Authors: Elizabeth Hickey
There had been girls thrown out of their homes on Holywell Street before. Usually the implication of bad character had prevented them from getting jobs in the big houses of Oxford, and they ended up as prostitutes in the brothels near the university.
“All right,” said Jane, feeling almost relieved that her mother had left her with no choice. “I’ll marry Mr. Morris.”
Morris’s smile was almost handsome when she told him. For a moment it seemed he might kiss her, but instead he took her hand and gave it a little shake.
“I will write to my mother immediately,” he said.
I will grow to love him, Jane thought to herself. She tried to stifle the voice inside reminding her that marrying Morris was the best way to keep Rossetti from disappearing from her life completely. It was wrong to think such things, but she couldn’t help it.
I
T
was March 1858, and Jane was eighteen years old and engaged to an Oxford man of independent means. No one on Holywell Street could believe it. A few said Jane must have bewitched Morris. Others shook their heads and thought that he must be a very odd fellow. Mrs. Burden received so many unexpected callers she had to order extra tea and sugar to have on hand for them, but for once she didn’t grouse or grumble. She smiled sweetly at everyone who came and said yes, it was true, and yes, it was a miracle.
Jane and Morris went out walking together, and once went to the theater with Bessie, but he did not come to Holywell Street. He had come for supper once and been so embarrassed by her mother’s attentions that he refused to come again. Jane could hardly blame him. Most often they spent their time together at the Debating Hall, since Morris had not yet finished his painting.
A week after the engagement was announced, Morris and Jane took a picnic to the field of violets. It was a pretty walk out of town on the Iffley Road, past ancient, ivy-covered stone houses with front gardens carpeted in purple and white crocus. They crossed the Magdalen Bridge and stopped to admire the view. The river below changed with the season and the weather; today it was placid and reflected the pale blue sky. A tentative sun shone and gently warmed Jane’s face. On one bank a man in a red jacket was training two young liver-spotted spaniels to flush game. On the other several students were fishing and amusing themselves by distracting the dogs with tossed sticks.
“I have received a letter from my mother,” said Morris as they watched the man shouting at the students while the dogs leaped and barked.
“What does it say?” Jane was immediately nervous. From all she had heard, Mrs. Morris sounded like a frightening person, and she doubted the lady was very pleased with her son’s choice of a bride.
“Oh, she is well, and happy about the engagement,” Morris said with uncharacteristic vagueness. “Shall we walk on? The violets are not going to pick themselves.”
Jane thought he was being evasive. “I imagine she is horrified,” she said bluntly. “I’m sure she had someone less common in mind for you.”
Morris blushed. “What she may have had in mind for me is completely irrelevant,” he said.
He paused, and for a terrible moment Jane thought that his mother might have convinced him to break off the engagement after all. How could she return to Holywell Street now that she had allowed herself to hope?
“However, she has asked a favor of you and I hope you will consider it, if not to please your future mother-in-law, then at least to please me?”
Morris was suddenly very interested in the handle of the basket he was carrying.
“Yes?” Jane asked fearfully. “What is it?” She did not want to promise until she heard what it was. It must be awful if Morris was so afraid to tell her.
“My mother wishes for you to be trained as a proper lady. A gentlewoman of her acquaintance, Mrs. Wallingford, has agreed to be your tutor,” Morris said, speaking quickly now, as if to get it over with. “Her husband has died and her circumstances are much reduced. Not that you should mention that.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jane. “Are there so many things I need to learn?”
“My mother thinks it would be helpful to see how a great house is run, and learn about clothes, and other things,” said Morris. “I know it may seem insulting, but it really might be very helpful to you.”
“How long will this training take?” asked Jane. “I suppose I must go and live with this strange woman?”
“Mrs. Wallingford has a house in Gloucestershire,” said Morris. “I hear it is lovely, with green hills all around. You’ll stay there for a few months. I have to return to London soon anyway.” Morris had taken a job with an architect. “By the time I find a house for us and get it set up, your time with Mrs. Wallingford will be over and we can be married.”
“How many months is a few?” asked Jane.
“I suppose as long as it takes before Mrs. Wallingford is satisfied with you,” said Morris. “I can’t imagine it would be more than six or seven.”
“What if she’s never satisfied with me?” asked Jane. “Will I be her prisoner forever?”
Morris smiled indulgently. “She would have to have a heart of stone not to be immediately pleased with you. I’m sure it will take no time at all.”
They had arrived at their destination and gazed admiringly at the profusion of purple. Their delicate scent was delicious. While Jane laid out the cheese sandwiches and chocolate biscuits, Morris filled the basket with hundreds of fragile violets.
As they ate, Morris earnestly described his most cherished dreams.
“I hope to be a great painter, of course,” he said. “Also a good architect, and a good poet. And I’d like to increase the measure of beauty in the world, and make things better for others, if I can.” He blushed a little. “That is my motto, you know.
Si je puis.”
“If I can,” repeated Jane.
“Yes,” said Morris. “It may seem silly to you, but I want to do as much as I can, try as many things as I can, not be daunted by my own ignorance or discouraged by my lack of ability. I don’t want to be lazy or complacent. I don’t want to be some silly fop drinking champagne and gossiping about dancers.”
Jane thought he looked very noble as he said this, and she had to admit that such sentiments would never pass Rossetti’s lips. He was a thoughtless, careless, pleasure-seeking hedonist. She resolved to stop loving him immediately.
When the portrait was finished, Jane had to agree with Morris that he had little talent for figure painting. She thought her face looked splotchy, as if she had a pox. There was no animating life in her eyes; she could have been made of wax. She told Morris that she was pleased, that she felt honored to have been made a queen, but a small inner voice she tried to stifle told her that Rossetti would have done it much better.
The painting complete, Morris left Oxford to return to London, leaving Jane behind. Soon after, Jane left Oxford herself for the first time in her life. On the day of her departure, her father left for the stables before it was light, not bothering to say goodbye. Jamey nodded to her as she left the house, but her mother barely looked up from the washing as Jane picked up her small bag and opened the door. Bessie walked her to the train station. She presented Jane with a packet of mint candies that had been a present from her beau and which she didn’t like. Still, her sister’s tearful exhortations to write made Jane feel weepy and sentimental. But when Jane opened the window of her compartment so she could wave to Bessie as the train pulled away, she saw that her sister was already walking toward the exit.
Jane wiped her eyes and vowed not to waste any more tears on her family or her town. Soon she became engrossed in the view of the countryside from her window. The verdure of flat pastures went on for miles and miles. Every so often they would pass a wide marsh thick with geese and ducks. They stopped at several towns along the way. After a time the countryside became hillier, the trees thicker. The sky darkened. They were entering the Cotswolds. Halfway into the trip it began to rain. Jane had brought two hard-boiled eggs and an apple for her lunch, which she ate while she watched through a scrim of rain as goats grazed the rocky fields.
A carriage met her at the station in Cheltenham and a driver took her small bag as if it were a dead animal and placed it above. She had not wanted to give it to him; she did not like to be parted from her few possessions. The driver’s withering look, however, cowed her and she meekly gave the bag to him.
Cheltenham had been built in the eighteenth century as a spa town. As they drove past rows of white and yellow Regency hotels, she wondered what Morris would think of the place. She decided that with his fondness for the ancient and medieval he would probably dislike it, since the stone cottages that had once been there had been torn down to make way for the stucco buildings lining the streets. Jane thought them very pretty, though it made her feel disloyal to admit it. She was sure that if Morris were there to explain to her why the old buildings were wonderful and why the new ones were shoddy, she would come to agree with him.
The carriage continued west, out of the town, and the landscape was much the same. Jane began to feel sleepy and dozed off until a lurch of the wheels woke her. It took her several minutes to realize that they were no longer on the main road, but on Hartford Hall’s private drive. They trotted between towering yew hedges for what seemed like hours, until the view opened onto the largest park she had ever seen. Groups of elms and oaks were interspersed with rolling lawns of immaculately kept grass. Then she caught sight of the house itself. It was a palace. The central section was made of the same sandstone as the village cottages, but smoothed into large ochre blocks. The wings had been added later, and were of white marble. She had never seen so many windows, so much glass. The driver helped her from the carriage and disappeared with her bag. She had never felt so small as she stood in front of the enormous oak door. Not sure what to do, she waited to see if anyone would come out. When no one did, she rang the bell.
An old woman in a starched uniform opened it. She stood and waited with a blank expression while Jane stuttered out who she was and why she was there. Then she said, “Your coat, miss,” and without another word led her to a room on the main floor in the back of the house. It was papered in sky blue silk and decorated in the French style, with elaborately carved and delicately proportioned gilt furniture, an ormolu clock, and many Chinese vases. The woman gestured toward a Louis XVI chair covered in peach velvet and Jane sat in it to wait for Mrs. Wallingford.
She was surprised to discover that Mrs. Wallingford was only forty. She had not a gray strand in her loosely tied auburn hair. She was quite pretty, with a prim, narrow mouth and porcelain skin. Her dress was sumptuous and well cut, in an hourglass shape.
“So you’re Jane,” she said. “The pauper who is to become a princess.”
Jane said nothing, as it was clear she was not expected to speak.
“Stand up, please, so I can look at you,” Mrs. Wallingford said. Jane stood, feeling like a cow at an auction.
“You’re very vulgar, I can see,” Mrs. Wallingford said. “Your clothes, though abhorrent, are of little interest, as they can easily be changed. It is what is underneath that is important, as it is all we have to work with. That, and a great deal of Mrs. Morris’s money. Money can camouflage a world of imperfection, but not all, of course. Not nearly all.” She circled Jane and examined her carefully.
“Your forehead is very low, but that is to be expected with your class. Your hands are ridiculously large. Perhaps a skillful glove-maker could help, but it would be better for you to keep them hidden in the folds of your dress at all times. Your hair, of course, is a fright, but we can do wonders with that. Your posture is bad, your facial expression worse, and I do not even want to consider what your voice will sound like when you open your mouth. I imagine you’re very stupid and will be unable to remember half of what I tell you. However, we will try.”
Jane said nothing.
“Well?” said Mrs. Wallingford. “Will you not thank me for all of the efforts I am willing to make on your behalf?”
“Thank you,” said Jane. It came out in a croak.
“If you must clear your throat, do it quietly and discreetly before you are called upon to speak. And say ‘Thank you, Mrs. Wallingford.’”
“Thank you, Mrs. Wallingford,” said Jane.
“We must raise your voice at least an octave,” said Mrs. Wallingford. “I’ve no objection to a rich contralto, it can be lovely on the right woman, but you sound like my uncle Hugo.”
Mrs. Wallingford’s first letter to Mrs. Morris, which she read out loud to Jane before she posted it, was not encouraging. She enumerated Jane’s many faults and expressed doubt as to whether the course could be completed in six months. In fact, she expressed doubt as to whether Jane could ever be made suitable.
“But as your son is determined,” wrote Mrs. Wallingford, “so shall we be.”
The mornings were devoted to housekeeping, the afternoons to dress, manners, decorum, and social training. Jane followed Mrs. Wallingford as she went about her duties in her grand house. Jane found that the housekeeping abilities she had were not required. She was never to boil water for laundry, or prepare the lye for soap making, or chop vegetables, or scour pans. Instead she had to learn how to instruct the servants in their duties, how to keep the account books for the many tradesmen who supplied the house, how to make a household inventory down to the last dish towel, teaspoon, and candlestick. Sewing was acceptable, but only the most delicate embroidery and tatting were appropriate. She was not to darn stockings or repair torn hems, but to give them to someone else to do. There were ways of keeping a large house and its staff running smoothly, methods of organization and planning, and Mrs. Wallingford taught her all of them, though she was quick to sigh that when her husband was alive she had twice as many servants.
“We had forty guests, for hunting during the day and dancing at night,” she said wistfully. Jane did not think that Morris would enjoy either activity very much. But then she reflected that she did not know him at all well.
Once Jane had timidly asked if learning to manage such a large staff was really necessary. She could not imagine Morris in a house like Mrs. Wallingford’s, even short staffed, even when dozens of rooms were shut up to save on heat.