Beauty in Thorns

by Kate Forsyth

  Georgie made a small sound of encouragement.

  ‘There was this one night in Oxford,’ Ted went on. ‘It was winter and I had gone to see the burial place of Fair Rosamund. At Godstow Abbey, you know. It was the most beautiful evening. The sun was going down and the sky was all lit up with golden light, and I could see it all reflected in the river, like in an old bronze mirror. In my mind’s eye, I could see what it must have been like in the days of Fair Rosamund. The knights on their prancing horses, with hawks on their wrists and dogs at their heels, and the fair ladies in their flowing dresses and tall hats with veils. It was like I was seeing ghosts from the past, so vividly real, I was afraid my head would burst. Then I heard the shriek of a train, and its great plume of steam as it clattered along the lines, and I was brought back into this world – that I cannot convince myself I have to live in – and I felt such an urge to capture it all. These dreams and visions I have, they burn in my imagination. I feel I must paint them, I must!’

  ‘Then you will,’ Georgie answered, and clasped his hands more tightly.

  The air rang with the sound of bells.

  Dressed in her Sunday best, Georgie walked slowly out of the chapel, surrounded on all sides by her sisters. The congregation was talking with admiration of her father’s sermon. ‘He made Hell seem so real you could find it on an atlas!’ one old man said.

  As Mrs Macdonald led the way onto the thoroughfare, Georgie lifted her eyes. Her gaze met Ted’s. He was standing in the window of the lodging-house opposite. A quick half-smile flashed between them, then Georgie lowered her gaze demurely and walked away down the street.

  Ted had moved to live in Sloane Street, a narrow cobbled road that resounded all day with the clop of horses’ hooves and the clatter of iron-rimmed wheels. It had two great advantages. It was dirt cheap; and it was directly opposite the chapel where Mr Macdonald preached each Sunday. Georgie could only hope it was the latter reason that was the more compelling for Ted.

  It was hard to tell. When asked, he only replied: ‘I looked at two thousand, eight hundred and forty-five rooms, you know, but two thousand, three hundred and seventy-four had only one sitting-room, and of the remainder, only two hundred and forty had a bedroom, and of the one hundred and thirty left, they had such viragos of landladies I dared not stay there, so that left only six places in all of London, of which I liked this one the best.’

  Ted had given up university without achieving his degree, and was working hard at learning to become a painter. He had no money, and was always choosing paints and brushes over food, so that he seemed more thinly drawn and highly strung than ever. His boots had holes in them, his patched coat hung from his angular shoulders, and his trousers were worn thin at the knees, but he did not care. Ted was the happiest he had ever been.

  Ned, Georgie reminded herself. He was not to be called Ted anymore. His teacher and idol, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, thought Ted was the name of a country bumpkin. Mr Rossetti had decided to call him Ned instead, and so everyone else had to follow suit.

  Ned, Ned, Ned, Georgie repeated to herself. She had to make sure she got it right.

  Not just his name had changed since Ted … Ned … had met Mr Rossetti. His speech had exploded with a whole host of new words. Beautiful girls were called ‘stunners’. His lodgings were his ‘crib’. Everything was spiffy or cheesy or jammy or ripper. He said Will Fulford was ‘spoony’ over Alice. And the events of the day were always defined by Ted’s tinlessness. ‘Got no tin left,’ he’d say sadly. ‘Do you want to walk by the river?’ Or, if his father had managed to scrape together some money to send him, he’d say, ‘Tin’s in! What shall we do?’

  He took Georgie to see the Royal Academy exhibition, where she saw Scapegoat painted by William Holman Hunt, a rather disturbing picture of a sacrificial goat in a desert landscape that Ned assured her was drawn from life in the Dead Sea in Israel; The Blind Girl by John Everett Millais which was one of the most heart-rending paintings Georgie had ever seen, depicting a poor blind girl who cannot see the beauty of the double rainbow in the sky; and April Love by Arthur Hughes, showing a young woman turning away from the bereft figure of her lover, huddled over her hand.

  ‘Topsy’s nobbled that one,’ Ned said. ‘I had to go and deliver the cheque. You should’ve seen Arthur’s face! Topsy’s so lucky. He has so much tin he can buy any painting he wants.’

  He made a restless jerky movement, which Georgie had come to recognise and dread. Ned was, mostly, the most delightful of companions, full of a puckish humour and a sense of wonder and delight in everything he saw. But sometimes a darker mood would possess him. It seemed as if the world wounded him. Georgie could only do her best to protect him from it.

  One day Georgie came home from art school, only to be called into her mother’s room.

  ‘Your young man has asked for your hand,’ she said. ‘You are not yet sixteen, and so he knows he must wait. Your father and I feel this must be your decision. Do you wish to marry him?’

  Georgie could only smile and nod, even as her heart turned cartwheels.

  ‘You are both in God’s hands,’ her mother said. ‘Let us pray.’

  Kneeling by her mother’s side, her eyes closed, her hands pressed together like a child, Georgie could not keep the smile from curving her lips.

  It seemed that their love had been written from the beginning of the world.

  Being betrothed was such a strange and special place to be. It meant she could put out her hand and touch Ned’s, and not fear she was being too forward. It meant they could talk, and not be remarked upon.

  The day after their engagement, Ned came with his arms full of all his favourite books. Georgie understood she had been admitted into the inner chambers of his heart.

  One evening he even drew her close, and kissed her mouth, and muttered something in her ear before he fled. Georgie went to bed in a daze, unable to sleep, feeling such joyousness within her she felt it must burst right out of her skin, like a butterfly from its chrysalis.

  Ned took Georgie and Louie, an eager chaperone, to meet Mr Rossetti. He lived on the river, near Blackfriars Bridge. Georgie had never seen such a place. Dirt, cobwebs, paint set hard in scatters and splatters of vivid colour, books laid face-down with broken spines, sketches on any old scrap of paper, costumes cut from old rags, tarnished jewellery, food-encrusted blue-and-white platters, wooden lay-figures, crumpled fabrics, pagan idols, old easels, paintings, sketches, drawings, studies, pinned and stuck and discarded everywhere. Many had the same face: a young woman, vulnerable, downcast, longing.

  ‘Call me Gabriel,’ he said with a smile. ‘All my friends do, and I’m sure we are going to be great friends.’

  Gabriel had the most beautiful compelling voice, full of charm and mischief, and he spoke with such confidence and authority one felt he must be right about everything. He allowed them to watch him paint. Not a single hesitation, not a moment’s pause. It was humiliating, to see how easily designs sprang from his fingers. Georgie wished her fingers were as deft and sure.

  The sun began to melt into the Thames. The stink from the river was extraordinary, but Gabriel did not seem to notice. Louie grew tired and fractious. It was her eleventh birthday, and she had hoped for treats. Ned gave her paper and some pencils, and they set themselves to draw.

  ‘Close your eyes, Georgie,’ he said. ‘Pretend you are asleep.’

  She obeyed. She thought she would always obey, gladly.

  When at last Georgie was permitted to open her eyes, it was to find that he and Louie had drawn her as the Sleeping Princess of the fairytale she so loved.

  It was beautiful enough to make her cry.

  Part II

  Of Blessed Memory

  1856–1862

  Many commissions from (the firm) were waiting for Edward; amongst them one for coloured tiles which proved a welcome outlet for his abounding humour, and in this form the stories of Beauty and the Beast and Cinderella took at his hands as quaint a shape as
they wear in the pages of the Brothers Grimm of blessed memory …

  Lady Georgiana Burne-Jones

  Memorials of Edward Burne-Jones, Volume I

  1

  Gorge

  Winter–Summer 1857

  Ice rocked against the embankments. Lizzie just could not seem to get warm. She huddled her coat closer, her sketchbook under her arm.

  A young woman bounded down the steps towards her, hat swinging from one hand. Tight yellow ringlets hung on either side of her face. At the sight of Lizzie, she gave a mocking sideways smile, then, laughing, went racing away.

  Lizzie slammed the door of Gabriel’s apartment behind her. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Who?’ Gabriel looked up from his easel, startled.

  ‘That girl I saw leaving.’

  ‘Oh. Her. That’s Annie Miller.’

  ‘What was she doing here?’

  ‘Modelling for me, of course,’ he said. ‘What else?’

  ‘Exactly what I want to know!’ Lizzie marched over to his easel. It held a drawing of Annie with her hair cascading over her shoulders. More drawings lay littered on the table.

  Lizzie seized them and tore them into pieces. Gabriel tried to stop her, but she ran to the window and flung the torn shreds of paper into the wind.

  ‘Are you mad?’ he cried. ‘That’s hours of work!’

  ‘Hours spent with her instead of me!’

  ‘But I can’t paint only you, Lizzie. I’d never get any commissions.’

  ‘Are you saying that’s she’s prettier than me?’

  ‘No. Of course not. But I need … a variety of forms and faces …’

  ‘Do you want to break off our engagement? Is that it?’

  ‘No, Lizzie, of course not.’

  ‘Prove it,’ she cried. ‘Come and have tea with my mother.’

  It was time to leg-shackle him, Lizzie thought bitterly. She had put up with his excuses long enough. It was time that he made good on his promises.

  Even if that meant she had to face her mother again.

  On the day of the tea party, Lizzie spent the morning cleaning her tiny sitting-room. She knew her mother would notice the faintest speck of dust.

  Gabriel came early, looking uncomfortable in a starched collar. He had brought a fruitcake. Lizzie cut it up and arranged it on a plate. She had made chicken sandwiches, and bought some ginger buns, which she knew her mother liked.

  Mrs Siddal and Lydia arrived, escorted by Lydia’s young man. The usual business of taking off coats and hats and shaking out umbrellas helped ease the first awkward moments. Lizzie found it hard to look at her mother, and even harder to speak to her, but Lydia and Gabriel kept up a genial flow of small talk. Lizzie even managed to force down a few mouthfuls of her sandwich, which was far too dry.

  ‘Should’ve put more butter on it,’ Mrs Siddal said.

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’ Lizzie offered around the fruitcake.

  ‘Don’t hold with fruitcake,’ Mrs Siddal said. ‘They put alcohol in it.’

  Gabriel had just taken an enthusiastic bite. He put down his slice and chewed his mouthful behind the shelter of his napkin, while Mrs Siddal tasted the buns and then stated they were sadly lacking in ginger.

  At last, the winter afternoon began to darken and Lizzie’s brother James arrived to escort Mrs Siddal and Lydia home again. He had always thought Lizzie showed a sad want of conduct, and so he did little more than nod his head at her in greeting.

  Just then, a knock came on the front door. Anxiously Lizzie went to open it.

  It was Bruno, looking as shabby and untidy as ever. There was paint under his fingernails and crumbs in his beard. He was surprised to find Lizzie’s sitting-room full of people, but shook hands all around warmly enough and gave Gabriel a clap on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m glad to find you here, old chap,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak to you about this idea we’ve had of setting up house with some of the fellows. Ned Jones is keen, and so is Topsy Morris, and you know he’s got the tin to help us fund it. He might have found a place big enough to suit us all, but the thing is …’

  ‘Perhaps we could talk about this later,’ Gabriel interrupted.

  ‘But we need to get things settled if we’re not going to lose the place,’ Bruno plunged on. ‘And it’s only got a few double bedrooms. Emma and I will need one, of course, and so will Ned and his girl. And the thing is, Hunt is bound to want one too, he’s still as mad as ever about Annie. And I was thinking …’

  ‘Annie Miller?’ Lizzie said. ‘You want to go and live in the same house as Annie Miller?’

  ‘Well … no …’ Gabriel floundered. ‘It was just an idea … and I obviously thought you and I would want one of the bigger bedrooms …’

  Mrs Siddal had been listening with a look of deepening horror. Now she stood up, utterly scandalised. ‘You are just as shameless as I expected,’ she told Gabriel. ‘As for you, Lizzie, I have never been more shocked. I think it’s high time we left. James, if you please.’

  She swept out of the sitting-room, Lydia following close behind and looking scared. James opened the front door for them, then turned to say, ‘Just what kind of rackety company are you keeping, anyway, Lizzie?’

  ‘It’s not like that …’ Lizzie faltered. ‘Really …’

  ‘Brazen hussy!’ Her brother shut the door with a bang.

  Lizzie turned to stare at Gabriel, who at once rushed into an explanation. Of course he had meant to tell her, but he knew how she felt about Annie Miller and so he thought he would wait until he found out if Annie and Hunt were set on the idea and then of course it really depended on whether or not Hunt still wanted to marry Annie which was not set in stone by any means and then, if Lizzie was willing, well then perhaps when the two of them were married they could join all the others and really it could be a capital scheme as they would choose a place with a big old garden and lots of light where they could all paint and think how much tin they would all save …

  Lizzie could not speak at first. She felt like she was swallowing a ball of hot iron. The tears and words came together, hot, angry, unstoppable. Bruno edged out the door, muttering apologies. Lizzie hardly realised he was gone. All her rage was focused on Gabriel.

  Eventually he left, slamming the door behind him. Lizzie paced the floor, her angry thoughts spinning. What must her mother have thought? She felt sick with shame.

  Lizzie went into her bedroom and pulled out the chamber-pot she kept under her bed. Kneeling beside it, she jammed her fingers against the soft tissues at the back of her throat. She gagged once or twice, then her stomach emptied itself in a gush of foul-smelling vomit. She sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth, feeling the usual giddy relief. After a moment, she did it again, till there was nothing left in her stomach to throw up.

  Then Lizzie ate everything she had in her larder – the heel of bread, the wheel of cheese, cans of sardines, an old bruised apple. She knelt over her chamber-pot, and shoved her fingers into her throat till the food she had eaten came rushing out again.

  When there was nothing left within her but bitter bile, Lizzie crept through the dark house to empty her chamber-pot in the outside privy. She could not bear the thought of going back to her rooms, the landlady peering at her through the crack of a door. So she hid her chamber-pot under a pile of black wet leaves, and began to walk through the dark streets towards Hampstead Heath. The rain came and went in gusts.

  Lizzie walked without direction or intention, her wet skirts tangling about her legs. Once she tripped and fell to her knees, grazing her palms in the gravel. A faint line of light appeared in the east. She saw that she had come almost to the Browns’ small house on the far side of the heath. Her steps quickened till she was almost running. When Bruno opened the door, she half-fell into his arms.

  ‘Look at your eyes! What have you done?’ he cried.

  Lizzie looked at herself in the hall mirror. The whites of her eyes were poppy-red. She had burst all the blood vessels around t
he iris. She hid her face in her hands.

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’

  ‘You … Gabriel … my mother …’ Lizzie could not form a sentence. She felt hot and cold all at once.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Bruno said helplessly. ‘Emma’s not here. I’ll send for Gabriel.’

  ‘No, no!’ Lizzie cast herself down on a chair, sobbing.

  He knelt beside her, patting her awkwardly. ‘I’m so sorry, I had no idea that my visit would cause you so much distress.’

  ‘You … he …’ Lizzie could not catch her breath.

  ‘You cannot stay, Lizzie,’ Bruno said eventually, after a long time trying to comfort her. ‘It’s just not seemly without Emma here. I’m sorry, but I have to take you home.’

  She got up. Her legs were weak, and her head was hot and heavy. When she put out a hand to support herself, she saw it was filthy and bleeding.

  Bruno had no money for a hansom cab, and neither did she. They had to walk, Bruno doing his best to support her. Lizzie managed to get herself to bed. It hurt just to lie still. Her own bones bruised her.

  Days passed. Emma came to nurse her. At first she brought her baby boy with her but its thin wailing drove Lizzie to distraction, and so she had to leave it at home. When Gabriel came shamefacedly to visit, Lizzie fell to the floor in a faint. Emma pushed him out and would not let him back in. After he had left, Bruno spoke through the door. ‘I’ve lent him ten pounds,’ he whispered. ‘He’s gone to buy a special licence. You’ll be married this weekend.’

  But of course they were not. Gabriel spent the ten pounds on something else. Bruno had to apologise again. He said he must have mistaken Gabriel’s intentions. But Lizzie knew the truth. Gabriel did not want to be tied to a creature like her.