Ophelia swallowed back her tears, but not quite in time.
Her mother frowned. “Why are you crying?”
Ophelia glanced away, her throat closing at the audaciousness of her mother’s question. But Lady Darlington had made peace with her fate and no longer felt the great, grappling battle Ophelia waged with it.
“How can you ask?” Ophelia asked softly.
Her mother looked up at her for a good long moment. Then her brows drew together, a look of exaggerated consternation ordering her features. “You are crying because my preposterous body is giving up on me?”
Ophelia nodded, feeling a laugh play at her lips. Her mother had such a way of looking at her condition as if to wink at it.
Her mother gave the matter thought, then nodded to herself. “I suppose it is natural that you should cry.”
“Why, thank you, Mama,” Ophelia teased.
Slowly, arduously, her mother drew her hand out from the bed-clothes, then patted it on the bed. “It is only I am not sad at all. Except perhaps to be leaving you.”
Ophelia drew in a shuddering breath, then lowered herself to sit on the edge of the bed. “I am sad. Very sad.”
“And afraid?” her mother asked oh-so-wisely.
Ophelia weighed that question for a long moment. How to answer? She didn’t wish to worry her mama. All she truly wished was to ease her mother’s passing from this world. “Yes. A bit.”
“Then you are a fool.”
Ophelia gasped. “Pardon?”
“You should be very afraid. It is quite a dangerous world out there.”
“Mama—”
“Which is why I have brought you to London.”
Ophelia looked away, unable to confess what had happened just now between her and Andrew. “One would have thought Sussex infinitely safer.”
“If you wished to die whilst you lived, but I do not think that is your fate.”
Ophelia remained silent, searching for words that would express how she still dreamed of being an artist and longed to fulfill that dream. Unable to express it, at last, she glanced at the piano. “When did that arrive?”
A girlish laugh came form her mother. “This afternoon. Andrew visited me, and we discussed music. An hour later, the piano was moved in. I think he realized how much I missed playing.”
Ophelia’s heart squeezed. How was it possible that Viscount Stark at one moment could be so impossible, so seemingly unfeeling, and then in the next do something so incredibly kind? How could she thank him for such a gesture? Her mother had once been a beautiful pianist, and it had been painful for her to leave her piano behind. The cottage in Sussex could not have borne an instrument, even if they could have afforded one.
Her mother rested her small hand over Ophelia’s, the warm glow of the fire adding a certain sort of otherworldly certainty to her mother’s face. “Viscount Stark will ensure that you are protected.”
Despite her gratitude, Ophelia snorted. “Viscount Stark is a bit of an ass.”
Her mother tsked. “He’s a lost soul.”
“Yet you are determined that we should be in his hands.”
“Let me tell you something.” The softness vanished from her mother’s countenance to be replaced by earnestness. “I have not always been the wisest of creatures, but I have always,
always
listened to that still, quiet voice within me. That is how I met your father.”
Ophelia smiled despite her sorrow. Her parents’ love had been a recurring theme of her childhood. Holding hands. Soft kisses and long walks down by the river of their estate. Secret smiles and glances that seemed to convey feelings so important, and so intense, that no words ever could have given them breath. All those things had been a common thing to her parents.
Once, she’d hoped to find something akin to it. But long ago, she’d learned that such relationships happened once in a century. And her father had died young. Thus, even her parents’ tale had not been an entirely happy one. “I know you feel deeply, Mama. But I am concerned about Lord Stark.”
Her mother’s certainty didn’t dim, rather it increased as her voice grew stronger. “All I can tell you, my dear, is that when he walked into our cottage, that voice of mine commanded that I seek his assistance. I knew he would give it. He needs us.”
“Are you mad as well as ill?” She bent and lightly kissed her mother’s delicate forehead. “For surely you have too many teeth to be a soothsayer.”
Her mother tsked again. “I only speak what I feel. You, too, would do well to listen to your feelings, though I know you are more your father’s daughter in that respect.”
It was true. She’d never been full of her feelings, but rather entrenched deeply in her books and studies. Fancies still filled her head, certainly. But she preferred not to listen when her feelings came calling, for far too often, they brought sorrow to her door. Allowing one’s self to give way to feelings was dangerous. She was going to have to struggle not to be swept away in sorrow when her mother died.
No, it was better to enjoy feelings through the works of literature, art, and music rather than within herself. “I am just not sure that I should entirely trust him.”
“Trust him?” her mother scoffed. “Not yet. I said he needs us. He needs us to teach him how to live again.”
“Mama, is this the best timing?” Ophelia bit down hard on her lower lip, composing herself even as her lungs burned with unshed sorrow. “You are dying.”
Her mother gave her a look as if it was, in fact, Ophelia who had entirely lost her wits. “And when, my daughter, would be a better time to teach someone to live?”
She winced. When, indeed? Her mother seemed to possess a knowledge as she neared her death that only the most devoted scholars might hope to attain. Still, Ophelia longed to rail at her mother that she didn’t wish her to waste her energies on a wastrel, that they should go straight back to Sussex and live their tiny life in the quiet cottage, untroubled by the world or anyone in it, despite their lack of income. She longed to have her mother just to herself, to wrap her in lamb’s wool, and keep her as strong as she may, as long as she could.
There was little doubt in her mind that that was the last thing her mother wanted. Now she had this chance to live life to the very last, Adelle Darlington would burn herself out like a beautiful cinder, glowing until she was at last nothing but ash.
And so, she wouldn’t argue with her mother or propose their immediate return. Her mother wouldn’t likely last through such a journey, in any case.
Heart heavy, eyes stinging, Ophelia slipped under the coverlet beside her mother and curved her body around her mother’s little one, recalling the days when it had been the reverse.
When her mother had cradled her slight from, hugging her.
So much had changed, yet even as she sheltered her mother, holding her gently, she still felt a little girl, lost in a world of frightening shadows, unwilling to let go of the only protection, perfect or no, she had ever known.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Artists are the most curious and
remarkable folk in the world.
-Ophelia’s Notebook
A tavern was no place for a lady. It was as simple as that. More than simple. Every single moment Andrew stood in the loud, booming hall filled with the half-damned of society, he cursed himself. But if Ophelia was to meet the most revolutionary and talented artists of the day, this was where she would do it. The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood didn’t dwell in tea shops, but on the edges of society, reveling in the lives of everyday folk.
It wasn’t even three o’clock in the afternoon, and the tavern was doing a thriving business. The scent alone could knock one over. Unwashed laborers stood at the bar and sat at the tables strewn about the darkened room, and the cheap perfume of the barmaids coated the air.
Ophelia stood just beside him, her rosy mouth agape. Two red slashes of color stained her pale cheeks, and her hair, instead of being suitably tucked up, spilled from beneath her navy bonnet in rich, shining waves.
And that was how Gabriel Rossetti, leader of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and painter, spotted her.
“Gabriel,” Andrew said, squaring his shoulders, ready to punch the other man if he grew too forward. “I have a prospective model to introduce to you.”
“My God,” the half-drunk man gushed, his lids fluttering over eyes so blue one might think they were sapphires. The gin-sotted artist’s cheekbones were also so sharp one might cut themselves if they decided to give him a good slap. “Aphrodite,” he proclaimed, his rich voice booming over the din.
Gabriel Rossetti strode forward and clapped Stark on the shoulder. “You have brought me a goddess, man.”
The artist dropped his hand from Andrew’s shoulder and circled her rapidly, his gaze suddenly alert, his paint- and ink-stained fingers dancing in the air. “I will paint you as the Madonna.”
Her lips quirked, and instead of being wary, her eyes danced with amusement. “I thought you said I was Aphrodite.”
And that brought over William Hunt, another influential member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. At present, the man had two paintings hanging in The Royal Academy and had just sold a piece for five hundred pounds. “She speaks, and one must listen,” Hunt gushed. He threw Gabriel a ball-crushing stare from under his mop of disordered, curly brown hair. “And who says you can have her, Gabriel? She is clearly meant for my fallen woman.”
“I’m Mary Magdalene now?” Ophelia asked. A flirtatious air deepened her voice as she turned from one artist to the next.
Andrew nearly punched both of the artists in the gut. He had to get a hold of himself before he dragged Ophelia out into the street and castigated her for being such a bloody success with the two
Brothers
. Which, of course, he had known she would be. It was the reason he’d brought her directly to meet them.
Lady Darlington had beamed with delight all morning at the prospect of her daughter meeting the artists they both so admired. He would have preferred the meeting to be elsewhere, but the best chance of a quick meeting had been to come here. And Lady Darlington had been most insistent that Ophelia not wait.
Perhaps Lady Darlington’s lack of time had something to do with her willingness to allow her daughter to explore such strange places. Or perhaps it was that as death neared, Lady Darlington seemed to be done with shoulds and should nots.
At least he was with Ophelia.
Andrew’s good humor at pleasing the older lady had just about vanished.
Ophelia glanced at him. “Are you feeling quite well?”
“Quite.”
“Well, you look remarkably sour. Does your stomach ail you?”
Andrew clenched his jaw before he could say that her being the model of a known profligate was suddenly making his stomach positively roil.
“Johnny must not hear of her,” Hunt said, ignoring Ophelia and Andrew’s discourse. He pointed, jabbing his finger, knuckles swollen, no doubt from recently having punched the daylights out of something. Hunt was legendary for his rages. Hence, his apt nickname,
Animal
. “If he does, he shall wish her, too.”
“You mean John Everett Millais, the painter?” she asked breathlessly. Her face positively lit up as if she’d seen her lord and savior.
Well, of course she was excited. She’d braved a river to examine how Millais had managed the painting of his infamous canvas,
Ophelia
.
Andrew looked toward the bar, wondering if he could get away with a large gin. No. He needed all his wits about him.
“Yes,” Andrew said. “That is who Mr. Hunt means.”
“Of course,” Hunt snapped, brushing his hands against his waistcoat. “That poncing little prince of The Royal Academy—”
“But his painting of Ophelia is glorious!” Ophelia interjected, her emerald eyes glowing with the ardor of a devotee.
All the men stared at her for one good long moment. All three let out collective sighs of frustration.
Johnny was the recognized artistic darling, after all. And Andrew? Well, he damned well didn’t like that look on her face, like she’d walk over coals just to be in Millais’ presence.
“Oh God. Not you, too,” Gabriel Rossetti groaned, his face churlish with abrupt jealousy. “Everyone is, ‘Ophelia this, and Ophelia that.’” He propped his paint-stained hands on his narrow hips and pouted rather like a beautiful girl denied a bauble.
Somehow, he still managed to appear manly. It was a mystery. Andrew was certain it had to be his Italian blood that allowed for such preposterous attitudes.
“I saw Lizzie Siddal first,” Gabriel continued. “And now that Johnny’s got her, I shan’t let him have you. He’d snap you up—”
“Am I to have so many admirers?” she teased.
Gabriel gave her a saucy look and snatched up her gloved hand. “Of course you are, my angel. And you can toss off Hunt.” Gabriel leaned toward Ophelia and whispered rather loudly, “You see, Hunt only likes whores, and clearly you are not a whore. You are a delicate, beautiful angel.”
Ophelia’s cheeks flared scarlet.
“You are all
mine
,” added Rossetti, as if it was the clearest conclusion in all the world.