Anne
The Hague, 1659
The next time I encountered the duke, I was on my knees. Father Morley stood over me, intoning the Te Deum, his voice echoing through the empty chapel. I say chapel, but it was more like a narrow closet, just four windowless timber walls and a flagstone floor big enough to hold an altar bearing the priest’s sacred relics and a stone basin filled with holy water. A painting of the Crucifixion hung above the altar, the Saviour’s gaunt, tear-streaked face a mask of agony, his ruined hands weeping blood.
Catholics were permitted to worship in Holland, but we had to keep our rituals a secret. The princess had discreetly set this room aside for any visiting Catholics who might need to confess their sins. It lay in the older, unrenovated east wing of the palace, up a flight of stairs only the servants used. Through her careful wording, I understood our presence would be tolerated, although I was to keep my religion and its practice to myself. Only Giselle knew that when I disappeared each week it was to attend mass with Father Morley. The other women thought I had a lover. They didn’t realise that the idea of romance was so far from my mind, I could have resisted the advances of the king himself. Since the embarrassing incident in Paris, I’d thrown myself into my work and committed to attending private mass more frequently, resolving to avert my mind from the more frivolous goings-on of the court. The few hours I spent with Father Morley made me feel closer to God.
The priest and I looked up in unison as the door opened.
The duke paused on the threshold, glancing at us both, one hand raised as if to deflect a protest.
Father Morley peered in confusion at the interloper. Age was finally catching up with the priest. His eyesight had been growing steadily worse over the past year, and he sometimes forgot the names of nobles and courtiers and needed reminding. I spoke first, to spare him any embarrassment.
‘Your Grace, what a surprise. I didn’t realise you’d returned from Spain. How can we be of assistance? Have you lost your way?’
‘Not at all,’ he said, stepping inside. ‘My sister gave me a tour of the house and grounds the first time I visited. I remembered this room. That’s something you’ll learn about me: I have a great memory for the finer details.’
He’d grown a beard during the years since I’d last seen him. I wondered if it was designed to irritate his brother. The king was always clean-shaven. According to rumour, his attempts to grow a beard often resulted in a patchy mess, so he chose not to try. It made the duke look older and more serious.
‘I was looking for you, Lady Anne. I apologise for interrupting your prayers.’ He glanced at Father Morley. ‘We met last year, Father. You organised a small mass for me and some of my attendants. I don’t know if you remember?’
Recognition dawned on the priest’s face. ‘Of course, I remember. Your Grace is a follower of the true religion. Why don’t you join us?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of intruding. I only wished to speak to Lady Anne briefly. Perhaps I can wait outside?’
‘In that draughty corridor?’ Father Morley looked horrified. ‘No, Your Grace. It won’t do. You must stay and pray. Then whatever business you have with Anne can be conducted afterwards.’
The duke hesitated, a rebuttal forming on his lips. He looked at me, though, and something in his face altered. Closing the door, he came to kneel opposite me. As Father Morley resumed his praying, the duke shut his eyes. I did the same. Even with my eyes closed, I could feel the duke’s presence, solid and unwavering. My thoughts drifted from the sermon to the naval battles the duke had commanded recently on behalf of the Spanish army. I pictured him standing at the bow of a ship giving orders, his pale hair windswept, salt spray lacquering his handsome features. Desire pulsed in my stomach, a burning heat spreading through me. I knew desire now, though, or thought I did. Just because you felt it didn’t mean you had to act. I was in control. I tried to concentrate on Father Morley’s words, but it proved impossible. Daring to open one eye, I found the duke staring directly at me, his gaze mirroring my lust, his lips slightly parted as if we were already kissing.
After the sermon ended, we bid farewell to Father Morley and made our way back towards the princess’s rooms. Although the duke remained silent, he kept shooting curious glances at me. We were walking through a long gallery of landscapes when he stopped abruptly, forcing me to turn and face him. ‘I thought of you while I was away.’
‘I hope they weren’t bad thoughts,’ I said.
‘No,’ he replied, smiling now. ‘They were good thoughts. It was true, what you said about doing your best with the tools at your disposal. I’m glad I accepted the post in Spain. It’s taught me much about strategy and combat. It’s also taught me what I could not put into words – that family is important, even when they drive you near to madness. I should never have fought with my mother and sister. We are all on the same side and remain united in our goal to see the king restored to his rightful place on the English throne.’
‘I’m very glad you’ve made peace with them.’
‘It would not have happened without your intervention.’ He tilted his head. ‘Your honesty is… well, I value it. How do I seem to you?’
‘Now, Your Grace? A little ill at ease, if I’m truthful.’
He nodded. ‘I find myself discomfited by your presence.’
Then why seek me out? I waited for him to elaborate.
‘I would like…’ He cleared his throat, his cheeks reddening slightly, then resumed. ‘I would like to get to know you better, Anne. You clearly have more wits about you than most of the ornamental beauties in my sister’s retinue. You are a servant of the true faith. You are wise and well-spoken. You understand the dynamics of family, how difficult it can be to assert your place while looking after the interests of the whole clan. We should speak more about our past histories and experiences. I would value your counsel on other matters. I can already tell you are discreet. In the meantime’ – he plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a sapphire cross on a gold chain – ‘I received this as part of my payment for services rendered to the Spanish court. It will look well against your pale skin. And when you wear it, perhaps you will think of me. I’ll be close to you, even if we are apart. Do you understand my meaning?’
His gaze had intensified. There was no hiding the intention behind such a gift. In my cupped hands, the stones gleamed, their flawless depths reminding me of the deep ocean, when all sight of land was lost.
‘It’s too much,’ I said at last. ‘I cannot accept.’
‘You dislike it.’
I looked at him directly. ‘Your Grace, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever held. It must be worth a king’s ransom. But we hardly know each other. If I wore this to supper, don’t you think the other women would ask where it came from? Rumours would spread, no matter how discreet we were. My reputation might suffer. Yours too. Your sister is my employer. You are of marriageable age and face a host of family obligations that show no signs of abating. There are complications here that make this an ill-advised business.’
‘Again, you display that wisdom I admire,’ he said, his expression now serious. ‘I confess, I hadn’t thought so deeply about the consequences.’
I hid my smile. Of course he hadn’t. These men were used to doing as they pleased, courting whomever they liked. The king behaved the same way, taking lovers then discarding them. So did Spencer Jermyn, and all the other noblemen and courtiers who flitted in and out of our lives. Giselle was right: women were always the ones to clean up the mess men left behind. While their lovers moved on to the next beauty who caught their eye, women were left scrambling to find a suitor who might offer marriage and not just jewellery and compliments. But I was not the only one with something to lose. Releasing the ornament gently into his hands, I stroked his thumb with my own.
‘It is a very sweet and generous gesture, but there’s no need for you to purchase my friendship with grand jewels. You already have it.’
‘Only friendship?’
I bowed my head. ‘I’m afraid that’s all I can offer.’
An awkward moment passed. If the duke had been able to read my body language – my tense shoulders, the rigid way I gripped my skirts – he might have guessed how much I longed to reverse that statement, how easily he could have changed my mind with a string of persuasive words or gestures. Thankfully, I betrayed no such emotions. Sighing, he placed the necklace back in his pocket. ‘Very well. Let us be friends then, if not lovers. To bask in your presence and know you think me kind is privilege enough.’
The following week brought me often into the duke’s orbit, and the time we spent together was pleasant, since he refrained from asking for favours I could not give. He dined with his sister, the princess, every night and walked with her every morning in the gardens surrounding the palace. It was sweet to see how much attention he paid her, bringing her small delicacies from the kitchen, sending away for books to interest her, hiring musicians to play in her rooms and boost her spirits. I overhead him say that his time with the Spanish army was over, for now. The Spanish had signed a treaty with France, bringing peace to both countries. Since he had no pressing engagements, the duke planned to take a brief sojourn in Holland.
The timing could not have been better. The princess’s mood always soured around springtime, as the anniversary of her husband’s death neared. She found it hard to rouse herself from her bed in the mornings and she rarely smiled, not even when her son was brought in for a visit. His face reminded her of the husband she had lost, and his presence was a dismal reminder of her fraught relationship with her mother-in-law, who had been trying for years to seize custody of the young prince. The duke knew how to bring out the princess’s brighter side. When they were together, she was always happy. Even when they clashed, arguing over some misremembered recollection, she wore a smile. I think he reminded her of her childhood, of that precious time before war and illness had claimed the lives of the people she loved.
In honour of the duke’s stay, the princess had devised a small court progress. Starting at The Hague, they would travel, via a combination of coaches and barges, through Utrecht, Alkmaar and Delft, before finally making their way to Amsterdam. A handful of the duke’s closest attendants were expected to travel with him, and the princess would be accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting.
I imagined Giselle would be pleased to escape the monotony of our daily tasks, but as we were leaving the princess’s reception rooms following the news, she informed me she would not be joining us.
‘My father insists it’s time for me to give up my life of luxury and freedom and return to Hanover.’ She smirked as she stooped to retrieve one of the princess’s embroidered handkerchiefs, tossed carelessly on the floor. ‘What luxury! Running to and fro, always at someone else’s beck and call.’
‘What will you do? Where will you go?’ My hands were shaking. Giselle was such a fixture in my life and in the princess’s retinue. It was impossible to picture life in the palace without her. ‘Why now? What has happened to make him recall you so suddenly?’
Tucking a curl behind her ear, Giselle shot me a grim look. ‘It’s my birthday next week. I’ll be twenty-two. It’s time for me to return home and fulfil my obligation to marry.’
My mouth dropped open. ‘Marry? But I thought…’
‘You thought what? That I could escape my fate? That I was somehow immune to the expectations of society?’ She laughed, not unkindly. ‘Oh, Anne. You are one of the most innocent creatures I’ve ever met – and yet you are so wise in some matters. I’ll miss you terribly and will no doubt think of you often. You must write and relieve me of my boredom. I expect to be lonely, at least until I have children. No man’s company can ever compare with women’s. Our experiences are so wildly different. How can we expect it to be the same?’
I let her go then, laughing, wiping my damp face.
Giselle patted my arm and began to organise her things in preparation for her departure. Watching her, I felt an emptiness I had no hope of filling. Everyone I loved seemed determined to leave me – Aunt Barbara, Spencer Jermyn, Giselle. Perhaps I would die lonely and childless, without the comfort of friends and family to see me out of this world. If that was my future, then I was resolved to enjoy everything life had to offer while I was still young. My parents had not yet commanded me to marry, like Giselle’s had, although I could not brush off their expectations forever. For now, I was still free to choose how and with whom I spent my time. I would open myself up to new experiences. I would indulge my curiosity. I would find out who Anne Hyde really was, before it was too late.
We left for Amsterdam a week later. I had seen a little of the countryside during the early days of my employment with the princess, when we travelled back and forth between her principal residence at The Hague and her country manor house in Breda. And we’d stayed in small inns on our way to visit the Duartes in Antwerp, where memories of watery stew and uncomfortable bedframes were quickly replaced by appetising roasts and luxurious featherbeds. But we hurried through the towns and villages. We’d hardly spoken to anyone except the occasional innkeeper or servant. Nobody had offered to lead us around and show us how the milk was produced from cows the colour of burnt caramel, or how the great sails turned the millstone that crushed the grain for flour, or take us to view the fields where strips of spun linen lay bleaching in the sun, waiting to be sewn into serviceable shirts and skirts. This time, the princess wanted to see all those things for herself. The duke’s visit had provided a reason for her to explore the country her son would one day govern. It was strange to see her so animated and showing such great interest in how things were done. She’d spent the better part of the past few years grieving. Now something had shifted. I sensed the change and knew it for what it was, for I felt it, too. Like me, the princess was finally waking up.
The villagers we met on our travels didn’t apologise for their lack of English. Although the Dutch government had at first declared their neutrality concerning the conflict between the English people and their king, the outbreak of war had forced them to choose sides. Before his death, Cromwell had insisted that the Dutch States abide by the rules set out by the Act of Seclusion. The Act prevented the princess’s young son William from inheriting the position of Stadtholder, which was the highest executive office held in Holland and the head of state over the entire Dutch Republic. It also required the expulsion of any enemies of the English Commonwealth. Although this hadn’t been strictly enforced, people living outside the cities were still eager to prove they harboured no English sympathies. They spoke to us in Dutch, expecting us to keep up. The princess, who had been practising with a private tutor, was able to converse almost fluently. The rest of us struggled.
‘Ik heb… hond nodig?’ I mimed eating, lifting the plate of cheese to my mouth.
The kitchen servant stared at me blankly. ‘A knife,’ I said. ‘I need a knife to cut the cheese. For… hare majestiet.’
The man continued to regard me, bewildered. Then he pointed at a sleek greyhound, one of two belonging to our host family, who had just wandered into the kitchen through the open doorway.
‘Niet om te eten,’ the man said, shaking his head. He folded his arms, jutting out his chin. ‘Ga weg!’
I shook my head. This was hopeless. I couldn’t go rummaging through the family’s kitchen drawers. I would have to serve the princess her breakfast fare without the usual utensils. I comforted myself with the thought that we would reach Amsterdam in a week’s time. Our accommodation there – a lavish mansion on the Prinsengracht – would be more civilised.
Covering the cheese board with a linen cloth, I turned away and nearly walked straight into the duke.
‘Steady,’ he said, gripping my arm to prevent the plate tipping up and spilling its contents. The duke cast his gaze over the offerings I had arranged.
‘I spy a round of Gouda studded with cardamom, an Edam coloured with parsley and a soft sheep’s cheese from—’ He dipped his finger into the spongy mess, drew it out and sucked thoughtfully. ‘Tessel. How did I do?’
I moved the plate away. ‘Too well, Your Grace.’
‘You’ll need a knife to cut through that rind.’
‘That’s what I was trying to find.’ I glanced at the kitchenhand, who had dropped to his knees beside the greyhound and now stroked her head. ‘My search has been obstructed by unhelpful staff.’
‘In all fairness, you did ask if the princess could eat his dog.’
‘I did no such thing!’
The duke grinned. ‘I heard you. I was standing right here when you said it.’
I pursed my lips. ‘That was a mistake,’ I said. ‘I’ve been learning Dutch but it’s such a difficult language. There are no rules that I can understand. It’s chaos.’
Laughing, the duke crossed the room to where the man and his dog sat. He held out his hand for the creature to sniff.
‘Smart dogs, greyhounds,’ he said. ‘Good hunters. Not very tasty. A little heavy on the stomach. I prefer smaller dogs for breakfast, like the princess’s little white terrier. What’s his name?’
‘Tyrianus.’
Smiling, the duke said something in Dutch to the servant, who stood up and walked to a carved buffet in the corner of the kitchen. He took a knife and handed it to the duke, who thanked him. With one last suspicious glance at me, the servant left the room, the greyhound trotting along in his wake.
‘I fear I’ve offended him,’ I said, taking the knife from the duke and cutting a wedge of Gouda.
The duke shrugged. ‘It matters little. It’s unlikely you’ll ever see him again after tonight.’
‘I didn’t realise you spoke Dutch so well.’
Picking up the basket I had filled with bread, the duke followed me out of the kitchen into the hallway. ‘I’ve been visiting the Dutch Republic for six years, on and off. I had to learn to speak the language quickly in order to parlay with the Dutch officials for their support.’
‘Has it helped?’
‘Perhaps. Things in England are rapidly changing. The Lord Protector’s death has created conditions which are more favourable for the king and his allies. His son Richard is not proving to be a very suitable leader. He lacks military experience, so the army doesn’t trust him. And he seems incapable of managing the country’s debt. Parliament is in chaos. I cannot say more, except that we must hope and pray that in the next few weeks our hard work and loyalty will bear fruit.’
‘I will pray for you, sir,’ I said. ‘And the king.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you, Anne. I’m surprised your lack of Dutch has not been more of a hindrance. You’ve lived here since you were twelve, I believe?’
So, he had made enquiries into my background.
‘My father has learned all the languages needed to conduct his diplomatic efforts,’ I explained, ‘but my mother speaks only English and some words of French. Our servants are English; they fled England at the same time we did, and my mother took them on. Although I was tutored in French and Italian, I don’t think my mother considered Dutch to be a particularly beneficial language for a young lady. Maybe she hoped we would only be exiled for a season. Perhaps I will add “learn Dutch” to my list of self-improvements. I am on a mission this spring to expand my knowledge of the world and its pleasures.’
I had paused at the bottom of the stairwell leading up to the princess’s bedroom. The duke handed me the basket of bread, which I slipped over one arm. His smile had returned, although he did his best to suppress it.
‘You’re laughing at me,’ I said, my tone accusing.
‘Not so. I admire your ambition.’
I drew myself up, squaring my shoulders. I would not let him see how his amusement wounded me. ‘I don’t aspire to mastery. I am not a man like you, Your Grace, tutored from birth by the best teachers. If I can distinguish the difference between a dog and a knife, I will be satisfied.’
The duke nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. ‘I wish you all the best with your quest to reach those exalted fields of knowledge.’
I could feel his eyes on me as I turned and began to ascend the staircase. Although I wanted to glance back, I forced myself to stare straight ahead.
The princess insisted that the best way to see Amsterdam was by barge, so we set off in this manner a week later, leaving our luggage behind for a coach. The other ladies-in-waiting huddled around the princess as the bargeman steered our vessel upstream. The women drew their cloaks tightly around their bodies, muttering about the chill off the misty water. I sat near the prow of the boat, taking in the view, embracing the cold. No growth without discomfort, I reminded myself. This is what you wanted. A grand adventure. Daring to lean forward, I watched my reflection drift alongside us in the water’s surface. I hardly recognised the girl I saw there. I had changed so much since leaving my family. And there was more change to come. My whole life lay ahead of me, like a stretch of river, so vast and deep. Who would I be next year and the year after that? What parts of me would remain the same and which would be discarded, no longer of use to the woman I was becoming? The more time I spent in the duke’s company, the more I felt my parent’s influence slipping away. I was neither my father nor my mother. They had made their choices. I must be allowed to make mine.
My fascination with the duke had begun to build in both intensity and momentum. Our paths had crossed daily since our meeting in the farmhouse kitchen and I’d begun to wonder if fate was determined to throw us together. Our mutual attraction was evident in the banter we exchanged in each other’s presence, but there were other things, too, which caused me to look forward to his sudden appearances, anticipating the small smiles or light touches he bestowed as we moved past each other in doorways and narrow corridors. Perhaps it was just camaraderie that caused his face to light up when he spied me coming. I knew he desired me in a physical sense, but he respected me too much to cross the boundary I’d set when I‘d insisted I could offer him only friendship. The complication lay in the fact that I had begun to doubt the wisdom of my choice. If he asked again now that I knew him better, would I answer differently? It seemed like only a matter of time before our growing affection led to some impasse. I could only hope that when the time came, I would be able to weigh up the prospects of our relationship a little more carefully. I did not want to damage our connection. I wanted to decide with both my heart and my head.
We spent the first few days in Amsterdam entertaining guests and visiting friends who wanted to see the princess and the duke while they were in town. The duke was kept busy with social engagements. When we did chance to meet, he was always in the company of others and greeted me formally, bowing low and wishing me a pleasant morning or afternoon. Although his behaviour was seemingly detached, I sensed it wasn’t his preference – only a necessary act to protect his reputation. I did not feel the way I had when Spencer Jermyn decided to end our courtship. Under the duke’s stiffness, I was certain that he remained as keen as I was to deepen our acquaintance. Since Giselle’s departure, I no longer had a close friend in the princess’s retinue. I missed the duke’s lingering gazes and his sly quips and his warm laughter. I dared to imagine he missed me, too.
It was not until five days after our arrival that I found myself alone with the duke once more. Rising early, I dressed and slipped downstairs to the cloak room, the chill of the marble stinging my feet. I found my shoes and coat, then closed the door of the cloak room as softly as I could, only to turn and find the duke standing, fully dressed, at the foot of the stairs. I was so glad to see him, I waved at him happily, before remembering I was supposed to curtail my excitement in case someone walking past considered my conduct too familiar.
‘Can I assist you, Your Grace?’ I whispered. ‘Do you need me to fetch someone?’
The duke’s eyes crinkled. ‘I was waiting for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Yes. And you can stop whispering. The kitchen staff are too busy preparing breakfast to take any notice of us. Were you planning to eat before you took flight or is hunger part of your new pursuit of pleasure?’
‘I’ve been given the morning off. I planned to eat later, when I returned from my walk.’
‘Then I will do the same.’
He followed me as I crossed the room and opened the door.
Outside, the sun sparkled on the canal, burning off the mist which had condensed overnight. Barges stacked with crates and baskets floated past, ferrying the cargo unloaded from larger vessels at the docks a few districts away. One of the duke’s friends, a merchant, had brought samples of spices to the house as a gift for the princess. She had let me sniff the pepper, mace and cinnamon that sold for ridiculous amounts of money on the Amsterdam bourse. As I stood on the doorstep, drinking in the beauty of the scene, the duke moved to my side. He inhaled audibly, then released a long breath, as if he too felt the exciting possibilities gathering like ships in a harbour.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
I told him about the vague plan I’d formulated to wander across to the Nieuwendijk to speak to a merchant about acquiring some finely milled paper on behalf of the princess so she could write letters to her mother. It was the wandering I desired, not the paper itself, the freedom of exploring a new city, at least for a few hours.
‘The paper isn’t urgent?’ the duke said.
I shook my head.
‘Then I have a better idea.’
Taking my arm, he led me down the street running alongside the canal. We crossed a series of bridges, too many to count. I hadn’t seen much of the city yet, so I was soon disorientated, unsure of the names of the districts we passed through. The wealthy houses were soon replaced by humbler residences free of decorative facades. We passed a market hall, where fishmongers hawked their wares, calling out the prices of their eel and haddock and herring. We passed a bakery where the smell of cinnamon and burnt sugar made my stomach grumble and my head spin. I stopped, thinking to enter and purchase some small treat to stave off the hunger pangs, but the duke clasped my hand and pulled me on. ‘Just a little further,’ he said. ‘There will be food where we are going. I won’t allow you to starve.’
We eventually stopped in front of a house with a red door.
‘Is this it?’ I demanded. I knew I should be polite and deferential, especially since I’d missed his company so much, but I was too hungry and tired from walking to guard my tone.
My irritability made him smile. ‘Yes, this is it.’
He stood back to allow two men past. They opened the red door themselves without knocking and walked inside. I wondered if it was a boarding house, one of those residences where guests come and go, staying for short periods of time until their business was concluded.
‘What is this place?’ I asked.
The duke didn’t answer, but held the door open. Once inside, I observed that I was standing in a large reception room. A narrow table covered in dishes of bread, cheese and fruit was pushed against the back wall. The two men we had followed were heaping food generously onto their plates. They were both as thin as rakes and dressed in brown jerkins and cream breeches. Through an open doorway, I could see more men lounging on chairs in the next room, others leaning against the walls. A thin gauze of tobacco smoke lingered above their heads.
‘Where are we?’ I said. ‘Whose house is this?’
The duke had crossed to the table to fill a plate with some slices of cheese and bread. Scraping some curls of butter onto the edge of the dish, he handed it to me, saying, ‘This is the Dutch home belonging to Peter Lely. He’s an established portrait artist. His main residence is in London, but he returns to Holland every few years to teach and renew his connections with the Guild of Saint Luke. I think you’ll find his work interesting, having sat for a portrait yourself. Today’s lecture is on painting the female form.’
Taking my elbow, he attempted to guide me into the room where the men – other artists, I presumed – were waiting.
I hung back, digging my heels into the floorboards. ‘Your Grace, I am no artist. I am curious and passionate about the medium, of course. But how can I possibly understand something these men have devoted themselves to learning? Also,’ I added, lowering my voice, ‘I see no other women in there.’
‘What does that matter?’
‘It’s not very… seemly.’
A look of mischief crossed the duke’s face. ‘These men are artists, Anne. It’s not as if you’re entering the life room at the Academie des Beaux Arts. It’s theory, not practice. Nobody’s going to ask you to undress. And you know, I am no artist myself, nor do I hope to be. I value art, though, as an investment. To know its worth, you must understand its creation. You wanted to expand your knowledge of the world, well, here’s your chance.’
Giving up all resistance, I let him lead me inside. We sat near the front. I felt the gazes of the male artists burn into my back as I nibbled at the bread and cheese on my plate and observed the canvases set out on easels around the room. One was a half-finished study of a woman, her hair piled high around her forehead and neck. The lace-trimmed edge of a silk gown drew the viewer’s eye to her right breast, which was partially exposed. Despite this display of flesh, the artist had captured the woman’s intelligence and beauty, the wit in her dark eyes, the hint of a smile. These were the things you remembered when you looked away. In another, a lady posed as Diana, the huntress, a bow slung across her chest, one hand grasping her skirts to expose her naked feet. The woman wore an expression of supreme confidence, the kind of look a goddess might bestow on a group of mortals barely worth her time.
I was about to ask the duke whether he had been to any other lectures, when a man wearing a brown silk suit and lace collar entered the room. He made his way to the front as the men behind us murmured then broke into polite applause. Peter Lely waited until they were finished before sketching a little bow and launching into his lecture.
Moving between easels, he outlined his methods for achieving symmetry and perspective in the female form, explaining how lengthening the limbs ever so slightly imbued the portrait with feminine litheness and grace. Too much thinning, however, caused the figure to look distorted, breaking the spell over the viewer and shattering their belief in the world created by the artist. ‘All art is artifice,’ he said. ‘And yet the portrait is never just a portrait. The person who paid for it may well take possession, as is their right. They may hang the portrait in their home, invite their guests over to admire it. But they don’t own it, not truly. Real art has no master. Make no mistake – the sitter has a vision of what they think they want before your brush has even touched the canvas. Your duty is to paint the truth, or as close to it as you can get, without sacrificing the foundations set down by the centuries of artists who preceded you. My dear friend and teacher Van Dyck believed the other elements of a portrait were just as crucial as the figure itself. Drapery, jewellery, clothing, backdrop. These are the elements that shape our vision for our work. Now, let us examine them in detail…’
He continued on with his discourse, pointing out facets of the sample portraits which worked and those which needed correcting. At the lecture’s conclusion, the other artists stood and applauded loudly. Peter Lely smiled, extending his arms over his head like an actor at the end of a performance. As the other audience members dispersed, the duke approached the speaker, drawing me after him.
‘Sir, you were wonderful.’ The duke’s tone was quietly reverential.
The artist inclined his head. ‘Thank you for coming.’ Excusing himself, he turned to his assistant, instructing the man to dismantle the easels.
‘Perhaps you don’t recognise me?’ the duke persisted.
Peter Lely frowned. ‘I’m afraid not…’
‘My father was the king. You painted his portrait on several occasions. The last time we met, I would have been a small boy running circles around my nursemaid.’
The master artist’s eyes grew round. He dropped to his knees. Grasping the duke’s hand, he began to babble. ‘Your Grace, why didn’t you say? You should have warned me. I would never have addressed you so casually. The way I dismissed you, as if you were just another admirer of my work…’ His voice became a whisper. ‘Your brother is the rightful king of England. One day he will be restored to his throne, the one stolen from your dear father. Forgive my earlier rudeness, I beg you.’
‘Please, sir. Think nothing of it. I am here as a long-time devotee and supporter of your work. I hoped only to deepen my knowledge of your methods. It was not my intention to come here and make a scene.’
‘You are too kind.’ Rising, the artist said, ‘I’m happy you came. I hope we will see more of each other, now that we have been reacquainted. And who is your companion?’
‘This is my friend, Anne Hyde. She is one of the Princess Royal’s ladies.’
The artist’s eyes lit up. ‘A pleasure, madam. Are you an artist? What did you think of the lecture? I’m always eager to know what the fairer sex think of my methods. Without you, there would be no art at all.’
My heart pounded. I was tempted to lie – to tell him I had experienced a revelation and could now claim to understand the working methods of portrait artists. But then I remembered his speech, with its focus on telling the truth. ‘I found your theory utterly fascinating,’ I said. ‘Yet the act of painting itself remains a mystery to me. How you rendered the women in these portraits using only oils, capturing their essence, their humanity… I confess I find it no less mystifying despite having seen the secrets behind your methods. But then, I’m no artist. The few times I dabbled in watercolours, I created nothing but a watery mess. Like His Grace, the duke, I can only humbly admire your work and seek to understand how your intentions, translated through the canvas, convey your interior thoughts to the outside world. Perhaps it will take more time and many more lectures for me to achieve this.’
Peter Lely laughed, seeming delighted. ‘Just so. And I hope you will have time to join us again for our next class. You must let me show you my studio sometime. The rented rooms are small, as I plan to return to London after this business with the English government reaches its conclusion, but I have completed a few studies there. I’d be happy to show you. Perhaps the duke can escort you. I’ll send word with one of my assistants.’
As Lely had promised, a missive arrived a week later at our residence on the canal, informing me of the time and date of the artist’s next lecture and inviting the duke and the princess to join him afterwards at a small gathering he was holding in his studio. The princess declined the offer but recommended I go along in her place. ‘You have an interest in such things, Anne, and my brother needs someone to accompany him. He is fascinated by the world of artists, but I confess I have no time for them. Such strange creatures. They never say what they mean and make you hold the most uncomfortable poses for hours on end. I prefer to see the finished piece, not all the work behind it. Waiting is a virtue when it comes to art.’
Lely’s next lecture was a masterclass on hands and feet – which he admitted he often struggled with himself. He had brought a model with him this time, and the other artists were invited to watch as he sketched her image onto the canvas, paying close attention to her limbs. The woman was broad-hipped and sallow-skinned with thick ankles, which she displayed by hiking up her woollen skirts for the men to observe. Unlike the life models one might expect to encounter in an artist’s workshop, she kept her clothes on.
Later, when the lecture was over and the woman had tied on her bonnet and departed, Lely confessed she was his landlady. ‘I didn’t want the artists to lose focus. Young men are so easily distracted by a pair of pretty eyes and slim calves. If Miss Hyde posed for them, they would lose their heads completely! Oh, don’t blush, you must know it to be true. I hope you will join me at my studio for wine and give me an opportunity to show you my latest work.’
We walked together to the artist’s studio a few streets away. Inside his rooms, a jumble of canvases competed for space with velvet lounges and walnut sideboards, luxury and industry living side by side. Lely winked mischievously when the duke commented on the mix of expensive furnishings and paint-spattered easels.
‘There are many sides to my personality, Your Grace. I love beautiful things, but to possess them I must allow my creativity to roam freely. Sometimes it brings chaos. I can’t bear to have anyone move my things around when I’m in the act of creation. It might disrupt the flow.’
Pouring some wine into goblets, he led us to a large canvas which bore the image of a young woman in a silk dress draped in furs. ‘You see the contrast here between the animal and the manufactured beauty? How much of the woman’s personality is embodied by the clothing she wears? What if she were naked? These are the questions that plague me sometimes, preventing sleep from entering my head. If you find the answers, you must let me know…’ He broke off, interrupted by a gentle knocking at the studio door. Taking a gulp of wine, he crossed the room and threw it open, admitting more guests.
Lely’s visitors were artists – masters, not students like those who attended his lectures. The duke moved easily among them, speaking in Dutch, discussing the latest commissions from the English exiles and brush techniques imported from Italian workshops. I hung back, worried that my halting Dutch and scant knowledge of art might embarrass him. Lely was by my side in an instant. Pouring more wine into my glass, he began to translate the conversations taking place around us, sometimes pausing to ensure I had understood something before moving on. I listened intently. The arts were a different world, one I would’ve had no chance of understanding if Peter Lely had not designated himself my guide and helper.
And it seemed he relished the role as much as I appreciated it. As the weeks passed and more invitations arrived, I grew to enjoy his company more than that of anyone else, save for the duke. His pursuit of art had led him down paths that others might be afraid to follow. He had conversed with people from every social background. Although he had a great love of beauty, he knew that mastering his craft required him to look beneath the surface of things and understand the ugliness that made beauty seem so appealing. Lely was funny, too. He had an unusual habit of mixing up English words and phrases. It took effort and imagination on my part to untangle the meaning of his puzzling proverbs but I saw it as a challenge, and the memory of his unique combinations made me smile even when we weren’t together. Sometimes he would come and collect me on my afternoons off and we would visit a bakery he knew on the Kalverstraat which served the best Dutch koeckjes in Amsterdam.
Lely entertained me with stories of his childhood as we strolled along the canals devouring the small cinnamon cakes, too hungry to wait until we reached his studio. Born in Westphalia, he had been apprenticed at a young age to the famous Harlem artist Pieter de Grebber. De Grebber was a strict teacher. Obsessed with technical proficiency, he would force Lely to repaint the same subject over and over until he was satisfied. Sometimes, Lely would stay up all night painting, burning candle after candle in his determination to impress his mentor. When Lely left de Grebber to open his own studio, de Grebber saw it as a betrayal. The two men never spoke again. Lely mourned the loss of their friendship. He turned to painting to numb the pain. On reflection, he decided the event had taught him a valuable lesson about overcoming challenges. ‘Even if the wind batters your ship, bad weather cannot stop you doing what you worship.’
‘What you worship?’
Pausing on the canal path, Lely waved his hand, as if he were swatting a fly. ‘Not quite right. You understand my meaning. Passion. Rapture.’
‘Do you mean “doing what you love”?’
‘Yes. Exactly. You must do what you love, no matter how terrible the storm.’
We walked on, brushing the crumbs off our clothes. Despite his miscommunication, Lely’s sentiments rang true. Obstructions should not prevent you from pursuing your dreams. Setbacks were part of life. Just because my liaison with Spencer Jermyn had ended in disaster did not mean I was incapable of loving or being loved. There was someone out there who would accept me for who I was, flaws and all.
Lely became one of my closest friends and allies during my time in Amsterdam. With him, I felt safe to be myself. He never shied away from the truth. It was his blessing and his curse to see how things stood between people, and he could read a person’s mood and history in the time it took to murmur a greeting. Because we were such good friends, I thought myself immune. It wasn’t until a month had gone by that I realised he had seen what I had privately contemplated many times but was unwilling to publicly acknowledge.
It was a grey afternoon, and we were standing in a corner of his studio, discussing the latest developments in England, where the government had dissolved itself, causing chaos in parliament and in the streets. Riots broke out as people worried over the future of their livelihoods. It was a typical Lely gathering, although this time he had invited some poets to join us. The artists and poets were engaged in a mock debate, arguing loudly over the relative merits of imagery and words. The duke and a few other gentlemen were adjudicating unofficially, listening to the artists’ rebuttals and deliberating over who should be crowned the winners. As he came over to refill his glass, the duke smiled at me and touched my arm gently as he passed. I smiled back, then turned to find Lely staring at me with that shrewd, calculating expression which signified mischief.
‘That man is in love with you.’
‘Which man?’ I said, sipping my wine and casting my gaze over the heads of the gathered crowd.
‘You know.’
I felt my cheeks begin to burn. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Come now, Miss Anne. Do you think I was born yesterday? I’ve seen the way he attends to you. Are you really such a fool not to see what is in front of your very eyes?’
‘What do you know about it?’ I said. ‘You aren’t married.’
Lely stroked his beard. ‘Thankfully not. I’ve been in love, though. And I know it when I see it. Real love, not the stuff these poets fling about. It’s rare. If you find it, you should never let it go. Take a look in the mirror, Anne; there’s butter on your face. You’re so intent on denying the truth, you can’t see love for what it is.’
‘Thank you for your advice,’ I said stiffly. ‘But he happens to be royalty, and I am what some people would call a commoner.’
‘There is nothing common about you, my dear.’
‘He’s just a friend.’
‘Friends make the best lovers. What a pity I’m not his type. But seriously, Anne’ – he turned me towards him, so our gazes met – ‘that man will marry you. You need only to say the word. He’s ready; I can sense it. Certain things he says, the way he looks at you – I’ve never seen a man so devoted. Don’t put your pride ahead of your happiness.’
‘Even if he does wish to marry me, there would be many obstacles,’ I said.
‘So, you’ll overcome them together.’ He waved his glass, allowing a little wine to spill. ‘Go over there now and tell him how you feel,’ he urged.
‘I don’t know I feel,’ I protested. ‘Terrified is the first thing that comes to mind.’
‘What happened to the brave Anne who was so inspired by my lecture she chose to speak the truth?’
‘This isn’t a lecture,’ I said. ‘This is real life.’
‘And it’s short.’ Lely frowned. ‘I will be very cross with you if you don’t do as I say.’
‘I’m afraid I cannot,’ I said. ‘I wish it were otherwise.’
Later, as the duke walked me home, he said, ‘I have something to tell you, Anne. I will be leaving Amsterdam tomorrow. My mother wants me to join her in France. Since the treaty, Spain and France have been on better terms and I am allowed to visit her again. It’s best if I go. I will miss your company and I thank you for allowing me to join you in your adventures.’
Lely’s words echoed in my head as I replied. ‘Your Grace, I will miss your company, too. You once asked me if I would permit you to give me a gift. I refused. I was wrong. But what I want from you isn’t sapphires. It is simply your loyalty and your presence. Will you consider returning to The Hague and asking me again? If you do, I think you will find my position altered.’
The duke’s expression changed to one of astonishment. As he leaned down to kiss me, I saw us as a painter might have, the sun glancing off the canal, bathing us in a soft glow as our lips touched and we fell into each other’s arms.