Ophelia's Muse

by Rita Cameron

  As they came over a small rise, Rossetti spotted a pile of stones farther up the hillside. “A ruin, I think. Shall we go explore?”

  “It looks like an old chapel,” Lizzie said, and the romance of stumbling upon such a setting was not lost on her.

  They quickened their steps, anticipating the discovery of some mystery. But as they drew closer, the ruined chapel revealed itself to be only a crumbling stone wall and a blocked-up door set into the hillside.

  “It’s nothing but an old cellar.” It was silly, but Lizzie felt that coming upon an old church, after what they had done, would have been a good omen.

  “No matter,” Rossetti said, sensing her disappointment. If he had painted the scene, they would have come upon a medieval chapel, covered in rose brambles, with a single window of stained glass still intact. But life was not a painting, and even its most perfect moments lacked the symmetry and detail that he could create on the canvas. But he was determined to salvage the moment. He picked up a sharp piece of rock and set to work carving letters into a stone at the base of the wall. It took a few passes, but the letters soon stood out white against the gray stone.

  “DGR and ES,” he read, looking over his handiwork. “Now this will always be our place, and that will make it special.”

  Lizzie looked at their linked initials, set in stone, and smiled. Exhaustion overcame her. It was the best kind of weariness, earned by exercise in the fresh air and good company. She put her arms around Rossetti and leaned her head on his shoulder. “If only we never had to leave Hastings. I should be happy right here forever.”

  It was late by the time they returned from their ramble in the hills. Lizzie had hoped to slip in unobserved, and she was annoyed to find that Lydia was waiting for them in the salon of the hotel. Lydia was pacing back and forth in front of the empty grate, her eyes darting between the front door and the desk, and there was no way to avoid her. Lizzie sighed and went in to greet her, but she was brought up short by the sight of Lydia’s face, white and strained.

  “Lydia, what is it?” she asked, with the confused thought that her sister knew what had happened in the meadow. Then she saw the black-edged envelope clasped in her sister’s hand.

  Lydia held out the letter, saying, “It’s from Emma Brown. I haven’t opened it.” Lizzie tore it open and read:

  London, July 20, 1852

  Dearest Lizzie,

  I hope very much that Hastings agrees with your health, and that you will be much better when I see you next.

  I’m afraid that I write with sad news. Our dear Walter Deverell passed away last night, his condition of the kidneys having suddenly worsened. He was, at the last, peaceful, and my dear Ford was with him yesterday to give him comfort.

  Ford wanted to write immediately to Dante, but I told him that I would write to you instead, so that you might break the news to him yourself. I know that he will take this very hard, as they were friends of such long standing, and they were all convinced that the prognosis was not so dire as it has turned out to be.

  I know that Deverell admired you very much as well, Lizzie, and that he thought his painting of Twelfth Night the finest he ever did. Before he died, he begged Ford to pass along to you a very fine sketch of his, which he called The Pet, and which I have enclosed with this letter.

  My condolences to you all, and may God keep you well.

  Emma Brown

  Lizzie read the letter twice before she understood what it said. She stood for a moment with her back to the room and tried to compose herself. She thought of the last time that she had seen Deverell. It was in his studio, and if he had been paler than usual, he had also seemed so full of life and enthusiasm, for himself and for her. It didn’t seem possible.

  Rossetti had followed her into the salon, and she turned to face him. He hadn’t heard Lydia, and no doubt he thought that the letter was some matter of the Siddal family. His face was full of polite concern, ready to express his sympathy.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking. “It’s from Emma. She writes to tell you that . . .” She found that she could not continue. Rossetti stared at her for a moment, his frown deepening. He took the letter from her hands, and she watched as his face mirrored her own: first confusion and disbelief, and then the taut whiteness of grief.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again, feeling the lameness of her words. It seemed impossible to comfort him when she could hardly believe the news herself. He leaned against the mantel, holding on to it as if it were the only thing keeping him up. He made no attempt to hide his grief.

  “My God,” he said, his voice stunned. “He was only twenty-six. We have lost a great talent, and a great friend.” They were silent for a moment, absorbing the unwelcome news. “I’ll return to the city at once. I’ve lingered too long in Hastings.” The thought seemed to bring with it a surge of energy. “I must see what assistance I can give to his family. This will be a terrible blow to his father.”

  Lizzie rose from the sofa and went to him, catching his arm. “Dante, you can’t leave like this. You’re in shock. Please, come sit.”

  Rossetti shook her off. “I must join my friends. I can’t delay.”

  She stepped back as if she’d been slapped. “Am I not your friend? Was I not also a friend of Deverell? His loss grieves me as it does you!”

  Rossetti rounded on her, his face ugly with suspicion. “And why should it? Why should it grieve you so?” He glanced down at the letter in his hand. “And why did Deverell make a special gift to you?”

  He slipped the enclosed sketch out of the envelope and they both looked at it. It was the last sketch that she had sat for, when Deverell had posed her in the doorway with the little birds. The drawing was indeed fine. Deverell had kept his word, altering the hair just enough so that it was not quite possible to say who had been the model. Looking closer, she could see that there was an inscription at the bottom. Rossetti saw it as well, and read it aloud: “ ‘But after all, it is only questionable kindness to make a pet of a creature so essentially volatile.’ Does this have any special meaning to you, Lizzie?”

  “No, of course not,” she lied. “It was surely only meant as a kind gift. Dante, what’s gotten into you? I’m sure that you’ve made many gifts to your models with no thought of any special meaning being attached.”

  Rossetti didn’t reply, and they stood there for a moment, staring at each other with faces full of hurt and grief, letting the unspoken accusations hang in the air.

  It was Lizzie who looked away first. The strain overcame her and she began to cough, hardly able to catch her breath. The harsh sounds of her struggle to breathe seemed to bring Rossetti back to his senses. He held her as she coughed.

  “I’m so sorry,” he muttered. “I’ve lost my head.” He led her to a sofa and sat her down gently. Deverell’s death was a warning. He could lose her as well. “Lizzie, my love, you will join me in London as soon as you have your strength back. We can’t risk your health, especially after this shock. You must stay here and take the sea air and continue to get well. But my friends will expect me, and I must return today.”

  “Yes, of course.” Lizzie was determined not to argue any more in front of her sister. The morning spent beneath the apple tree seemed to fade a little in her memory, like paint laid upon an improper ground. She looked down at her ring finger, but the blossom must have fallen off hours ago. She sighed. “I’ll have your things packed and sent after you. You’re a kind friend to go to his family in their time of need.”

  Rossetti was visibly relieved. He threw his arms around her and kissed her several times on the brow and cheeks. Lydia raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.

  “Thank you, my dove.” He ran his hands over Lizzie’s hair and looked into her eyes. “I will write to you daily.” Then, without a second look, he dashed off to make his train arrangements.

  Lydia took Lizzie’s arm and led her up to her room. “I’m so sorry,” Lydia said. “I know that you liked Mr. Deverell
very much. And to have Mr. Rossetti run off like this—it’s very unfeeling.”

  “Nonsense, Lydia. Of course he must go back to the city, and help the Deverells in any way that he can. I shouldn’t have questioned him.”

  Lydia nodded and then spoke to Lizzie without quite looking at her. “You were out for a long time. I had begun to wonder what had become of you.”

  “Were we? It was much farther to the cliffs than we supposed.”

  But Lydia would not be brushed off. “You must take care now that he makes you his wife.”

  Lizzie stared at her sister, wondering how she knew. But she supposed that it was the sort of thing that a sister could guess, and she decided to confess. “Well, there won’t be an issue with that.” She allowed herself a tentative smile of happiness. “Lyddie, he’s asked me to marry him! He tied an apple blossom round my finger, took my hand, and asked me to be his wife. It was the most romantic thing you can imagine. I’m so very happy. Kiss me, Lyddie, and tell me that you’re happy as well.”

  Lydia came forward and kissed Lizzie on the cheek. “I am glad for you.”

  “Of course, we will have to wait to announce the engagement, given the news about poor Deverell. And please don’t write anything to Mother until Dante can make them a proper visit.”

  “It’s only right that you wouldn’t want to announce the engagement now, and have your joy overshadowed by sadness. But please, Lizzie, don’t wait too long. It’s better that everyone share your happy news, and know that you’ll soon be married.”

  “Of course it will be better to have things settled. But I do feel that we are already married, at least in spirit.”

  Lydia pursed her lips. “It’s only the indifference of the landlady at this hotel that makes you feel so, and not the approval of God and the church.”

  “Oh, Lyddie. It will all be settled as soon as it can be done properly. Now, I’m afraid that I’m exhausted, and more than anything I need peace and quiet. I’m going to lie down. Will you see that no one disturbs me?”

  Lizzie pulled the door of her room shut behind her. She thought of Deverell, and her eyes filled with tears. She had lost a true friend and an ally. He would have been the first to heartily congratulate her and Dante. But now he was gone. She picked up his sketch and reread the inscription: But after all, it is only questionable kindness to make a pet of a creature so essentially volatile.

  She bit her lip, thinking of the pleasant day that they had spent together in his studio. Then she looked back down at the drawing and felt a flash of irritation. It was so like a man, she thought, to concern himself over the creature’s loss of freedom, and think nothing of what it gained: the security and comfort of a soft place to rest. Deverell had expected so much from her, from what he called her budding talent. He had no understanding of what it cost her just to maintain decent appearances.

  But she shouldn’t think of such things, she knew, now that he was gone. She sought instinctively for the little bottle of laudanum. She measured out a few drops and felt an almost immediate relief. The light in the room softened and faded, and her anguish, so acute just a moment ago, was now tolerable.

  In the soft hold of the laudanum, she felt a need to put words to the heaving tide of her emotion. She sat at the window and began to write. The tune of a ballad played in her head, and the words spilled quickly across the page, forming a song of love and loss, relief and fear.

  Many a mile over land and sea

  Unsummoned my love returned to me;

  I remember not the words he said

  But only the trees moaning overhead.

  And he came ready to take and bear

  The cross I had carried for many a year,

  But words came slowly one by one

  From frozen lips shut still and dumb.

  How sounded my words so still and slow

  To the great strong heart that loved me so,

  Who came to save me from pain and wrong

  And to comfort me with his love so strong?

  I felt the wind strike chill and cold

  And vapours rise from the red-brown mould;

  I felt the spell that held my breath

  Bending me down to a living death.

  CHAPTER 16

  Lizzie waited for weeks for Rossetti’s summons back to London, but when word finally came in early October, it was not the letter she had hoped for. She’d imagined returning to the city in a flurry of wedding preparations—introductions to the Rossetti family, congratulations from their friends, and fittings for a new gown and veil—but it was not yet to be.

  Instead, he wrote to say that he regretted that the moment was not yet right to announce their engagement. He assured her that it pained him greatly, but his finances were stretched to breaking, and he could not in good conscience make their engagement public when he didn’t know when he would have the means to marry her. Wouldn’t it be for the best, he asked, if she were to return to her father’s house until things were more settled? If he could just concentrate on his work for several months, he would soon be able to rent a house and make her his bride. Lizzie and Lydia therefore returned to London unaccompanied, lugging their suitcases home from the station behind them to save the cab fare.

  Mrs. Siddal greeted them at the door. She embraced both girls, but there was something restrained in her affection. “I’m relieved that you’re well, Lizzie,” she said in a resigned voice. “But I had hoped that you would be returning to us on a wedding visit, and not to take up your old room.”

  Lizzie colored. Had Lydia written to their mother, despite her promise of secrecy?

  Lizzie was silent, and Mrs. Siddal sighed, any remaining hope that Lizzie had come with good news apparently extinguished. “Your father is waiting for you in the parlor. You’d best go in right away.”

  Lizzie frowned. Her father so rarely took any interest in her affairs; she couldn’t think what he might want. With a shrug, she passed into the parlor to greet him.

  Mr. Siddal was sitting in front of the hearth with hunched shoulders, glowering at the fire. “Elizabeth. You’ve returned in good health?”

  “Yes, Father. Are you not happy to see me?”

  “And your gentleman? Where is he?”

  Lizzie was surprised into silence, but only for a moment. “If you refer to Mr. Rossetti, I presume that he is at his studio.”

  At the mention of Rossetti’s name, Mr. Siddal’s eyes flashed. “Then I see that he is content to accompany you to your rooms in Hastings, but not to your father’s house in London? He can’t be parted from your side when he thinks no one can see, but he won’t claim you as his own in front of your kin, and his?”

  Lizzie turned to look at Lydia, who had followed her into the parlor. But Lydia gave a slight shake of her head, looking as confused as Lizzie.

  “So, it’s true, is it?” Mr. Siddal said, watching the silent exchange between the sisters. “No, it wasn’t Lydia who told, though she should have written to us at once, so that we could have put a stop to it. It was Mrs. Crane, the grocer’s wife. She was in Hastings, with her ailing sister. She said that the whole town was abuzz with nothing but the news of the famous painter from London and his pretty young model. She couldn’t wait to come see your mother and offer her congratulations on your engagement! Her congratulations! The old busybody, I’m sure that she knew that no congratulations were in order. Just think how your poor mother must have felt! And what about your sister? I’d be very surprised if Mrs. Crane let her son marry Lydia, now, with the family’s reputation what it is.”

  Mr. Siddal’s voice had steadily risen, but now he became quiet again. “I blame myself. I should never have let you keep running with that lot. It was the good wages that blinded me, and that will be your downfall, I’m afraid. Now, tell me plainly, Lizzie, what’s between you and this artist?”

  Lizzie turned to look at Lydia, who was staring at the floor, her face red. Lizzie’s heart ached for her. Lydia had loved Robert Crane since the day she
saw him. If Lizzie had ruined Lydia’s chances at marriage, she would never forgive herself. If only, she thought, she could tell her father of her engagement. Then he could announce her marriage into a genteel family, and perhaps the family’s reputation would be repaired. But Rossetti had asked her to wait, and she was afraid of angering him, and ruining everything.

  “Please, Father. You must trust me. Mrs. Crane is nothing but a terrible old gossip. It was very wrong of me not to write to Mother that Mr. Rossetti was in Hastings. But I swear to you that he behaved honorably, and treated us only with kindness and affection.”

  “Affection? You are a green and foolish girl! What you see as honorable affection, the world sees quite differently. You’ve brought shame on us, Lizzie, and I have a mind to tell you to go to him then, and test his honorable behavior! I’ve been lax with you too long, and I have your sisters’ reputations and prospects to look out for, such as they are.”

  Mrs. Siddal stood by the door, her face as white and pained as Lizzie’s. She lowered her head and avoided Lizzie’s gaze, and in that one gesture, Lizzie read her disappointment. Even her mother believed that she was beyond hope.

  “You’re wrong. Mr. Rossetti has made me vows of his love, and I’ve done nothing of which I’m ashamed.”

  “Then go to him, if you believe his vows. But if you want to stay in this house, you will swear that you will never see him again. I will not have these goings-on under my roof!”

  “You can’t ask me that!”

  “I can, and I must. You will stay away from that man, or I will not have you here!”