Emilia
London, 1665
The king’s carriage is a whole world contained in a giant bauble made of metal, glass and wood. The interior panels are gilded with gold plate and encrusted with tiny jewels. They wink at Emilia as she is helped inside by a solemn-faced servant in dark livery who waits until she is seated before slipping in after her and shutting the door. The rank smells of the street cannot taint the sweet air circulating inside, the perfume rising from a bouquet of orange blossoms and fragrant roses already wilting in the heat. The king himself smells of leather and something else, something coppery. Coins, perhaps. Or blood. Why would the king smell like blood? He is a good king. That’s what people say. Emilia should be grateful for his interest in her. She should be overjoyed. So why does her stomach heave as he takes her hand and kisses it? Why does her skin burn as if someone has rubbed it with poisonous oak leaves? Trembling, she sinks into the cushioned seat opposite the king, who regards her kindly, his bright eyes brimming with admiration.
‘What a glorious sight you are, Madam Lennox. I hope the flowers and the jewellery conveyed the strength of my feelings for you.’
Emilia swallows down her disgust. ‘They did, Sire. Thank you.’
He looks relieved. ‘I have been much occupied by some tricky business. The women of the household are all at odds and it falls to me to decide their fates. That sounds dire – and indeed, you’d think it was a matter of life or death – but you’ll smile when I tell you. The object of their squabbling is: a painting.’
He pauses, an expectant smile crossing his face. As the silence grows, Emilia realises he is waiting for her to respond. This pausing and waiting is a habit he has developed, a chance for the listener to validate his belief that everything he says is of the greatest interest. In a normal man, the pattern would be mildly aggravating. If Robert did it, she would fall silent or ignore him and turn away. Such furtive acts of rebellion produce tiny thrills that sustain her through the day. She suspects that the king will not tolerate any kind of resistance. It’s easy to see that no one ever challenges him, thwarting any possibility of growth or change. Rearranging her expression into one of curiosity, she says, ‘A painting, Sire?’
The king leans towards her, affecting a confidential air. ‘Actually, it’s a series of portraits of the most beautiful women at court. We are calling them the Windsor Beauties. My sister-in-law has set herself the task of commissioning each artwork and choosing the sitters. The ultimate decision is hers, but of course everyone thinks I can sway her with my great influence. I have never fielded so many pleadings, complaints and demands. It has left me utterly depleted. But my sister-in-law reports that the sitters have been chosen at last, so now I can return my attention to my duty, and to you. You must be wondering where we are going.’
‘Yes, Sire.’ She knows she must sound intrigued, for his smile widens.
‘We are visiting the estate of the late Elias Clements. During the war, he fought on my father’s side as a Colonel but he ran away when the fighting worsened, allowing most of his men to be taken prisoner. When he returned to London, he set himself up as a collector of fine art. He bought many of my late father’s paintings after they were seized by Cromwell’s men, sometimes paying as little as a pound for some of the greatest masterpieces ever painted.
‘Most precious to my father was a painting of his favourite stallion, Apollo. The painting itself is not technically brilliant but it holds sentimental value. It once hung in my father’s bedchamber. Clements returned more than a hundred paintings after the war; a treasure trove of artworks amassed during the years of chaos. Alas, dear Apollo was not among them.’
The king pretends to look downcast. He pouts and sighs, fiddling with the fringe on his beautiful frockcoat, drawing out the drama of his story. Emilia tries not to let her annoyance show. Imagine, she thinks, entertaining the king’s long-winded monologues for hours on end. Her fear of him would eventually be superseded by boredom. What do they have in common? Anything he wants can be his. When he tires of her, he will simply cast her off, as he has done with Lady Castlemaine. Even his mistress’s pregnancy is no deterrent to his lust and sense of entitlement. If Emilia wasn’t in such a dire situation, if she were not the object of his fixation, she would find his justifications for infidelity horribly fascinating. As it is, she must guard her expression and her tongue. ‘If the painting is lost, Sire, why we are visiting the man’s estate? Are we going to ask his family for the painting?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ the king replies. ‘You see, I tried for years to track the painting down. Clements claimed he sold a number of paintings to pay his debts, and I assumed Apollo must have been one of them. When the man died last month, his relatives uncovered a secret room filled with the paintings and sculptures he’d kept for himself. They are auctioning many of them today – including a painting of an unnamed horse.’
Winking at Emilia, he signals to the servant sitting in the corner who knocks on the roof of the carriage with his knuckles. The conveyance moves off and they travel east, eventually pulling up in a sheltered alleyway backing onto a wide road lined with large houses. The king doesn’t move to alight. Instead, he pulls on the hooded cloak Emilia remembers from the time they met at the theatre. He must be disguising himself again. She wonders if his love of theatre is inspired by his curious desire to conceal his identity or if it’s the other way around. ‘We will leave the carriage here,’ he tells his servant. ‘I hope you are comfortable walking a little distance, Madam Lennox.’
They join a stream of people moving towards the grandest house of the lot: three storeys high, the decorative frontage carved from stone. The house is not as big as Walden, but Emilia can already picture the wood panelling, the floors buffed to a high shine, the galleries filled with row upon row of family portraits.
‘Have you ever been to an auction?’ the king asks.
She shakes her head.
‘It’s very simple. The auctioneer will read the descriptions of each item, then he will open the bidding. Your job is to bid on the painting until you win.’
‘Me, Sire?’
‘You, madam. I could bid myself, of course, but I would prefer my identity to remain a secret. When we have secured the painting, we will go somewhere more private to talk over the matters you have come to London to resolve. Does that suit you?’
‘Yes, Sire. But couldn’t you just buy the painting yourself? Or order the man’s family to return it?’
The king smiles, tucking Emilia’s hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Now that wouldn’t be half as much fun.’ She hopes he cannot feel the way she instinctively stiffens.
The auction is to be held at the back of the house. A man greets them as they pass through the doorway into the spacious garden and invites them to inspect the paintings, arranged on easels around the yard. Spectators mill between the artworks, conferring with their companions or studying the paintings quietly if they have come alone. Emilia and the king stroll among them. The king, his face hidden in the shadows of his hooded cloak, remains silent, directing Emilia wordlessly to an oil painting of a white stallion standing outside a timber stable. The stallion glows, his coat ghostly pale in the purple twilight. An elaborate leather saddle lies on the foreground, and on a brick wall in the distance, a peacock crows, silhouetted against the darkening sky.
The king, enraptured, can barely contain his emotion. Eventually, he swallows hard and leans close to Emilia’s cheek, speaking in a whisper that only she can hear.
‘You see the royal crest on the saddle? The peacock, king of the birds? Those are secret symbols the artist wove into the artwork to please my father.’ His mouth works. Emilia can tell he is trying to master his grief. ‘Forgive me, madam – I never thought to see the painting again.’
His distress is so palpable that he grips her tighter. Emilia, wincing, resists the desire to pull away. Thankfully, the king does so first, urging her to take a walk around the garden while he composes himself.
Relieved to be temporarily excused from his company, she sets off to peruse the other offerings. A crowd has gathered around the most popular artwork – a painting of Venus reclining on a daybed, gazing adoringly at a young male lutenist. The painting echoes the subject and themes of Titian’s famous series, but this work is no great masterpiece. Emilia overhears one man telling another that the artist killed himself shortly after the painting’s completion, that he modelled the image of Venus on his lover, who refused to see him after she married someone else. A man moves aside, giving Emilia an unrestricted view. She peers at the brushwork, trying to discern the painting’s obvious flaws and achievements, as if she possesses an expert knowledge of such things. Compared to the painting of Apollo, the artwork is well executed, the rendering of skin luminous. The way the central figures – the mortal lutenist and the beautiful goddess – gaze at each other, as if the world outside does not exist, as if their love could survive two states of existence, gives her a warm feeling low down in her stomach, conjuring a curious tingling of longing. But the fawning of those around her is unwarranted. There are patches of sky where the artist’s paint has been applied too thin, allowing the underpainted canvas to show through. The perspective of the bodies is wrong, too: Venus’s neck is not thick enough to support her beautiful head and the lutenist’s hands are too large, the fingers sausage-like as he plucks the strings. These small faults are frustrating and thrilling. In this moment, Emilia is seized by the ambition to paint herself, to prove she can do better. Why couldn’t she? What could stop her?
‘The brushwork is inferior, but the artist has varnished the surface with heavy glaze to conceal its defects. The red drapery is finely done. Yet look at the figures themselves. Are they not suffering from a lack of perspective through an inadequate foreshortening of the limbs? The artist has tried to divert attention away by drawing the eye to the objects he is better able to capture. Ordinary people will not notice these tiny errors.’
Emilia whirls around. Did the voice come from her own mind? Impossible. She searches for the speaker. Her gaze lands on a man in his late twenties dressed in a dark linen shirt and breeches. A blue sash tied about his waist shimmers like a strip of sky. A boy of around nine or ten bends his head in concentration, taking in the man’s words as he peers at the work.
‘What else?’ the man says.
The boy chews his lip. ‘The corners are overworked? The paint is too thick. He could have scraped it off. Instead, he added more paint, which has given the surface an uneven texture.’
The man smiles. ‘You’re correct. Never be afraid to alter something that isn’t working, George.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The gentleman ruffles the boy’s hair and the boy ducks away, laughing. The childish sound is so infectious, Emilia can’t help laughing too.
The man turns and catches her eye.
‘Your son?’ she says.
‘My student.’ He indicates the painting. ‘Thinking of bidding?’
‘Not after your art lesson.’
He clasps his hand to his chest. ‘My apologies. But you shouldn’t take my criticism too seriously. Art is subjective.’
‘Oh, I know,’ she says. ‘Still, you were right on every point.’
He regards her curiously. ‘You’re an artist yourself?’
‘I’d like to be, but it’s been a long time since I held a brush. Does passion count?’
‘It does in my mind.’
He steps back to allow a gaggle of onlookers to pass by. The group pauses in front of the painting, exclaiming over the beauty of the composition.
‘It looks like you’d have some tough competition for that one, in any case,’ the man says. ‘I’d advise you to consider the Seghers.’ He nods towards a still life a few easels along. ‘The auctioneer told me he’s had no interest, but it’s worth at least a hundred pounds in some circles.’
She leans forward too, matching his stance. They are close enough to touch, close enough that she can see the rough patches of beard where a barber’s razor missed its mark. ‘Thank you. I’ll think it over. My companion values a good floral arrangement.’
Turning away, she goes to find the king, who is standing in front of a bronze sculpture of a great stag. He winks at her and presses his finger against his lips, requesting her silence.
The auctioneer, a tall man in a tightly curled wig, calls out a warning and the crowd begins to condense around the small dais on which he stands. He begins by describing each artwork, then opening the bidding. Some artworks are passed over without a single bid being placed. A well-executed landscape of a green hillside dotted with sheep sets off a war between two rival parties. At the bidding’s conclusion, the winner, a woman in an elaborately feathered hat, pushes forward to claim her prize. Three flower paintings, including the one the artist recommended to Emilia, are bought by a bearded man in a striped jerkin. They are carried off by the man’s servants in the direction of a waiting carriage.
As the auction continues, Emilia becomes aware of the king’s arm pressed against her own again. Nervous sweat prickles the backs of her knees. Each artwork sold brings her closer to the moment she will have to give the king her answer. She chews her lip, loosening a flake of skin. Imagine if she could wear away her good looks as easily, erasing the features which have always attracted attention. She was twelve when she sensed a shift in the behaviour of the other villagers. People stopped her mother in the town square, finding excuses to linger, asking her opinion on the best time to plant their summer fruit crops. All the time they were speaking, their gaze kept drifting back to Emilia, as if they could not bring themselves to look away for too long. Some people, elders mostly, did not restrict themselves to staring. They stroked her hair without permission or squeezed her face between their creased palms, expressing surprise at the velvet softness of her skin, her pale, ethereal complexion, the unusual pairing of white hair with dark eyes. Emilia found these interactions distressing. Studying her reflection in the hand mirror on her mother’s dresser, she searched for signs of deformity. What other reason could there be for the villagers’ intense focus on her appearance? There must be something wrong with me. She wanted to speak to Arabella about it, but her friend was already living in London. Instead, she asked Thomas why people had begun to stare. Thomas rolled his eyes and told her to pray for God to forgive her for being so sinfully vain. Emilia did as he advised, kneeling in the church for hours at a time, asking God to make her invisible, or else reveal the malignant source of her imperfections.
Even at church, she could not escape the notice of others. The parson insisted on praying with her, holding her hand while she stumbled awkwardly over the psalms he recited. Once, his hand slipped from hers and came to rest, surprisingly, on her thigh. He moved his face towards hers, declaring how beautiful she was, how like an angel. Emilia was too shocked to resist when he pressed his lips to hers and hands started roaming her body; thankfully, Madam Goswell chose that moment to enter the church, flanked by her two daughters. Emilia scrambled to her feet and fled as the parson, rearranging his vestments, hissed at her retreating back: This is all your own fault!
She refused to return to the church alone after that. Her parents were too distracted by Thomas’s sudden illness to ask why. His illness started with headaches, dizzy spells that knocked him to his knees. The episodes worsened, growing longer and more frequent, until he was confined at last to his bed, unable to raise his head from the pillow. As Emilia watched her strong, handsome brother wither away to nothing, she wondered if her vanity had caused his decline. Her beauty was a curse. She had tempted the parson, offended God in His house.
During the funeral, she kept her eyes on Thomas’s casket, avoiding the parson’s gaze. The service was attended by everyone in the village; her brother had been popular. Even the Earl of Lennox was there, with his wife and his two sons. The eldest, Robert, came up to her afterwards to express his sympathies. He stuttered his way through the platitudes so awkwardly that Emilia felt her anxiety climb higher and higher, her nerves singing so loudly she thought she might scream. When he was finished, she curtsied quickly and excused herself. She assumed his stutter was a response to her appearance, that like the others he saw only her beauty, not the living, breathing person. It was only when she learned that he had suffered from the stutter his whole life that she felt a spark of interest and empathy. They became friends. With Robert, she felt safe. He knew how it felt to be different, to be judged on appearances. She was no angel, no matter what people thought. Look what had happened with the parson. There was something inherently evil about beauty if even a man of the cloth could not resist it.
When Robert proposed a few years later, assuring her father he would wait until she came of age before they wed, she accepted immediately. She didn’t love him, but they shared an understanding of how difference could set you apart. Over time, his stutter lessened until it was hardly noticeable. The war seemed to have shocked it out of him. When he came back, he was sombre, much quieter than when he’d left, although he was resolved that they should still marry.
Emilia’s looks still attract attention. Even wifedom has proven no deterrent. Now, after all these years, her looks have ensnared the king.
The auctioneer starts up again. ‘Lot eight, an oil painting of a white stallion beside a barn. Artist unknown.’ He opens the bidding at one pound, clearly anticipating little interest in the piece.
At a nod from the king, Emilia raises a tentative hand.
The auctioneer squints at her, then nods agreeably, probably relieved to have the artwork taken off his hands. As he opens his mouth to declare the bidding over, a hand shoots up. It belongs to the man Emilia saw earlier, the artist. He offers Emilia an apologetic smile.
Emilia bids again.
The man increases his bid to ten pounds.
The crowd murmurs, their attention caught. Emilia’s pulse quickens. She throws the man a warning glance, hoping he will see her determination and gracefully concede defeat. He simply grins, white teeth flashing, his dark eyes alight with mischief. He’s enjoying this! The thought strips away the last of her hesitation. Gritting her teeth, she calls out a number – a wild figure, plucked from the air, one an ordinary man cannot possibly match. The king must have his painting.
A shocked silence greets her extraordinary offer before the auctioneer declares her the winner. Emilia experiences a dizzying rush of triumph. She looks around for the king.
He congratulates her, smiling. ‘Impressive. Your tactics would be highly valued on the battlefield.’
Emilia moves towards the table behind which the auctioneer’s assistant sits, taking payments and recording the sales figures in his notebook. Before she can reach him, the artist steps in front of her.
‘My apologies, madam, for the disturbance,’ he says, speaking quickly, a little breathless. ‘But I need that painting. It’s a matter of great importance to me. Unfortunately, my pockets aren’t deep enough to match the sum you offered, but I can supply almost as much and something else, too, that you might desire or need. I could paint you sitting astride your own fine horse, for example. My name is Henry Greenhill and I am the principal assistant of Master Peter Lely, the king’s very own court artist. My portraits command an excellent price on the market and my skills are highly sought after. If you allow me to buy the painting, my talents will be at your disposal. I could give you lessons, perhaps? Name the thing and it shall be yours, I swear. Just please, madam, I beg you – sell me the horse.’
Emilia is taken aback. She hears the auctioneer call out the description of the next lot, hears the assistant tap his pen impatiently, annoyed by the delay. A bee drones past, destined for the flowerbeds, thirsty for the sweet nectar concealed inside the bright carnations swaying on their stems, less perfect than the cut blossoms the king’s florist sent.
‘I can’t let you have it,’ she says. ‘I’m so sorry. If it were up to me… but it isn’t. I’m here representing another party, and this person is not someone you would ever want to offend.’
Hope fades from the man’s eyes. He claps his young apprentice on the shoulder. ‘Very well. Come, George. We should get back and deliver the bad news.’
As Emilia watches them disappear into the house, the excitement of her win begins to ebb away, leaving a dull throb of panic. The king is waiting. She thinks of what the man – Henry – told her about his position as Peter Lely’s assistant. She hears the king’s words, A series of portraits… the most beautiful women at court, echo in her head. A plan is forming. She hands the purse the king has given her to the auctioneer’s assistant, and the horse painting is brought over and carefully wrapped in oilcloth.
‘Your prize, Sire,’ she says, as the king joins her.
Taking the painting in his arms, he grins widely, and beneath the layers of duty and entitlement, Emilia sees a man who will never be forced to confront the complex decisions required to navigate the perilous real world she must inhabit. She doesn’t have a retinue of attendants to advise her. She must rely solely on herself.
‘Your Majesty,’ she says in a low voice, so that her words will not be overheard. ‘I have made my decision.’
He looks surprised, then delighted. ‘Yes?’ he says, lowering the painting.
‘I will agree to your proposal. I will put my body and soul at your mercy and trust that you will treat me as kindly and generously as you have your other mistresses. First, though, I desire a symbol of your commitment, something more than just the restoration of my husband’s lands and titles. I need something for myself.’
‘Name it.’ His gaze has turned hungry. He leans close, as if she is a fire and he is in need of warming. Normally, his lust would turn her stomach but right now she has the upper hand. She can say yes or no. She can put him off and delay.
Emilia forces herself to stand firm. A sense of power ripples through her. So, this is how it feels. She could ask for anything: jewels, a castle, her own lady’s maids.
‘I want you to make me a Windsor Beauty. You said the duchess decides who gets to be painted but I’m sure you, Sire, in your great glory and wisdom, can do what others cannot and convince her to allow one more woman to enter the fray. I want the artist Henry Greenhill to paint the portrait. He is Peter Lely’s principal assistant. Once the portrait is completed, you will have what you desire.’
She holds her breath as he deliberates. It is a risk, a gamble – and she has never in her life been good at cards. But then the king smiles and Emilia knows there is no retreating, no path back to safety. She has made her bargain.