by Kirsty Ferry
Henry was there the day Daisy stormed out of the millinery shop and demanded to know in which direction the artists had gone?
‘Where are Mr Rossetti and Mr Deverell? Has that stupid girl gone with them?’ Daisy raged. She swept past Henry and headed, resolutely, down the street. It had been raining and she walked straight through the puddles, not seeming to care that it was ruining her white kid boots.
‘Miss Ashford!’ Henry called, chasing after her as she stalked down the street, craning her neck to see into the distance. ‘Wait! Please – wait.’
Daisy’s strides were long and purposeful, her hands holding her skirt well up out of the mud.
Daisy did not falter. Her face was set and Henry knew she would not be dissuaded from whatever goal she had set herself; she had always been the same. He had taught her since she was fourteen years old. When she had moved out of the family home two years ago, Mr Ashford had paid Henry a hefty sum as a retainer. Henry had a home in London, and Mr Ashford expected him to be available for Daisy at a moment’s notice; for one thing, it saved her father from having to be in contact with her or tidy up any of her messes. For another, it also helped that Henry was often the only person who Daisy listened to or showed any respect for.
Henry had initially wondered why a man who so despised his only child should be so concerned about her, until he had realised it was more the family reputation Mr Ashford was concerned about. But Henry, at twenty-five and just starting to make a proper living wage from his art, had been grateful for the money; and so long as he watched out for Daisy and erased any mistakes, the money kept coming. And, if he was honest, being in such close proximity to Daisy Ashford was no hardship.
But the young lady was dreadfully single-minded. And Henry saw by her face that today was another example of how that single-mindedness affected anything she did. She had obviously latched onto the group of three people Henry had seen laughing and running down the street, and she wasn’t going to rest until she found them again.
‘Daisy – please. Stop!’ shouted Henry. He managed to catch up with her, his height and his stride length more than a match for her, even though she was taller than most females he had encountered. Henry reached out and put a restraining hand on her shoulder.
Daisy stopped and turned around, glaring at him. ‘Where did they go, Henry? I need to find them. She was so rude to me.’
‘Daisy! She’s a shop girl. She probably knows no better,’ said Henry.
‘Shop girl or not, the gentlemen were talking to me before she approached them.’ Daisy was positively fuming, her eyes dangerous. ‘I need to find them.’
‘And what are you going to do when you do find them?’ asked Henry.
‘Why, I’m not certain at all.’ Daisy put her head on one side and opened her eyes wide, looking as if she was really giving the matter some thought. ‘I have no idea. Challenge them, maybe?’ she said, shrugging her shoulders.
‘Challenge them about what?’ persisted Henry.
‘I don’t know!’ cried Daisy, stamping her foot. ‘I need to find them first. Henry, where is our carriage?’
‘It’s right there, I—’
‘Get in it. Now. We’ll look for them from the carriage.’ She raised her hand and waved at the driver. Obligingly, he urged the horses forward and pulled up alongside Daisy and Henry.
Without waiting to be assisted, Daisy scrambled into the carriage and beckoned Henry inside to join her. ‘I would much rather sit outside with the driver,’ she said, ‘but that seems a terribly common thing to do, and it’s the sort of thing that girl would do.’
Henry knew from experience when it was wisest to say nothing, so he simply climbed aboard the carriage. He was barely inside when Daisy gave the signal to move forward and he fell into his seat as the vehicle moved away.
Daisy leaned out of the window shouting directions to the coachman, who wove expertly through the traffic.
‘They can’t have gone that far,’ she said to Henry. ‘Not on foot.’ She waited a few more moments then shouted excitedly. ‘I can see them! I can see that girl’s hair! Look – over there! Look, Henry!’ Daisy turned her face towards him and he marvelled once again at how beautiful she was. The fresh air had reddened her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. Her hair had come undone a little and it gave her the look of Botticelli’s Venus; but no matter. Henry groaned inwardly. Wanting her was like a physical pain that had gnawed at him for years and he felt it would continue to gnaw at him for many more. Well, at least as many years as he knew Daisy Ashford.
‘That’s it, slow down, driver!’ called Daisy. ‘Slow down … keep behind them. I want to see where they go. Where are we, Henry? I don’t recognise this area.’
‘It’s Bloomsbury,’ said Henry.
‘Bloomsbury,’ repeated Daisy, nodding. ‘Bloomsbury. Excellent.’
The carriage crawled along and they found themselves on a long narrow street, lined with tall, well-to-do houses.
‘Gower Street,’ said Daisy, looking at a street sign. ‘I have to remember that. Oh – look! They’ve just gone into that house there. The one on the corner. Stop! Stop right there, driver, and wait for me. Henry, you stay here as well.’
Daisy pushed open the carriage door and slipped out. She headed towards the house and Henry creased his brow, wondering what on earth she was going to do. He saw her hurry past the house and up into the alleyway beside it. She hung around the corner for a few moments, and then began pacing the distance across the alleyway, talking to herself. Henry’s heart began to beat faster. What the hell was she going to do? She tapped her fingers on her lips thoughtfully, and stopped for a second. Her head snapped up and around as the door opened from the house and two men came out. It was the man with the longer hair and a different man; a man with shorter hair, which stuck up and out in the most eccentric manner.
Daisy ducked further up inside the alleyway and pressed herself close to the wall. At the front of the house, at the top of the small flight of stairs, the men leaned on the door, one of them, the one with long hair, smoking. After a short while, Daisy’s body seemed to relax. Then she stood up straight and a smile began to form on her face. She remained pressed against the wall, however, and Henry saw her hand go to her hair. She fluffed some of the strands out and twirled a long tendril around her fingers, still listening to what the men were saying. Henry closed his eyes in despair. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what had been said there or not – but he was certain Daisy would tell him.
After the two men had returned inside, Daisy took a moment to compose herself, then walked slowly back to the carriage, making sure she walked right past the front of the house. She waved at Henry and he leaned over and opened the door for her. He stepped outside and she offered him her hand, allowing him to help her up the steps.
When she was sitting primly on the velvet-covered seat, she turned to Henry and smiled. She lifted her hands to her head and pulled all the pins out of her hair. The intricate style unravelled and she enjoyed the feeling of it tumbling down her back. She raked her fingers through the stiff little curls and pulled at them to relax them into loose waves instead.
‘Miss Ashford …’ began Henry.
‘I think it’s much more becoming like this,’ she said. ‘The gentlemen thought that as well, you know.’
‘The gentlemen?’
‘Yes, Mr Rossetti and his friend, John. Do you know what they said, Henry?’
‘No, Miss Ashford.’
Daisy giggled. ‘And you never shall know. That’s my secret.’ She laughed again and turned to face the street through the window.
The conversation she had overheard, however, would set in motion the events that would shape her life.
‘So you said there were two of them?’ John had said.
‘Yes. Two redheads,’ replied Mr Rossetti. ‘I would have taken either one of them. But Lizzie will do for now.’
‘For now?’ John had cried. ‘How does your mind work, my friend?’
‘Oh! Well, it’s always good to have a bank of these models, I suppose,’ said John.
‘A bank of them. Absolutely.’ Mr Rossetti had laughed and dropped his cigarette on the floor. He ground it into the step with his heel and stared out into the street. ‘Her hair is so wonderful. I adore the way she wears it loose. It’s far more becoming.’
It was around about that point, where Daisy had definitely known that that Lizzie girl was far less superior to her. It was she, Daisy, they were talking about, of course.
‘Dante, I could use her in the painting I am planning,’ John had said, thoughtfully. ‘I need someone with her attributes to complete my vision of Shakespeare’s Ophelia.’
‘Most certainly,’ replied Dante. ‘I cannot think of anyone better for the job.’
‘She will be my muse!’ John had said expansively.
‘No,’ replied Dante. ‘She will be mine.’
Then the two men had walked back into the house, still talking earnestly, and Daisy had waited until she heard the solid clunk of the door closing behind them before she left the anonymity of the alleyway and walked deliberately past the house. If they saw her, they might come out again and call her. If not; well, she knew where to find them. It would come in very useful when she needed to remind them of her presence.
His muse. She liked that. She liked that very much.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
TWO YEARS LATER
BLOOMSBURY, 1851
To Daisy, her life in London was extraordinary. She had been lucky, she knew, to meet such wonderful people and her time over the last few years had been consumed by frequently locating those wonderful people and contriving to meet them.
As a potential muse, she understood that it was her very duty to be noticed and to inspire them. Who knew what they were painting and creating behind the closed door of the studio? Perhaps it was a portrait of her? Frankly, she would not be surprised.
Henry, though, could get a little angry at times, especially when she decided to divert an outing to try to find Dante or John or Walter.
‘Oh, Henry, my dearest Henry. I know them! They don’t mind at all,’ she would tell him. But Henry would press his lips together in that way he had and, feeling a little guilty, she would then spend some time trying to cheer him up and boost his mood.
And as such, life flew by pleasantly enough
But some days, she had to admit, it was just easier to lose her darling Henry and travel alone. It may have been frowned upon in society – an unchaperoned girl wandering the streets of London – but she didn’t much care. Daisy had never much cared what strangers thought of her.
And in fact, Daisy had found a very pleasant walk. It took her all the way up one side of Gower Street, along to Russell Square and back along Gower Street. She walked the route frequently. It took her, surprisingly, past the house on the corner, where sometimes she would rest against the railings and unbutton her boot to rub her ankle, or simply just stop and catch her breath for a moment or two.
It was a very conveniently placed house.
Sometimes, she would see people coming and going at the house. Then she would hurry up a little, depending on which way she was walking along the street, and smile as they passed her. She recognised them, even at a distance; the confident swagger of Dante; the hurried movements of John, as if he were eager to get on with his work; the easy stride of Walter. And there were others too; there was one they called William, who had the most intense gaze she had ever associated with a man, a quiet man called Frederic and more who she never really bothered to get to know. It was Dante and John who interested her most. And then, of course, there was Lizzie – the ever-present Lizzie, who oozed confidence and beauty and something that was just verging on the hint of danger.
Daisy was fascinated by Lizzie – sometimes she would be cheerful, laughing and joking, hanging on Dante’s arm or kissing him in the middle of the street. Yet at other times, she was quiet and moody, or had a faraway look in her eye that made Daisy wonder where the girl was. She wasn’t within her physical body, that was for sure. Daisy’s initial dislike of the model hadn’t abated completely, but now she wondered what exactly it was about the girl that captivated everyone she met. Perhaps there were lessons to be learned from her behaviour. So Daisy began to study her and try to learn from her.
It was one such day, when Daisy was walking up Gower Street, that she finally had the opportunity to catch a glimpse of Lizzie’s secret world. Daisy lingered around the entrance to the corner house for rather longer than necessary, and had the good fortune to look up and see Dante, John and Lizzie coming towards her. Lizzie was hanging off Dante’s arm as usual, laughing up into his face and Daisy felt a little stab of envy at how easily Dante was charmed by her. Daisy ducked into the alleyway, waiting until they were closer to her, then chose the right moment to step out into the street.
She looked down and adjusted her cuffs and, accidentally, of course, bumped into one of them. It was John. Automatically, he reached out and steadied her, and she blushed and giggled and twirled a strand of her hair around her finger.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t make a habit of bumping into strange men.’
‘He’s not strange. He’s simply an artist. It’s part of the job, it’s the curse of the creative mind,’ said Dante.
Lizzie giggled. ‘Artists are all strange,’ she said, ‘and probably cursed. That’s why they wander the streets searching out stunners. And you, you, my dear, are very nearly a stunner.’
Daisy scowled. ‘That’s a very unkind thing to say to me,’ she began, bitterly.
Lizzie raised her hands and flapped them in front of Daisy, shaking her head. ‘Hear me out. I say “nearly” a stunner, because you look like such a good girl.’ She smiled and leaned closer to Daisy. Daisy smelled a strange, sweet smell on the girl’s breath – a little like wine and something headier mixed with it. Cough mixture, maybe. Lizzie looked a little peaky today; she was very white, yet her cheeks were quite flushed. ‘You should let me give you some advice on being much less of a good girl.’ She smiled at Daisy and unexpectedly Daisy found herself smiling back.
Then John cut in. ‘Come on, Lizzie,’ he said, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘Stop tormenting the poor girl. I’m sorry,’ he said, turning to Daisy. ‘She gets a little odd sometimes.’
‘John, don’t you think we look alike?’ said Lizzie, suddenly. She stepped over to Daisy and stood by the side of her. She pulled Daisy towards her, wrapped her arms around her and leaned her head against hers.
Daisy was thrilled and shocked in equal measures. She knew their hair would be merging in one glorious fireball, and she knew that Dante had seen that as well. He stood, one arm folded across his body and his other hand placed thoughtfully on his chin. His head was on one side, as if he was assessing them for a painting. Daisy’s heart began to beat faster.
She dropped her gaze, then quickly looked back under her eyelashes at him. ‘Do you think so, Mr Rossetti? How about you, Mr Millais? Ha!’ She laughed, when the men started at their names. ‘Yes, I know who you are. I know how talented you both are.’
Dante laughed and clapped John on the back. ‘What a girl, eh, John?’ he cried. ‘She knows us! We are famous at last. Can you see a resemblance, there, John? Any resemblance? At all?’
‘Well, yes, there is a likeness,’ said John, still looking uncomfortable. Daisy’s heart swelled.
‘Well, then,’ said Lizzie, triumphantly. ‘There is another little muse for you.’ She released Daisy with a quick hug and stepped back towards Dante. ‘And we are right outside your studio, John.’ She waved her hand towards the house. ‘I’m sure your family won’t mind.’
‘Lizzie,’ said John. ‘It’s not just a studio, you know. My family have been good enough to let me use our home. I can’t let you just invite people in.’
He turned to Daisy. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what’s the matter with her. Of course, she’s jesting. Please excuse her, and once again I apologise.’
‘Oh, please, don’t apologise to me,’ said Daisy, quickly. ‘If you wanted me to, I could …’
Then Lizzie burst out laughing. ‘Oh, I like you. I like you a lot,’ she said. ‘Here, have some of this, it’ll loosen you up even more. Now that would be comical.’ She pulled a small bottle out of her pocket and thrust it at Daisy. Lizzie then threw her head back and laughed, before heading up the small set of steps to the front door of the house. ‘Come now, gentlemen,’ she said, looking over her shoulder at Dante and John. ‘To work! And you know the studio is on the ground floor, John, so there’s no reason why she couldn’t come in. It’s not like she would have been disturbing your family, is it?’
Lizzie blew a kiss at Daisy and waited until John hurried up the steps and opened the door for her. Dante trailed up after them, his hands in his pockets. Daisy watched them, undecided as to whether she was included in the invitation or not. Dante was the last to enter the house.
He turned to Daisy and smiled, fixing her with those haunting eyes; then he pointed his forefinger at her. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘I might paint you.’ Then he too stepped into the house and closed the door behind him.
Daisy felt as if she were embedded in the pavement at the bottom of the steps. She watched the door for a moment, then, when she realised nobody was coming back out, she looked at the bottle in her hand. It was more like a phial. She turned it around to read the label. Tincture of Opium. How strange. She opened it up and sniffed it, screwing her eyes up as the alcoholic fumes hit her nostrils. That, then, was the peculiar smell on Lizzie’s breath. Interesting. She peered closer at the label. One word stood out and her eyes widened: laudanum.