Are you a mirage?” he asked. “One of these medieval paintings sprung to life? Or are you my Lizzie, returned to me at last?”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. Without a word he drew her into his arms, burying his face into her hair and inhaling deeply before releasing her. She didn’t resist; she didn’t care who saw them, what people might think. Despite all that had occurred, she was only grateful to be near him once more. The idea that anything could separate them now seemed a farce.

  “Lizzie, Lizzie,” he said, shaking his head. “Why didn’t you send word? I’ve been so worried.”

  “Dante,” she murmured, forgetting in the joy of their reunion that his worry hadn’t prevented him from enjoying himself with others. “I’m so sorry. I thought that perhaps . . . that perhaps you would be ashamed, that you were occupied with others. . . .” She let the silence hang, no longer sure why she had feared that he’d forgotten her. Neither could she reproach him for his betrayal, if he had indeed betrayed her. His eyes told her that he loved her. It could be nothing more than a vicious rumor, she thought, that he had turned his attention to Annie Miller.

  Dispelling any lingering doubts that she may have had, he said simply: “You are mine, and you must return to me.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “Here, my dove.” Rossetti placed a pillow behind Lizzie’s back as she lounged in an armchair in his studio. She was half asleep, dozing in the sun that streamed in through the studio windows. The balcony doors were open, and a warm breeze rustled the sketches pinned to the walls. When she stretched, her hair, loose and simply parted, tumbled over her shoulders.

  Since her return, Rossetti had tended her like an exotic orchid, fretting over her care and comfort. She was too weak to go out much, and he was happy to stay with her all day in his studio. He sketched her and read poetry to her, much as he had before her illness. They had few visitors, and the studio was once again their private world, full of pet names and secret meanings, references decipherable only by themselves.

  Her weakness may have cooled another man’s regard, but Rossetti was more drawn to her than ever. The more ethereal she became, the closer he wanted to hold her, as if he could keep her from floating away, like the last fading memory of a dream.

  Lizzie’s eyes fluttered open and she peered up at him. “Have I been asleep long? I dreamed that we were in a little cottage together, somewhere in the country, with a thatched roof and chickens in the front yard. You were painting in the garden while I tended the roses.”

  “Even your dreams are lovely. Would you like to go to the country?”

  “I’d be happy to leave London—especially for the summer.” She glanced out the window at the Thames. Now that the August heat was upon them, it would soon begin to stink and they would have to shut the windows against its stench.

  “I’d like to paint you crowned in roses,” Rossetti said. “And perhaps I can—I’ve been offered the use of a cottage just outside the city. Should we go set up house there? I could do some painting out in the fields. I’ve been away from nature for too long; I’m afraid that my work suffers for it.”

  “Would it be just the two of us?” Lizzie glanced at a half-finished painting in the corner of the studio. The alluring eyes of Annie Miller stared back at her, an unwelcome intrusion in a room that was otherwise a shrine to Lizzie’s image.

  “Just the two of us, as we’re meant to be. Though we’ll have friends come to visit—we can make picnics and go out on great rambles to paint by the streams and the woods.”

  Lizzie looked away from the portrait of Annie, but not before she noticed that Rossetti had been working on it since her last visit to the studio. She tried not to worry. After all, it was she, and not Annie, whom Rossetti wished to take to the country.

  “I’d love to go away with you. But what will I tell my mother and father? The only reason that I’m able to sit for you is that my father is still so angry with me that he’s decided that I’m below his notice. He’s content to pretend that I’m working at the shop when I come here during the day, especially since he needs the money that you send home. But if he thinks that we’ve gone away somewhere together. . . I hate to think what he might do.”

  “Tell them anything you like. Tell them that you’ll take a room at an inn. Why should they care so long as you’re handing over your wages to them?”

  It was just like him, Lizzie thought, not to concern himself with the details. How could he profess his love to her and then turn a blind eye to the difficulties of her situation? It would be so much easier if he would finally declare an engagement between them. Then she might travel with him wherever he liked, with less worry as to propriety. For a moment her frustration boiled over into anger. “Should I go with you as your lover, then?”

  Rossetti looked shocked—Lizzie did not usually speak so coarsely. “Of course not, Lizzie. You will come with me as my beloved.” He turned, red-faced, back to his easel. Lizzie was quiet, and he could see that she was cross. “Come, my dove,” he said, taking her hands. “You know that I want to marry you, and we shall marry, as soon as it is practical. The moment just isn’t right. I’m just beginning to make my name, and I must put all of my effort into my painting right now. Please be patient.”

  “Of course. I understand.” She didn’t want to ruin her chance to get away from the city, and away from Annie Miller, with a pointless row. She went over and put her arms around him, laying her head on his shoulder. “Let’s go to the country. There will be no one around to bother us, and you can work hard at your painting. I’ll think of something to tell my parents. I can tell them I’m staying with a married friend from the shop.”

  “Then I’ll make the arrangements. Now please, lie back down. You’re going to tire yourself out.” She did as he asked, and he began once again to sketch her. The afternoon faded into dusk, and Lizzie dozed off again.

  When she woke, Rossetti was at the other end of the studio, working on the painting of Annie by lamplight. She sat up. “What are you doing?”

  He glanced up from his work. “Just working on the background. I’ve got to get the canvas prepped before Miss Miller comes to sit this evening.”

  Lizzie rose from the chair, angry. He’d never had Annie Miller in the studio while she was there before. But of course, it was getting late. Perhaps Annie always came in the evenings after Lizzie left? She began to collect her things. “It’s late. I must go.”

  She began to cough, and the force of her cough brought her back down into the chair. Rossetti was at her side in an instant, pouring out a glass of water. He put his arms around her and held her as the cough racked her frail frame. When she finally caught her breath, she lay back, exhausted.

  Her skin was so white that Rossetti felt a chill of fear looking at her. “You’re not well. You mustn’t go anywhere. I’ll send a note to Miss Miller—I can work on the painting another night.”

  Lizzie tried to rise from her seat. “No, I really must go. I’m supposed to finish a few bonnets for Mrs. Tozer in the morning.”

  “I didn’t think that you were still working at t
he shop.”

  “It’s just for the day. They’re short on help.” Lizzie began to cough again, and the deep rasping sounds were painful to Rossetti’s ears. “I must stay in her good graces in case I need my position back. I know that you don’t want me to sit for your friends’ paintings anymore, and I must make my living somehow.”

  “No. Your health is too delicate. Besides, if you’re going to be my wife, it’s no more appropriate for you to work in a shop than it is for you to sit for other artists’ paintings. I’ve had a few good commissions lately. I can cover any expenses that you have.”

  Winded, Lizzie said nothing, but she smiled as she leaned back to rest. “I’ll send Mrs. Tozer my apologies.”

  “Good. I’ll write my excuses to Miss Miller. You’ll rest here until you’re strong enough to go home.”

  Lizzie reclined, content. How easily Rossetti’s mind had been turned from his painting of Annie. His concern for her trumped even his desire to paint. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

  They travelled to the country cottage in late August, and it proved just as charming as Lizzie had imagined. It wasn’t far from the city, but the air was better, the heat held at bay by a gentle breeze. There was a garden, enclosed by a stone wall, and a studio at the back of the yard where Rossetti could paint. The garden was still in full bloom, and fat honeybees floated between the heavy blossoms of hydrangea.

  The borrowed cottage was like a place out of time, far from prying eyes and pressing bills. They had few guests and didn’t bother to keep regular meals, eating when they were hungry and enjoying the solitude. Rossetti painted during the day and Lizzie sat for him as a model for his watercolor of Dante’s Vision of Rachel and Leah, from the Purgatorio. In the painting, Rachel stares into the water of a stone fountain, symbolizing the contemplative life, while Leah makes a wreath, an allegory of the active life. Rossetti modeled both figures after Lizzie, telling her that she was the rare woman who possessed a perfect harmony of the two. The resulting picture was gorgeous, with Rachel and Leah in rich purple and emerald gowns, and the fountain glimmering with iridescent blue water.

  They’d been at the cottage for a week when Rossetti emerged from his studio, tired from his work, and dropped onto the grass beside Lizzie’s garden chair. He pulled an apple from his pocket and bit into it hungrily.

  “Are you finished for the day?” Lizzie asked. “I thought that we might take a walk into the village.”

  Rossetti stretched out on the grass. “I’m through with the watercolor. When it’s dry I’ll send it to Ruskin. With any luck he’ll want it and send round a check. We won’t have to go back to London for another week. Though I may have to pay a visit to my sister, Christina.”

  “Christina?” Lizzie was always interested in any bit of news about Rossetti’s family. Though she had known him for nearly a year and a half, he hadn’t yet introduced her, and she longed to meet them. It wasn’t idle curiosity; it seemed impossible that he would propose before he introduced her to his family.

  “I’ve just had a letter from my mother. It seems Christina has surprised everyone by agreeing to marry James Collinson, the painter. You haven’t met him, have you? He’s a member of the Brotherhood—very talented, but poor as can be, and until he met Christina, a Catholic. It seems she’s gotten him to convert.”

  “So she’ll marry for love and nothing else, then?” Lizzie hardly dared to breathe. If Christina was permitted such freedom in her choice of husband, surely Rossetti’s family could have no objection to his marrying for love as well?

  “It appears so. Though it’s not so much her choice in a husband that surprises me, as that she wants to marry at all. I would have placed a wager on it that she would choose her poetry over the comforts of a husband and home.”

  “And can’t she have both? I can’t see why her being a wife would prevent her from carrying on with her writing?”

  “I can’t imagine that it would prevent her, exactly. But naturally she’ll want to concern herself more with the children and the household after she’s married.”

  This more conventional side surprised Lizzie; she wouldn’t have guessed that he harbored such traditional views. “And when we marry? Will I have to give up my writing and drawing as well? I’ve hardly just begun!”

  “Of course not. I’d never expect my wife to do anything that didn’t suit her. If that means that the house is filled with paintings and poetry and there is never anything to eat and the curtains are dusty, so be it.”

  Lizzie laughed, and Rossetti reached up a hand to her. “Come lie with me in the grass.”

  “It’s wet. My dress will get damp.”

  “Then I’ll hang it in the sun to dry.” He propped himself up on one elbow and considered her. He bit into his apple, but he looked as if he would rather devour her.

  She could guess what he was thinking and blushed. Since her illness he had been very gentle with her, never pressing for more than a few kisses, though they sometimes slept side by side. But in the last few days his glances had become more frank and his kisses rougher and more insistent. And she’d felt herself giving in to them, unable to resist the pull of his desire. She hated to deny him anything. She could see that for Rossetti, his passions were entwined inextricably with his art. She wanted to inspire him fully, to be everything to him, in art and in life, but she couldn’t give him what she knew he wanted most, not yet.

  Rossetti sat up fully. “I want to draw you.”

  Lizzie laughed with relief. “You may draw me whenever you like. Shall I come into the studio, or should we sit in the garden where it’s cooler?”

  “No. I want to draw you . . . as God made you.”

  Lizzie blushed again, but she wasn’t shocked. Emma had told her that Ford often sketched her in the nude.

  “Dante,” she murmured, “I can’t. There are other girls for such things. . . .”

  “I don’t want to draw other women.” He stood and took her hand. “Yours is the only figure that interests me. I’ll draw you from the back, so your modesty won’t be offended.”

  “I’m afraid that I lost my modesty when I agreed to come away with you to this cottage.” But she felt oddly flattered by the request. She suspected that Annie Miller had posed in the nude for him, though she had no proof.

  “Come,” he said, pulling her up from her seat. He led her through the garden and into the studio. She stood with her back to him, and he unpinned her hair, letting it fall down her back in loose ringlets. He removed her dress, fumbling over the tiny buttons and slipping it over her shoulders and onto the floor. She sat on a stool with her back to the easel, her head turned to the side and her eyes cast toward the floor.

  Her bare skin felt alive to every gust of air, and she shivered as her hair brushed against the small of her back. She wasn’t embarrassed by her nudity, as she’d expected. Instead she felt beautiful and natural, just as Rossetti had promised. She had crossed this boundary, and if it had been scary to contemplate, in practice it was exhilarating, just as each new experience with Rossetti had been. She couldn’t see him, but she could hear the quick whisper of his pencil as he sketched.

  She sat perfectly still. The heavy scent of roses drifted in through the open window. The sun began to set, and the drone in the garden grew louder, a chorus of crickets and toads heralding the day’s end. Lizzie felt deeply content. She suddenly didn’t care that they weren’t married or what people would think if they knew what she was doing. She was just happy to be here, with Rossetti, living a life so filled with romance and art that she never could have imagined it, even in her wildest daydreams. Nothing else mattered.

  What would happen next? Would he walk over to her, run his fingers across her bare skin, kiss her neck? And what would she do? Would she let him draw her up from her seat, wrap her arms around him, give in to his touch?

  But he didn’t come to her. Instead, he spoke. “Do you remember the first time that we saw each other?”

  “Of co
urse.” She remembered the day well—how he’d bounded into Deverell’s studio with an impish grin. “You read to me from Twelfth Night, and we spoke of love. I should have known then that I would fall in love with you.”

  “No. That wasn’t the first time. Do you really not remember?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you finished with your sketches? I’m beginning to feel chilly.”

  “I knew that I’d seen you before, and I had. On Blackfriars Bridge.” He paused and Lizzie waited, an image forming from the fog and sharpening into unwelcome recollection. “It was late, and there was a heavy mist. But I’m sure that it was you. You were with an older man, and he was holding you. I called out, and you ran away. But you stopped for a moment, and I saw your eyes. I couldn’t forget them.”

  Lizzie said nothing, and she didn’t turn to look at him. She remembered that night well. She’d never told anyone about what had happened—he must have been the man who had happened upon them. Why hadn’t he spoken of it before?

  “What were you doing there?” he asked. “With that man?”

  Lizzie felt faint. She knew, as Rossetti did, that many of the shopgirls supplemented their meager wages by obliging the occasional customer. Is that what he thought of her, after all this time? “I was walking home from work.” Her voice was flat. “He accosted me. He insulted me, and wouldn’t let me go. If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know what would have happened.”

  Her contentment was gone—she now felt exposed and ashamed by her nudity. She grabbed a draping cloth from the table and wrapped it around herself, then turned to face him. “I’m very grateful that you came along when you did. I can’t believe that it was you.”

  Rossetti nodded, accepting her words. He walked over to her, but she put up her hand. “I hope that you have what you need for your sketches. I’m afraid that I’m not feeling well. I’m going to lie down.”