The Wayward Muse Read Online Free PDF Page B

princess.”
    “I’m so very sorry—,” she began, but he raised his hand.
    “Nonsense,” he said. “It is I who should apologize. I had no idea that my innocent invitation would cause you so much trouble. But now everything is arranged and you are here! Let me take your coat. You wander around. See what you think.”
    The Debating Hall was composed of one great room, oval in shape. It was quite bare except for the scaffolding on the walls and the artists’ equipment. Each young man had his own easel and his own table for supplies. At first she stood still and watched the young men timidly, but they had obeyed Rossetti and were hard at work again, paying no attention to her. When she was sure they would not notice, she walked quietly around the room and peeked over the shoulder of each one to see what he was working on. They all seemed to be doing something different. One was copying a bust, another a still life of apples on a silver tray. One seemed to be working entirely from memory. Two of the young men were dressed in doublet and hose and stood stiff and frozen while Burne-Jones sketched them.
    “That expression is nothing like noble thoughtfulness, Morris,” complained Burne-Jones. “You look like you just sucked on a lemon.”
    “My neck is stiff,” growled the model named Morris, a plump, curly-haired young man holding a sword straight out in front of him. “And my arms are tired. How long does it take you to make a sketch?”
    He looked so ridiculous in his costume and so awkward in his pose that Jane felt a little less uncomfortable.
    “Poor Topsy,” said the other model, as slight and blond as Morris was solid and dark. “Should Ned give you some chocolate to sweeten your temper?”
    Morris dropped the sword with a loud crash and Jane nearly jumped out of her skin. “Find someone else for your Launcelot, I’m through.” Jane couldn’t tell if he was really angry or not. He grabbed the other model by his collar and attempted to wrestle him to the ground.
    “Morris,” cried Burne-Jones, “I’m nearly finished. Ten more minutes.”
    “I was only teasing,” cried the pummeled model.
    “Serves you right, Faulkner,” said Rossetti. The models returned to their places, red faced and breathless. Burne-Jones returned to his drawing.
    “The artistic temperament,” Rossetti said, smiling at Jane. “We can’t do anything with either of them. But they’re harmless.”
    Jane knew that she should say something, but when Rossetti was near, her mind was a blank.
    “So many gentlemen,” she finally said, and immediately cursed herself for being stupid.
    “Don’t worry,” said Rossetti. “Miss Lipscombe is coming to sit a little bit later, so you won’t be completely outnumbered.” He smiled sympathetically, as if he knew how she felt.
    As she surveyed the room, she finally thought of something to say.
    “Why is the scaffolding still here?” she asked. “I thought this building was completed months ago.”
    “Look up, Miss Burden,” Rossetti said, and she obediently lifted her head. Above her was a walkway that ran all the way around the hall. The walls were divided by arches into ten bays. Above that was a brick dome.
    “That is where we are to do our work,” he said. “Each of those ten spaces has to be filled. I’m to do three of them.”
    She still wasn’t sure how this would be accomplished. Would she be asked to model up there? Jane was afraid of heights and hoped this would not be the case. But she smiled and nodded in what she hoped was a confident way. Rossetti immediately understood that it was all a mystery to her and very kindly explained what they were doing.
    They were to paint murals on the walls. It had been Rossetti’s idea to make it a series illustrating the tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. The legends had nothing whatever to do with debating, but that was what Rossetti wanted to paint, and he had used his powers of persuasion to convince