The Wayward Muse Read Online Free

a marble bust than before. “I assure you that is the furthest thing from my mind. Forgive my freedom in speaking to you, but I never stand on ceremony where beauty is concerned.”
    “Beauty?” Jane thought that she must have misheard him. Or misunderstood in some way.
    “You must know that you are very beautiful,” Rossetti said. Jane glared at him but could not detect any sarcasm in his tone.
    “I do not enjoy being teased or ridiculed,” she said, and turned away.
    “It’s completely proper and ladylike,” continued Rossetti to Bessie, who was nearly in hysterics now. “Young ladies in London, young ladies of good family, sit for me all the time. I’m looking for someone to pose as Guinevere, you see. You know the tale of King Arthur and Launcelot?”
    “I have read it,” said Jane, turning back to him despite herself at the mention of one of her favorite stories. Her school had quite a good copy, and Jane had read it many times and pored over the engravings. Jane was sure, though, that Guinevere had golden hair and pink cheeks.
    “I apologize again for my boldness,” said Rossetti, “but I must tell you that you’re the most beautiful girl in Oxford. Maybe in all of England. I have to put you in my painting.”
    Now Jane began to wonder if instead of playing a joke, he was completely mad. She looked at Burne-Jones to gauge his expression. He was nodding vigorously and with apparent sincerity.
    “We all think Jane quite ugly,” said Bessie, collecting herself.
    “You are wrong,” said Rossetti, looking at her so sternly that she shrank, frightened, into the velvet curtain behind her. “You are as wrong as it is possible to be.”
    “We must go,” lied Jane. “Our friends are waiting for us.”
    “Will you come to the studio?” Rossetti begged. “I can’t finish my painting without you.”
    “I have a lot of chores to do,” Jane said. She had still not made up her mind as to whether or not he was to be taken seriously.
    “I’ll come,” Bessie said. She had recovered from Rossetti’s earlier rebuff.
    “But it’s your sister I want!” said Rossetti callously. “Can’t you convince her to sit for me?” He stepped close to Bessie and it seemed for a moment he was going kneel before her. She drew back pettishly.
    “You can’t convince Jane of anything she doesn’t want to do. She’s like an old mule,” Bessie replied.
    “A mule!” said Rossetti. “More like a Greek goddess, or a Byzantine princess, or a Roman empress. A pagan queen. I could paint you as all of those things, and more. A biblical heroine! Judith, or Sarah, or Mary Magdalene!”
    Rossetti was practically shouting. Jane thought that the people filing past them to return to their seats must be staring in horror.
    “I will find you after the play is over,” said Rossetti, “and I will persuade you!”
     
    He must be mad. The most beautiful girl in England! Jane gave up trying to follow the play and mulled over Rossetti’s words. It was, of course, a ridiculous thing to say. I suppose he could be a poor artist, she thought. But the one called Burne-Jones said he was very famous in London. Perhaps he specialized in painting ugly or deformed individuals. But was there any chance, even the smallest chance, that he knew something the people of Oxford didn’t? Did she dare to hope that he was right?
    Of course not. She was the ugliest girl in Holywell Street. But still she could not get his words out of her mind.
    After the performance she found him waiting in the same place. He was so handsome and so beseeching, she almost smiled.
    “All right,” she said. “I’ll model for you.”
    He laughed and she saw that his teeth were straight and white. She did not see him reach for her hand until it was enveloped in his.
    Time froze. She couldn’t hear the crowd, her sister’s voice, or her own heart, which seemed to have stopped. She couldn’t see Mr. Burne-Jones or Mr. Rossetti. She couldn’t feel her own body in