Beauty in Thorns

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ she breathed, when at last he lifted his head away. ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

  ‘Ruskin is furious with me.’ Gabriel grinned at her, and tossed his hat on to a chair. He unwound his muffler and began to unbutton his coat.

  ‘Sometimes I think he’s trying to keep us apart.’ Lizzie sat on the edge of the bed, unfastening her shoes.

  ‘Maybe he’s in love with you himself.’ Gabriel shrugged off his waistcoat.

  She grimaced. ‘Or with you.’

  He laughed. ‘If so, he has a very strange way of showing it. He comes by every few days and sticks pins in me. Repaint that head, he says. Take out the green in that flesh. Keep your room in order and go to bed early at night. He’s worse than my father ever was, for at least Papa never came to my studio and tried to tell me how to paint!’

  ‘He’s furious that I’m still here in Paris. He keeps writing and telling me that I must leave at once. I’m pretending I’ve never received his letters.’

  Gabriel came to sit beside her on the bed. ‘Have you missed me?’ he murmured, kissing the side of her neck.

  ‘Horribly,’ she answered. ‘Oh, Gabriel, why must I be here with that awful old woman instead of with you? She’s always telling me I must not exert myself. When I am here! In Paris! I have longed all my life to come to Paris, and she and Mr Ruskin between them are insisting I must leave, and go somewhere quite remote and boring.’

  ‘We haven’t the tin to visit Paris by ourselves,’ Gabriel said. ‘Ruskin was furious when I said I was coming. He wouldn’t advance me the money, though I begged him. I had to paint a new picture to get the funds. I’ve never painted anything so fast, and I have to say it’s quite lovely, even though it only took me a week.’

  Lizzie sighed in envy. How she wished she had his easy facility with the paintbrush. She was certainly not getting any chance to improve her skills, with Mrs Kincaid snatching away her sketchbook and brushes whenever she saw them.

  Gabriel began to twine Lizzie’s hair around one finger. ‘I painted the story of Paolo and Francesca da Rimini. You know, from Dante. I did one panel with them discovering their forbidden love for each other and kissing, and another with them consigned to the flames of Hell, but not caring much because they have each other.’

  Lazily Gabriel began to undo Lizzie’s dress. ‘Just what is this contraption you are wearing? How on earth do I get you out of it?’

  For ten days, they deliriously rediscovered each other, escaping Mrs Kincaid as much as they possibly could. It was winter, and very cold. Although it had not snowed, it rained nearly every day, bright leaves swirling down in the wind like scattered coins.

  One day, Gabriel came to meet her with a note clutched excitedly in one hand. ‘We’ve been invited to meet Mr and Mrs Robert Browning!’ he cried. ‘They’re in town for the exhibition and wish to know if we’d like to take tea with them.’

  Lizzie caught her breath in excitement. She loved the poetry of both Robert Browning and his frail wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and was smitten by the romance of their love story. Robert had admired Elizabeth’s verse and written to her, they had corresponded clandestinely for a year and a half, and had eventually eloped to Italy where they now lived in exile. Lizzie was hoping she could show Mrs Browning some of her own poems, which she carried rolled in a sheaf and tied with ribbon.

  It was a raw, cold day, and Lizzie found it hard to get warm in her new dress. The wind seemed to whistle up underneath her crinoline, making it sway and bounce. Her feet were cold, her bones were cold. She had wrapped herself in a new paisley shawl, but it might as well have been gossamer. She took a few quick drops of her laudanum while Gabriel was giving directions to the coachman, and then a few more while the coach rattled over the cobblestones, to warm herself, and ease the ache in her body. Gabriel was so busy peering out the window and pointing out to her all the sights of Paris that it was easy to dose herself a few more times. At last, she felt warm and relaxed and euphoric. She had to clutch at Gabriel’s arm for support once they alighted. He teased her for buying such silly silk slippers. She laughed, clutching at him again as she almost slipped on the damp cobbles. He held her close, smiling, but his glance down at her was puzzled and a little anxious. She pressed her gloved hand against her mouth to stop herself laughing again.

  They were taken in to meet the famous poet. Mr Browning was a small slight figure, with loose waving brown hair and a grizzled beard that clung to the edge of his narrow chin. He rose to greet them, smiling, and begging his wife’s excuses. ‘She is unwell, I’m afraid. You know her health is most easily upset.’

  Gabriel shook his proffered hand heartily, and then the poet turned to Lizzie. As his gaze met hers, his whole demeanour changed. His body stiffened, his eyes sharpened. He glanced quickly at Gabriel, then drew Lizzie to sit down. ‘You will want to rest now, Miss Siddal,’ he said, and indeed Lizzie’s body was soft and boneless, her mind wandering away. She heard snippets of their conversation, as if from a far distance. She was too fascinated by the play of flames in the fireplace to listen too closely. She heard the words opium eater and my wife and be careful.

  For a while, she rested between the worlds, thinking strange and far-reaching thoughts, then slowly she came back down into her skin. Her tea was cold and unpleasantly scummed. She wrinkled her nose and pushed it away from her. To her surprise, Gabriel was rising to his feet and thanking Mr Browning. Lizzie rose too, feeling light and unsteady. He said goodbye, and she managed to say, ‘I am a great admirer of yours, Mr Browning.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he answered. ‘Please, take care of yourself, Miss Siddal.’

  Suddenly Lizzie wanted to weep. She wanted to tell him that she was already marked for death, the inexorable machinery of fate taking her, tick by tock, step by stumble, ever closer to her grave. All she could do was try to hook herself into immortality with her words, her faint pencil scratches, her awkward daubings. If she could have found the words, she thought he might have understood. But her tongue was thick, her throat seized up, and so she only smiled and mumbled something.

  Gabriel was looking at her oddly. She leant her head against his shoulder, but it was stiff and unyielding. When at last they made it back to their hotel through the first blow of snow, he helped her to her bed and then left her, to retire to his own. He insisted she go on to Nice, as Ruskin had commanded. He went back to London, leaving her alone with Mrs Kincaid, who seemed to watch her with suspicion-sharpened eyes, and told her to eat all her food, and stop with her silly fancies.

  One day, Lizzie found her store of laudanum had been taken from her. She wrote to Gabriel, begging for more money, so she could replace it. Those days were hard and cruel. She refused to go down and sit with Mrs Kincaid at dinner. Instead, she ordered a tray to her room and then hid the food, so her plate would go away empty. Sometimes she got so hungry she ate the food, but the thought of it rotting within her distressed her so much she had to get it out, somehow. Her knuckles grew red and raw.

  At last the money came, though Lizzie was so weak and dizzy it was an ordeal to go and fetch it. The man at the post office seemed to stare at her as if he suspected her of the worst kind of felony, and indeed Lizzie was trembling so much she was afraid she might faint. At last the money was in her hands, and she could go in search of an apothecary, and more bottles of laudanum. She could not wait to go back to the privacy of her room. She stood there, in the crowded shop, and tore out the cork with her teeth, and drank down most of one bottle, heedless of who might see. Then it was a strange, dark wandering journey back to her room, afraid of all the eyes that watched her.

  She wanted Gabriel. She wanted to go home. She was tired of living in hotels, with no-one but that hard-faced suspicious-eyed woman for company. It did not seem to make any sense. She was not getting any better, but then she was not much worse either.

  John Ruskin wrote and told her she must travel on to Switzerland, but Lizzie ignored him. She had to g
et back to Gabriel. He had hardly written to her lately, and she felt uneasy.

  It was such a joy to hear English spoken at the docks, and to see green English fields and grey English skies and rows of neat English houses and then, as her train rattled towards the capital, glimpses of smog-bound English chimneys. And it was wonderful to be back in Gabriel’s arms.

  At first, all seemed well. But then Gabriel said she could not stay with him, that she must find lodgings for herself. That hurt. She could not understand why he did not simply marry her and find somewhere they could live together. So many of his friends had married. Johnny Millais, Charley Collins, Arthur Hughes.

  She and Gabriel began to quarrel, over silly little things. He did not like her drinking so much laudanum. He complained about her spending so much time with Bruno’s wife, Emma. He piled her plate high with horrible food like fried eggs and kippers and sausages, and grew angry with her when she pushed her plate away. And he was always too busy with his own affairs to give Lizzie the lessons he had promised her. Her frustration and disappointment made her sharp with him. He was cold and unkind in return.

  Lizzie felt as if the world had shifted somehow, while she was away.

  It was Emma who told her. She and Lizzie had known each other for a long time, and had grown closer since Emma had married Bruno.

  ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with him!’ Lizzie cried one day, after Gabriel had slammed out in a temper.

  Emma had hesitated, then said, ‘Lizzie, my dear girl, I don’t quite know how to tell you …’ Her round, sweet face was troubled.

  ‘What?’ Lizzie asked, stiffening.

  ‘He’s been going around a lot with that Annie Miller girl, you know the one. She modelled for the Maniac’s painting of the girl who got a conscience.’

  Lizzie nodded. She had heard of Annie Miller. She had been a barmaid Holman Hunt had picked up somewhere. Lizzie vaguely remembered that Holman Hunt had decided to educate her and save her from the streets with the intention of marrying her himself one day. He had then gone off to the East, leaving Annie Miller to amuse herself.

  ‘All the boys have been mad for her,’ Emma said, pouring them both a stiff finger of gin. ‘She went boating with Fred and dined out with George. Even William Rossetti took her out!’

  ‘What about Gabriel?’ Lizzie demanded.

  ‘He took her dancing,’ Emma confessed. ‘But I’m sure it meant nothing. She was modelling for them all. You know what it’s like with artists and their models.’

  Her voice trailed away as she saw the look on Lizzie’s face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last, simply. ‘I thought you should know.’

  Then, as Lizzie dropped her face into her arms and began to sob, Emma put her plump arm across her back and tried to comfort her.

  ‘He loves you, Lizzie, you know he does. It’s just … you’ve been away so long! And men will be men, you know.’

  10

  The Sleeping Princess

  Winter–Summer 1856

  Georgie sat by the window, where the light was best, and drew the curve of Louisa’s cheek. Her younger sister heaved a sigh and kicked one leg irritably.

  ‘Please be still, Louie,’ Georgie said, her pencil poised in the air. ‘It’s impossible to get you right if you keep wiggling around.’

  ‘I’m bored,’ Louie announced.

  ‘You could always go and help Mama with the darning.’

  Louie sighed again, louder. ‘Can’t you read me a story?’

  ‘I can’t read and draw at the same time,’ Georgie answered, putting pencil to paper for a few tentative strokes. ‘But if you sit still just a few minutes longer, I will read you a story at bedtime tonight.’

  Louie accepted this philosophically, and turned her gaze back to the street.

  Something caught her attention. She leant forward. ‘I say … isn’t that Mr Edward?’

  Georgie dropped her pencil and jumped up. She bent to see out the window. Walking along Walpole Street, wearing a disreputable jacket and a soft hat, was Ted Jones. He had a leather portfolio tucked under one arm and a broken umbrella held aloft, flapping wildly in the breeze.

  ‘Oh it is! It is!’ Georgie flew to the mirror and checked herself, smoothing back her chestnut-brown hair and pinching her pale cheeks to bring some colour into them. She then ran around the room, tidying up. Louie watched her, grinning. They heard the knock on the front door, then a few moments later the sound of feet. Georgie sat down and spread out her skirts as prettily as she could, then picked up her pencil again. When Ted was shown into the room, she was delicately adding a few strokes to the paper.

  ‘Hello, Mr Edward,’ Louie said. ‘I’m being immortalised!’

  ‘Hello, Miss Louie, Miss Georgie,’ Ted answered. He looked damp and wind-blown, the hems of his trousers wet and muddy. ‘Look at you both, all grown up.’

  ‘I’m ten now,’ Louie said self-importantly.

  ‘And Miss Georgie is old enough to put her hair up.’ He sounded sad. Georgie touched her hair self-consciously. She was almost sixteen now, and had let down her skirts and put her hair up at her mother’s insistence, when she had started taking art lessons at the Government School of Design a few months previously.

  ‘You’re dripping on the carpet,’ Louie said.

  Ted looked down at his wet shoes. ‘It’s very miserable out there.’

  ‘Come in and get dry.’ Georgie got to her feet, coming forward a little shyly. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  ‘I’m gasping for it,’ he answered.

  ‘Louie, would you mind …’ When her little sister looked inclined to argue, Georgie jerked her head imperatively and Louie got up with an exaggerated sigh and went out of the room.

  ‘I have not seen you in so long,’ Georgie said, coming to stand near Ted, who was warming himself by the fire.

  ‘You know I went away last year with Topsy …’

  ‘Where did you go? What did you do?’

  ‘We went to France to see all the cathedrals and the abbeys and the art. It was glorious. We went to the Louvre – I couldn’t miss that! Topsy covered my eyes and led me up to a painting by Fra Angelico. When I opened my eyes, such a shaft went through me – I knew that was what I had to do. I had to try to paint like that …’

  He was excited, restless, pacing up and down on the hearth-rug. Georgie listened quietly, her hands clasped together in her lap.

  ‘It’s changed everything for me, Miss Georgie. Topsy and I … we spent most of one night walking up and down the shore at Le Havre, just talking. That was when we decided that we just had to do it …’

  ‘Do what?’ she asked, when he paused to poke the fire into life again.

  ‘Give up everything … do what we really want to do … to begin a life of art …’ His thin face was flushed, his grey eyes alight with fervour. ‘Topsy means to design things – houses – cathedrals, maybe … and I will paint. And we will try to make the world a better place, through our art.’

  ‘I think that’s wonderful.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really?’ He came to sit down beside her. For a moment she thought he meant to take her hands. But then he drew back. ‘I’m so glad. Everyone thinks I am crazy. I’ve told my father. He wants me to be a bishop. Such a respectable thing to do. I have disappointed everyone by giving up so much respectability. But I cannot do it. I’ve tried, Miss Georgie, I really have. Doubting, doubting, doubting all the while – so anxious to do well – and yet I just can’t – I can’t do it …’

  ‘Then you mustn’t,’ she said gently.

  He had been growing agitated, but at her words he took a deep breath and looked at her.

  ‘I don’t believe in it anymore …’ There was agony in his voice.

  ‘Neither do I,’ she said quietly.

  He was surprised. ‘You don’t? Why?’

  Her colour had risen, but she looked at him steadfastly. ‘Did you know that … that Carrie died? Last year, in the spring?’

  ‘Oh, Miss
Georgie, I’m so sorry!’ He reached out impulsively and took her hand.

  Georgie looked down, trying to hide the sheen of tears in her eyes. Her throat was thick.

  It had been the most awful day of her life. Georgie and her sisters had spent hours kneeling by Carrie’s bedside, praying for her. Carrie had lain on her bed, her face flushed with fever, her breath sucking in and hissing out.

  Georgie had prayed with all her might. Please, God, don’t take her away. I’ll do anything. Please don’t let her die.

  It was no use. Carrie had begun to cough and had been unable to stop. Mrs Macdonald lifted her up. Blood gushed from her mouth. Mrs Macdonald began to sob. Georgie rushed to Carrie’s side, putting her arm about her, holding a handkerchief to her lips. Carrie had coughed again, splattering Georgie’s face with blood.

  She had been dead within the hour.

  I will never forgive you, Georgie had told God.

  She tried to explain to Ted, whose fingers were still clasping hers. ‘Everyone keeps saying that Carrie has gone to a better place, that she is better off dead. I cannot believe it. I will not believe it. Surely it is life that is important? She was so young, the same age that I am now. I have so much I want to do. I want to see the world … I want to create something lasting and important … I want …’ She looked down, crimson-cheeked.

  He looked grave. ‘I want all those things too. So you understand why I must give up this idea of being a parson and try to do what I truly want to do? Be a painter?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I understand perfectly.’

  ‘And you do not think less of me?’

  She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. ‘Oh, no, I think more of you.’

  He flushed. ‘I knew you would understand, I knew you would.’

  They sat in silence for a moment. Georgie was acutely aware that Louie would be back any moment with the tea-tray and the moment of confidences would be past. Greatly daring, she leant forward. ‘What do you need to do? Do you know anything about being an artist?’

  ‘Nothing! Nothing at all. I’m twenty-two years old and I have never met, or even seen, a painter in my life. I know no-one who has even been inside an artist’s studio. But I’m hoping … I’ve come to London to try to meet someone. I’ve seen some of his work and it has all the feeling, all the meaning, of what I want to do. His name is Dante Gabriel Rossetti. I am hoping he will advise me.’