Free The Wayward Muse by Elizabeth Hickey

it out. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she stood, spilling her sewing basket on the floor. She did not stop to pick it up. Morris might not be willing to tell her what he knew, but Miss Lipscombe would.
     
    “Lizzie Siddal,” Miss Lipscombe said, handing Jane her cup. She had evinced no surprise when Jane appeared at her door, nearly in tears. She had greeted Jane quite cordially and ushered her into a comfortable sitting room.
    “She was found in a hat shop,” the young lady went on. “Can you imagine that?” Jane cringed, but Miss Lipscombe didn’t notice. “Somewhere called Cranborne Alley, off Leicester Square. She was working there. It wasn’t Mr. Rossetti who found her, it was one of his friends. He’d accompanied his mother there. Such a funny story. And then Mr. Rossetti went back to see her and convinced her to model, and not long after they got engaged. That was, I think, six years ago. I can’t think why they haven’t married, though I’m sure they will now. Of course, Lizzie might die. They say she’s always been delicate, but she may have full-blown consumption this time.”
    Impeccable timing, Jane thought in spite of herself. It was as if Lizzie knew Rossetti was slipping away. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she reproached Miss Lipscombe.
    The girl looked truly penitent. “I didn’t think,” she said. “It didn’t seem as if you liked him. Is your heart quite broken?”
    Jane could only stare into her cup, the tears falling off her cheeks into her tea. “Can he really love her so much, if they’ve been engaged for six years and never married?” she choked.
    “Well, I don’t know,” evaded Miss Lipscombe. “They say that almost all of his paintings and drawings are of her.” Jane realized that she had never seen any of Rossetti’s paintings and drawings, other than the ones of herself. Despite her questions and Rossetti’s loquacious answers, she really knew nothing of his life in London. Chatham Place and armadillos, that was all she knew. Even if she’d wanted to go to London, she would not know how to find him.
    Jane knew it was wicked, but she fervently wished that Lizzie would die. Then Rossetti would be free. But if he loved her…
    “Let me think, what else do I know about it?” said Miss Lipscombe. “They say Lizzie wants to be an artist herself and is quite good.”
    “Is she very beautiful?” asked Jane.
    “Like an angel,” confirmed Miss Lipscombe.
    They were not married. That was some comfort. But what she had heard spoke to Jane of a shameful illicit relationship. Though she supposed if Rossetti had asked, she would have done it, just as this delicate, possibly dying Lizzie had done. But he had not asked. He had left, and he had not even written her a note!
    Jane dreaded going home, but it was already dark and she was late. Miss Lipscombe had things to attend to, though she pressed Jane’s hand sympathetically as she left.
    “Don’t think of him again,” she said. “He’s a beast. All London men are. They’re great fun for flirting, but when the time comes I’ll marry an Oxfordshire man.”
    When Jane got home her sewing basket had been picked up and was sitting on the kitchen table. Her mother was there, pulling the innards from a chicken. Blood dripped from her hands and the smell made Jane feel faint and nauseated.
    From the look on her mother’s face, Jane guessed she had been talking to Mrs. Harris again. “So your Italian gentleman has gone,” Mrs. Burden said with satisfaction. “Back to his wife?”
    “Yes,” said Jane. There was no point in explaining. It would only make things worse.
    “We’ll have to arrange for a meeting with young Tom’s family then,” said Mrs. Burden. “We can’t waste any time. If your reputation’s not already ruined from posing for those gentlemen. And if we didn’t make the Barnstables too angry, calling it off the last time. It may be that even Tom won’t have you now.”
     
    Now Jane stayed