The Wayward Muse Read Online Free Page A

space. All she could feel was the paralyzing lightning strike of Rossetti’s skin against her own.
    The instant he removed his hand from hers, her reason was restored and she stepped back, aghast. She glanced furtively around to make sure no one had seen. Theatergoers were rushing by, hurrying home, not paying the least bit of attention. Her heart was thundering, as if to make up for the beats it had lost, and she thought Rossetti must be able to hear it. She stared into his dark eyes and tried to think what to do. Should she rebuke him for taking such a liberty? Or pretend that it had not happened?
    Burne-Jones was handing her a card. Without thinking she reached out and took it with her left hand, as if the one Rossetti had held was injured.
    “Don’t dress up, don’t change your hair, don’t do anything to yourself,” said Rossetti, bowing. “Just come.”
    After the two men had walked away, Jane looked at the card. It had a university address, the next day’s date, and eleven o’clock written on it. She showed it to Bessie.
    Bessie tossed her hair. “I wouldn’t go if I were you. That Italian one isn’t right in the head.”
    As they walked home Jane could still feel the place on her hand where Rossetti had touched it. What kind of man would take a strange girl’s hand? What kind of girl would allow him to do it? What was she getting herself into?
    Their mother had fallen asleep at the kitchen table but woke up when they opened the door. Neither Jamey nor their father was home yet, which was to be expected. Sometime the following morning they were likely to stumble in, bruised, perhaps bleeding, covered with mud. In a foul temper and with a violent headache, Mr. Burden would yell at each of them, choose one to whip, and then sleep through his one day off from the stable.
    “How’suh theeter?” Mrs. Burden said sleepily.
    “Jane met a gentleman,” said Bessie. Jane immediately wished that she had sworn Bessie to secrecy. She had thought her sister would show more discretion, or at least more common sense.
    “What?” said Mrs. Burden, fully awake in an instant.
    “He wants to paint her. He says she’s beautiful.”
    In a single stride Mrs. Burden was in front of Jane, and slapped her hard.
    “Foolish girl, he wants to make a whore of you,” she said.
    Jane tried not to cry, but the blow made her eyes water. “It’s for the university,” she choked. “I’m to be Guinevere.” She held out the card to her mother, who took it and ripped it in two without looking at it.
    “You’ll be nobody, which is who you are,” said Mrs. Burden. “You’ll not go to meet this gentleman, whoever he is.”
    “He’s an Italian,” said Bessie helpfully.
    “An Italian!” her mother roared. “Stupid, stupid child. Flattered you, did he? And why’d you believe him?”
     
    The next day Jane woke up at dawn and crept into the kitchen. Her mother was asleep on the floor by the fire. She found a stub of pencil and a scrap of paper in the kitchen and scribbled a note of apology to Rossetti.
    Dear Sir, she wrote. She tried to remember the most elegant forms she had been taught in school.
    I regret to inform you that I have been unavoidably detained. I send you my most heartfelt apologies for any inconvenience I may have caused you.
    Your humble servant,
    Jane Burden
    When she was finished she looked it over and sighed. It looked poor and shoddy, not at all what she wished it could be. Still, her handwriting was very good and she thought it sounded well. She folded it carefully and placed it at the bottom of her brother’s messenger bag. She could only hope that he wouldn’t notice it until it had been mixed in with his mail for the day. She doubted he would abet her in sending a note to a man if he knew. Quietly she stole back into the bedroom. Bessie had not stirred.
    Jane went to the window and stared out at the gray dawn. As she caught her own reflection, she saw the swollen mark on her face. I couldn’t