Emilia
London, 1665
‘How do I look?’
Arabella turns this way and that, showing off the costume that has been specially altered to conceal her growing curves. Emilia watches from the couch in the corner. The seamstress pins the dress in, shuffling around on her knees as she works.
‘You look wonderful.’
It’s true. Arabella’s skin glows. Pregnancy, combined with the thrill of a leading role in a new play, suits her.
‘How are the sets coming along?’ Arabella asks.
‘They’ll be ready for opening night,’ Emilia says. She’s been working late, sometimes sleeping on the lounge at the Fortune, trying to finish everything in time. Her painting is improving – at least, she feels it is when she stands back and tries to view the sets as a theatregoer might. Henry Greenhill’s influence appears to be something of a magic remedy. He’s visited her a handful of times, showing up whenever he can get away from his master’s studio. The first few times, his presence made her tense. She was worried he’d forgotten his promise and was planning instead to take her likeness in preparation for the portrait he must paint for the king. Henry was quick to reassure her.
‘I’m only here to instruct,’ he vowed. ‘And to get away from those cursed apprentices. I fear I am not cut out to be an uncle to twelve boys.’ Unrolling an oilskin pouch, he’d selected a thick bristled brush specially designed for applying broad strokes on timberwork. His thoughtfulness was touching and as he got to work, she found herself starting to relax. They paint mostly in silence, although they’ve recently begun to share a little more about their lives. Emilia knows he is fond of the apprentices, despite his claim that they are the rowdiest group of children he’s ever had the misfortune to chaperone. She knows he lives in Covent Garden near the studio where he works and that his favourite artist is a little-known French painter called Nicolas Tournier. When he talked about Tournier for the first time his face lit up with radiant admiration, which gave her sufficient encouragement to shyly confess her fondness for Artemisia Gentileschi, particularly the woman’s painting of Judith killing Holofernes, which she had seen in the gallery at Walden. To her secret delight, he didn’t laugh or trivialise her choice. Instead, he nodded seriously and, after handing her a thimbleful of pigment to mix, asked if she knew Gentileschi had once been raped by one of her father’s friends.
‘She insisted on taking her attacker to court. They wound ropes around her fingers – the cruellest torture imaginable for an artist. The barbaric practice was called a sibille. It was thought to prevent the telling of untruths. She must have been terrified, but she spoke lucidly and with conviction and despite the odds being set against her, she triumphed. It gives the painting a new angle, doesn’t it? Knowing how much it must have cost her.’
Excusing himself, he’d reached across Emilia to paint a plume of smoke smouldering from a brazier, unaware of how pleased she was to learn at last the story behind the painting. Small communications like this have been rewarding. It’s almost like having a co-worker, she thinks, a companion or mentor to show her how things are done. It’s almost as if he has forgotten the original plan to paint her portrait. Perhaps they will just continue on this way indefinitely.
As Emilia shows the seamstress out of the lodgings in Maypole Lane, she encounters a young boy on the doorstep.
He looks familiar, but she can’t place him until he says, ‘Your presence is requested, madam, at Peter Lely’s studio.’
It is George, she realises: the apprentice she had seen with Henry Greenhill on the day of the art auction. Emilia’s heart gives a lurch; the king stills sends her flowers but, true to his word, he has not attempted to visit. She cannot be sure how long his patience will last – she cannot stall forever.
‘Very well, then,’ she says. ‘Please lead the way.’
Emilia is immediately intrigued by the studio in Covent Garden. It smells of paint and ink and animal glue. She is daunted at first by the apprentices who crowd around the doorway to stare at her, but George cuts a path through the group and escorts her to the studio where Henry is waiting.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Henry says, shutting the door to the studio so they are alone. ‘They’ve been working hard lately. Too hard, in my opinion. Their only outlet for excitement is when the models arrive.’ He smiles. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice. I thought it prudent for us to begin, as I must have something to show the king’s representative when he arrives to make his inspection.’
Emilia pales. ‘He has sent someone then? To check on your progress?’
‘Yes. A man called Hugh Bancroft.’
Emilia’s eyes grow wide. ‘I know him,’ she says.
Henry frowns. ‘Has he been to visit you?’
‘No. It is years since we met. He was the agent who came to Walden and uncovered my father-in-law’s deception. It is he who saw to it that the Lennox family was ruined.’
‘Then he is not worthy of the courtesy I showed him when he called yesterday.’
Emilia shivers, recalling with what relish Bancroft had informed her of the fate awaiting her husband’s family. Henry – whom she has noticed is uncommonly observant – asks if she is cold, if he should stoke the fire.
‘No,’ she says, lifting her chin. ‘It is nothing. Where would you like me?’
Henry strokes his beard thoughtfully. ‘Could you perhaps sit on that chair there? The single chair, not the chaise. Angle your body forward but your feet to the right.’
She perches awkwardly on the wooden chair he has indicated. ‘Like this?’
‘Nearly…’ Henry dashes towards her, and delicately adjusts the positioning of her knees, her arms. His hands are strong and warm. ‘And now, just look this way – towards me…’ Their eyes meet, and Emilia feels her cheeks flush. She lowers her eyes.
‘Perfect,’ says Henry, in a voice that is barely a whisper.
He picks up his sketchpad and Emilia tries to hold herself still, to calm her racing thoughts. The prospect of encountering Hugh Bancroft again has made her agitated, jittery, that is all. Pursing her lips, she sits stiffly on the chair, determined not to move.
Henry begins to draw, the stick of graphite scraping lightly against the parchment.
‘You can talk if you would like,’ he says into the silence. ‘And try to relax. These sketches are merely to help me determine the best composition.’
Emilia casts around for something to say, something to fill the silence that stretches between them as Henry continues to gaze at her.
‘How does Lely feel about you painting my portrait? I imagine the late addition to the series must have caused some stir.’
‘He was not pleased.’ Henry grins. ‘But he is out of the studio today, visiting the residence of one of your fellow models, the Countess of Castlemaine. Have you met?’
‘I have seen her with the king,’ Emilia says, ‘but we’ve never spoken.’
‘She’s the king’s most influential mistress,’ Henry says. ‘I expect he will want to keep the two of you apart to avoid a scene.’
A wave of nausea rises then settles in Emilia’s stomach. Is this how Henry sees her? As someone who might create a spectacle fighting for the king’s affections?
Henry, noticing her downcast expression, moves quickly to reassure her. ‘I apologise, Madam Lennox. That was thoughtless. I did not mean to suggest—’
‘It’s quite all right,’ Emilia says, waving a hand at him and then quickly returning it to the arm of the chair. She tries to relax. To distract herself, she looks around the studio. It is comfortable and finely appointed. Expensive books line the shelves, their tooled leather bindings embellished with gold leaf. Statues rest on plinths, masterpieces adorn the walls. White curtains half-drawn across the large casement diffuse the light, bathing the room and its contents in a gentle radiance.
‘Your studio is impressive,’ she says.
He gives her a lopsided grin. ‘This isn’t my studio. These rooms belong to the master.’
‘Being the chief court artist must pay well,’ she murmurs.
‘So it seems.’ Henry looks around, as if to make sure the door is still closed, that nobody is lingering in the doorway. ‘Working for kings and queens has made my master a rich man. But money can’t buy everything. What he craves now is not riches but immortality. That’s why he wanted this commission so badly. He sees it as his legacy. The thing for which he will be remembered.’
‘I see. And what do you wish to be remembered for?’
Henry pauses, his hand hovering over the page. ‘I suppose until recently I wanted the same thing. To be remembered for completing great work, for contributing to the legacy of artists which stretches back through time. Now, I’m not sure.’ He bites his lip. ‘I relied on my talent for a long time. I used it to manipulate situations, manoeuvring myself into roles of power. I was greedy. What I learned, I kept to myself. I did not wish to share the spoils of my good fortune. But there are things that matter more than success. Humility, generosity of spirit, understanding where someone has come from and helping them on their journey. I think perhaps my future lies in instruction, in education. I still want to paint something grand and wonderful. Every artist does. But if I don’t… well, perhaps I may contribute in another way, by training the talents of the next generation.’
He smiles at Emilia briefly before resuming his sketching. The graphite slides across the parchment. He looks up then down, and Emilia’s skin burns under the intensity of his notice. She has never been looked at in quite this way before. Many men have looked at Emilia, but they have always looked at her with hunger – demanding from her a smile, a blush, an acknowledgement. Henry demands nothing, only her stillness and her time. She feels her muscles loosen at last.
‘What about you?’ he says, breaking the silence. ‘What would you like to be remembered for?’
‘Certainly not for my looks.’
Henry’s hand halts on the page. ‘Why ever not?’
Emilia’s courage fails her. She glances away and doesn’t answer.
Henry clears his throat. ‘Eyes to the front, please.’
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s difficult to explain. A year ago, I would have said I wanted nothing more than for Walden to be returned to Robert. It has been so hard on him – first losing the estate and then his parents. Forced to take menial jobs. I thought if only his family’s fortune could be restored to him, we might be happy again. Since coming to London, though, I have realised I was never happy at Walden. Robert and I married when I was very young, before I really knew who I was. It was my pretty face that Robert fell for – what else had I to offer him, young as I was? Robert’s father was glad to have me join his family, for he was a man who appreciated beauty. Whenever he held hunting parties and dinners, he liked to show me off. I believe he saw me as one of Walden’s decorative features, an ornamental fixture, something to be displayed. It made his wife, Agnes, very jealous. And my husband was frequently away, leaving me alone with a mother-in-law who could barely stand the sight of me. I took up sketching and painting as a kind of tonic to cure my boredom and misery. I wanted to see if I could understand what beauty was; work hard for it, bring it into being. I thought that if I could capture beauty on canvas, I might find some deeper meaning in it. But that was all fancy.’
She stops, aware she has been rambling. She puts one hand to her head. ‘I’m sorry, I should not have confided in you like that.’
Henry smiles. ‘You’d be surprised how many people do. Part of an artist’s job is to draw his subject out – and keep their secrets, of course.’
‘So, you know the secrets of all the women chosen to be Master Lely’s Beauties?’
He laughs awkwardly. ‘Hardly. I am only working on one of the portraits. Yours.’
An uncomfortable silence settles. Emilia tries to remember that Henry’s portrait is the only thing that stands between her and the king’s bedchamber. She contemplates jumping up and snatching the parchment, tearing up the image of herself. But Henry is not responsible for her situation. And the thought of ruining this opportunity for him fills her with shame.
‘Theatre sets.’ She stares at the wallpaper behind Henry’s head, unwilling to meet his gaze. ‘That’s what I’d like to be remembered for. I would paint the most lavish sets in all of London. People would come from everywhere to watch actors perform in front of them. The sets are part of the illusion, aren’t they? Mine would be so beautiful, the audience would gasp in delight and surprise. I want to capture the beauty of a place and bring it to life for people who may never be lucky enough to travel outside London. At the end of each run, I would paint over them and give them a fresh, new start. No two sets would ever be the same.’
Henry’s drawing hand has paused again. Emilia realises he is staring at her; not in the way he was before – observing the small details of her appearance – but as if she has pulled off a mask and shown him her true face. Had he been any other man, she would have attempted to divert his attention, the way she had distracted her father-in-law whenever his praises bordered on the effusive. Instead, she allows Henry to look, even holding his gaze, until at last he glances away.
‘I think I have enough,’ he says, shuffling through the papers. ‘At least enough to put the king’s agent off the scent for a few more weeks. Then I’m afraid I will need to begin properly. I assume you’ve had no word from your husband?’
Emilia tries to conceal her anxiety. Remember the plan, she thinks. Stall the painting. Delay the king’s attentions. With luck, his interest will wane. ‘Not yet.’ She lowers her gaze. ‘I wrote to the place where he works yesterday, asking them to tell Robert his wife has been taken ill and he must contact Arabella urgently. I feel terrible for making him worry, but I cannot endure the silence any longer. I must know what he thinks of me – of my choice.’
‘Sometimes people are afraid to tell their family they have made bad choices for fear they will be judged and punished. My mother was one such. She was a woman whose beauty shone very brightly. She, too, married young. She and my father were happy for a time, but then he fell ill, and his moods grew violent and unpredictable.’ A dark look crosses Henry’s face, and Emilia can tell from his expression that he is reliving the past. ‘My mother loved the arts – music, painting, theatre – and when she discovered that I had a talent for drawing, she hired a painting master to give me lessons. But she was seduced by his good looks and the promise of a different kind of life – the life of an artist’s muse.’ Henry gestures towards Emilia with his stick of charcoal.
‘She left you?’ Emilia asks. Her heart feels heavy. She can see how much it costs him to tell her this tale.
‘He convinced her to run away with him to London. I’m not sure exactly how long they stayed together. For many years, I had thought that she was dead, for my father never spoke of her. I only learned the truth of her disappearance later, when my father died and I was charged with sorting through his paperwork. All this time, he had been searching for her. And he had traced her as far as a London bawdy house.’ Emilia keeps her face impassive. She can not – will not – judge this woman for her decisions. But it pains her, all the same, to see the young painter suffering so.
‘By the time I found her,’ he goes on, ‘she was living on the streets, selling her body in order to survive. After everything she’d been through, her mind had deteriorated along with her health. She was covered in rashes and sores and she had a terrible cough. She was barely recognisable as the woman she’d once been. To me, though, she was still beautiful. I took her to a clinic for women in her condition, for there are many who meet this fate in London. The doctor who ran it nursed her and showed her the greatest kindness. I hoped we would have more time together, but my mother was too far gone. A few weeks after she arrived at the clinic, she died of consumption.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, after a long pause.
He wipes his eyes. ‘Thank you. I don’t tell that story often. Only my closest friends are acquainted with the whole sorry tale. The point is, people make mistakes. I have no doubt that, when she realised the seriousness of her error, my mother considered writing to some of her old friends and begging them to help her. I’m certain she missed us terribly. But she never wrote. Perhaps she was afraid my father would find out or that her former friends would shame her for her reckless behaviour. I wish she’d been braver. I wish she’d known that she was worthy of forgiveness.’
Looking away, Emilia pretends to straighten her clothes to give him time to compose himself. When she glances up again, his expression is clear.
‘What will you do with the sketches afterwards?’ she says.
Henry looks thoughtful. ‘It’s up to you. Once Bancroft has seen them and the composition is decided upon, they’re no longer needed. I have studied you now. I have memorised every freckle and blemish.’
‘Most people tell me my skin is flawless.’
‘Then they’re lying to you.’
Emilia frowns. Then, suddenly, she laughs. ‘You are bold to tease me about such things, Mr Greenhill.’
He smiles, the tension broken. ‘You are gracious enough to accept my teasing with good humour. Not many women can tolerate it. Least of all Mary – she is Lely’s other assistant and has recently been promoted to studio manager.’
‘I should like to meet this Mary.’
Henry blows out a breath. ‘You wouldn’t. She is an ogress. I avoid her company at all costs.’
‘She is a female painter who manages a busy art studio. That is something to be admired. She must have overcome many challenges to have achieved so much – I am sure there is more to her than meets the eye. Perhaps you could find within you a little compassion for her?’
It is Henry’s turn to frown. ‘Are you always so annoyingly direct?’
She smiles. ‘Only when sitting for portraits.’
‘So, what would you like me to do with the sketches after Mr Bancroft has viewed them?’
‘I’d like you to burn them.’
Emilia stands and stretches, then crosses the room to the door.
Henry follows her, still holding the sketches. ‘Are you sure? They might be worth keeping. Reminders of this very strange time in your life.’
She locks eyes with him. ‘I’m sure.’
As Emilia opens the door, she hears a commotion along the corridor – an altercation, scuffling and shouting, something crashing to the floor. She and Henry exchange shocked glances, then hurry towards the source of the noise.
Emilia follows Henry into another workshop, smaller and less grand than Lely’s studio, where two boys are wrestling on the ground. One of them is George; the other boy is older, larger. The boys roll into an easel, sending a canvas tumbling into the corner. Paintbrushes skittle. A jar of seed oil is shattered. The other apprentices have formed a semicircle around the pair, shouting encouragement. Emilia looks to Henry, waiting for him to act, but he is standing frozen, eyes wide as if he cannot believe what he is seeing.
The older boy has George pinned to the floor. He draws his fist back, teeth bared in a snarl. Thinking quickly, Emilia grabs a nearby bucket of water and upends it over the boy’s head. The boy gasps, momentarily distracted. It is enough for Henry to gather his wits and move to separate the pair.
‘What on God’s earth are you doing?’ he roars.
His sudden adult presence seems to break the spell. The boys not involved in the fighting back away, moving towards the corners of the room, as if to escape the storm.
‘Who started this?’ Henry demands. ‘Jacob?’
The older boy eyes him, defiant, sullen. Blood trickles down his cheek. He says nothing.
Henry turns to his other charge. ‘George?’
George’s eyes shine, as if he might burst into tears. His chest heaves. He, too, refuses to answer.
Henry inhales loudly. ‘Clean yourselves up and then I will speak to you both privately. The rest of you can tidy up this room.’
The apprentices hurry to obey.
Henry walks Emilia to the front door. ‘You will forgive me for not escorting you home,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what’s come over the boys. They’re overworked, as I mentioned, but that’s no excuse for such barbaric behaviour.’ He pauses. ‘Thank you for stepping in. I don’t know why I froze like that.’
‘I had a brother,’ Emilia says. ‘He liked to scrap with the local fieldhands. I watched my mother employ that very same method countless times during my childhood.’ She smiles sadly. ‘He died, years ago. I still miss him.’
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ Henry says, bowing his head respectfully.
Stepping over the threshold of the open doorway, Emilia lifts a hand in farewell. ‘Say goodbye to George for me.’
‘I’ll say a lot more than that to the little devil.’ Henry shakes his head and gives Emilia a small smile.
As she walks away, she is sure she can feel his gaze following her all the way to the end of the street.