Free The Wayward Muse by Elizabeth Hickey Page A

at home. After her time at the studio, Holywell Street seemed even bleaker and more desolate than before. She prayed desperately that Rossetti would send her a letter. Even if he told her that he loved her but could never be with her, that would be something. She could live on the memory of him, if she had to. But nothing came.
    A week later Tom and his parents came to tea. It was a dismal affair. Tom looked as unhappy with the arrangement as she felt. Tom’s mother looked at her as if she were a piece of livestock. “She looks strong,” Mrs. Barnstable said.
    “Oh, she is,” agreed Mrs. Burden. “She can lift that heavy copper pot when it’s completely full. And she almost never catches cold, even when the rest of us are too feverish to get out of bed.”
    “Can she read and write?” asked Mr. Barnstable.
    “Well enough,” said Mr. Burden, who had stayed home from the pub for the event. Jane knew that her father had never bothered to find out if she could read, or how well, or if she enjoyed books. He gave the answer that he thought would most please Tom’s parents.
    “But not too well,” lied Mrs. Burden, anxious to make sure the Barnstables knew that sitting for the artists had not made Jane think too highly of herself. Everyone but Jane laughed.
     
    Jane contemplated drowning herself in the river. It wouldn’t take long, compared with a lifetime on Holywell Street. She wondered if Rossetti would ever hear of it, if she were to kill herself. Would he understand why she had done it? Would he feel remorse? But she stared too long at her reflection in the bottle green water and by the time she had made up her mind to do it, she was late to feed the chickens. Well, there’s always tomorrow, Jane thought as she ran.
    That evening she began to bleed. As she pinned a thick cloth to her underclothes, Jane wept. She was not sure if it was with relief or with sorrow. Her only remaining link to Rossetti had been the child she could have been carrying. Now she had nothing.
     
    The next day there was a knock at the door. Jane’s heart leaped with hope.
    “Don’t imagine it’s the Italian,” said Mrs. Burden. “It’s most likely Tom. Mind you don’t stand up too straight when you’re walking. I think he’s not quite as tall as you.”
    But it was neither Rossetti nor Tom. It was Morris. He looked very uncomfortable standing on their doorstep, and very much disgusted by the squalor all around him. He lifted one foot and then the other, as if to keep them from spending too much time in the dirt.
    “Miss Burden,” he said when she answered the door. “You must help me. My Guinevere is all wrong. If you were to pose for me, I’m sure it would come out right.”
    “And who is this one?” said Mrs. Burden, coming up behind Jane. “Not another foreigner, I hope.”
    Jane made the introductions, and Morris addressed his request to her mother.
    “And why should she, when the other fellow used her so cruelly?” Jane thought she would die of shame.
    “Because I’ll pay her two shillings an hour,” he said.
    Jane and her mother both gasped. It was twice what Rossetti had paid her. Morris was not as callow or as foolish as he looked.
    “Can you come tomorrow?” Morris asked Jane.
    “She can,” said Mrs. Burden.
     
    All of the other artists had finished and gone, so when Jane stepped into the Debating Hall the next day, it was empty except for Morris and his easel. The paintings on the walls above her gleamed. She could not believe the transformation.
    “You like it?” he asked, watching her.
    “It’s like seeing the world through stained glass,” she said. She felt that she did not explain herself well, but he looked pleased.
    “I understand what you mean,” he said. “Rossetti and his fellows are for making everything strictly naturalistic, but they are also partial to these jewel-box colors. I suppose it’s inconsistent, but it’s turned out well.”
    The mention of Rossetti’s name made Jane