by Kate Forsyth
He returned to his painting, whistling, and Ned whispered, ‘He married his favourite model, the most beautiful girl called Tryphena Foord. They’re so ridiculously happy, we had great trouble getting Arthur to come.’
Janey stared at him in amazement. One of these artists had married his model? She had never imagined such a thing.
At that moment, the door banged open and Gabriel came in. ‘All is well! We have sandwiches, so none of you need faint and fall off the scaffolding.’
He stopped short at the sight of Janey. So too did the young man behind him. He was not much above middle height, with a tousled mop of exuberantly curling hair, wearing a grubby shirt buttoned awry. His arms were full of soda bottles and brown paper packages.
‘You came,’ Gabriel said simply. He walked towards her, both hands held out. ‘I am so glad. I need you. No-one else could possibly be my queen, once I had seen you.’
Janey did not know what to do with her hands. It did not matter. Gabriel reached her side, untucked her hands from her skirts, and held them in both of his. ‘Please, come and sit.’
Janey sat where he directed her, on a wooden stool drawn up near the whitewashed window. Gabriel took her face in his hands, turning her towards the light. ‘Did I not say she was a wonder? The most stunning of all stunners.’
The young man with the curls was motionless, staring at her.
‘Miss Burden, this is my dear friend William Morris,’ Ned said. ‘We call him Topsy, on account of his hair.’
‘And because he grow’d and grow’d,’ Gabriel said with a grin.
Janey did not understand what they meant. It was obviously some kind of joke.
‘Have you met all the fellows?’ Gabriel said. ‘Seven of us again. It’s a new Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.’
Ned and Topsy both glowed with pleasure at the remark. ‘Better get back to work,’ Gabriel said. ‘Ned, I won’t need you to sit for me now that my Stunner is here. You can go and work on old Merlin.’
Reluctantly the two younger men left him, taking sandwiches and drinks around to the others, then climbing up the scaffolding to work at different bays. Topsy was painting what looked like sunflowers, while Ned was working on what seemed to be an old man with a long white beard.
Gabriel brought over an easel, and dragged some pencils out of his coat pocket.
‘If you will just sit still for me, I will do some studies of your face,’ he told her. ‘I am painting a scene from Le Morte d’Arthur, and was racking my brains about what to do about Queen Guenevere. I did not want her to be golden haired. I am so tired of painting golden hair. Besides, she was a tragic Celtic queen. Her hair should be dark and heavy, her eyes blue and full of sorrow. As soon as I saw you, I knew you would be perfect.’
As he spoke, his pencil was flying over the paper. Curious, Janey followed the movement of his hand with her eyes. ‘Sit still,’ he said. ‘Look down, as you were before.’
Janey tried to remember how she had been sitting. He came to stand beside her, taking her face in his hands and tilting it to the side and down. ‘Perfect,’ he said, low and intimate in her ear, before going back to his easel.
Janey was flushed and breathless. She sat quietly, staring at a blotch of paint on the floor.
‘Do you know the story of Queen Guenevere?’ he asked.
She shook her head, then remembered she had to stay still. ‘Nay.’
‘I’ve only just read it. Ned and Topsy are mad about it, and showed it to me. It’s perfect for a series of paintings like this.’ Gabriel began to tell her the story. Janey listened, entranced. Swords in stones, and wizards trapped in hawthorn trees, and a queen who loved her husband’s bravest knight, and a quest for the cup said to be used at the Last Supper and able to heal all ills. She had never heard anything like it.
When Gabriel reached the end of the story, he said gently, ‘I have done enough for today, thank you, Miss Burden. You can stand up now and stretch. You must be stiff, you have been sitting still so long.’
Janey stirred and stood up. To her amazement, the long room was lit now by candles. A fire had been kindled in the fireplace. Topsy and Ned were toasting bread and cheese on long-handled forks, and Arthur was heating up a jug of spiced wine with a hot poker. The smell was delicious.
‘Come and have something to eat and drink,’ Gabriel said. ‘I was so eager to draw you, I have been a very bad host.’
Janey hesitated, but he smiled at her, holding out his hand to her. She took it and let him draw her closer to the fire, before pouring her a cup of the mulled wine.
No-one had ever pulled out a chair for Janey before, or served her with a courtly bow. No-one had ever told her that she looked like a queen. She felt quite dazzled and off balance.
Gabriel passed her toasted bread, brown and bubbling with cheese. Janey ate hungrily. In moments it was gone, and Gabriel made her some more. He watched her eat every mouthful. Janey was aware she should not eat with such gusto, but she was hungry and the food was good. She ate till she was bursting, and still Gabriel urged more upon her. At last she had had enough. She shook her head, smiling, and wiping her mouth with her sleeve. Gabriel sat back with a sigh, gazing at her with his large, dark, melancholy eyes that seemed to want to devour her.
Arthur poured her some more of the hot mulled wine, then went to play some card game with the other artists on the other side of the double-fronted fireplace. Janey knew she should go home. It was getting dark outside. But she was so warm and comfortable, and the thought of having to return to the evil-smelling hovel she shared with her mother and sister filled her with dismay.
‘Topsy, read us one of your grinds,’ Gabriel said, stretching out his boots to the low flames.
‘Topsy’s a poet,’ Ned told Janey. ‘One day he’ll be a great name, like Tennyson or Wordsworth.’
Topsy went red. He pulled a handful of crumpled pages out of his coat pocket. ‘This is just what I came up with last night,’ he said. He looked at Janey shyly. ‘It’s called “The Defence of Guenevere”, and is told from the point of view of the queen.’ He began to read in a loud voice:
I was half mad with beauty on that day
And went without my ladies all alone,
In a quiet garden walled round every way;
I was right joyful of that wall of stone,
That shut the flowers and trees up with the sky,
And trebled all the beauty to the bone …
He read for a long time, but Janey did not weary of it. When at last he laid down the closely written pages, Topsy looked expectantly at Janey. ‘Did you like it?’
She nodded. When his face fell, Janey tried to find the words to explain what she had felt. She laid one hand on her heart. ‘It hurt me, here.’
Topsy’s face lit up.
‘I write poetry too,’ Gabriel said. ‘This is the poem I wrote for the painting I’m doing of Lancelot and Guenevere.’ He stood up, lifted high one hand, and dramatically intoned:
Lancelot lay beside the well:
(God’s Graal is good)
Oh my soul is sad to tell
The weary quest and the bitter quell;
For he was the lord of lordlihood
And sleep on his eyelids fell.
‘Is “lordlihood” even a word?’ Topsy asked.
‘It is if I want it to be,’ Gabriel answered loftily. He turned to Janey. ‘I never knew such a fellow for churning out poems! Just because he got a degree from Oxford, Topsy thinks he knows all there is to know about words. He’s not quite so skilled with the paintbrush, though. He was meant to be painting How Sir Palomydes loved La Belle Iseult with exceeding love out of measure, and how she loved him not but rather Sir Tristram. But we have renamed the piece Sudden Indisposition of Sir Tristram, recognisable as Collywobbles by the pile of gooseberry skins beside him, for the poor man is so green.’
He laughed, and Ned joined in. Topsy’s ears turned red, but he did not retort. He only gazed at Janey. ‘I could paint better
if I had you as my model. Your beauty would make the whole thing glow. Will you sit for me too?’
‘If ye like,’ Janey replied shyly, then saw that Gabriel was frowning at Topsy.
‘Hang on, I saw her first,’ he objected.
‘Actually, I did,’ Ned said. ‘But such beauty cannot be confined to just one canvas. It must be shared with the world.’ He gave Janey the sweetest smile, and bent forward to refill her cup.
4
One Sweet Hour
Autumn–Winter 1857
Humming to herself, Janey hurried along Broad Street. Her skirts billowed behind her in the wind.
She caught a glimpse of her reflection in a shop window. For a moment, she did not recognise herself.
It was partly her new dress which she had bought at the markets. It was also, however, because she was standing tall. Gabriel had told her so many times that she looked like a queen, Janey was beginning to walk like one.
For the first time, Janey believed she might be beautiful.
If one did not think there was only one kind of beauty.
Janey kept walking, thinking about this. All her life, she had thought that one had to be small and fair and dainty to be pretty, like the Queen when she was young. Attractive women had smooth pale hair, soft round cheeks, rosebud mouths, little white helpless hands.
Yet what if a woman was allowed to be tall and strong and capable? What if a man did not mind a woman who could meet their gaze straight on, or even look down on them? What kind of world would that be?
It was not the world that Janey now lived in.
But perhaps these passionate young artists, with their old-fashioned ideas of chivalry and their odd notions of beauty, were trying to create a different world. If so, it was a world Janey wanted to belong to.
Topsy met her at the entrance to the courtyard, and took her basket from her. ‘I’ve bought the most wonderful book,’ he told her. ‘Can’t wait to show you. It’s an old medieval missal. Got the most marvellous paintings in the margins.’
He drew her into the dimly-lit hall, and cleared a space on the fireplace to show her an ancient parchment book. Each page had been decorated with vivid images of monks with tonsures and brown robes, working amidst trees and flowers and beasts.
‘It must be right old,’ Janey said in wonder.
‘It is,’ Topsy agreed.
‘Look at the little mousen there! Ain’t they sweet?’ Janey cried, then silently cursed herself. She should have said mice. That’s what educated people said.
Topsy did not laugh at her. He just said gravely, ‘And see the cat? Waiting to pounce? The monk who drew it must’ve had a cat of his own. Don’t you think? To get its posture so right.’
‘It must’ve cost a mortal lot.’
‘Well, yes. But I’ve got rather a lot of tin, you know. And what’s money for, if not to save beautiful old things like this that might otherwise be lost?’
Janey gazed at him in amazement. Topsy did not look rich. His clothes were rumpled and stained with paint, his stout boots were scuffed, and his sleeve was missing a button. Janey had always assumed that Gabriel was the rich one. Yet she remembered now that it was always Topsy being sent off to buy new paints, or to fetch them supper, or to pay the boy who served them.
‘I buy a lot of their paintings too,’ Topsy said, nodding at the other artists busy about their easels. ‘I bought Arthur’s painting April Love. I bought five of Gabriel’s. Paid two hundred guineas for the lot. Bought one of his friend Bruno’s too. Fellow is awfully hard up. Paid forty guineas for it. I also bought Ned his own copy of Morte d’Arthur. Poor chap was going into a bookshop each day to read it. Too poor to buy it. So I bought it for him.’
‘Ye’re right kind … I mean, very kind.’
‘I’m rich. They’re poor.’ Topsy spoke gruffly. The tips of his ears had turned red. ‘Got something else to show you.’
He found a large parcel, tied up with twine. He tried to undo the knot, lost patience, and ripped it open. Two dresses slithered out. Both were of medieval design. One was pale green with long hanging sleeves, lined with tapestry. The other was made of rose-patterned brocade, with gilt-buttoned red sleeves that turned back to show the black silk lining.
‘For you.’ He could not look at her.
‘They’re beautiful.’ Janey caught them up, thrilled.
‘Costumes. For the paintings.’
Holding the dresses up against her, she stammered some thanks.
At that moment, Gabriel came in from the side-chamber. His plum velvet coat was wet through, and he was trying to dry himself with an old towel. Janey was surprised. It had not rained that day.
She looked at him questioningly. Gabriel said, with an annoyed look, ‘Some students thought it’d be a lark to drench us all with buckets of dirty water. Apparently they took exception to our noise.’
Janey went to him swiftly, taking the towel from him so she could mop him dry. ‘Ye’ll catch yer death!’ She began to tousle his damp curls. She was so tall, he did not need to bend his head to her. She could smell the scent of his skin. Something fresh like lemons. He met her eyes. She let her hands fall and stepped away, feeling that familiar confusion he always aroused in her.
‘They are right, though. Those students. It is noisy in here. And I should get changed. Though I can’t be fagged to go home and then come all the way back again. Miss Burden, would you mind very much if we worked back at my lodgings today?’
‘Nay,’ she answered uncertainly.
‘Good,’ he answered, and picked up the pale green medieval dress. ‘Shove this in your basket, and let’s be going.’
Janey did as she was told. As Gabriel led her out of the debating hall, he shot a look of triumph back over his shoulder at Topsy, standing forlornly by the fireplace, his arms full of rose brocade. Janey looked back too, apologetically.
‘It’s freezing out here,’ Gabriel cried. ‘Let’s get you somewhere nice and warm.’
The words were innocent enough, but his tone made them suggestive. Janey followed him along, her heart beginning to thud again. They reached George Street, and he showed her into their rooms with a flourish of his hat.
It was a terrible mess. Books piled haphazardly, clothes everywhere, dirty plates and cups on the side tables, pages covered in sketches on the floor and pinned to the wall. Gabriel showed no signs of embarrassment. He flung his hat on the couch, and began to loosen his stock. Janey tensed.
‘I’ll just go and get changed. That’s Ned’s room there. Do you want to put on old Topsy’s dress? Then I can do some studies of you.’ Gabriel pointed out a door to her, then went, whistling, into another room.
Bewildered, Janey changed into the green medieval dress. It clung to her figure in a way the fashions of the day did not. She could not wear her stays underneath. She felt her old awkwardness return. When Gabriel came out, dressed in trousers and a loose shirt, he stared at her. ‘You look beautiful.’ His voice was rough.
Janey stood, waiting, sick with anxiety, but Gabriel only pinned some fresh paper to the easel, and began to draw her. Janey hung her head, not understanding why there was such a lump in her throat.
‘You always looks so sad,’ Gabriel said. ‘Do you not want to sit? Just throw all that stuff on the floor. Wouldn’t you be more comfortable?’
Janey sat and looked down at her hands. What was wrong with her? She should be glad he did not want to touch her. She had been dreading the day.
She remembered he was betrothed. ‘What she like? Yer girl?’
Gabriel’s smooth swift strokes came to a halt. He looked at her quickly, then looked away, colour mounting his smooth olive cheek.
‘Is she pretty?’
‘Not pretty,’ Gabriel said after a moment. ‘Striking. Unusual.’ He began to draw again, more slowly. ‘She was very beautiful once. Before …’
He spoke so soft Janey could hardly hear him. ‘Before?’ she repeated.
‘She’s been ill. We thought sh
e was sure to die … oh, so many times. We all thought she had consumption. Her brother died of it … and she got so thin and weak … but the doctors say it’s not consumption.’
Janey’s elder sister Mary had died of consumption. She remembered the hacking cough, the flushed cheeks, the bones protruding through her skin.
‘Then what is it?’
Gabriel shrugged. ‘No-one knows. Dozens of doctors, and they all say different things. She has no appetite. If only she could keep some food down! When she can eat, she regains some strength … but even the thought of food makes her ill.’
Janey felt sharp pity for her. How awful, to be sick all the time. To always be wondering when you’d die.
‘I love her, I do,’ Gabriel whispered, after a long silence. ‘But … I get so tired of her always being sick. She’s like … like a succubus.’
Janey did not know what that meant. She looked at him enquiringly.
Gabriel gave a tired laugh. ‘I cannot explain. She clings on to me with all her strength, but … well, in other ways she’s as cold as ice. We’ve barely touched in months, and when we do … I feel she’s enduring me.’
Janey did not know what to say.
‘Enough of Lizzie!’ he said with an effort. ‘I am here to escape it all. Please let’s not talk about her. Let’s talk about you. I want to know everything about you.’
Janey swallowed. Her hands fidgeted together. ‘There’s naught t’know.’ He started to protest, and she summoned a smile for him. ‘Really. I’d much rather ye told me more about what ye’re paintin’.’
His face lit up. At once his hands began to sketch shapes in the air. ‘I’m painting Sir Lancelot. You remember. The lord of lordlihood. He wants to enter the chapel of the Holy Grail, but he cannot. He has sinned because of his forbidden desire for the queen; he is not pure enough. So he sleeps and he dreams of Guenevere. She stands before him in the boughs of an apple tree, in her green dress. Above him hangs his shield with a snake writhing upon it. On the other side will be an angel. Ned’s been sitting for Lancelot. He really does have the face of some kind of medieval knight, don’t you think? And there should be lilies … and wings of flame …’