The Wayward Muse by Elizabeth Hickey Read Free Book Online Page B

work,” said Rossetti curtly.
    “And I must see what the others are about,” said Ruskin. “After all, I want to get my money’s worth.”
    When Ruskin had gone Rossetti flung the offending canvas from the easel. Then he came very close to Jane and drew the curtain of her hair back from her ear. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. His breath tickled her throat and Jane forgot to be angry.
    “Who is that?” she asked dreamily.
    “He’s disagreeable, I know,” said Rossetti. “But he’s very rich. He quite loves the Pre-Raphaelites. Especially me, now that Millais has defected.”
    Jane did not know Millais, but a defection sounded interesting.
    “What happened?” she asked.
    “Never mind,” said Rossetti, abashed. “Let me arrange you; we’re already late, thanks to him.” A couch had appeared next to Rossetti’s easel and he eased Jane onto it.
    “Drape your hand across the back,” he said, “like so. And fling your head back over the arm.” As he instructed her Rossetti took her arm and then her head in his hands and gently guided them. Jane tried to breathe, but it was if she had put on a corset that was much too tight.
    “Close your eyes,” he said, his breath on her cheek. She thought he was going to kiss her. She waited, and then felt the cool breeze as he walked away.
    “That’s perfect,” he said from the easel.
    I must have him, Jane thought. I don’t care what I have to do. She thought she must be transparent, that Rossetti must be able to read her thoughts, but when she peeked at him from under her lowered lids, he was hard at work and seemed to notice nothing.
    At tea Jane asked Miss Lipscombe about John Ruskin.
    “His books are quite famous,” she said. “But all anyone talks about now is his marriage.”
    “What happened?” asked Jane.
    “It was annulled,” Miss Lipscombe said. She leaned close to Jane. “On account of impotence!”
    Jane would not have imagined the other girl knew such a word. She heard it often enough on Holywell Street, as an epithet shouted by drunk women at their drunker husbands. But it was shocking to hear it of a gentleman.
    “They were married for six years and never…,” said Miss Lipscombe meaningfully.
    “She didn’t want to?” asked Jane breathlessly.
    “It wasn’t her, it was him,” said Miss Lipscombe. “They say he had imagined that a woman would look like a Greek statue”—here she lowered her voice to a whisper— “down there, you know, and was shocked to see that Effie wasn’t.”
    Jane had never seen engravings of Greek statues with their smooth, hairless pudendum, but she nodded as if she understood.
    “So he wouldn’t,” Miss Lipscombe said. “Imagine, she’s the prettiest little thing, but he was completely revolted by her. She was a perfect angel about it, but he was just beastly to her, never letting her go out, making her stay with his horrible parents, who just rule his life. No woman could stand it. He took John Everett Millais on a trip to Scotland with them so he could paint his portrait. Millais paint Ruskin, I mean. And Millais and Effie fell in love. She left Ruskin and sued for an annullment. He tried to convince everyone that she was crazy, but no one believed him, of course.”
    Jane stared at Ruskin, who was standing behind Rossetti and pointing at something in his drawing. Rossetti was scowling and looked ready to fling his easel at the other man.
    “How horrible,” said Jane. “What became of Effie?”
    “She married Millais and they are happy as can be. What’s strange is, Ruskin tried to stay friends with Millais, but of course Millais can’t stand him, after what happened.”
    “I should imagine not,” said Jane.
     
    After tea the couch was gone.
    “Ruskin says you should be standing off to the left,” said Rossetti, looking harassed and irritated. “Guinevere is at the window, helplessly watching the advance of Mordred and his men.”
    “How do I stand?” asked Jane.
    “Put your hand