Ophelia's Muse by Rita Cameron

moping about and neglecting his work, I was afraid that our movement might be done for before it had even started. And where did you find this goddess?”
    â€œAt a bonnet shop, of all places. She’s really a wonder, though. Her friends are quite humble, I’m sure, but she behaves like a real lady. And the thing of it is that she seems to have no idea what a beauty she is! One gets the feeling that she’s been passed over for commoner girls before. Most men in London wouldn’t know true beauty if it stepped off a Botticelli canvas and walked into Trafalgar Square. But she’s charmed me, all right. She has grace and skill quite beyond her class.”
    Hunt laughed. “I’m sure I know the sort.”
    â€œYou may joke, Hunt, but you haven’t seen her yet. The sketches turned out perfectly, but I’m afraid that I’ve made a mess of painting her hair. The color is such a wonder, changing with the light, and paint doesn’t seem to capture it. She’s coming again tomorrow. You really ought to see her.”
    â€œHow could I resist?” asked Rossetti. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”
    â€œTomorrow?” Rossetti’s enthusiasm seemed to break through Deverell’s dreamy state, and he began to backpedal. “Maybe another day would be better. I’m just in the thick of it now.”
    But Deverell’s reluctance only fueled Rossetti’s interest. “I won’t be in the way at all. I’ll just have a look at the painting. Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes will help.”
    â€œYou can’t go tomorrow,” Hunt said. He looked at Rossetti’s nearly empty canvas. “What of your painting? You’re not going to be finished in time to submit for the spring exhibitions. If we don’t put in our best work, the Brotherhood will be thought of as a joke. I don’t intend to have my career as a painter become a footnote to the Brotherhood’s failure.”
    â€œAll in good time, Hunt, all in good time,” Rossetti replied. “If Deverell’s new muse is as beautiful as he says, perhaps I shall have some work for her myself.”
    â€œBut only after I’ve finished my picture,” Deverell reminded him.
    â€œOf course. I’ll just stop in for a moment. I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your work.”
    But it was clear that Rossetti was very much looking forward to getting out from under Hunt’s watchful gaze, and the promise of a beautiful woman was a welcome excuse. Rossetti smiled broadly, but his two friends both frowned, each worried for his own reasons.
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    Lizzie had only been sitting for Deverell for a few weeks, but even in this short time she had begun to change, at first in small ways—her accent growing a touch more refined to match Mary’s soft speech, her head held a little higher as she walked down her street—and then the changes became more noticeable. If she had always possessed the necessary elements of beauty—a natural grace, a pale and lovely complexion—they had, as yet, somehow failed to coalesce into true beauty. But Deverell’s admiring gaze acted like the sun upon a rosebud, and under its power Lizzie’s beauty bloomed.
    Away from the shop, the color returned to her cheeks and her expression softened. She no longer blushed whenever Deverell looked at her. Instead, she learned to return his smiles, and then to look away at just the right moment to preserve her modesty. When they took a break from painting, she walked around the studio, striking elegant poses in the best light and glancing back over her shoulder to be sure that he was watching, which he always was. Though she told herself that his compliments were nothing more than kindness, there was a part of her that could not resist his flattery, and began to believe his words.
    To Lizzie’s delight, Deverell became chattier as his picture progressed, and they spoke frequently of