The Wayward Muse Read Free Page B

skirt.
    “Did you see two young men in the crowd?” asked Jane finally, despite herself. “One tall with gold whiskers, the other dark?”
    “Where?” said Bessie, swiveling around.
    Jane grabbed her by the sleeve. “Don’t,” she hissed.
    “Were they handsome?” inquired Bessie. “Why didn’t you mention it before? Now they’re putting out the lanterns and I can’t see.”
    “Shh,” Jane said as the curtain was cranked open. “The play is starting.”
    The play was the musical comedy Ben Bolt, and there was lots of tripping over chairs and mistaken identity. Jane tried to follow the plot, but she was distracted. She kept thinking about the dark gentleman. She was surprised she had never seen him before. He was too old to be a student, so she supposed he must be a tutor at one of the colleges.
    “Let’s go and stand by the lemonade booth,” she said to Bessie at intermission.
    “Why?” asked Bessie. “We can’t buy any. Though maybe if we find Peter, he will buy me one and we can share it.”
    “Just come,” said Jane. She pulled her sister to the place where the two young men had stood, and waited.
    “Are you hoping to see the gentlemen you were talking about? Because I don’t think—” She broke off with a squeal of fright when she saw that the gentlemen in question were right in front of them.
    “Good evening.” The one with the dark hair bowed. Bessie squeezed Jane’s hand, evidently expecting her to handle the situation. Jane nodded her head. She reflected that though this was an extraordinary event and she should be alarmed, she was not.
    “My name is Dante Gabriel Rossetti,” the young man continued. “You may have heard of me.” Jane shook her head uncomprehendingly. She tried to think how she might have heard that name. Was he an actor or a circus performer? Had he committed some spectacular crime?
    “This is my friend Edward Burne-Jones. We’ve come to paint the new Debating Hall of the Oxford Union.” Burne-Jones was very young, almost as young as Jane, and his silly handlebar mustache did nothing to hide the fact. He flushed pink when his friend said his name, and nodded at Jane without meeting her eyes.
    “I had not heard that the Debating Hall was being painted,” said Jane. Though Burne-Jones was modestly dressed in a suit that Jane knew would later draw scathing condemnation from Bessie, Rossetti’s clothes were obviously very expensive. Though why a painter would be attired so sumptuously she could not imagine. She was uncomfortably aware that he might be looking at her dress, with its patched hem and worn fabric.
    “There are several of us, up from London, but Rossetti here is our leader. He’s a very famous painter,” said Burne-Jones. He spoke very softly and Jane had to strain to hear him over the crowd in the hall.
    “I suppose I’m well-known in some circles,” said Rossetti modestly.
    Jane thought this was very strange. “You’ve come all the way from London?” she asked. “Could they not hire local men to do it?”
    “I think you misunderstand what kind of painting we do,” said Rossetti. “We’re artists.” He waited for the light of recognition. “Picture painters.”
    Jane felt very foolish. Beside her, Bessie shook with nervous laughter, which she tried to disguise as a coughing fit. The blond young man handed her a handkerchief.
    “I’m sorry,” Jane said. “It’s just that I’ve never met any picture painters.”
    “I suppose you must be very rich,” giggled Bessie.
    Rossetti ignored this and turned to Jane. “May I ask your name?”
    “I’m Jane Burden and this is my sister, Bessie,” she said. “Why do you want to know?”
    “I was wondering if you would be interested in being an artist’s model.”
    Jane stared at him, incredulous.
    “A fine gentleman like you, from London, has to come all the way to Oxford to make sport of a poor girl like me?” Jane was very angry.
    Rossetti turned pale and his face looked more like