Henry
London, 1665
Henry doesn’t have a chance to speak to Jacob or George before Mary and Master Lely return. He is in the workshop, overseeing the last of the clean-up, when the front door opens and their voices can be heard in the corridor.
The boys look at Henry uncertainly, waiting to see how he reacts. The room has been put to rights, for the most part – the glass swept up and thrown away, the easels set straight. None of the commissioned paintings were damaged, thank God. The boys have been quiet for the past half-hour, studiously avoiding Henry’s gaze. George, still holding a broom, glances at Henry anxiously. His right eye is bruised, the skin slowly darkening. A cut on his lip oozes blood. Jacob, unmarked but glaring resentfully, hobbles to the farthest corner. Henry suspects the boy’s ankle is twisted.
Addressing all the boys, Henry says, ‘I’m not going to tell the master or Mary what went on here. You would all be punished. I don’t have to tell you that what happened was not only disrespectful, but dangerous. If those paintings had been damaged or ruined, God help me, you would have paid for it. Those of you who weren’t fighting were encouraging it – none of you is innocent. Luckily for you, I am not inclined to put the master in a bad mood by telling him what has gone on here. George, Jacob, I will speak to you later. For now, you will continue with your tasks.’
Dismissing them, he goes out into the corridor and knocks on Lely’s door. He enters without waiting for a response; he can hear Mary chattering loudly inside. Her face changes when she sees him, her good humour fading. Henry tries to remember what Emilia said about being more understanding of Mary. He knows he will never like her.
‘How was your visit to Somerset House?’ he asks, addressing the master.
Peter Lely is still wearing his best coat. He shrugs it off and hands it to the maid, Lavinia, who folds it over her arm and hurries out.
‘Lady Castlemaine was in fine form,’ Lely says. ‘She had a lot to say about her portrait, however. She was not completely satisfied with the way certain props were incorporated. Mary and I have promised to correct these deficiencies. She also felt her costuming left a lot to be desired. She has requested ornate gold taffeta for the next version. She felt the brown silk did not bring out the warmth of her eyes.’
‘She has the cold eyes of Medusa,’ Mary mutters under her breath. ‘It will take more than taffeta to warm her features.’
The master smiles but casts her a warning glance. ‘Mary, you should guard your tongue. Lady Castlemaine is one of our most important patrons.’
‘I understand that, sir,’ Mary says. ‘I just don’t see why we must pander to her every whim. The Duchess of York commissioned these portraits, not Lady Castlemaine. She should be happy to be included at all.’
‘We all know that’s not how these things work.’
Mary shakes her head. ‘She was a perfect angel to you, sir. You did not notice, perhaps, her condescension as she ordered me about. I’m supposed to be the studio manager, your trusted right hand. I’m an artist, not some lowly assistant! I’ve done more work on these portraits than anyone else. Really, I have contributed as much to the effort as you yourself, sir.’
The master’s gaze narrows. Henry feels the atmosphere grow tense.
‘I think you’d better go and eat something, Mary. You seem a little lightheaded.’
Mary lifts her chin, as if she will argue. Then, changing her mind, she pulls her own coat back on and marches out, letting the door bang behind her.
‘What a temper that woman has,’ Lely says, once he and Henry are alone. ‘Her poor husband. She must sting him each night with her spikes when he climbs into bed.’
Privately, Henry agrees. What man would be foolish or desperate enough to bind himself to such a scold? What does her husband do for a living? Do they share children? How does she find the time to run the studio, balancing her obligations to her family with the demands of her trade? For someone who prides themselves on being highly observant, he realises he has learnt almost nothing about Mary’s life beyond the studio in all the time they have worked together. Perhaps Emilia is right. There must be more to Mary than he guessed.
‘I see from the sketches here that you’ve convinced the woman to sit for her portrait,’ Lely says. ‘At last! Her name again… remind me?’
‘Madam Lennox. Emilia. Yes, she came.’
‘Came and went,’ Lely says, eyeing the chair and the abandoned silk wrapping hanging over the back. ‘She did not stay long.’
‘Long enough for me to make some preliminary drawings.’
‘You’ll need to work faster than that,’ Lely observes. ‘That man who came yesterday – that agent of the king. I assume he’s planning to return?’
Henry says nothing.
‘I’ve painted under the supervision of those kinds of men before. It’s an unpleasant experience. They believe they have a say in how things go, when in actuality they are nothing but boorish thugs paid to do the buyer’s dirty work and keep an eye on how things are progressing. The sooner you’re rid of him, the better.’
‘How do you advise I achieve that, sir?’
Lely raises his eyebrows. ‘Surely it’s obvious. By completing the painting, of course. Go now and prepare a canvas. Get to work while the woman’s visage is still fresh in your memory.’ He makes an impatient gesture.
Dismissed, Henry takes his sketches and returns to the workshop to ensure all evidence of the morning’s scuffle has been erased.
Later, he finds Mary alone in Lely’s private studio. She catches Henry’s eye and he notices hers are red-rimmed.
‘You’re the favourite again, are you?’ she says, her tone bitter.
‘I don’t think so.’ Henry pulls up a chair. He feels tired suddenly, weary of these artists and their egos, their conflicts and petty squabbles. He includes himself among them. ‘The master isn’t pleased with me, either.’
‘Come now. Be honest. You are the golden one. Nobody requested that I paint one of the Beauties! My name won’t even be recorded anywhere once the series is completed. At least your painting will be attributed.’
‘If there even is a painting,’ Henry says, thinking of Emilia.
‘Why wouldn’t there be?’
Henry hesitates. ‘Why don’t you ever talk about your husband?’
Mary looks surprised at this turn in the conversation, then annoyed. ‘Because it’s none of your business?’
‘In all the time we’ve known each other, you never thought it was information worth sharing?’
Mary throws up her hands. ‘You never gave me the impression you cared!’
‘How could I trust you if you never trusted me?’
Mary presses her lips together, as if she intends not to answer. Then, changing her mind, she fixes him with a hard look. ‘If it’s really so important for you to know, my husband is a city clerk. We have one son – Walter. He’s fourteen.’
Henry digests this information slowly. How had she kept home for a husband and child while working her way up to becoming one of Lely’s most trusted assistants?
‘My husband supports my ambition but I still find myself shouldering the bulk of the housework. We can’t afford help. The extra income I make here pays for Walter’s schooling and his musical education under the composer Matthew Locke. Mister Locke says Walter shows much promise as an opera singer. He might even gain a place at court, if he keeps up his studies. But everything costs money. And the income one makes teaching students isn’t enough to make ends meet unless you’re Henry Greenhill, beloved prodigy of Peter Lely.’ She shakes her head. ‘So, there you have it. The whole truth. Are you happy now?’
Henry is silent. ‘Happy’ doesn’t describe how he feels. Far from wishing more troubles heaped on Mary’s head, he finds himself sympathising with her. The way she has managed to continue working while maintaining a family inspires in him a deep sense of admiration and respect. He wonders if Lely knows the extent of her commitment. How could he, though, when she has stayed so quiet about the extent of her struggles? It is Henry who has always ensured everyone knew the breadth of his dazzling accomplishments and hard-won achievements, the challenges he has beaten, the pleasures sacrificed to reach his goals. To Mary, the post of studio manager must have seemed unattainable, the path littered with obstacles almost too numerous to overcome. Yet, overcome them she did. And now here they are, facing each other, opposite sides of the same coin.
‘If I tell you something,’ he says, ‘will you promise to keep it a secret? You can’t tell the master or anyone else.’
Mary laughs, disbelieving. ‘You want to share a secret with me, Henry Greenhill?’
‘You just shared yours. Will you promise, or not?’
Mary nods slowly.
Henry tells her everything that Emilia has revealed to him, although he leaves out how protective of her he feels. ‘What would you do?’ he says at last. He pulls out the sketches he completed earlier.
Mary casts her eye over them. ‘She’s beautiful,’ she says, a little begrudgingly. ‘I can see why the king wants her.’
‘It isn’t her looks that make her beautiful,’ Henry says. ‘It’s something else. An inner strength. Courage.’
‘Spoken like a man in love.’ Mary’s eyes dance. ‘Are you sure you want my advice?’
‘Would I ask you, if I didn’t?’
Mary taps the pictures. ‘Take these to Hugh Bancroft as soon as possible. Reassure him that the painting is on its way. And then, for God’s sake, paint it.’
Henry recoils.
‘What did you think I was going to say?’ Mary demands. ‘Your future, the future of the entire studio, depends on your finishing this portrait. Yes, you can sympathise with the woman’s situation. But Henry, she is married. And the king desires to make her his mistress. You have nothing to gain by delaying this any further. In taking the problem out of her hands, you would be doing her a favour. Making a choice so that she doesn’t have to. That’s what life is truly about: making hard choices.’
After supper that evening, Henry summons George to the kitchen and asks the boy to explain why he had fought with Jacob.
George eyes him warily. ‘He said something bad about Madam Lennox. He called her – a name I cannot repeat, sir. I like her. And I know you do, too. I felt I had to defend her honour.’
Henry hides his smile. ‘It is not your duty to defend Madam Lennox.’
‘It wasn’t just that,’ George confesses. ‘He also said things about my family and why I was here. He said that I am only here because you and the master feel sorry for me. That I am a charity case and don’t deserve to be here. He said I will end up weaving cloth like my pa.’
Anger suffuses Henry’s body. He went to school with boys like Jacob. His brothers bear some similarities to the older boy. They are snobby and rude, thinking themselves superior.
‘You did the wrong thing by attacking him, George, though I cannot deny you were provoked. Listen to me: you deserve your place here more than anyone. You have talent, and I plan to nurture it. I will do everything in my power to ensure your future as an artist is secure.’
George whispers his thanks, and Henry sends him on his way.
Watching him go, Henry feels the weight of his own dilemma. He needs to keep his position if he is to protect apprentices like George. If he refuses to paint Emilia’s portrait, he loses all chance to do so. George and Emilia are relying on him, but he can only help one of them. He has an inkling that this is how Mary feels, caught between her obligations. He already knows her answer. But if she’s right, then why does the idea of carrying out his duty fill him with so much dread?