Read Online Ophelia's Muse by Rita Cameron - Free Book Online Page B

she. His face had not yet lost its smooth, boyish aspect, and he had bright, curious eyes. He gave Lizzie a slight bow, and his dark hair fell playfully over his eyes.
    Mrs. Deverell made the introductions, and they nodded shyly to each other, their greeting made stiff by Mrs. Deverell’s presence.
    â€œAnd this,” Mrs. Deverell said, “is my daughter, Miss Mary Deverell.”
    Lizzie turned to see another girl, about her own age, whom she had not at first noticed. She was petite, with dark hair and eyes like her brother, and a sweet smile.
    â€œCall me Mary,” she said, taking Lizzie’s hand. “I hope that we’ll be friends. I’m quite grateful, you know, that you’re to sit for Walter. That’s usually my job, and now I’m free to work at my own poor little sketches instead!”
    Lizzie returned the smile. “And you must call me Lizzie. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
    Mrs. Deverell returned to the house, and the three young people were left alone. Deverell stared at Lizzie for a full minute, and Lizzie shifted uncomfortably on her feet, unsure of whether she should meet his eye. She took his silence for disappointment, and wondered again if he had made a mistake in asking for her, or if she had somehow failed to prepare herself properly.
    Finally he broke the silence. “You will make a perfect Viola,” he declared. “Do you know the play? You are Viola, living and breathing.”
    â€œViola? Yes, I know the play.” Her cheeks burned. Twelfth Night had never been one of her favorites. She liked the tragedies, with their great romantic roles and heartfelt speeches. When Mrs. Tozer told her that she was to sit for one of Shakespeare’s heroines, she had pictured herself as Juliet or Ophelia. Not Viola, who spends the better part of the play disguised as a lowly pageboy. It made sense to her now that Mr. Deverell had asked her to model, and she felt foolish for imagining that she was suitable to sit for anything more romantic. Mr. Deverell was still staring at her, so she tried to mask her disappointment. “I’m happy that I can be of some service to you,” she murmured, looking down at her hands.
    Mary saw Lizzie’s discomfort and came to her rescue. “Walter! You’re embarrassing the poor dear. Come, Lizzie, I’ll show you where you’re to dress while Walter gets his paints ready.”
    Mary took Lizzie’s hand and led her over to a screen, behind which hung a pair of boy’s britches, stockings, and a bright red tunic.
    Lizzie looked at the clothes. “I’m to wear britches? Is that . . . is that something models often do?” Lizzie didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. She’d traveled across London, but it felt as if she had crossed into another world, where everything was topsy-turvy and she couldn’t quite get her bearings.
    â€œDidn’t you know, my dear?” Mary laughed. “Oh my. Walter is painting Viola in her disguise as a page. You know the story? If not, Walter will tell you all about it—one of those things about the course of true love never running smooth and all that. Walter had me sew the clothes myself to his specifications.”
    Lizzie looked at the tunic and trousers with resignation. “It’s just that I didn’t realize that I had to wear a costume. I’ve never worn boy’s clothes before.” She swallowed hard, thinking of the satin gown that she had worn in her dream, and fighting her disappointment.
    Mary was still smiling at her, and so Lizzie picked up the clothes, not wanting to appear unsophisticated by refusing. She stepped behind the screen, and for a moment she stood very still, fighting the urge to run from the studio and board the first omnibus back to Southwark. Daydreaming about sitting for an artist had been one thing; she had imagined herself lovely and serene, in a flowing gown. But now that she was