Beauty in Thorns

by Kate Forsyth

  Violet the maid brought in the tea tray and set it down before Miss Leigh. She then stood back against the wall, watching with great interest, as Miss Leigh gently instructed Janey in the best manner of pouring and serving and eating and drinking. ‘Never pour your tea into the saucer to cool it, Janey. A lady is always patient. Wait for it to be the perfect temperature for sipping. A napkin is only used to dab your mouth clean, Janey. Never use it to blow your nose or wipe your brow.’

  Janey was practising holding her tea cup in the accepted manner – saucer in the palm of her left hand, her thumb holding it steady, her right hand lifting the cup to her mouth, a sip without noise, return the cup to the saucer without spilling a drop – when she unexpectedly heard the gate open.

  She was so surprised she splashed a little tea into her saucer.

  ‘Who could that be?’ she asked, craning to see out the window. ‘Topsy … I mean, Mr Morris … is still in France, ain’t he?’

  ‘I believe he is, my dear. Put down your cup, a lady does not slop tea everywhere. Please do not be so uncouth as to look out the window. Violet, go and stand ready to answer the door, there’s a good girl. Straighten your apron. Janey, my dear, perhaps just a little attention to your hair?’

  Violet opened the door, her face bright pink.

  ‘It’s a gen’leman!’ she cried, then corrected herself conscientiously. ‘A gentleman. To see Miss Burden.’

  It was Gabriel.

  Janey jumped to her feet, sending the tea tray crashing to the ground. Flushing hotly, she bent to clean up the mess.

  ‘Miss Burden, my dear, no need to trouble yourself,’ Miss Leigh said, her voice as calm as ever. ‘Violet?’

  As the skivvy dashed forward to pick up the broken china, Janey subsided back into her chair. She could not look at Gabriel.

  ‘I do not believe I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance,’ Miss Leigh said. ‘Have you left your card with us previously, sir?’

  Gabriel was taken aback. ‘No … I mean, I’m an old friend of Janey’s …’

  ‘Indeed. How nice. And you are …?’

  ‘I’m Gabriel … Dante Gabriel Rossetti.’ He affected a gracious bow.

  ‘Delighted,’ Miss Leigh answered, cooler than ever. ‘Will you join us for tea, Mr Rossetti? Violet, a fresh pot, please.’

  Violet rushed out and Gabriel sat down. ‘Well, thank you. I’m gasping for a cup of tea, actually. It’s been a long day. Janey, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Why didn’t you leave word where you were going?’

  Janey had no answer for him. It had been nine months since she had last seen him.

  ‘I collect you must be a friend of Miss Burden’s betrothed, Mr Morris,’ Miss Leigh said. ‘I am sure he would have given you Miss Burden’s address if you had asked him.’

  Gabriel looked tired and sallow. He leant forward, grabbing Janey’s hands. ‘I heard a rumour … but surely it can’t be true.’

  Janey had a strange sensation, as if her blood was being released from her body by a series of mechanical locks. She took her hands back, twisting them in the fabric of her skirt. The silk crumpled immediately. She tried to smooth it out.

  ‘It is indeed true, Mr Rossetti. Miss Burden and Mr Morris have been betrothed five months or more. They are to be married next spring. Ah, Violet, the tea! Excellent. Miss Burden, shall you pour?’

  Mechanically Janey went through the process of pouring the tea, arranging the teaspoons, handing around the cups.

  Miss Leigh kept up a gentle murmur. After a moment Gabriel responded politely, though his jaw was tight.

  ‘Yes, I am one of the artists who were working on the murals at the debating hall. I … I was called away unexpectedly and so my painting was not completed. I have come back … to finish unfinished business.’

  Janey’s eyes flew to his face.

  ‘An artist? Really?’ Miss Leigh was both intrigued and pleasantly shocked.

  Gabriel showed her his painters’ box with its multitude of brushes and little squares of watercolour paints and rolled-up tubes of oils. ‘I wanted to draw Janey … I mean, Miss Burden … that is one reason why I am here. Would you like me to show you?’

  When Miss Leigh concurred in delight, he got out his sketching book and some charcoals and chalks, and began to draw swiftly, explaining what he was doing as he went along.

  Each stroke of the charcoal on the paper was like a stroke of his finger upon her skin. Janey tried to keep her composure.

  ‘And why did you leave your murals unfinished?’ Miss Leigh asked.

  ‘I … I had to go away. Up north. A … a friend was ill.’

  ‘Oh, dear, I am sorry. I do hope he is feeling better now.’

  Blood rushed up under Gabriel’s fine skin. He looked at Janey.

  ‘My friend was very ill. I … I thought … I thought she’d die. I could not … I could not just abandon her. As soon as I could … as soon as I could I told her … that I must come back to Oxford. But then I heard of your betrothal, Janey.’

  There was a long charged silence, then Miss Leigh said sweetly, ‘May I offer you a scone?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ Gabriel laid down the charcoal, wiping his fingers on a rag. ‘Janey, please, I need to talk to you.’

  Another awkward silence, then Miss Leigh patted her pocket for her lorgnette, put it on the end of her nose, and glanced up at the clock. ‘It must be time for our constitutional, don’t you think, Miss Burden? Perhaps Mr Rossetti would care to join us? The river is so lovely at this time of day.’

  Janey stood up. Miss Leigh led the way out of the sitting-room, the tap of her stick the only sound. Outside, the sky was golden as the sun disappeared behind the trees. In single file, they walked down the old brick path towards the road. Janey’s dress brushed against the flowers on either side, releasing a rich perfume into the air.

  ‘You haven’t said a word, Janey,’ Gabriel said in a low voice, drawing her back with one hand on her arm.

  Janey realised this was true. Sometimes it seemed as if the more deeply she felt, the more padlocked her tongue.

  ‘I … I didn’t expect to see you,’ she said. ‘You’ve surprised me.’

  ‘So it seems,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘It’s been nine months since I last saw you,’ she pointed out.

  He looked discomfited. ‘I know. I’m sorry. But Lizzie was very sick … the worst I’ve ever seen her. I could not leave her … I scarcely had time to write and let my mother know where I was.’

  ‘An’ she’s better now?’

  He made a hopeless gesture with his hands. ‘I don’t know. I left her there.’

  ‘You said … you said you told her … something. What?’

  He looked at her. ‘I told her I was in love with you.’

  The words were like a blow to the chest. It drove all the air out of her lungs. This was what she had hoped for, all those long lonely months.

  ‘Why … now?’ she said with difficulty. ‘After all this time? Is it because you heard about …’ She could not say his name.

  ‘About Topsy?’ Gabriel spoke his name with scorn. ‘The idea of you marrying him is absurd. He’s a clown …’

  ‘He’s not,’ Janey said. ‘He’s a good man.’

  ‘Surely you cannot want to marry him?’

  ‘I do.’ Even to her own ears, her tone lacked conviction.

  He did not believe her. As they walked he argued with her. Janey felt a little spark of anger. Gabriel had not wanted her for himself. He only wanted her now she was someone else’s. He was like a spoilt child who threw down one toy in order to grab another, and ended up breaking them both.

  They had walked over the bridge and past the inn, Miss Leigh demurely keeping just out of earshot. The river shimmered like a brown satin ribbon. A swan floated past, followed by a train of fluffy grey cygnets. Miss Leigh stopped to gaze at them.

  Gabriel halted in the shade of a great chestnut tree, its branches hanging with prickly burrs. From her
e, Miss Leigh could not see them. He drew her close, his hands sliding around her waist. He bent and kissed her. His mouth was warm and greedy.

  ‘Does it mean nothing to you, what we did together … back in Oxford?’ He kissed her again. It was hard to turn her head away.

  ‘I thought it meant nothing to you.’ Her voice was very low.

  ‘Of course it did! How could you think it didn’t?’

  He pressed her closer to him, one hand sliding down her rump.

  She stepped away from him, hugging herself. ‘I waited,’ she said fiercely. ‘I waited and waited. But I heard no word from you. Nor did I have any reason to think that I should. You were betrothed to that other girl … and Ned told me that it’s been years that you’ve kept her waiting too … always promising and then breaking your promise …’

  Gabriel’s olive skin flushed. ‘I suppose I deserve that.’

  ‘You do deserve it. And now … now that I’m here an’ found some kind of happiness … it’s now that you come, and tell me that you love me, an’ you’ve broken it off with that poor sick girl.’

  ‘You don’t understand. I tried to do the right thing … I intended to honour my promise … but I couldn’t forget you, and then …’ He broke off abruptly.

  ‘So are you wanting me to break my promise to Topsy an’ marry you instead?’

  He hesitated just a moment too long.

  Janey turned away, dashing away her tears with the back of her glove. She had imagined that Gabriel was to be her knight, come to rescue her. But it was Topsy who had stayed with her, Topsy who had asked her to marry him. Gabriel had left her without a word. She walked, her skirts swinging, to the bridge. Her hands clenched on the rail, she looked across to the grey ruins of the abbey on the island, half-hidden behind trees.

  Gabriel came up beside her, eager and ready to speak, to entrance her like he always did with his silver tongue and his easy charm.

  She held up one hand, forcing him to stop.

  ‘Did you know the abbey is haunted?’ Janey said.

  ‘I … no.’

  ‘Topsy told me the story. There was once this king who fell in love with a beautiful girl. He kept her hidden in a tower in the middle o’ a maze, for fear o’ his jealous wife. The queen found out about the tower an’ went there in secret. As she crept through the maze, she found the end o’ a red thread that had unravelled from the girl’s embroidery …’

  ‘Ah, yes, I know this tale. It’s the story of Fair Rosamund, isn’t it?’

  Janey nodded. ‘The queen picked up the end o’ the red thread and followed it through the maze. Once inside, she offered the girl the choice o’ poison or the dagger. Rosamund chose the poison. She drank it down an’ died, and so the queen had her revenge. Poor Rosamund was buried here, at Godstow. Years later, a bishop came by. He said she was a moll. A harlot, you know.’ She enunciated the word precisely. ‘He had her bones dug up an’ thrown outside, and now they say her ghost cannot rest.’

  ‘But Janey …’ Gabriel began.

  Janey struggled to explain what she was feeling. ‘I don’t want to be the moll, Gabriel. I want … I want to be the queen.’

  Gabriel misunderstood her. Drawing away, he said, ‘I see. It’s because Topsy is rich. I’ve been rushing around and calling in as much tin as I could, thinking to ask you to marry me. But you’d rather be a queen.’ He mocked her words cruelly.

  Blood rushed into Janey’s face. He had meant to ask her to marry him? And he thought that she was only marrying Topsy for his money? It was not what she had meant at all. Clutching her hands together at her breast, she began to stammer something but he did not wait to listen.

  As he strode away, Janey found her voice. ‘Gabriel … wait … don’t go!’

  He ignored her.

  ‘Please … wait. Where are you going?’

  ‘To the Devil!’

  9

  Pricked by the Needle

  Spring 1859

  Janey sewed her own wedding dress.

  It was made of fine light wool, white as snow, and cut with the severe medieval lines that Topsy loved so much and which Janey knew suited her tall, slender figure well. She wore no jewellery, and carried nothing but a simple bouquet of violets that she had gathered herself that morning in the woods.

  She wanted everything to be as simple and plain as possible.

  Gabriel thought she was marrying Topsy for his money. Perhaps his other friends all thought so too; although Ned’s face was bright with joy as she walked up the church aisle towards the altar. He at least was happy for his friend. He thought their story a true romance. Janey wished it was so.

  The church was decorated as simply. A few knots of white ribbons, a few white roses. It was almost empty. Miss Leigh and Violet sat in the second row of the bride’s side, wearing their best and beaming proudly. Janey’s brother Will sat alone in the first pew, turning his hat around and around.

  Janey’s father walked beside her, dwarfing everyone else in the church. His arm beneath her hand was rigid as an iron bar, he was so nervous of doing something wrong. Bessie led the way, dressed more conventionally in a crinoline and heavy flounced skirt. She was pleased as punch with it, and walked with such a sway she threatened to show her lace-edged pantaloons.

  The other side of the church was almost as bare. Apart from Ned, there was Charley Faulkner and a few other friends from the Oxford set. Topsy’s family had not made the journey from Essex, and Gabriel had not come down from London. Janey told herself it was a blessing. She wondered if Topsy minded very much.

  At least her mother was not there. That had been one of Janey’s most pressing fears. She had gone to great lengths to make sure Annie would not turn up, drunk and shouting, ruining this day for her. No banns had been read. Topsy had paid for a special licence. And they were not married in Janey’s parish church, but instead in St Michael at the North Gate, near Topsy’s lodgings in George Street.

  Seeing no sign of her mother, Janey was able to relax a little. She stood beside Topsy, who was looking pale and tense. He gave her a little smile and took her hand. She smiled back. Everything will be fine, she told herself.

  One of Topsy’s friends was officiating. He was nervous and stumbled through the service. When it came time to exchange vows, he said, ‘William, will you take Mary to be your wife?’

  A great shout of laughter came from Ned and Charley and the other young men. The minister turned crimson, muttered an oath, and said, ‘I knew I’d get it wrong, with all your coaching! William, will you take Jane to be your wife?’

  ‘I will,’ Topsy said, scowling over his shoulder at his laughing friends.

  Then it was Janey’s turn. She said the words with a thick voice and a hard-beating heart. Somehow she had not thought it would happen. She did not know what she had expected. Gabriel turning up at the last minute, and galloping away with her over the pommel of his saddle. Topsy deciding it was all a great mistake and she must go back to the slums. The church being struck by lightning. Janey’s feet beginning to run, despite herself.

  But lightning did not strike, her feet stayed rooted to the stone, and soon it was done and she was Mrs William Morris. To the sound of church bells, she went out into the sharp spring sunshine, arm in arm with her new husband, keeping her chin high, just like a queen.

  Topsy had organised a wedding breakfast at one of the better inns in town. After the dimness and austerity of the church, everyone seemed giddy with joy and relief. Champagne flowed. Lobster patties and roast pheasant were served. Will ate without seeming to pause for breath, and Miss Leigh got a little tiddly.

  It was Janey’s first true opportunity to show how much she herself had learned. She tended to her guests with as much grace and composure as she could muster, and made sure every glass was brimming.

  As she brought her father a frothing tankard of beer, she saw Topsy and Ned standing in close conversation near the window. She moved towards them, meaning to ask if they would prefer beer too.
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  ‘How is he?’ Topsy asked in a low voice.

  Ned looked grave. ‘He says he’s never been better. But to tell you the truth, I think he’s burning the candle at both ends. He never stops for a moment. He’s out each night with Val, visiting every fleshpot in London …’

  Topsy muttered something Janey could not catch.

  ‘Well, you know Gabriello. He’s going around with that Stunner he discovered in the pleasure garden,’ Ned said.

  Janey realised they were speaking of Gabriel. Blood rushed up her face.

  ‘You know the one,’ Ned continued in a low voice. ‘Fanny Cox, she calls herself. A lovely looking girl. Simply masses of golden hair. He’s painting her whenever he can get her, but has promised her to me for that painting I want to do of the witch Sidonie. She’s perfect for it. So very seductive.’

  ‘So it’s all over … his betrothal?’

  ‘I think so,’ Ned said. ‘He never speaks of her.’

  Janey slipped away. I made the right choice, she told herself. He would never have been faithful.

  Yet she felt bruised. So easily had Gabriel forgotten her.

  It was very strange, that night, to go back to their hotel room and lie in the great bed in her nightgown, and feel Topsy’s hand creep up her bare thigh. Janey shuddered, and then was sorry. She put her arms about him and kissed the hairy vee of his neckline, and did all she could to make it easier for him.